“_A maximis ad minima._”
PHLOGISTON IS RESTORED.
And now, an awful silence brooded in that fateful chamber. The Great
Light had vanished. Darkness was there.
And then, as swiftly as came sleep, so now the awakening of Bill
Vanderhook and his wife.
“Gee, I nearly slipped”--muttered the druggist “That infernal machine
must have made me dizzy for a second.”
“And here she goes,”--repeated Bill, wholly unconscious of his lapse.
His hand is again upon the lever. His eyes are again riveted upon the
private exhibit.
But the voice of the gay Gnani is heard no more by man. He makes no
more appeals. His freshness is departing forever. His etheric
countenance is distorted by unspeakable anguish. Despair looks from
his eyes. His delicate hands, unclasped, are fallen to his sides. His
head is bowed upon his breast. The foolish wise man now faces himself
on all sides. He sees the past, the present, the future,--sin,
suffering, and impenetrable silence.
“And here she goes,”--
Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.
Whizz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.
And go she did,--and so did the Illuminat of Illinois.
Without so much as a farewell word to his Alter Ego, the gaseous and
now ghastly gentleman was violently lifted from the perpendicular and
suddenly bent in a curve corresponding to the arc of that electrical
circle in which he revolved.
He was shot like a ball from a cannon, in and out, up and down, and
round and round the Vanderhook laboratory. He was projected with
fearful speed along the fatal pathway of that deadly attraction.
Words can not exploit the possibilities of electricity when centered
upon a human organism, however attenuated. Up to this last moment the
captive had been stirred only by his internal emotions of baffled
love, and of deadly fear. Now, however, to internal agony was added
outward destruction. To the convulsions of the soul were added the
contortions of the body, and with every revolution of the fatal
cylinder the reappearing envelope of the doomed soul was seen to be
shrinking and shriveling out of all semblance to a man.
What at breakfast had been the lithe and debonnair Gnani of Gingalee,
a transparent and elegant gentleman, was now but a thick, cloudy
shape, an opaque, formless figure, an unhandsome thing resembling the
body of a bent, crooked and deformed child.
Bill Vanderhook was wildly elated.
He beamed upon the exhibit with satanic glee. He laughed for joy over
the pallid and lifeless thing whirling under his hand. He emitted a
low whistle of profound satisfaction. He made notes in his book with
excited dots and dashes. At last his triumph broke all bounds. He
roared like a whole grandstand at the last touchdown.
“I say, Genesy, that’s what you call a _Nee_go on the home run. Get
onto the size of him. Looks like ’leven cents, don’t he? Dollars to
dimes he hasn’t enough mysticism left to illuminate a hollow punkin.
The next Gooroo from Gingalee won’t run up against an Edison plant. If
he does, he’ll find he isn’t the whole push. Just look at the shape of
him. Now ain’t you stuck on that? And isn’t he just swinging round the
circle like a presidential candidate? Well, well, well, I say, Genesy,
if this don’t beat the tom-tom.”
The transformation of the mystic was sustaining the hypothesis of the
materialist. The reduction of the astral man was a visible, tangible
and scientific fact.
And Imogene, the faithless,--what did she? She gazed and shuddered.
That which she saw was not her ideal. It was no longer her lover. Nor
was it a man. It was not even suitable bric-a-brac for a refined home.
It was only a Spectacle.
She did not speak. There are times when even a woman feels the
advantages of silence. But she gazed upon her late admirer and then
upon Bill. She had to acknowledge to her inner consciousness that her
own husband cut much the better figure of the two.
Round and round swept the cylinder, its fierce currents and their
fated victim.
The features of the mystic were no longer recognizable. The
contortions and distortions of body, limbs and features were fearful.
The external application of electricity and the internal throes of
passion and pain have done their fatal work.
Again and again an increased current, regulated by the avenger,
hastened in exact ratio the destruction of the astral man.
The victim first lost control, limb by limb, of his entire organism.
Then his voice failed. When he would have called to his Lady-bird,
speech was silenced--paralyzed. Nothing of sound but a gurgling,
hissing whisper issued from that tiny hole--no longer a human mouth.
Only the eyes lived. In that small, corrugated sphere, once a perfect
head, was left nothing now that was human, nothing of human
intelligence save the eyes--two gleaming sparks of light--and even
these, receding and diminishing, gave evidence of the vanishing soul.
So long, however, as these two glittering points shone through the
vapor mask that had been a face, they sought and chilled the marrow of
the disillusioned Imogene.
So long as these two points of intelligence burned in that misshapen
ball they rested only upon her, and then--finally as the sodden
curtains of phlogisticated matter fell before those windows of the
soul and conscious love was swallowed up in vapor, she for whom this
tragedy was enacted fell shrieking across the cask of copper wire.
Conversation ceased in the death chamber. The cylinder continued to
whirl--dizzily, madly, satanically. Sheets of crackling sparks, blue
and wicked, streamed out from that insatiable monster. The full
current was on. Every horse-power was let loose. The silent but
resistless force of electricity was unchained. And the victim of this
awful experiment was no longer a man. It was now but a shape, a cloud,
a vapor, a shadow.
There was now but a spinning mass of vapor, a shape no larger than an
infant that shot in and out of the laboratory, obedient to the
avenger’s hand. The rapid revolutions in that fearful orbit traced out
a misty band of cloud. That central cylinder became the hub of a huge
spokeless wheel.
With every pulse of time the whirr-r-r-r and the whizz-z-z-z-z of that
soulless, bloodless executioner seemed to increase. The invisible
avenger flew on its tireless wings with vindictive glee. The air of
the room was white-hot. There was an ominous snapping and crackling in
and above and around.
There was now but a tiny, shapeless mass of cosmic matter flying in
and out through floor and ceiling. There was but the faint, shadowy
rim of a phantom wheel.
The heat increased.
The light was blinding. The crackling of the atmosphere was maddening.
Only a faint, misty line now marked the path of the departing soul.
During these supreme moments Bill Vanderhook stood like a statue,
tense, rigid, implacable. And his wife, the erring Imogene, crumpled
and unconscious, overspread the cask of wire.
The dire noises increased. They became more terrible than the ghastly
exhibit; and the heat--it was stifling, consuming; and the light--it
was paralyzing. What could it mean? The chemist himself was puzzled.
He had not anticipated these very unusual phenomena. He did not,
however, cease to press the button.
But that strange, unearthly noise, heat and glare increased. They
deepened and widened until, as Bill said afterwards, it seemed like a
legion of devils had come to escort the doomed to his final abode in
chaos.
Now, everywhere, above, below, and roundabout, there was a twisting,
grinding roar, like that within the cylinder of a cyclone. All in an
instant--to the man at the lever--his house, the world, the universe,
seemed to have been swallowed up.
An explosion, long, loud and terrific, shook the Vanderhook
habitation, from the foundation stones to the mansard roof.
And after this was silence, thick, oppressive, damp, dead and awesome.
And phlogiston was restored.
* * * * *
AND BILL IS IT.
* * * * *
A tiny, black, glistening, motionless monster stood between a man and
a woman. There were now but two people in the laboratory--the
Honorable William K. Vanderhook and his beautiful wife. The one was
flushed with victory, the other was pallid with perplexity and fear.
In another instant our hero was eagerly bending over the instrument of
his revenge. In one hand he held a tiny spoon, in the other a small
vial upon which was a freshly printed label.
It was with infinite care that he scraped the spoon along the rim of
the now stilled and silent cylinder. It was with unmeasured caution
and infinite pride that he scraped up three great drops of clear,
shining water and transferred them to the yawning mouth of the vial.
This done, the druggist fitted a cork nicely into the vial, while a
wide smile of satisfaction illumined his countenance from brow to chin
and from ear to ear.
When he turned and looked upon his wife the illumination increased.
And what of her? The woman for whom friendship had been sacrificed and
a Mystic cut off in the height of his uselessness? Womanlike, as she
watched Mr. Leffingwell disappear into vapor she had sensed the
possibilities of the new dispensation. Alonzo had certainly lapsed.
Bill had not. She had lost an admirer, but her husband was still in
evidence. Alonzo was reduced to nothingness. Bill was yet a
substantial fact. The Mystic could no longer contribute to her
entertainment. Bill could make things very disagreeable. Astral
advantages were gone. Material things remained.
Opinions to the contrary, women are philosophers--in accommodating
themselves to the inevitable.
The lovely Imogene had almost dried her tears, even before the
explosion came. When it was over she shook herself into adjustment as
to her draperies and ribbons and frills. She fluffed up her bangs,
slicked her eyebrows and looked almost as fresh as she generally felt.
When it was all over the avenger turned and, tossing the vial to the
lady, said in a loud, triumphant voice,--“Well, here we are, Mrs.
Vanderhook; here’s your essence of mysticism for your _mooshoir_, and
here”--laughing uproariously,--“is a soov’nir spoon for your next pink
tea. And now, my dear girl”--as Imogene began to look mournful
again--“if you’ll give up this strenuous occultism and be contented
with your old Billsey on the earth plane, I’ll cry quits, and get you
anything you want--that isn’t astral.”
Imogene wiped her eyes. She looked at him inquiringly. Then she looked
at the vial. Then she sidled up alongside her husband.
And now Bill smiled--but it was under his breath. “What is it,
Petsey”--and his arm closed around her. “How would you like one of
those dandy little watches, or--”
“Oh, Billsey boy, I do believe after all that it’s you that’s _IT_. I
feel this very minute as if we’d just vibrate together after this
splendidly. I bet anything, if you’d just practice a little, you could
be up to me in no time.”
The Honorable Mayor of Kankakee turned away to conceal his emotion.
And when his expression was out of sight he winked--once--slowly
and--judiciously--at the now silent cylinder.
Then he said modestly,--“Yes, Honey, I mean to get even with you if
I’m spared. And if you want--”
“The watch? Oh, Billsey dear, I should think I did. If you hadn’t
dissolved Lonnie he would have gotten me one soon. But, say, can’t I
have, too, one of those dear--dear--markee rings? They’re just too,
too, utterly--”
“‘Course you can. You can have a whole tray full if you want ’em. You
see, Leff saved me a lot of money; and now I’ll spend it on you. You
can have rings and pins and any other truck necessary to your
happiness.”
“Oh, Billsey, you don’t mean that you will take me to Chicago this
winter to the grand opera, and the charity ball, and the horse show,
and all the big department stores,--and--and--”
“Yes, yes, old girl, I’ll take you to all these and everything else
that you can’t think of now, and then to the Stock Yards; for it
won’t be like going home without seeing the Yards.”
“You’re a dear, sweet, blessed--”
“But here, see here, Imogene, all this is _provided_--that there are
no more Dudes from Devachan to deal with. D’ye hear me? Is it a go?”
“Here’s my mitt,”--and Imogene laid her delicate little hand in Bill’s
big paw.
And thus, over the--no, not the ashes--but the essence of the late
Alonzo Leffingwell, Gnani of Gingalee, and Modern Mystic of Low
Degree,--was enacted the full and complete reconciliation of Mr. and
Mrs. Vanderhook....
“I say, Genesy, girl, it’s supper time, and I’m hungry as a wolf. And
say, too, I’m as dry as a fish.”
“Me, too”--murmured Imogene, and clutching up the back of her gown in
one hand she laid the other tenderly and confidingly upon her
husband’s arm.
And the husband and wife turned from the laboratory and paused in the
library. The untouched spread was still on the table.
“What do you say, my dear, to the removal of this cobweb? What would
you say to a little ‘Mumm,’ or a ‘High-ball,’ before we go to dinner?”
“Well, Billsey, I’d just say ‘Let’s,’ for I really do feel nervous.
But there--goodness gracious! I’ve gone and left that bottle of Lonnie
in the laboratory. Oh, well, never mind; I don’t believe he’s much
good as essence, anyway. Patchouli’s good enough. Don’t you think so,
Billsey?”
* * * * *
And close to the cask of copper wire had rolled a tiny vial, rolled
and lost itself in the litter thereabouts, a vial on which the double
label read as follows:
“_Aqua Vitae_”
ALONZO LEFFINGWELL, D. P.[2]
“_Memoria in Aeterna_.”
FINIS.
“_Tacks Vobiscum_.”
[Footnote 2: Defunct Philosopher.]
POSTLUDE.
Literature is but a symbol.
A book is but an array of signs by which ideas are conveyed, facts
transmitted, or truths revealed.
The office of literature is to instruct, inspire, entertain, or
demoralize the reader.
Varied as individuality itself are the literary devices of authors.
Innumerable are the expedients to which human intelligence resorts in
its efforts to transmit knowledge, to impart ideas and ideals, or to
illustrate and elucidate truths.
Born of individual aspirations, ambitions and convictions, and
formulated by individual genius, are the poems, essays, dramas, songs,
sermons, and even the satires of literature.
And none of these has excuse for being, except its creator has
something of value to express, reveal or illustrate.
If the author’s motive be pure, and if his cause be just and his art
sufficient, we forgive the mere literary form or trick by which he
commands attention and awakens interest.
If, for example, a feathery skit be employed to illustrate a
substantial fact or lofty principle in nature, or some current social
or philosophic pretension, it should not offend the wise. It could in
nowise minimize Truth, nor belittle the great purpose in the
background.
It is possible, however, that it may teach a valuable lesson by
indirection. It may enlarge the understanding and remove the prejudice
of a few people.
To travesty a noble theme is easy, for in this great world of ours the
sublime and the ridiculous forever march side by side, and oftentimes
their relation is one of great intimacy.
Side by side walk the noble and the ignoble, the wise and the foolish,
the serious and the mirthful, the fine and the unrefined, the lofty
and the trivial, the religious and the sacrilegious, the philosophic
and the foolish.
The wise man and the faker hourly cross each other’s paths, and their
contact and contrast often afford a laugh for the merry and a lesson
for the thoughtful.
F. H.
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Gay Gnani of Gingalee, by Florence Huntley