Thursday's Serial: "O Guarani" by José de Alencar (in Portuguese) - XVIII

Capítulo VII: Peleja

Quando a família de D. Antônio de Mariz gozava dos primeiros momentos de tranqüilidade que sucediam a tantas aflições, soou um grito na escada de pedra.

Cecília levantou-se estremecendo de alegria e felicidade; tinha reconhecido a voz de Peri.

No momento em que ia correr ao encontro do seu amigo, mestre Nunes já tinha abaixado uma prancha que servia de ponte levadiça, e Peri chegava à porta da sala.

D. Antônio de Mariz, sua mulher e sua filha ficaram mudos de espanto e terror; Isabel caiu fulminada, como se a vida lhe faltasse de repente.

Peri trazia nos seus ombros o corpo inanimado de Álvaro; e no rosto uma expressão de tristeza profunda. Atravessando a sala, depôs sobre o sofá o seu fardo precioso, e olhando o rosto lívido daquele que fora seu amigo, enxugou uma lágrima que lhe corria pela face.

Nenhuma das pessoas presentes se animava a quebrar o silêncio solene que envolvia aquela cena lúgubre; os aventureiros que haviam acompanhado Peri quando passara no meio deles correndo, pararam na porta, tomados de compaixão e respeito por aquela desgraça.

Cecília nem pôde gozar da alegria de ver Peri salvo; seus olhos, apesar dos sofrimentos passados, ainda tinham lágrimas para chorar essa vida nobre e leal que a morte acabava de ceifar. Quanto a D. Antônio de Mariz, sua dor era de um pai que havia perdido um filho; era a dor muda e concentrada que abala as organizações fortes, sem contudo abatê-las.

Depois dessa primeira comoção produzida pela chegada de Peri, o fidalgo interrogou o índio e ouviu de sua boca a narração breve dos acontecimentos, cuja peripécia tinha diante dos olhos.

Eis o que havia passado.

Partindo na véspera, no momento em que começava a sentir os primeiros efeitos do veneno terrível que tomara, Peri ia cumprir a promessa que tinha feito a Cecília. Ia procurar a vida em um contraveneno infalível, cuja existência só era conhecida pelos velhos pajés da tribo, e pelas mulheres que os auxiliavam nas suas preparações medicinais.

Sua mãe, quando ele partira para a primeira guerra, lhe tinha revelado esse segredo que devia salvá-lo de uma morte certa no caso de ser ferido por alguma seta ervada. Vendo o desespero de sua senhora, o índio sentiu-se com forças de resistir ao torpor do envenenamento que começava a ganhar-lhe o corpo, e ir ao fundo da floresta e procurar essa erva poderosa que devia restituir-lhe a saúde, o vigor e a existência.

Contudo, quando atravessava a mata parecia-lhe às vezes que já era tarde, que não chegaria a tempo: então tinha medo de morrer longe de sua senhora, sem poder volver para ela o seu último olhar. Arrependia-se quase de ter partido de casa e não deixar-se ficar aos pés de Cecília até exalar o seu último suspiro; mas lembrava-se que a menina o esperava, lembrava-se que ela ainda precisava de sua vida e criava novas forças.

Peri entranhou-se no mais basto e sombrio da floresta, e aí, na sombra e no silêncio passou-se entre ele e a natureza uma cena da vida selvagem, dessa vida primitiva, cuja imagem nos chegou tão incompleta e desfigurada. O dia declinou: veio a tarde, depois a noite, e sob essa abóbada espessa em que Peri dormia como em um santuário, nem um rumor revelara o que ai se passou.

Quando o primeiro reflexo do dia purpureou o horizonte, as folhas se abriram, e Peri exausto de forças, vacilante, emagrecido como se acabasse de uma longa enfermidade saiu do seu retiro.

Mal se podia suster, e para caminhar era obrigado a sustentar-se aos galhos das árvores que encontrava na sua passagem: assim adiantou-se pela floresta, e colheu alguns frutos, que lhe restabeleceram um tanto as forças.

Chegando à beira do rio, Peri já sentiu o vigor que voltava, e o calor que começava a animar-lhe o corpo entorpecido; atirou-se à água e mergulhou. Quando voltou à margem, era outro homem; uma reação se havia operado; seus membros tinham adquirido a elasticidade natural; o sangue girava livremente nas veias.

Então tratou de recuperar as forças que havia perdido, e tudo quanto a floresta lhe oferecia de saboroso e nutriente serviu a este banquete da vida, em que o selvagem festejava a sua vitória sobre a morte e o veneno.

O sol tinha raiado havia horas; Peri, acabada a sua refeição, caminhava pensativo, quando ouviu uma descarga de armas de fogo, cujo estrondo reboou pelo âmbito da floresta.

Lançou-se na direção dos tiros, e a pouca distancia, num claro da mata, decobriu um espetáculo grandioso.

Álvaro e os seus nove companheiros divididos em duas colunas de cinco homens, com as costas apoiadas às costas uns dos outros, estavam cercados por mais de cem Aimorés que se precipitavam sobre eles com um furor selvagem.

Mas as ondas dessa torrente de bárbaros que soltavam bramidos espantosos, iam quebrar-se contra essa pequena coluna, que não parecia de homens, mas de aço; as espadas jogavam com tanta velocidade que a tornavam impenetrável; no raio de uma braça o inimigo que se adiantava caia morto. Havia uma hora que durava esse combate, começado com armas de fogo; mas os Aimorés atacavam com tanta fúria, que breve tinham chegado a luta corpo a corpo e à arma branca.

No momento em que Peri assomava à margem da clareira, um incidente veio modificar a face do combate.

O aventureiro que dava as costas a Álvaro, levado pelo ardor da peleja, adiantou-se alguns passos para ferir um inimigo; os selvagens o envolveram, deixando a coluna interrompida e Álvaro sem defesa.

Entretanto o valente cavalheiro continuava a fazer prodígios de valor e de coragem; cada volta que descrevia sua espada era um inimigo de menos, uma vida que se extinguia a seus pés num rio de sangue. Os selvagens redobravam de furor contra ele, e cada vez o seu braço ágil movia-se com mais segurança e mais certeza, fazendo jogar como um raio a lamina de aço que mal se via brilhar nas suas rápidas evoluções.

Desde porém que os Aimorés viram o moço sem defesa pelas costas, e exposto aos seus golpes, concentraram-se nesse ponto; um deles adiantando-se, ergueu com as duas mãos a pesada tangapema e atirou-a ao alto da cabeça de Álvaro.

O moço caiu; mas na sua queda a espada descreveu ainda um semi-círculo e abateu o inimigo que o tinha ferido à traição; a dor violenta dera a esse último golpe uma força sobrenatural.

Quando os índios iam precipitar-se sobre o cavalheiro, Peri saltou no meio deles, e agarrando a espingarda que estava a seus pés, fez dela uma arma terrível uma clava formidável, cujo poder em breve sentiram os Aimorés. Apenas se viu livre do turbilhão dos inimigos, o índio tomou Álvaro nos seus ombros, e abrindo caminho com a sua arma temível, lançou-se pela floresta e desapareceu. Alguns o seguiram; mas Peri voltou-se e fê-los arrepender-se de sua ousadia; livrando-se do peso que levava, carregou a espingarda com as munições que Álvaro trazia e mandou uma bala àquele que o perseguia mais de perto; os outros, que já o conheciam pelo combate da véspera, retrocederam. A idéia de Peri era salvar Álvaro, não só pela amizade que lhe tinha, como por causa de Cecília, que ele supunha amar o cavalheiro; vendo porém que o corpo continuava inanimado, acreditou que Álvaro estava morto.

Apesar disto não desistiu do seu propósito; morto ou vivo devia levá-lo àqueles que o amavam, ou para o restituírem à vida, ou para derramarem sobre o seu corpo o pranto da despedida.

Quando Peri acabou a sua narração, o fidalgo comovido chegou-se à beira do sofá, e apertando a mão gelada e fria do cavalheiro, disse:

— Até logo, bravo e valente amigo; até logo! A nossa separação é de poucos instantes; breve nos reuniremos na mansão dos justos onde deveis estar, e onde espero que Deus me concederá a graça de entrar.

Cecília deu à memória do moço as ultimas lágrimas; e ajoelhando aos pés do moribundo com sua mãe, dirigiu ao céu uma prece ardente.

D. Lauriana tinha esgotado todos os recursos dessa medicina doméstica que no interior das casas substituía a falta dos homens profissionais, muito raros naquela época, e sobretudo longe das cidades; o moço não deu porém o menor sinal de vida.

D. Antônio de Mariz, que compreendera perfeitamente o que devia esperar da pretendida retirada dos Aimorés, mandou que os seus homens se preparassem para a defesa, não que tivesse a menor esperança, mas porque desejava resistir ate o último momento.

Peri, depois de ter respondido a todas as perguntas de Cecília a respeito do modo por que se havia salvado do veneno, saiu da sala e percorreu a esplanada, observando os arredores. O índio, infatigável sempre que se tratava de sua senhora, apenas acabava de uma empresa gigantesca, como a que o tinha levado ao campo dos Aimorés, cuidava já em combinar outro projeto para salvar Cecília.

Depois do seu exame estratégico, entrou no quarto que havia abandonado na antevéspera, e no qual encontrou ainda as suas armas, do mesmo modo que as tinha deixado.

Lembrou-se do pedido que fizera a Álvaro, da contradição do destino que lhe restituía a vida a ele, um homem três vezes morto, e roubava-a ao cavalheiro a quem ele havia deixado são e salvo.

 

 

Capítulo VIII: Noiva

Uma hora depois dos acontecimentos que acabamos de narrar, Peri, recostado à janela do quarto que tinha pertencido a sua senhora, olhava com uma grande atenção para uma árvore que se elevava a algumas braças de distancia.

Seu olhar parecia estudar as curvas dos galhos retorcidos, medindo-lhes a distancia, a altura e o tamanho, como se disso dependesse a solução de uma grande dificuldade com que lutava o seu espírito. No momento em que estava todo entregue a esse exame minucioso, o índio sentiu uma mão tímida e delicada tocar-lhe de leve no ombro.

Voltou-se: era Isabel que estava junto dele, e que se havia aproximado como uma sombra, sem fazer o menor rumor. Uma palidez mortal cobria as feições da moça, que apenas sala do seu desmaio; mas o rosto tinha uma calma ou antes uma imobilidade que assustava.

Voltando a si, Isabel correu um olhar pelo aposento, como para certificar-se de que não era um sonho o que havia passado.

A sala estava deserta; D. Antônio de Mariz tinha saído para dar as suas ordens; sua mulher, ajoelhada no oratório sobre um montão de ruínas, rezava ao pé de uma cruz que ficara junto ao altar. No fundo do aposento, sobre o sofá, destacava-se o vulto imóvel do cavalheiro, aos pés do qual ardia uma vela de cera, lançando pálidos clarões.

Cecília é que estava perto dele, e apertava no seio a sua cabeça desfalecida, procurando reanimá-lo.

Quando o olhar de Isabel caiu sobre o corpo de seu amante, ela ergueu-se como impelida por uma força sobrenatural, atravessou rapidamente a sala, e foi por sua vez ajoelhar-se em face desse leito mortuário. Mas não era para fazer uma prece que ajoelhava, era para embeber-se na contemplação desse rosto lívido e gelado, desses lábios frios, desses olhos extintos, que ela amava apesar da morte.

Cecília respeitou a dor de sua prima, e por um instinto de delicadeza que só possuem as mulheres, compreendeu que o amor, mesmo em face de um cadáver, tem o seu pudor e a sua castidade; saiu para deixar que Isabel chorasse livremente.

Passado algum tempo depois da saída de Cecília, a moça ergueu-se, percorreu automaticamente a casa, e vendo Peri de longe aproximou-se dele e tocou-lhe no ombro.

O índio e a moça se odiavam desde o primeiro dia em que se tinham visto; em Isabel era o ódio de uma raça que a rebaixava a seus próprios olhos; em Peri era essa repugnância natural que sente o homem por aqueles em quem reconhece um inimigo.

Por isso Peri, vendo Isabel junto dele, ficou extremamente admirado, sobretudo quando reparou no gesto suplicante que a moça lhe dirigia, como se esperasse dele uma graça.

— Peri!...

O índio sentiu-se comovido ao aspecto daquele sofrimento, e pela primeira vez na sua vida dirigiu a palavra a Isabel.

— Precisas de Peri? disse ele.

— Vinha pedir-te um serviço. Não mo negarás, sim? balbuciou a moça.

— Fala! se for coisa que Peri possa fazer, ele não te negará.

— Prometes então? exclamou Isabel cujos olhos brilharam com uma expressão de alegria.

— Sim, Peri te promete.

— Vem!

Dizendo essa palavra, a mova fez um gesto ao índio e dirigiu-se acompanhada por ele à sala que ainda estava deserta como tinha deixado. Parou junto do sofá, e apontando para o corpo inanimado de seu amante, acenou a Peri que o tomasse nos seus braços.

 

O índio obedeceu, e acompanhou Isabel até um gabinete retirado a um lado da casa; ai deitou o seu fardo sobre um leito, cujas cortinas a moça entreabriu, corando como uma noiva.

Corava porque o gabinete onde tinha entrado era o quarto em que habitara e encontrava ainda povoado de todos os sonhos de seu amor; porque o leito, que recebia seu amante, era o seu leito de virgem casta e pura; porque ela era realmente uma noiva do túmulo.

Peri, tendo satisfeito o desejo da moça, retirou-se e voltou ao seu trabalho, que ele prosseguia com uma constância infatigável.

Apenas ficou só, Isabel sorriu; mas o seu sorriso tinha um quer que seja do êxtase da dor, da voluptuosidade do sofrimento, que faz sorrir na sua última hora os mártires e os desgraçados. Tirou do seio a redoma de vidro onde guardava os cabelos de sua mãe e fitou nela um olhar ardente; mas abanou a cabeça com um gesto de expressão indefinível. Tinha mudado de resolução; o segredo que encerrava essa jóia, o pó sutil que empenava a face interior do cristal, a morte que sua mãe lhe confiara não a satisfazia; era muito rápida, quase instantânea.

Saiu então furtivamente e acendeu uma vela de cera, que havia sobre a cômoda ao lado de um crucifixo de marfim; depois fechou a porta, cerrou as janelas e interceptou as frestas por onde a luz do dia podia penetrar. O gabinete ficou às escuras; apenas em torno do círio que ardia, uma auréola pálida se destacava no meio das trevas e iluminava a imagem do Cristo.

A moça ajoelhou e fez uma oração breve: pedia a Deus uma última graça: pedia a eternidade e a ventura do seu amor, que tinha passado tão rápido pela terra.

Acabando a prece, tomou a luz, deitou-a na cabeceira do leito, afastou o cortinado e começou a contemplar o seu amante com enlevo.

Álvaro parecia adormecido apenas; sua bela fisionomia não tinha a menor alteração; a morte, imprimindo nos seus traços a descor da cera e do mármore, havia unicamente imobilizado a expressão e feito do gentil cavalheiro uma bela estátua.

Isabel interrompeu o enlevo de sua contemplação para chegar-se de novo à cômoda, onde se viam algumas conchas de mariscos tintas de nácar que se apanham nas nossas praias, e uma cesta de palha matizada.

Esta cesta continha todas as resinas aromáticas, todos os perfumes que dão as árvores de nossa terra; o anime da aroeira, as pérolas do benjoim, as lágrimas cristalizadas da embaíba, e gotas do bálsamo, esse sândalo do Brasil.

A moça deitou na concha a maior parte dos perfumes, e acendeu algumas bagas de benjoim; o óleo de que estavam impregnadas alimentando a chama, comunicou-a às outras resinas.

Frocos de fumo alvadio impregnado de perfumes embriagadores se elevaram da caçoula em grossas espirais e encheram o gabinete de nuvens transparentes que oscilavam à luz pálida do círio.

Isabel sentada à beira do leito, com as mãos do seu amante nas suas e com os olhos embebidos naquela imagem querida, balbuciava frases entrecortadas, confidências intimas, sons inarticulados, que são a linguagem verdadeira do coração.

Às vezes sonhava que Álvaro ainda vivia, que lhe murmurava ao ouvido a confissão do seu amor; e ela falava-lhe como se seu amante a ouvisse, contava-lhe os segredos de sua paixão, vertia toda a sua alma nas palavras que caiam dos lábios. Sua mão delicada afastava os cabelos do moço, descobria sua fronte, animava a sua face gelada, e rogava aqueles lábios frios e mudos como pedindo-lhe um sorriso.

— Por que não me falas? murmurava ela docemente; não conheces tua Isabel?... Dize outra vez que me amas! Dize sempre essa palavra, para que minha alma não duvide da felicidade! Eu te suplico!...

E com o ouvido atento, com os lábios entreabertos, o seio palpitante, ela esperava o som dessa voz querida e o eco dessa primeira e última palavra de seu triste amor.

Mas o silêncio só lhe respondia; seu peito aspirava apenas as ondas dos perfumes inebriantes, que faziam circular nas suas veias uma chama ardente.

O aposento apresentava então um aspecto fantástico: no fundo escuro desenhava-se um circulo esclarecido, envolto por uma névoa espessa.

Nessa esfera luminosa como no meio de uma visão, surgiam Álvaro deitado no leito e Isabel reclinada sobre o rosto de seu amante, a quem continuava a falar, como se ele a escutasse. A menina começava a sentir a respiração faltar-lhe; seu seio opresso sufocava-a; e entretanto uma voluptuosidade inexprimível a embriagava; um gozo imensa havia nessa asfixia de perfumes que se condensavam e rarefaziam no ar.

Louca, perdida, alucinada, ela ergueu-se, seu seio dilatou-se, e sua boca, entreabrindo-se, colou-se aos lábios frios e gelados de seu amante; era o seu primeiro e último beijo; o seu beijo de noiva.

Foi uma agonia lenta, um pesadelo horrível em que a dor lutava com o gozo, em que as sensações tinham um requinte de prazer e de sofrimento ao mesmo tempo; em que a morte, torturando o corpo, vertia na alma eflúvios celestes.

De repente pareceu a Isabel que os lábios de Álvaro se agitavam, que um tênue suspiro se exalava de seu peito, ainda há pouco insensível como o mármore.

Julgou que se iludia, mas não; Álvaro: estava vivo, realmente vivo, suas mãos apertavam as dela convulsamente; seus olhos, brilhando com um fogo estranho, se tinham fitado no rosto da moça; um sopro reanimou seus lábios, que exalaram uma palavra quase imperceptível:

— Isabel!...

A moça soltou um grito débil de alegria, de espanto, de medo; entre as idéias confusas que se agitavam na sua cabeça desvairada, lembrou-se com horror que era ela quem matava seu amante, quem o ia sacrificar por causa de um engano fatal. Fazendo um esforço extraordinário, conseguiu erguer a cabeça e ia precipitar-se para a janela, abri-la e dar entrada ao ar livre; sabia que a sua morte era inevitável; mas salvaria Álvaro.

No momento, porém, em que se levantava, sentiu as mãos do moço que apertavam as suas, e a obrigavam a reclinar-se sobre o leito; seus olhos encontraram de novo os olhos de seu amante.

Isabel não tinha mais forças para resistir e realizar o seu heróico sacrifício; deixou cair a cabeça desfalecida, e seus lábios se uniram outra vez num longo beijo, em que essas duas almas irmãs, confundindo-se numa só, voaram ao céu, e foram abrigar-se no seio do Criador.

As nuvens de fumaça e de perfume se condensavam cada vez mais e envolviam como um lençol aquele grupo original, impossível de descrever.

Por volta de duas horas da tarde, a porta do gabinete, impelida por um choque violento, abriu-se; e um turbilhão de fumo lançou-se por essa aberta, e quase sufocou as pessoas que ai estavam.

Eram Cecília e Peri.

A menina inquieta pela longa ausência de sua prima, soube de Peri que ela estava no seu quarto; mas o índio ocultou parte da verdade, e não disse onde deitara o corpo de Álvaro.

 

Duas vezes Cecília viera até à porta, escutara e nada ouvira; por fim resolveu-se a bater, a falar a Isabel, e não teve a menor resposta. Chamou Peri e contou-lhe o que se passava; o índio, tomado de um pressentimento meteu o ombro à porta e abriu-a.

Quando a corrente de ar expeliu a fumaça do aposento, Cecília pôde entrar e ver a cena que descrevemos.

A menina recuou, e respeitando esse mistério de um amor profundo, fez um gesto a Peri e retirou-se.

O índio fechou de novo a porta e acompanhou sua senhora.

— Ela morreu feliz! disse Peri.

Cecília fitou nele os seus grandes olhos azuis, e corou.

 

 

Capítulo IX: O Castigo

O dia declinava rapidamente e as sombras da noite começavam a estender-se sobre o verde-negro da floresta. D. Antônio de Mariz, apoiado ao umbral da porta, junto de sua mulher, passava o braço pela cintura de Cecília. O sol a esconder-se iluminava com o seu reflexo esse grupo de família digno do quadro majestoso que lhe servia de baixo-relevo.

O fidalgo, Cecília e sua mãe, com os olhos no horizonte, recebiam esse último raio de despedida, e mandavam o adeus extremo à luz do dia, as montanhas que os cercavam, as árvores, aos campos, ao rio, a toda a natureza.

Para eles esse sol era a imagem de sua vida; o ocaso era a sua hora derradeira: e as sombras da eternidade se estendiam já como as sombras da noite.

Os Aimorés tinham voltado, depois do combate em que os aventureiros venderam caro a sua vida; e cada vez mais sequiosos de vingança, esperavam que anoitecesse para assaltar a casa. Certos desta vez que o inimigo extenuado não resistiria a um ataque violento, tinham tratado de destruir todos os meios que pudessem favorecer a fuga de um só dos brancos.

Isto era fácil: além da escada de pedra, o rochedo formava um despenhadeiro por todos os lados; e só a árvore, que lançava os galhos sobre a cabana de Peri, oferecia um ponto de comunicação praticável para quem tivesse a agilidade e a força do índio.

Os selvagens, que não queriam que lhes escapasse um só inimigo, e ainda menos que esse fosse Peri, abateram a árvore, e cortaram assim a única passagem por onde um homem poderia sair do rochedo, no momento do ataque.

Ao primeiro golpe do machado de pedra sobre o grosso tronco do óleo, Peri estremeceu, e saltando sobre a sua clavina, ia despedaçar a cabeça do selvagem; mas sorriu-se, e encostou tranqüilamente a arma à parede. Sem inquietar-se com a destruição que faziam os Aimorés, continuou no seu trabalho interrompido, e acabou de torcer uma corda com os filamentos de uma das palmeiras que serviam de esteio à sua cabana.

Ele tinha o seu plano: e para realizá-lo, começara por cortar as duas palmeiras e trazê-las para o quarto de Cecília; depois rachou uma das árvores, e durante toda a manhã ocupou-se em torcer essa longa corda, a que dava uma extraordinária importância.

Quando Peri terminava a sua obra, ouviu o baque da árvore que tombava sobre o rochedo; chegou-se de novo à janela, e seu rosto exprimiu uma satisfação imensa. O óleo, cortado pela raiz, deitara-se sobre o precipício, elevando a uma grande altura os seus galhos seculares, mais frondosos e mais robustos do que uma árvore nova da floresta.

 

Os Aimorés, tranqüilos por esse lado, continuaram nos seus preparativos para o combate que contavam dar durante as horas mortas da noite.

Quando o sol desapareceu no horizonte e a luz do crepúsculo cedeu às trevas que envolviam a terra, Peri dirigiu-se à sala.

Aires Gomes, sempre infatigável, guardava a porta do gabinete; D. Antônio de Mariz estava recostado na sua cadeira de espaldar; e Cecília, sentada sobre seus joelhos, recusava beber uma taça que seu pai lhe apresentava.

— Bebe, minha Cecília, dizia o fidalgo; é um cordial que te fará muito bem.

— De que serve, meu pai? Por uma hora, se tanto nos resta viver, não vale a pena! respondia a menina, sorrindo tristemente.

— Tu te enganas! Ainda não estamos de todo perdidos.

— Tendes alguma esperança? perguntou ela incrédula.

— Sim, tenho uma esperança, e esta não me iludirá! respondeu D. Antônio, com um acento profundo.

— Qual? Dizei-me!

— És curiosa? replicou o fidalgo sorrindo. Pois só te direi se fizeres o que te peço.

— Quereis que beba essa taça?

— Sim

Cecília tomou a taça das mãos de seu pai, e depois de beber, volveu para ele o seu olhar interrogador.

— A esperança que eu tenho, minha filha, é que nenhum inimigo passara nunca do limiar daquela porta; podes crer na palavra de teu pai e dormir tranqüila. Deus vela sobre nos.

Beijando a fronte pura da menina, ele ergueu-se, tomou-a nos seus braços, e recostando-a sobre a poltrona em que estivera sentado, saiu do gabinete e foi examinar o que se passava fora da casa.

Peri, que tinha assistido a esse diálogo entre o pai e a filha, estava ocupado em procurar no gabinete vários objetos de que tinha necessidade aparentemente:

Logo que achou quanto desejava, o índio encaminhou-se para a porta.

— Onde vais? disse Cecília, que tinha acompanhado todos os seus movimentos.

— Peri volta, senhora.

— E por que nos deixa?

— Porque é preciso.

— Ao menos volta logo. Não devemos morrer todos juntos, da mesma morte?

O índio estremeceu.

— Não; Peri morrerá; mas tu hás de viver, senhora.

— Para que viver, depois de ter perdido todos os seus amigos?...

Cecília, que há alguns momentos sentia a cabeça vacilar, os olhos cerrarem-se e um sono invencível apoderar-se dela, deixou-se cair sobre o espaldar da cadeira.

— Não!... Antes morrer como Isabel! murmurou a menina já entorpecida pelo sono.

Um meigo sorriso veio adejar nos seus lábios entreabertos, por onde se escapava a respiração doce, branda e igual.

Peri a princípio assustou-se com esse sono repentino que não lhe parecia natural e com a palidez súbita de que se cobriram as feições de Cecília.

Seus olhos caíram sobre a taça que estava em cima da mesa; deitou nos lábios algumas gotas do liquido que tinham ficado no fundo e tomou-lhes o sabor: não podia conhecer o que continha; mas satisfez-se em não achar o que receara.

Repeliu a idéia que lhe assaltara o espírito, e lembrou-se que D. Antônio sorria no momento em que pedia à sua filha para beber, e que a sua mão não tremera apresentando-lhe a taça. Tranqüilo a este respeito, o índio, que não tinha tempo a perder, ganhou a esplanada, correu para o quarto que ocupava, e desapareceu.

A noite já estava fechada, e uma escuridão profunda envolvia a casa e os arredores. Durante esse tempo nenhum acontecimento extraordinário viera modificar a posição desesperada em que se achava a família a calma sinistra, que precede a grandes tempestades, plainava sobre a cabeça dessas vitimas que contavam, não as horas, mas os instantes de vida que lhes restavam.

D. Antônio passeava ao longo da sala, com a mesma serenidade de seus dias tranqüilos e plácidos de outrora; de vez em quando o fidalgo parava na porta do gabinete, lançava um olhar sobre sua mulher que orava e sua filha adormecida; depois continuava o passeio interrompido.

Os aventureiros grupados junto à porta seguiam com os olhos o vulto do fidalgo que se perdia no fundo escuro da sala, ou se destacava cheio de vigor e de colorido na esfera luminosa que cingia a lâmpada de prata suspensa ao teto.

Mudos, resignados, nenhum desses homens deixava escapar uma queixa, um suspiro que fosse; o exemplo de seu chefe reanimava neles essa coragem heróica do soldado que morre por uma causa santa.

Antes de obedecerem à ordem de D. Antônio de Mariz, eles tinham executado a sua sentença proferida contra Loredano; e quem passasse então sobre a esplanada veria em torno do poste, em que estava atado o frade, uma língua vermelha que lambia a fogueira, enroscando-se pelos toros de lenha.

O italiano sentia já o fogo que se aproximava e a fumaça, que, enovelando-se, envolvia-o numa névoa espessa; é impossível descrever a raiva, a cólera e o furor que se apossaram dele nesses momentos que precederam o suplício.

Mas voltemos à sala em que se achavam reunidos os principais personagens desta história, e onde se vão passar as cenas talvez mais importantes do drama.

A calma profunda que reinava nessa solidão não tinha sido perturbada; tudo estava em silêncio: e as trevas espessas da noite não deixavam perceber os objetos a alguns passos de distancia.

De repente listras de fogo atravessaram o ar, e se abateram sobre o edifício; eram as setas inflamadas dos selvagens que anunciavam o começo do ataque; durante alguns minutos foi como uma chuva de fogo, uma cascata de chamas que caiu sobre a casa.

Os aventureiros estremeceram; D. Antônio sorriu.

— É chegado o momento, meus amigos. Temos uma hora de vida; preparai-vos para morrer como cristãos e portugueses. Abri as portas para que possamos ver o céu.

O fidalgo dizia que lhe restava uma hora de vida, porque, tendo destruído o resto da escada de pedra, os selvagens não podiam subir ao rochedo senão escalando-o; e por maior que fosse a sua habilidade, não era possível que consumissem nisso menos tempo. Quando os aventureiros abriram as portas, um vulto resvalou na sombra, e entrou na sala.

Era Peri.

Good Reading: "Qua Si Fa Elmi di Calici e Spade" by Michaelangelo Buonarroti (in Italian)

   Qua si fa elmi di calici e spade
e ’l sangue di Cristo si vend’a giumelle,
e croce e spine son lance e rotelle,
e pur da Cristo pazïenzia cade.
  Ma non ci arrivi più ’n queste contrade,5
ché n’andre’ ’l sangue suo ’nsin alle stelle,
poscia c’a Roma gli vendon la pelle,
e ècci d’ogni ben chiuso le strade.
  S’i’ ebbi ma’ voglia a perder tesauro,
per ciò che qua opra da me è partita,10
può quel nel manto che Medusa in Mauro;
  ma se alto in cielo è povertà gradita,
qual fia di nostro stato il gran restauro,
s’un altro segno ammorza l’altra vita?

Thursday's Serial: "Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus" by Mary Shelley (first version, 1818) (in English) - III

CHAPTER I.

I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; and it was not until the decline of life that he thought of marrying, and bestowing on the state sons who might carry his virtues and his name down to posterity.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He grieved also for the loss of his society, and resolved to seek him out and endeavour to persuade him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the mean time he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was consequently spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling, when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould; and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.

Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care, and after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

When my father became a husband and a parent, he found his time so occupied by the duties of his new situation, that he relinquished many of his public employments, and devoted himself to the education of his children. Of these I was the eldest, and the destined successor to all his labours and utility. No creature could have more tender parents than mine. My improvement and health were their constant care, especially as I remained for several years their only child. But before I continue my narrative, I must record an incident which took place when I was four years of age.

My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who had married early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after her marriage, she had accompanied her husband into her native country, and for some years my father had very little communication with her. About the time I mentioned she died; and a few months afterwards he received a letter from her husband, acquainting him with his intention of marrying an Italian lady, and requesting my father to take charge of the infant Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. "It is my wish," he said, "that you should consider her as your own daughter, and educate her thus. Her mother's fortune is secured to her, the documents of which I will commit to your keeping. Reflect upon this proposition; and decide whether you would prefer educating your niece yourself to her being brought up by a stepmother."

My father did not hestitate, and immediately went to Italy, that he might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future home. I have often heard my mother say, that she was at that time the most beautiful child she had ever seen, and shewed signs even then of a gentle and affectionate disposition. These indications, and a desire to bind as closely as possible the ties of domestic love, determined my mother to consider Elizabeth as my future wife; a design which she never found reason to repent.

From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow, and, as we grew older, my friend. She was docile and good tempered, yet gay and playful as a summer insect. Although she was lively and animated, her feelings were strong and deep, and her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No one could better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with more grace than she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination was luxuriant, yet her capability of application was great. Her person was the image of her mind; her hazel eyes, although as lively as a bird's, possessed an attractive softness. Her figure was light and airy; and, though capable of enduring great fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in the world. While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved to tend on her, as I should on a favourite animal; and I never saw so much grace both of person and mind united to so little pretension.

Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any request to make, it was always through her intercession. We were strangers to any species of disunion and dispute; for although there was a great dissimilitude in our characters, there was an harmony in that very dissimilitude. I was more calm and philosophical than my companion; yet my temper was not so yielding. My application was of longer endurance; but it was not so severe whilst it endured. I delighted in investigating the facts relative to the actual world; she busied herself in following the aërial creations of the poets. The world was to me a secret, which I desired to discover; to her it was a vacancy, which she sought to people with imaginations of her own.

My brothers were considerably younger than myself; but I had a friend in one of my schoolfellows, who compensated for this deficiency. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva, an intimate friend of my father. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. I remember, when he was nine years old, he wrote a fairy tale, which was the delight and amazement of all his companions. His favourite study consisted in books of chivalry and romance; and when very young, I can remember, that we used to act plays composed by him out of these favourite books, the principal characters of which were Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St. George.

No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My parents were indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our studies were never forced; and by some means we always had an end placed in view, which excited us to ardour in the prosecution of them. It was by this method, and not by emulation, that we were urged to application. Elizabeth was not incited to apply herself to drawing, that her companions might not outstrip her; but through the desire of pleasing her aunt, by the representation of some favourite scene done by her own hand. We learned Latin and English, that we might read the writings in those languages; and so far from study being made odious to us through punishment, we loved application, and our amusements would have been the labours of other children. Perhaps we did not read so many books, or learn languages so quickly, as those who are disciplined according to the ordinary methods; but what we learned was impressed the more deeply on our memories.

In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry Clerval; for he was constantly with us. He went to school with me, and generally passed the afternoon at our house; for being an only child, and destitute of companions at home, his father was well pleased that he should find associates at our house; and we were never completely happy when Clerval was absent.

I feel pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. But, in drawing the picture of my early days, I must not omit to record those events which led, by insensible steps to my after tale of misery: for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and the wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. I cannot help remarking here the many opportunities instructors possess of directing the attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they utterly neglect. My father looked carelessly at the title-page of my book, and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash."

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me, that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that a modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and, with my imagination warmed as it was, should probably have applied myself to the more rational theory of chemistry which has resulted from modern discoveries. It is even possible, that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I continued to read with the greatest avidity.

When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few beside myself; and although I often wished to communicate these secret stores of knowledge to my father, yet his indefinite censure of my favourite Agrippa always withheld me. I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth, therefore, under a promise of strict secrecy; but she did not interest herself in the subject, and I was left by her to pursue my studies alone.

It may appear very strange, that a disciple of Albertus Magnus should arise in the eighteenth century; but our family was not scientifical, and I had not attended any of the lectures given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my most undivided attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors.

The natural phænomena that take place every day before our eyes did not escape my examinations. Distillation, and the wonderful effects of steam, processes of which my favourite authors were utterly ignorant, excited my astonishment; but my utmost wonder was engaged by some experiments on an air-pump, which I saw employed by a gentleman whom we were in the habit of visiting.

The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and several other points served to decrease their credit with me: but I could not entirely throw them aside, before some other system should occupy their place in my mind.

When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunder-storm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed.

The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonishment; and I eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin of thunder and lightning. He replied, "Electricity;" describing at the same time the various effects of that power. He constructed a small electrical machine, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite, with a wire and string, which drew down that fluid from the clouds.

This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long reigned the lords of my imagination. But by some fatality I did not feel inclined to commence the study of any modern system; and this disinclination was influenced by the following circumstance.

My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course of lectures upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully consented. Some accident prevented my attending these lectures until the course was nearly finished. The lecture, being therefore one of the last, was entirely incomprehensible to me. The professor discoursed with the greatest fluency of potassium and boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to which I could affix no idea; and I became disgusted with the science of natural philosophy, although I still read Pliny and Buffon with delight, authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal interest and utility.

My occupations at this age were principally the mathematics, and most of the branches of study appertaining to that science. I was busily employed in learning languages; Latin was already familiar to me, and I began to read some of the easiest Greek authors without the help of a lexicon. I also perfectly understood English and German. This is the list of my accomplishments at the age of seventeen; and you may conceive that my hours were fully employed in acquiring and maintaining a knowledge of this various literature.

Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the instructor of my brothers. Ernest was six years younger than myself, and was my principal pupil. He had been afflicted with ill health from his infancy, through which Elizabeth and I had been his constant nurses: his disposition was gentle, but he was incapable of any severe application. William, the youngest of our family, was yet an infant, and the most beautiful little fellow in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and endearing manners, inspired the tenderest affection.

Such was our domestic circle, from which care and pain seemed for ever banished. My father directed our studies, and my mother partook of our enjoyments. Neither of us possessed the slightest pre-eminence over the other; the voice of command was never heard amongst us; but mutual affection engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest desire of each other.

 

 

CHAPTER II.

WHEN I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for the completion of my education, that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an omen, as it were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was not severe, and she quickly recovered. During her confinement, many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had, at first, yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that her favourite was recovering, she could no longer debar herself from her society, and entered her chamber long before the danger of infection was past. The consequences of this imprudence were fatal. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity of this admirable woman did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself: "My children," she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to your younger cousins. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world."

She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connexion; and why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest, and learn to think ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.

My journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. This period was spent sadly; my mother's death, and my speedy departure, depressed our spirits; but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew the spirit of cheerfulness in our little society. Since the death of her aunt, her mind had acquired new firmness and vigour. She determined to fulfil her duties with the greatest exactness; and she felt that that most imperious duty, of rendering her uncle and cousins happy, had devolved upon her. She consoled me, amused her uncle, instructed my brothers; and I never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she was continually endeavouring to contribute to the happiness of others, entirely forgetful of herself.

The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken leave of all my friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the last evening with us. He bitterly lamented that he was unable to accompany me: but his father could not be persuaded to part with him, intending that he should become a partner with him in business, in compliance with his favourite theory, that learning was superfluous in the commerce of ordinary life. Henry had a refined mind; he had no desire to be idle, and was well pleased to become his father's partner, but he believed that a man might be a very good trader, and yet possess a cultivated understanding.

We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many little arrangements for the future. The next morning early I departed. Tears guished from the eyes of Elizabeth; they proceeded partly from sorrow at my departure, and partly because she reflected that the same journey was to have taken place three months before, when a mother's blessing would have accompanied me.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was now alone. In the university, whither I was going, I must form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were "old familiar faces;" but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my station among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent.

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to my solitary apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a visit to some of the principal professors, and among others to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He received me with politeness, and asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it is true, with fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever read upon those subjects. The professor stared: "Have you," he said, "really spent your time in studying such nonsense?"

I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M. Krempe with warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems, and useless names. Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you have so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected in this enlightened and scientific age to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear Sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew."

So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he missed.

I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long considered those authors useless whom the professor had so strongly reprobated; but I did not feel much inclined to study the books which I procured at his recommendation. M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his doctrine. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different, when the masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand: but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days spent almost in solitude. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.

Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few gray hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science, and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:—

"The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pour over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature, and shew how she works in her hiding places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows."

I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lecture, and paid him a visit the same evening. His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public; for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture, which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. He heard with attention my little narration concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa, and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said, that "these were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names, and arrange in connected classifications, the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind." I listened to his statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation; and then added, that his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists; and I, at the same time, requested his advice concerning the books I ought to procure.

"I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist, if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science, and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics."

He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me the uses of his various machines; instructing me as to what I ought to procure, and promising me the use of his own, when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had requested; and I took my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.

 

 

CHAPTER III.

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature, that banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of natural philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science itself. But this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application, which at first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now became so ardent and eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I improved rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students; and my proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phænonema which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiæ of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world, was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual, light.

I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve their's. Pursuing these reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well remembered the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected."

I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings; but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Cæsar would have spared his country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took notice of my silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves—sights which before always yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a close; and now every day shewed me more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more because I had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when my creation should be complete.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Mystery of Lunablanca" by Unknown Writer (in English)

 art by Maurice Gutwirth and George Appel - The Beyond #2 - Ace Magazines, Inc., January 1951. 

 

 

Good Reading: "The Fox and the Hare" by Ludwig Bechstein (translated into English)

 

A fox and a hare were travelling together in the wintertime. No herbs were to be found in the fields, and they saw nothing they could eat. "This is hungry weather," said the fox to the hare; "we must go begging."

"Yes, it is," answered the hare, "it is hungry everywhere."

While they were thus grumbling and trudging along, they saw at a distance a country maiden walking along with a basket in her hand. From thie basket the wind brought to the noses of the fox and the hare the delightful smell of new bread.

"Here's a chance for us!" exclaimed the fox. "Hare, lie down and pretend to be dead. Then the girl will set down her basket and come and pick you up for the sake of your skin, to make gloves of it. Meanwhile I will snatch up the basket and run away with it."

The hare followed this advice and the fox hid himself behind a snow-drift. A little later the girl came by and saw the hare stretched out all fours. She set her basket down and stooped to take up the dead animal. At the same moment the fox bolted out and snatched the basket by its handle. He ran off, closely followed by the hare, who had suddenly come to his feet again.

The hare soon was aware that the fox did not have in mind to share anything from the basket with him, but but he said nothing until they came to a small fish-pond. Then he said to the fox, "Would it not be nice to get some fish to eat with our bread? Then we could feast like great folks! Hang your tail down a little below the water and then the fish will lay hold of it, for they have not much to eat at this season. Make haste, or else the pond will freeze over!"

The fox did not suspect any trick, and dipped his tail in the water. He could feel it was on the point of freezing as he put his tail in it. Soon the ice had formed, and his tail was set fast.

Then the hare sat down in front of the fox, opened the basket and calmly ate the loaves that were in it. As he finished each loaf he said to the fox, "Wait a bit and it will thaw; wait till spring-time and it will thaw!"

When he had eaten all the bread he ran away, leaving the fox in a rage.

Friday's Sung Word: "Esquecer e Perdoar" by Noel Rosa and Canuto (in Portuguese)

Pelo mal que me fizeste
Sem eu merecer
Eu te quero perdoar
E te esquecer
Não deixei de te amar
(Vai por mim)

Nem posso viver assim

Quero agora o teu carinho
Quero a tua proteção
Quero arranjar padrinho
Não quero morrer pagão

Vem a forte tempestade
Mas depois vem a bonança
Sofri tua crueldade
Mas minh'alma hoje descansa
(Só me resta a lembrança...)

Se deixei de te amar
Foi só pela ingratidão
Que fizeste sem pensar
Sem lembrar de uma paixão

Mas agora estou mudado
Meu coração não se cansa
Por saber que sou amado
A minh'alma hoje descansa
(Vivo só de esperança...)

 

 You can listen "Esquecer e Perdoar" sung by Canuto here.