“The pain of it,” he went on, still quietly, still tenderly, “is that I
cannot explain it to anyone, that I cannot explain it to myself; that
there are no words for it, nothing but the thing. The only explanation I
can give is that I am become a madman, and that you must accept the
fact. For the thing I do I can no more help doing than I could help the
beating of my heart. All the world of love that I might bear to you, or
to any other human soul, could no more enable me to stop than it would
enable the grass to stop growing. Again you must accept the fact—you
must learn to think of me as a man who is in the grasp of a fiend.”
There was a pause. Not once had I taken my eyes from my brother’s, and I
sat with my heart throbbing wildly; the strangeness of the whole thing
was too much for me—at times I was certain that I was indeed listening
to a maniac.
When my brother began speaking again, I was at first hardly conscious of
it. “Edward,” he said, “I have thought about this—that perhaps my
presence would be painful to you. If so, let me go away. Take what tools
I have here, and make this place your home—you have knowledge at your
command, you can plant and hunt and study, and do what you will. As for
me, such things make no difference; I could soon make myself comfortable
again, and perhaps——”
“Say no more about it,” I interrupted quickly; “if anyone must go, let
it be me, for I shall have need of occupation.”
For long hours after that strange experience I was pacing up and down
the storm-swept beach of the island. What I had heard had disturbed me
more than anything before in my life; the whole surroundings contributed
to the effect—the perils I had passed through, the terrible future which
stretched before me, the loss of my brother, and the finding of this
strange madman in his place. But I was by nature a practical person,
scientific and precise in my mode of thought; I did my best to convince
myself that solitude and suffering had unhinged my brother’s mind. There
is no use telling a scientist that he cannot understand a certain
matter, and expecting him to let it rest; my mind was soon made up that
I would study this malady, and perhaps cure it. My interest in the
strange problem did more than anything else to keep me from realising to
the full extent the discomfort I must needs face in the future.
When hunger brought my thoughts back to myself, I returned to the cave,
where I found my brother pacing backward and forward upon a path which
he had worn deep in the ground in front of his home; his head was sunk
forward, his eyes on the ground, and he was evidently lost in deep
thought. I spoke to him once, but he did not hear me; I walked by him
and entered the cavern.
I now set to work to make a thorough examination of his belongings,
musing that perhaps the best way to get to the bottom of his strange
trouble would be to provide him with some of the ordinary amenities of
life. I found that the tools were not too rusty to be of service, and
being a person with talent for doing things, I was soon interested in
planning how I could make a habitable place out of the cave. In the
latitude I knew that a door and a fireplace would never be an absolute
necessity; but I pleased myself thinking that they might not be useless
when the storms blew in. Also, being blessed with much knowledge of the
natural world, I flattered myself that before many days would have
passed I should have added considerably to the comforts of the house.
I gave the balance of the day to a preliminary ransacking of the island.
A scientist has an inexhaustible mine of interest in such an
environment, and in the plans which I formed for work I forgot
everything else for the time.
And so towards sundown I returned to the cabin. My brother was still
pacing to and fro, exactly as I had left him. Taught by previous
experience, I entered the cabin without addressing him, and set about
preparing a meal. I had not gone very far before I heard his step behind
me.
“Edward,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked, turning.
“I wished merely to tell you—that you will not see me for a day or two.
I wish you not to worry about me.”
I gazed at him in perplexity that was too great to permit of my framing
a question. His haggard glance met mine again, and again he put his hand
upon my shoulder with a gesture of affection; then he turned and went
slowly away.
The incident diminished my appetite, for I had expected to interest him
in my banquet. I sat for hours afterwards, gazing out of the cavern
entrance at the moonlighted grove, silent and desolate beyond any
telling. I think I never felt more alone than just then.
The problem was my only company; I had no idea where Daniel had gone;
but after a feverish sleep I was up again at dawn, my mind fully made up
for a search. I fear I drag out my story—it was nearly sundown when at
last my efforts were rewarded. I was returning home in despair and
misery, when, suddenly, in the back of the same cliffs in which was our
home, I saw another opening, and with a gleam of hope I hurried towards
it and peered in. It was too dark to see, but I entered and stepped to
one side in the darkness; and then, as my eyes adjusted themselves to
the gloom, I saw my brother.
I was unperceived, and I went forward until I could see him plainly. He
sat upon a block of stone, the edge of which his hands gripped tensely;
with his face slightly raised, he was staring before him into space. I
would describe, if I could, the impression which his whole appearance
gave me; it was of a man undergoing some fearful strain. The knotted
muscles stood out upon his arms; his nostrils were distended, his breath
coming fast, and I could see the veins throbbing in his forehead. I
stood for I know not how long, with my heart beating madly, a strange,
indescribable _fear_ in possession of me. Divining the truth
instinctively, I moved in front of him and gazed into his eyes; he
neither saw me nor heard me, nor gave any sign that he was conscious of
my presence. Then suddenly, unable to bear the strain any longer, I
clutched him in my arms, crying wildly: “Daniel! Daniel!”
To my horror, he gave no signs. Even then I clung to him, I shook him; I
could feel the quivering of his tense arms. At last, completely
overcome, I turned and staggered from the place.
All that night I lay stretched out upon the bed, sleepless. I had
studied medicine, but nothing that I had ever heard of bore any
resemblance to this. Perhaps two hours after sunrise, as I was sitting
with my eyes fixed in the direction of the other cavern, all at once I
saw my brother appear.
I sprang up in sheer fright; he was pale beyond imagination. He paid no
attention to me, but went past me and entered the cave. He groped his
way to his larder and, sinking down upon the ground, took some of the
food and ate it slowly. There was a bowl of milk which I had put there,
and which he drank. Then he lay down, resting his head upon his arm, and
fell fast asleep.
I followed him in silence when he rose, his weakness apparently gone. He
went to the spring which was near the cavern, and bathed his face and
arms in the stream below it. After that he came towards me and, sitting
down beside me, put his arm around me.
“Dear brother,” he said, “it was very good of you; but please do not do
what you did again.”
“You knew that I was there?” I cried.
“Yes,” he said, “I knew it.”
“And why did you not answer me?”
“I could not answer you, brother?” And then with a sudden gesture he
checked me. “I could not even tell you _why_,” he said. “It must suffice
you, Edward, to know that this must be, and that you cannot help it.”
“But it will kill me!” I cried.
“Perhaps,” he said very quietly, “or perhaps it will kill me first. I
cannot tell.”
We stood for some minutes without speaking. “Daniel,” I ventured at
last, “I had hoped that in the external ways I might assist you—your
food, perhaps——”
“I could not let you serve me,” he answered; “I have no way to serve you
in return. And, besides that, I have learned to do cheerfully what
little physical toil I must. The island is covered with food, you know.”
“But if you should be sick?” I cried.
“If I should be sick,” he said, “I should either get well again, or else
die.”
“Then you do not feel pain?”
“To learn to bear pain has been one of my tasks,” was the response. “I
should think,” he continued, changing the subject abruptly, “that if you
had studied all your life as you did when we lived together, by this
time you would not fear solitude—that you would find in this new world
enough to fill all your time.”
“I might—perhaps I shall,” I said; “but, Daniel, you have been here
twenty years, and never seen a ship! So how could I know that the result
of any studies of mine would ever be made known to the world? I have not
even any paper to write upon.”
The other sat gazing ahead of him at the moonlit water through the
trees; I saw the strange smile upon the lips again.
“All that sorrow,” he said—“I fought with it once myself, and how I wish
that I could help you to fight with it! For a year or so I also waited
for a ship, and wrote down the best of my music, and poured out the
tears of my soul. But, Edward, I no longer write my music, and I no
longer fear lest my work be not made known to the world.”
His voice had sunk low. Over the tree-tops a silver moon was gleaming,
and his eyes were fixed upon it. “On that huge ball of iron and rock,”
said he, “there was once power and life and beauty; and now it rolls
there through the years and the ages, cold and dead and still. And some
day this planet, too, will roll through the years and the ages; and no
eye will behold it, and no mind will be aware of it; and the voices of
men will be hushed upon it, and the monuments of men will be dust upon
it; and Edward, what then of my music, what then of your science and
your books?”