The aged philosopher Aboniel inhabited a lofty tower in the city of
Balkh, where he devoted himself to the study of chemistry and the
occult sciences. No one was ever admitted to his laboratory. Yet
Aboniel did not wholly shun intercourse with mankind, but, on the
contrary, had seven pupils, towardly youths belonging to the noblest
families of the city, whom he instructed at stated times in philosophy
and all lawful knowledge, reserving the forbidden lore of magic and
alchemy for himself.
But on a certain day he summoned his seven scholars to the mysterious
apartment. They entered with awe and curiosity, but perceived nothing
save the sage standing behind a table, on which were placed seven
crystal phials, filled with a clear liquid resembling water.
“Ye know, my sons,” he began, “with what ardour I am reputed to have
striven to penetrate the hidden secrets of Nature, and to solve the
problems which have allured and baffled the sages of all time. In this
rumour doth not err: such hath ever been my object; but, until
yesterday, my fortune hath been like unto theirs who have preceded me.
The little I could accomplish seemed as nothing in comparison with what
I was compelled to leave unachieved. Even now my success is but
partial. I have not learned to make gold; the talisman of Solomon is
not mine; nor can I recall the principle of life to the dead, or infuse
it into inanimate matter. But if I cannot create, I can preserve. I
have found the Elixir of Life.”
The sage paused to examine the countenances of his scholars. Upon them
he read extreme surprise, undoubting belief in the veracity of their
teacher, and the dawning gleam of a timid hope that they themselves
might become participators in the transcendent discovery he proclaimed.
Addressing himself to the latter sentiment—“I am willing,” he
continued, “to communicate this secret to you, if such be your desire.”
An unanimous exclamation assured him that there need be no uncertainty
on this point.
“But remember,” he resumed, “that this knowledge, like all knowledge,
has its disadvantages and its drawbacks. A price must be paid, and when
ye come to learn it, it may well be that it will seem too heavy.
Understand that the stipulations I am about to propound are not of my
imposing; the secret was imparted to me by spirits not of a benevolent
order, and under conditions with which I am constrained strictly to
comply. Understand also that I am not minded to employ this knowledge
on my own behalf. My fourscore years’ acquaintance with life has
rendered me more solicitous for methods of abbreviating existence, than
of prolonging it. It may be well for you if your twenty years’
experience has led you to the same conclusion.”
There was not one of the young men who would not readily have admitted,
and indeed energetically maintained, the emptiness, vanity, and general
unsatisfactoriness of life; for such had ever been the doctrine of
their venerated preceptor. Their present behaviour, however, would have
convinced him, had he needed conviction, of the magnitude of the gulf
between theory and practice, and the feebleness of intellectual
persuasion in presence of innate instinct. With one voice they
protested their readiness to brave any conceivable peril, and undergo
any test which might be imposed as a condition of participation in
their master’s marvellous secret.
“So be it,” returned the sage, “and now hearken to the conditions.
“Each of you must select at hazard, and immediately quaff one of these
seven phials, in one of which only is contained the Elixir of Life. Far
different are the contents of the others; they are the six most deadly
poisons which the utmost subtlety of my skill has enabled me to
prepare, and science knows no antidote to any of them. The first
scorches up the entrails as with fire; the second slays by freezing
every vein, and benumbing every nerve; the third by frantic
convulsions. Happy in comparison he who drains the fourth, for he sinks
dead upon the ground immediately, smitten as it were with lightning.
Nor do I overmuch commiserate him to whose lot the fifth may fall, for
slumber descends upon him forthwith, and he passes away in painless
oblivion. But wretched he who chooses the sixth, whose hair falls from
his head, whose skin peels from his body, and who lingers long in
excruciating agonies, a living death. The seventh phial contains the
object of your desire. Stretch forth your hands, therefore,
simultaneously to this table; let each unhesitatingly grasp and
intrepidly drain the potion which fate may allot him, and be the
quality of his fortune attested by the result.”
The seven disciples contemplated each other with visages of sevenfold
blankness. They next unanimously directed their gaze towards their
preceptor, hoping to detect some symptom of jocularity upon his
venerable features. Nothing could be descried thereon but the most
imperturbable solemnity, or, if perchance anything like an expression
of irony lurked beneath this, it was not such irony as they wished to
see. Lastly, they scanned the phials, trusting that some infinitesimal
distinction might serve to discriminate the elixir from the poisons.
But no, the vessels were indistinguishable in external appearance, and
the contents of each were equally colourless and transparent.
“Well,” demanded Aboniel at length, with real or assumed surprise,
“wherefore tarry ye thus? I deemed to have ere this beheld six of you
in the agonies of death!”
This utterance did not tend to encourage the seven waverers. Two of the
boldest, indeed, advanced their hands half-way to the table, but
perceiving that their example was not followed, withdrew them in some
confusion.
“Think not, great teacher, that I personally set store by this
worthless existence,” said one of their number at last, breaking the
embarrassing silence, “but I have an aged mother, whose life is bound
up with mine.”
“I,” said the second, “have an unmarried sister, for whom it is meet
that I should provide.”
“I,” said the third, “have an intimate and much-injured friend, whose
cause I may in nowise forsake.”
“And I an enemy upon whom I would fain be avenged,” said the fourth.
“My life,” said the fifth, “is wholly devoted to science. Can I consent
to lay it down ere I have sounded the seas of the seven climates?”
“Or I, until I have had speech of the man in the moon?” inquired the
sixth.
“I,” said the seventh, “have neither mother nor sister, friends nor
enemies, neither doth my zeal for science equal that of my fellows. But
I have all the greater respect for my own skin; yea, the same is
exceedingly precious in my sight.”
“The conclusion of the whole matter, then,” summed up the sage, “is
that not one of you will make a venture for the cup of immortality?”
The young men remained silent and abashed, unwilling to acknowledge the
justice of their master’s taunt, and unable to deny it. They sought for
some middle path, which did not readily present itself.
“May we not,” said one at last, “may we not cast lots, and each take a
phial in succession, as destiny may appoint?”
“I have nothing against this,” replied Aboniel, “only remember that the
least endeavour to contravene the conditions by amending the chance of
any one of you, will ensure the discomfiture of all.”
The disciples speedily procured seven quills of unequal lengths, and
proceeded to draw them in the usual manner. The shortest remained in
the hand of the holder, he who had pleaded his filial duty to his
mother.
He approached the table with much resolution, and his hand advanced
half the distance without impediment. Then, turning to the holder of
the second quill; the man with the sister, he said abruptly:
“The relation between mother and son is notoriously more sacred and
intimate than that which obtains between brethren. Were it not
therefore fitting that thou shouldst encounter the first risk in my
stead?”
“The relationship between an aged mother and an adult son,” responded
the youth addressed, in a sententious tone, “albeit most holy, cannot
in the nature of things be durable, seeing that it must shortly be
dissolved by death. Whereas the relationship between brother and sister
may endure for many years, if such be the will of Allah. It is
therefore proper that thou shouldst first venture the experiment.”
“Have I lived to hear such sophistry from a pupil of the wise Aboniel!”
exclaimed the first speaker, in generous indignation. “The maternal
relationship—”
“A truce to this trifling,” cried the other six; “fulfil the
conditions, or abandon the task.”
Thus urged, the scholar approached his hand to the table, and seized
one of the phials. Scarcely, however, had he done so, when he fancied
that he detected something of a sinister colour in the liquid, which
distinguished it, in his imagination, from the innocent transparency of
the rest. He hastily replaced it, and laid hold of the next. At that
moment a blaze of light burst forth upon them, and, thunderstruck, the
seven scholars were stretched senseless on the ground.
On regaining their faculties they found themselves at the outside of
Aboniel’s dwelling, stunned by the shock, and humiliated by the part
they had played. They jointly pledged inviolable secrecy, and returned
to their homes.
The secret of the seven was kept as well as the secret of seven can be
expected to be; that is to say, it was not, ere the expiration of seven
days, known to more than six-sevenths of the inhabitants of Balkh. The
last of these to become acquainted with it was the Sultan, who
immediately despatched his guards to apprehend the sage, and confiscate
the Elixir. Failing to obtain admission at Aboniel’s portal, they broke
it open, and, on entering his chamber, found him in a condition which
more eloquently than any profession bespoke his disdain for the
life-bestowing draught. He was dead in his chair. Before him, on the
table, stood the seven phials, six full as previously, the seventh
empty. In his hand was a scroll inscribed as follows;
“Six times twice six years have I striven after knowledge, and I now
bequeath to the world the fruit of my toil, being six poisons. One more
deadly I might have added, but I have refrained,
“Write upon my tomb, that here he lies who forbore to perpetuate human
affliction, and bestowed a fatal boon where alone it could be
innoxious.”
The intruders looked at each other, striving to penetrate the sense of
Aboniel’s last words. While yet they gazed, they were startled by a
loud crash from an adjacent closet, and were even more discomposed as a
large monkey bounded forth, whose sleek coat, exuberant playfulness,
and preternatural agility convinced all that the deceased philosopher,
under an inspiration of supreme irony, had administered to the creature
every drop of the Elixir of Life.