 | Twice-told tales |  |
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT.
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT.
That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once
invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study.
There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne,
Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a
withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow
Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures,
who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest
misfortune it was, that they were not long ago in their
graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had
been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a
frantic speculation, and was now little better than a
mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best
years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of
sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of
pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of
soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician,
had buried him from the knowledge of the present
generation, and made him obscure instead of infamous.
As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that
she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long
while past, she had lived in deep seclusion, on account
of certain scandalous stories, which had prejudiced the
gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance
worth mentioning, that each of these three old gentlemen,
Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr.
Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly,
and had once been on the point of cutting each other's
throats for her sake. And, before proceeding farther,
I will merely hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four
guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside
themselves; as is not unfrequently the case with old
people, when worried either by present troubles or
woful recollections.
`My dear old friends,' said Dr. Heidegger, motioning
them to be seated, `I am desirous of your assistance
in one of those little experiments with which I amuse
myself here in my study.'
If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must
have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned
chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and be-sprinkled
with antique dust. Around the walls stood
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which
were filled with rows of gigantic folios, and black-letter
quartos, and the upper with little parchment
a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to
some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to
hold consultations, in all difficult cases of his practice.
In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and
narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which
doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the
bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high
and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among
many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was
fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased
patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in
the face whenever he looked thitherward. The opposite
side of the chamber was ornamented with the
full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the
faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and
with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a
century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of
marriage with this young lady; but, being affected
with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of
her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening.
The greatest curiosity of the study remains to
be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound
in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There
were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the
title of the book. But it was well known to be a book
of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted
it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had
rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had
faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the
brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said—`Forbear!'
Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer
afternoon of our tale, a small round table, as black as
ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a
cut-glass vase, of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship.
The sunshine came through the window,
between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains,
and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild
splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages
of the five old people who sat around. Four champaigne
glasses were also on the table.
`My dear old friends,' repeated Dr. Heidegger,' may
I reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly
curious experiment?'
Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman,
whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a
thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to
my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back
to mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the
present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be
content to bear the stigma of a fiction-monger.
When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his
proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more
wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump,
or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or
some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly
waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the
chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio,
bound in black leather, which common report affirmed
to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he
opened the volume, and took from among its black-letter
pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though
now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed
one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready
to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands.
`This rose,' said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, `this
same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five-and-fifty
years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward,
whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it
in my bosom at our wedding. Five-and-fifty years it
has been treasured between the leaves of this old
volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this
rose of half a century could ever bloom again?'
`Nonsense!' said the Widow Wycherly, with a
peevish toss of her head. `You might as well ask
whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever
bloom again.'
`See!' answered Dr. Heidegger.
He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose
into the water which it contained. At first, it lay
lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe
none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular
change began to be visible. The crushed and dried
petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson,
slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became
green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking
as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to
her lover. It was scarcely full-blown; for some of
its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist
bosom, within which two or three dew-drops were
sparkling.
`That is certainly a very pretty deception,' said the
doctor's friends; carelessly, however, for they had
witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show: `pray
how was it effected?'
`Did you never hear of the “Fountain of Youth?”'
asked Dr. Heidegger, `which Ponce De Leon, the
Spanish adventurer, went in search of, two or three
centuries ago?'
`But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?' said the
Widow Wycherly.
`No,' answered Dr. Heidegger, `for he never sought
it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth,
if I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern
part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake
Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic
magnolias, which, though numberless centuries
old, have been kept as fresh as violets, by the virtues
of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine,
knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me
what you see in the vase.'
`Ahem!' said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not
effect of this fluid on the human frame?'
`You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,'
replied Dr. Heidegger; `and all of you, my respected
friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable
fluid, as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For
my own part, having had much trouble in growing
old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With
your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the
progress of the experiment.'
While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the
four champaigne glasses with the water of the Fountain
of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an
effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually
ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting
in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused
a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it
possessed cordial and comfortable properties; and,
though utter skeptics as to its rejuvenescent power,
they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr.
Heidegger besought them to stay a moment.
`Before you drink, my respectable old friends,' said
he, `it would be well that, with the experience of a
life-time to direct you, you should draw up a few
general rules for your guidance, in passing a second
time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin
and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advantages,
you should not become patterns of virtue and
wisdom to all the young people of the age!'
The doctor's four venerable friends made him no
answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so
very ridiculous was the idea, that, knowing how closely
repentance treads behind the steps of error, they
should ever go astray again.
`Drink, then,' said the doctor, bowing: `I rejoice
that I have so well selected the subjects of my experiment.
With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their
lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as
Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been
bestowed on four human beings who needed it more
wofully. They looked as if they had never known
what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring
of Nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit,
sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping
round the doctor's table, without life enough in their
souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect
of growing young again. They drank off the water,
and replaced their glasses on the table.
Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement
in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might
have been produced by a glass of generous wine,
together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine,
brightening over all their visages at once. There was
a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the
ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like.
They gazed at one another, and fancied that some
magic power had really begun to smooth away the
been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow
Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a
woman again.
`Give us more of this wondrous water!' cried they,
eagerly. `We are younger—but we are still too old!
Quick!—give us more!'
`Patience, patience!' quoth Dr. Heidegger, who
sat watching the experiment, with philosophic coolness.
`You have been a long time growing old.
Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an
hour! But the water is at your service.'
Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth,
enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half
the old people in the city to the age of their own
grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling
on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their
glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at
a single gulp. Was it delusion! Even while the
draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to
have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their
eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened
among their silvery locks; they sat around the table,
three gentlemen, of middle age, and a woman, hardly
beyound her buxom prime.
`My dear widow, you are charming!' cried Colonel
Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face,
while the shadows of age were flitting from it like
darkness from the crimson daybreak.
The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's
compliments were not always measured by sober
truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still
dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would
meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved
in such a manner, as proved that the water of
the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating
qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits
were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sudden
removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's
mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether
relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily
be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have
been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth
full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory,
and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous
stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously
that even his own conscience could scarcely
catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured
accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as if a
royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods.
Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth
a jolly bottle-song, and ringing his glass in symphony
with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the
buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other
side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in
a calculation of dollars and cents, with which was
strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East
Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the
polar icebergs.
As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the
mirror, curtseying and simpering to her own image,
and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better
than all the world beside. She thrust her face close
to the glass, to see whether some long-remembered
wrinkle or crows-foot had indeed vanished. She examined
whether the snow had so entirely melted from her
hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown
aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a
sort of dancing step to the table.
`My dear old doctor,' cried she, `pray favor me
with another glass!'
`Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!' replied the
complaisant doctor; `see! I have already filled the
glasses.'
There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brim-full of
this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it
effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous
glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset, that
the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild
and moon-like splendor gleamed from within the vase,
and rested alike on the four guests, and on the doctor's
venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved,
oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of aspect
that might have well befitted that very Father Time,
whose power had never been disputed, save by this
fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third
draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost
awed by the expression of his mysterious visage.
But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of
young life shot through their veins. They were now
in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable
train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remembered
only as the trouble of a dream, from which they
had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so
early lost, and without which the world's successive
scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again
threw its enchantment over all their prospects. They
felt like new-created beings, in a new-created universe.
`We are young! We are young!' they cried, exultingly.
Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the
strongly marked characteristics of middle life, and
mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of
merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant
frolicksomeness of their years. The most singular
effect of their gaiety was an impulse to mock the infirmity
and decrepitude of which they had so lately been
the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned
attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of
the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the
blooming girl. One limped across the floor, like a
gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride
of his nose, and pretended to pore over the blackletter
pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in
an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity
of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and
leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly—if
to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merriment in
her rosy face.
`Doctor, you dear old soul,' cried she, `get up and
dance with me!' And then the four young people
laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure
the poor old doctor would cut.
`Pray excuse me,' answered the doctor, quietly. `I
am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over
long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen
will be glad of so pretty a partner.'
`Dance with me, Clara!' cried Colonel Killigrew.
`No, no, I will be her partner!' shouted Mr. Gascoigne.
She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!' exclaimed
Mr. Medbourne.
They all gathered round her. One caught both her
hands in his passionate grasp—another threw his arm
about her waist—the third buried his hand among the
glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap.
Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her
warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she
strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their
triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of
youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize.
Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of
the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still
wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures
of the three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously
granddam.
But they were young: their burning passions proved
them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the
girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her
favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening
glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they
grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they
struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the
vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious
Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the
floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown
old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to
die. The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber,
and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger.
`Come, come, gentlemen!—come, Madam Wycherly,'
exclaimed the doctor, `I really must protest
against this riot.'
They stood still, and shivered; for it seemed as if
gray Time were calling them back from their sunny
youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of
years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in
his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century,
which he had rescued from among the fragments of
the shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the
four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily,
because their violent exertions had wearied them,
youthful though they were.
`My poor Sylvia's rose!' ejaculated Dr. Heidegger,
to be fading again.'
And so it was. Even while the party were looking
at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became
as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown
it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture
which clung to its petals.
`I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness,'
observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered
lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down
from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor.
His guests shivered again. A strange chillness,
whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was
creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one
another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched
away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none
had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the
changes of a life-time been crowded into so brief a
space, and were they now four aged people, sitting
with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger?
`Are we grown old again, so soon!' cried they,
dolefully.
In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed
merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The
delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes!
they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that
showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her
skinny hands before her face, and wished that the
beautiful.
`Yes, friends, ye are old again,' said Dr. Heidegger;
`and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the
ground. Well—I bemoan it not; for if the fountain
gushed at my very door-step, I would not stoop to bathe
my lips in it—no, though its delirium were for years
instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught
me!'
But the doctor's four friends had taught no such
lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make
a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon,
and night, from the Fountain of Youth.
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