 | Tales of the grotesque and arabesque |  |
THE CONVERSATION
OF
EIROS AND CHARMION.
EIROS.Why do you call me Eiros?
CHARMION.
So henceforward will you always be called. You
must forget, too, my earthly name, and speak to me
as Charmion.
EIROS.
This is indeed no dream!
CHARMION.
Dreams are with us no more—but of these mysteries
anon. I rejoice to see you looking life-like
and rational. The film of the shadow has already
passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear
nothing. Your allotted days of stupor have expired;
and, to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the
full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
EIROS.
True—I feel no stupor—none at all. The wild
sickness and the terrible darkness have left me, and
I hear no longer that mad, rushing, horrible sound,
like the “voice of many waters.” Yet my senses
are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their
perception of the new.
CHARMION.
A few days will remove all this—but I fully understand
you, and feel for you. It is now ten earthly
years since I underwent what you undergo—yet
the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have
now suffered all of pain, however, which you will
suffer in Aidenn.
EIROS.
In Aidenn?
CHARMION.
In Aidenn.
EIROS.
Oh God!—pity me, Charmion!—I am overburthened
with the majesty of all things—of the
unknown now known—of the speculative Future
merged in the august and certain Present.
CHARMION.
Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow
we will speak of this. Your mind wavers, and its
memories. Look not around, nor forward—but
back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details
of that stupendous event which threw you among us.
Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar things, in
the old familiar language of the world which has so
fearfully perished.
EIROS.
Most fearfully, fearfully!—this is indeed no
dream.
CHARMION.
Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my
Eiros?
EIROS.
Mourned, Charmion?—oh deeply. To that last
hour of all there hung a cloud of intense gloom and
devout sorrow over your household.
CHARMION.
And that last hour—speak of it. Remember
that, beyond the naked fact of the catastrophe itself,
I know nothing. When, coming out from among
mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave—
at that period, if I remember aright, the calamity
which overwhelmed you was utterly unanticipated.
But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative philosophy
of the day.
EIROS.
The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely
unanticipated; but analogous misfortunes had been
long a subject of discussion with astronomers. I
need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
left us, men had agreed to understand those passages
in the most holy writings which speak of the final
destruction of all things by fire, as having reference
to the orb of the earth alone. But in regard to the
immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been
at fault from that epoch in astronomical knowledge
in which the comets were divested of the terrors of
flame. The very moderate density of these bodies
had been well established. They had been observed
to pass among the satellites of Jupiter, without bringing
about any sensible alteration either in the masses
or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had
long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of
inconceivable tenuity, and as altogether incapable of
doing injury to our substantial globe, even in the
event of contact. But contact was not in any degree
dreaded; for the elements of all the comets
were accurately known. That among them we
should look for the agency of the threatened fiery
destruction had been for many years considered an
inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies
had been, of late days, strangely rife among mankind;
and, although it was only with a few of the
ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed upon
yet this announcement was generally received with
I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
The elements of the strange orb were immediately
calculated, and it was at once conceded by all observers
that its path, at perihelion, would bring it
into very close proximity with the earth. There
were two or three astronomers, and these of secondary
note, who resolutely maintained that a contact was
inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a
few short days they would not believe an assertion
which their intellect, so long employed among worldly
considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But
the truth of a vitally important fact soon makes it
way into the understanding of even the most stolid.
Finally, all men saw that astronomical knowledge
lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach
was not, at first, seemingly rapid—nor was its appearance
of very unusual character. It was of a
dull red, and had little perceptible train. For seven
or eight days we saw no material increase in its
apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its
colour. Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were
discarded, and all interests absorbed in a growing
discussion, instituted by the philosophic, in respect
to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant
aroused their sluggish capacities to such considerations.
The learned now gave their intellect—their
soul—to no such points as the allaying of fear, or
they panted for right views. They groaned for
perfected knowledge. Truth arose in the purity of
her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
bowed down and adored.
That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants
would result from the apprehended contact,
was an opinion which hourly lost ground among the
wise—and the wise were now freely permitted to
rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was
demonstrated, that the density of the comet's nucleus
was far less than that of our rarest gas; and its
harmless passage among the satellites of Jupiter was
a point strongly insisted upon, and which served
greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies,
and expounded them to the people with a
directness and simplicity, of which no previous instance
had been known. That the final destruction
of the earth must be brought about by the agency
of fire, was urged with a spirit that enforced every
where conviction; and that the comets were of no
fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth
which relieved all, in a great measure, from the apprehension
of the great calamity foretold. It is
noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar
errors in regard to pestilences and wars—errors
which were wont to prevail upon every appearance
of a comet—were now altogether unknown. As
if by some sudden convulsive exertion, reason had
feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive
interest.
What minor evils might arise from the contact
were points of elaborate question. The learned
spoke of slight geological disturbances; of probable
alterations in climate and consequently in vegetation;
of possible magnetic and electric influences. Many
held that no visible or perceptible effect would in
any manner be produced. While such discussions
were going on their subject gradually approached,
growing larger in apparent diameter, and of a more
brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as it came.
All human operations were suspended.
There was an epoch in the course of the general
sentiment when the comet had attained at length
a size surpassing that of any previously recorded
visitation. The people now, dismissing any lingering
hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced
all the certainty of evil. The chimerical
aspect of their terror was gone. The hearts of
the stoutest of our race beat violently within their
bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to
merge even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable.
We could no longer apply to the strange
orb any accustomed thoughts. Its historical attributes
had disappeared. It oppressed us with a
hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an
astronomical phenomenon in the heavens—but as
an incubus upon our hearts, and a shadow upon our
brain. It had taken, with inconceivable rapidity,
extending from horizon to horizon.
Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom.
It was clear that we were already within the
influence of the comet—yet we lived. We even
felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of
mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our
dread was apparent, all heavenly objects were plainly
visible through it. Meantime, our vegetation had
perceptibly altered—and we gained faith, from this
predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise.
A wild luxuriance of foliage—utterly unknown before—burst
out upon every vegetable thing.
Yet another day—and the evil was not altogether
upon us. It was now evident that its
nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had
come over all men—and the first sense of pain—
was the wild signal for general lamentation and
horror. This first sense of pain lay in a rigorous
constriction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
dryness of the skin. It could not be denied
that our atmosphere was radically affected—the
conformation of this atmosphere and the possible
modifications to which it might be subjected, were
now the topics of discussion. The result of investigation
sent an electric thrill of the intensest terror
through the universal heart of man.
It had been long known that the air which encircled
us was a compound of oxygen and nitrogen
gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures of
oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen, in every one
principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was
absolutely necessary to the support of animal life,
and was the most powerful and energetic agent in
nature. Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable
of supporting either animal life or flame. An unnatural
excess of oxygen would result, it had been
ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal
spirits as we had latterly experienced. It was the
pursuit, the extension of the idea, which had engendered
awe. What would be the result of a total
extraction of the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible,
all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate—the
entire fulfilment, in all its minute and terrible details,
of the fiery and horror-inspiring denunciations of the
prophecies of the Holy Book.
Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained
frenzy of mankind? That tenuity in the comet which
had previously inspired us with hope, was now the
source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation
of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—
bearing away with it the last shadow of Hope. We
gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red
blood bounded tumultuously through its strict channels.
A furious delirium possessed all men; and,
with arms immoveably outstretched towards the
threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked
aloud. But the nucleus of the destroyer was now
upon us. Even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I
speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that
wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating all
things. Then—let us bow down, Charmion, before
the excessive majesty of the great God!—then, there
came a great pervading sound, as if from the mouth
itself of him; while the whole incumbent mass of
ether in which we existed burst at once into a
species of intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy
and all-fervid heat even the angels in the
great Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
Thus ended all.
| Tales of the grotesque and arabesque | |