A Strange Discovery by Charles Romyn Dake
C >>
Charles Romyn Dake >> A Strange Discovery
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15
As he closed, we entered the town. It may not be wholly lacking in
interest to the reader when I say that, some years later, as I one
morning sat in my library looking through the window at the far-distant
smoke of Newcastle, I had just laid aside a copy of the _Times_, in
which paper I had read of the results of a political contest in the
State of Illinois. The Republicans had won. The Greenbackers and the
Democrats had lost. Then my eye caught the name of Castleton! The doctor
had made the race for Governor--not on the Greenback ticket, however;
not on the Democratic ticket; but--of all things!--on the _anti-liquor
or Prohibition ticket!_
As we drew up in front of the Loomis House, Doctor Bainbridge stood on
the sidewalk as if awaiting our return. I smiled, then nodded an
affirmative to the question in his eyes; and stepping out of the buggy,
I linked his arm within my own, and, thanking Doctor Castleton for his
kindness, piloted the way to my room.
The FIFTH Chapter
On opening the door of my sitting-room, I found Arthur, the factotum,
sitting in my large easy-chair, with one of my volumes of Poe in his
hand. He had overheard part of the conversation of the preceding
evening, and was evidently interested in "The Narrative of A. Gordon
Pym." I observed also that a bottle of cognac which sat upon my table,
and which I could have sworn was not more than one-fourth emptied when I
left the hotel directly after dinner, was now quite empty. The
atmosphere of the room was pervaded with the odor of "dead" brandy; and
Arthur's eyes were unusually glassy and staring--for so early an hour as
5 P.M. Then he settled the matter, beyond the shadow of a doubt, with a
hiccough.
"Well, Arthur," I said, pleasantly, as he clumsily rose in part from his
seat--into which he dropped back, however, as he heard my kindly tone of
address, and knew there was to be no severity of reckoning--"well, my
boy; been enjoying yourself?"
"Yes, sir," he replied, in a fairly steady voice--the words that
followed, however, being rhythmically interrupted by an aldermanic and
most vociferous hiccough, which shall be omitted from this record--"been
reading about Pym and Barnard. Wasn't that awful when they saw the
shipful of dead corpses? Just think of that ship, full of dead men--not
one of them alive, and all dead--and the sails set, and the old ship
wabbling around the ocean just as things might please to happen! When
the ship got close up to their brig, and that scream came from among the
corpses, I just jumped, myself! But wasn't it terrible when that gull
pulled its bloody old beak out of the dead man's back, and then flew
over the brig and dropped the piece of human flesh at poor hungry
Parker's feet? Gee-whillikens, now! Why, it just made my blood sink in
my heart and lungs."
"Yes," I thought, "and it just made my brandy sink pretty fast in my
bottle and down your throat." I was amused at his comments, and at
another time might have listened longer to his talk; but now I must be
making some arrangement with Doctor Bainbridge regarding a possible
interview with Peters; so I said to Arthur that he might take the volume
of Poe and keep it for two or three days, which offer he gladly
accepted; and with an involuntary wandering of the eye toward the brandy
bottle, he left the room.
Then Bainbridge and I seated ourselves, and I described the late scene
in Dirk Peters' room, repeating almost word for word all that had been
said. He pondered for a few minutes, during which I could see that his
versatile imagination was in active play. Then he said,
"Well, we have him! My, my, what a discovery! This will be like reaching
across the decrees of death and taking by the hand dear Poe himself! But
you were hasty--as I myself might have been. Well, we must see
Castleton--that is, you must--and get his consent for us to go right out
and stay with Peters, if necessary for a night and a day, or even
longer. We can take care of the poor old fellow, and watch our
opportunity to glean from him the facts of that strange voyage, onward
from the moment when, borne on that swift ocean current, he and Pym were
rushed into the mystery that opened to receive them, as the
white-shrouded figure arose in their pathway. 'Fire'--'salt'--'ice,'
said he? I begin almost--almost to understand! Did you ever, in England,
hear of the Peruvian tradition of an antarctic country, warm and
delightful, peopled by a civilized--or rather by a highly enlightened
and very mysterious race of whites? Such a tradition exists. Now, one
day in New York, about three years ago, I allowed myself a holiday, as
was my custom from time to time after a period of severe study. On the
day I speak of I entered the Astor Library, and was permitted to wander
at my pleasure among the books. I carried in my hand one of the small
camp-stools which stood around the room, and whenever I found a book
that particularly interested me, I would sit down and look it over. You
understand, I was dissipating in this great treasure-house of books.
About the middle of the afternoon I found myself in one of the most
unfrequented of the library alcoves. There, on a shelf so high that I
could just see over its edge as I stood on one of the library
step-ladders, I found a strange little book, purporting to have been
written in 1594. It had fallen down behind the other books. It had a
leather back, well-worn; I saw that it was a 1728 Leipsic publication;
and possibly came to the Astor Library by presentation from its wise and
liberal founder's private library--though this is pure surmise. The book
read much like other tales of the time, so far as its form went. I sat
down to look at it--and I did not arise until I had read it to its end,
some three hours later. I had not read two pages before I became
satisfied that the book had more truth than fiction in it. To have
assumed it wholly the work of imagination, I should have had to admit
that the author was an artist of artists, exceeding, through his
artfulness, in naturalness, all other fiction-writers. No; there was
truth behind the statements in the little book--truth at second or third
hand, but truth. Now this little book pretended to tell, and I believe
did tell, the story of a sailor under Sir Francis Drake, who accompanied
this English navigator on his 1577-1580 voyage. You will recall, as a
matter of history, that, in the voyage mentioned, Sir Francis crossed
the Atlantic, passed the Strait of Magellan, crossed the Pacific, and
returned to England by way of the Cape of Good Hope. Now during this
three-year voyage, the story is that he once lost his 'bearings' for a
month; in fact, it is intimated that a hiatus of two months in his 'log'
really did exist. This hiatus, however, could easily have been covered
in the ship's log-book. We may conceive of reasons for which he might
have preferred to keep a temporary silence concerning the discovery of a
strange people, in those early, savage times. The little book said,
that, when in the Pacific, after passing the strait, Sir Francis was for
two weeks driven in a southerly course--a severe, and in every way most
unusual storm prevailing. When the winds and the waves subsided, he was
surprised to find himself looking into the mouth of a harbor, on the
shores of which stood a city, by no means so large as London or even as
Paris; but exceeding in grandeur the London or the Paris of that day, as
the Paris of to-day exceeds in elegance the comparative squalor of the
Paris of three centuries ago. According to the leather-covered little
German book, the city was beautiful beyond comparison with any of the
European cities of that period. I should suppose that the author thought
of it as we do of Athens in the days of Pericles. Not much is said of
the inhabitants, who were probably infinitely superior, socially, to the
rough voyagers of that date. And for once the 'natives' were neither
bullied nor 'converted,' Sir Francis departing no richer than he
arrived, save for a few commercially valueless gifts. One thing the
natives, it seems, insisted on: Sir Francis arrived in the city without
knowing his longitude; and they compelled him on leaving to accept
conditions that prevented him from finding his bearings till he was more
than a thousand miles away. What the nature of the climate was in this
strange city may be judged by the expressions employed in the little
book, which, translated, were equivalent to 'perfect,' 'Eden-like,'
'balmy,' 'delicious.' Once the author compares this antarctic city to
Venice--admittedly to the Venice of his imagination. No; Sir Francis had
nothing to brag of in this adventure; and in those days when to be
physically subdued, or in a contest to fail to subdue others, was a
humiliation or even a disgrace, he would have kept very quiet about the
whole affair; particularly as a future navigator could not have found
the city, even had Sir Francis told all that he knew. Now I mention
these reports only to show you that others have thought of warm
antarctic lands; and I could refer you to many other old stories and
traditions, highly suggestive of inhabited lands in the Antarctic Ocean,
on which lands a refined people dwell. I certainly expect to learn from
Peters facts of some importance to the world, if only he does not die,
or is not so delirious as to throw a shadow on the verity of his story,
even if he does disclose the wonders which I most assuredly believe that
he will if he lives but another day. Really, I am, for the first time in
years, excited. How Castleton keeps so cool and so apparently
indifferent over this matter, when he is always excited over what seem
to me to be comparative nothings, I cannot comprehend. Now, sir, you
hunt him up again--he will no doubt be in his office across the street.
Get his consent, as I before suggested--Castleton is always obliging
when you appeal to him directly; then take your supper, and be ready. I
will be here at eight o'clock with my horse and a piano-box buggy. It
will be a beautiful moonlight night, and let us not risk waiting until
to-morrow. We will take with us some ice; also wine, beef extract, and a
few other things intended to sustain the poor old fellow's vitality--at
least till his story is told. We must go prepared to remain for
twenty-four hours, or even for thirty-six hours if necessary; so have
your overcoat ready, and I will find a couple of blankets in case we
have to lie down. Good-by till eight."
And off he went, as excited as a schoolboy at the beginning of an
adventure. I began to think he was allowing his imaginations to pray him
tricks--purposely allowing himself to be deceived, as a child that is
nearing the age of reason still delights in the old fairy tales and the
Santa Claus myth, long after its mind has penetrated the deception.
Still, in the end it proved we were very far--very far indeed from being
upon an idle quest.
By eight o'clock I had obtained Doctor Castleton's consent that
Bainbridge and I might visit Peters, and remain as long as we should
desire.
"I will run out myself, early in the morning," said Castleton, "and do
what I can to keep life in the old man. Don't let Bainbridge get into
the old fellow any of his newfangled, highfalutin remedies--if you do, I
will not answer for the consequences. I don't say that Bainbridge will
not in time--in time, mark you--be a dazzling therapeutist; but not
until experience has modified his views, and shown him that Rome was not
built in a day, nor with a toothpick, either. Don't tell him what I say,
please--I wouldn't like to hurt his young feelings, you know."
When Doctor Bainbridge drove up in front of the hotel, I was waiting for
him; and we were soon on our way toward the Peters domicile.
The SIXTH Chapter
The time required by Doctor Castleton to reach the home of Dirk Peters
had been about forty minutes; the time required by Doctor Bainbridge was
two and one-half times forty minutes, or only twenty minutes short of
two hours. Bainbridge drove a single horse, a beautiful, large, dappled
bay--an excellent animal, which, as most horses do, had learned those of
his master's ways that bore relation to his own interests. Bainbridge
was a lover of animals, as Castleton was not; Castleton was an admirer
of horses for their action, whilst with Bainbridge the welfare of his
horse was everything, and he never drove rapidly without a particular
and pressing necessity.
So we drove along in a leisurely way, conversing of Dirk Peters and the
Pym story, until we had arranged a plan of action for drawing out of the
old man an account of that voyage, the mere thought of which, coming
suddenly upon him, had affected him in the terrible manner which I had
that afternoon witnessed. Doctor Bainbridge explained to me that the
wild demonstrations made by Peters and described by me were a result,
not so much of any thought of those adventures on which he must have
pondered thousands of times in the forty-eight or forty-nine intervening
years, as it was of the manner in which the thoughts or mental pictures
had been brought to his mind.
"I need only remind you," he said, "of a single mental characteristic
within the experience of almost every person, to make this matter clear,
and to indicate what our course with the old man must be, and why I said
to you to come prepared for a long stay. Suppose, for instance, a woman
to have lost her husband through some extremely painful accident, his
death being not only sudden but of a horrifying nature, and that several
years have elapsed since she was widowed. Now, she has thought the
matter over ten thousand times, as the suggestion to do so entered her
mind by a hundred different routes, as, for instance, by the seeing of
something that her husband in life possessed, or by the drift of her own
thought bringing her to the subject by association or by indirect paths
of suggestion. Every day her mind has many times pictured the horrible
scene of death, until she is dry-eyed and passive amid a storm of sad
ideas. But now, after all these years, bring to her mind, suddenly and
by a strange route of suggestion, the same old horror--let a voice, and
particularly the voice of a stranger, remind her of the terrible
scene--and immediately the demonstration follows: the sobs of anguish,
the tears, all, as on the day of the accident. It is the method of
approach--the mode of suggestion when the fact is known but latent in
consciousness, that is responsible for the nervous demonstration. In
another instance, visual suggestion might have a similar result and
audible suggestion be harmless. I anticipate no serious obstruction in
the path to Peters' confidence. Patience, care, deliberate action--the
fact ever in mind that 'The more haste the less speed,' and we shall win
the prize for which we strive."
As we drove along in the bright moonlight, after we had determined on
our "method of approach" to Peters' mind, I felt confident that with the
knowledge and tact of Bainbridge we should certainly succeed in our
efforts; and I began to think along other lines. The friendly manner in
which I had been treated by all whom I had met in America, from the
millionaire coal operator down to the bell-boy, came into my thoughts. I
had not been treated as a foreigner, except to my own advantage, the
older residents of the town seeming to look upon me more as they might
look upon a man from another State of the Union. In America, even the
inland towns are cosmopolitan, while in England only the larger cities
and seaport towns have that characteristic. I was therefore able to
judge of certain questions not only from hearsay, but from actual
observation. I noticed, for example, that among the American
working-classes there existed a feeling of repugnance for the Chinaman.
Of the lower-class Italian, everybody thought enough to keep out of his
reach after dark. Germans and Irishmen were numerous, and each
individual was taken on his own merits. The English were universally
liked, wherever I went. True, there was a little tendency to allude to
the glories of Bunker Hill and the like; but this tendency was evinced
in a manner rather amusing than objectionable to an Englishman. If there
exists in the American heart a drop of bitterness for the English, I
never discovered it. I am writing now of the American-born American. I
gathered the idea that Frenchmen, as seen in America, were scarcely
taken seriously; though all Americans have been systematically educated
to respect and admire the French Nation. Of Spaniards, the prevalent
idea seemed to be that they were better at arm's length. (Anglo-Saxon
literature has been very unkind to the Spaniard.) I did not meet an
American that seemed to hate anybody--I do not conceive it possible for
an American to harbor the feeling of hatred.
As we jogged along, the idea entered my mind that I would, when I
returned home, write a treatise on "American Manners and Customs." "No
doubt," I said to myself, "I can in the next few minutes procure from
Bainbridge enough facts to make quite a book." I afterward abandoned the
intention; but at that moment my mind was filled with it. So I decided
to ask my companion a few leading questions, noting well his replies.
"And I will first," I determined within myself, "inquire into the mooted
point concerning the existence of an aristocratic feeling in the United
States. Some of our English writers on 'American Manners and Customs,'
and our most acute analysts of American character, say that the
Americans are great snobs, and are only too glad to claim the possession
of even the most distant aristocratic connection;" so I broached the
subject to Bainbridge.
"It interests me to convince you," he began, in reply, "that in the
United States there is scarcely a vestige of aristocratic feeling. In
fact as in theory, there is in this country but one class of people.
Such supposed barriers as wealth and political position are only
partitions of paper--relative nothings. I do not mention heredity,
because in the United States all attempts to establish a family line
result in the family rotting before it gets ripe. The only pretence to
hereditary pride which we have here, exists in two States; in one of
them some four or five hundred persons cannot forget that their
forefathers got to shore before somebody else; and in the other a few
families still dispute over the threadbare question of whose
great-great-grandmother cost the most pounds of tobacco. Now,
candidly--is this sufficient to justify a reproach from Europe that we
are striving to claim or to create an aristocracy?
"And then there is that other reproach--we're such outrageous
tuft-hunters. I shall not deny having seen an American run himself out
of breath to get a peep at a duke, but I never knew an American spend
money to see one, unless the American was too beastly rich to care for
money at all. And then, hereditary nobles do not wear well here. Let a
visiting duke be followed within a year by anything less than a king,
and the visitor will fail to excite anybody out of a walk. You must not
in England judge of this subject from the effect on our people of a
certain not remote visit; for the people of the United States have a
feeling of respect and affection for the present royal family of Great
Britain which no other royal family or individual, past or present, has
ever produced. Hum, hum! Our people mean well; but curiosity and
imitation will not die out of the human race till an inch or two more of
the spinal column drops off."
Still with a view to the gathering of facts for my intended treatise, I
asked Bainbridge to explain in what distinctive manner the people of the
United States were benefited by a republican form of government. He
replied that he knew nothing worth mentioning of the science of
government, and had never been outside of the United States.
"But," he continued, "I can tell you something of what the whole people
of this country enjoy. And to begin with, there is, as I have intimated,
in the United States but one class of people, aside from the criminal
class common to all lands, and that vicious but not relatively numerous
element which lives on the borderland between respectability and actual
crime. This truth seems sometimes to be questioned in Europe--why, I can
but guess. Who would attempt to enter the nurseries and schoolrooms of
our land today, and, by inquiring as to the parentage of the children,
select from among them any approximation to those from whom are to come,
in twenty or thirty years, the men that shall then govern our States,
sit in our National Congress, direct our army and navy, and control our
commerce? I have heard that in Europe it is rather the exception for a
son to reach exalted position when the father has earned a living by
manual labor. In the United States this is not the exception, but the
rule. At this moment the positions alluded to are here filled by the
sons of poor fathers. With us, inherited wealth appears to be rather a
detriment than an aid to political advancement of more than a petty
kind. 'And yet,' you may say, 'your people are not always satisfied.' No
advancing, upward-looking people is ever satisfied. With such a people,
too, the demagogue is a natural product; and the demagogue period of
this country is at hand. But there will never be a tom-fool revolution
in this fair land. The people here know that when they have universal
suffrage and majority rule they've pulled the last hair out of the end
of the cat's tail for them."
I made a remark, to which Bainbridge replied:
"Yes, we managed to finish up a pretty fair revolution here some twelve
years ago; but that revolution was caused by a disagreement about the R.
of B. Now----"
"Pardon me," I said "but what was the 'R. of B?'"
"Oh, excuse me," he answered. "The R. of B. was the Relic of Barbarism,
human slavery--the only relic the United States has ever had, too."
I prided myself that the material for my book was piling up at a great
rate; and I determined to persevere.
"How about the feeling of dislike of Americans for the English, of which
we have heard so much in England?" I asked. "Not that I have had any
evidence of such a feeling."
"That is a plant which has finally withered away in spite of some
careful artificial cultivation. The politician who shall attempt to
build on any such feeling against England (a statesman will never desire
to make the attempt) will soon learn his mistake. Oh, I suppose it
pleases some Americans to think we got the best of our mother in
1783--such a big, strong, wealthy mother, too. A little bit of talk
doesn't hurt her any, and it does some of us a heap of good. When a boy
runs away from home, half the glory and fun is in being missed; and if
the folks at home won't say they miss him, why, he must say all the
louder that they are mourning over the loss. But I will say to you--and
I say it with the fullest conviction of its truth--that the people of
the United States could not in any way be induced to take up arms
against Great Britain, save in their own undivided interest.
Individually, as you already know, I love England--not England's fops,
but her people; I love the literature of England, I love her memories, I
esteem and admire her well-executed laws. The literature of England has
been my mental food from boyhood--aye, almost from infancy; and her
memories, her memories! I think of London as Macaulay must have thought
of Athens. Decent Americans--that is, a majority--don't listen to jingo
politicians; and new arrivals with a grievance against England are left
to the _vis medicatrix naturae_. There'll never be another war between
England and the United States. Our Anglo-Saxon element think normally;
and the vast majority of our German citizens have always been on the
sensible and morally right side of national questions--there's nothing
long-haired or cranky about them. I like the Germans because they don't
hanker after the unknown. I believe that most reading Americans--that is
to say three-fourths of all--feel toward England as Irving and Hawthorne
did.--But, from your description, that must be the home of Peters, just
ahead of us."
He was right; and we stopped in front of the old sailor's house. An aged
man, apparently a coal miner, came to the door as our buggy stopped. We
called him to us and inquired concerning Peters, who he told us was
quietly sleeping. Then we asked with regard to stabling accommodations,
and learned that Peters had an old unused stable, the last old horse
that he had owned having preceded its master into the beyond. The old
miner offered to care for our horse; so we gathered up our supplies, and
entered the little log house that contained so much of interest for us.
We found Peters asleep.
Making ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, we
awaited developments. At about midnight Peters awoke. He asked for a
drink of water, which was given to him. His voice was feeble, and I saw
that Bainbridge felt doubtful as to the length of time that Peters might
remain alive and be able to talk intelligently. But after we had given
him a little diluted port, and followed it with a cup of prepared beef
extract, his actions betokened less weakness, his voice in particular
gaining in strength. The poor old fellow had been of necessity much
neglected, and our efforts to arouse him met with decidedly good
results. All through the night we gratified every want which he
expressed, and attended to every need of his that our own minds could
suggest. No attempt was made to draw from him any information concerning
his strange voyage; but, on the advice of Bainbridge, we occasionally
spoke aloud to each other, and now and then to Peters himself--always on
indifferent topics. This was done to familiarize the old sailor with our
voices; and as far as we could do so without any possible injury to him,
we kept a light in the room, that he should become accustomed to our
appearance. From time to time Bainbridge would step to the bedside, and
place his hand on the old man's forehead; and later he would every now
and then put an arm about the invalid's body, and raise him up to take a
swallow of nourishment or wine.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15