A rough night at sea,—but the skies were clear, and the great worlds of God, which we call stars, throbbed1 in the heavens like lustrous2 lamps, all the more brilliantly for there being no moon to eclipse their glory. A high gale3 was blowing, and the waves dashed up on the coast of Ilfracombe with an organ-like thud and roar as they broke in high jets of spray, and then ran swiftly back again with a soft swish and ripple4 suggestive of the downward chromatic5 scale played rapidly on well-attuned strings7. There was freshness and life in the dancing wind;—the world seemed well in motion;—and, standing8 aloft among the rocks, and looking down at the tossing sea, one could realise completely the continuous whirl of the globe beneath one’s feet, and the perpetual movement of the planet-studded heavens. High above the shore, on a bare jutting9 promontory10, a solitary11 house faced seaward;—it was squarely built and surmounted12 with a tower, wherein one light burned fitfully, its pale sparkle seeming to quiver with fear as the wild wind fled past joyously13, with a swirl14 and cry like some huge sea-bird on the wing. It looked a dismal15 residence at its best, even when the sun was shining,—but at night its aspect was infinitely16 more dreary17. It was an old house, and it enjoyed the reputation of being haunted,—a circumstance which had enabled its present owner to purchase the lease of it for a very moderate sum. He it was who had built the tower, and, whether because of this piece of extravagance or for other unexplained reasons, he had won for himself personally almost as uncanny a reputation as the house had possessed18 before he occupied it. A man who lived the life of a recluse,—who seemed to have no relations with the outside world at all,—who had only one servant (a young German, whom the shrewder gossips declared was his “keeper”)—who lived on such simple fare as certainly would never have contented19 a modern Hodge earning twelve shillings a week, and who seemed to purchase nothing but strange astronomical20 and geometrical instruments,—surely such a queer personage must either be mad, or in league with some evil “secret society,”—the more especially that he had had that tower erected21, into which, after it was finished, no one but himself ever entered, so far as the people of the neighbourhood could tell. Under all these suspicious circumstances, it was natural he should be avoided; and avoided he was by the good folk of Ilfracombe, in that pleasantly diverting fashion which causes provincial23 respectability to shudder24 away from the merest suggestion of superior intelligence.
And yet poor old Dr. Kremlin was a being not altogether to be despised. His appearance was perhaps against him inasmuch as his clothes were shabby, and his eyes rather wild,—but the expression of his meagre face was kind and gentle, and a perpetual compassion26 for everything and everybody seemed to vibrate in his voice and reflect itself in his melancholy28 smile. He was deeply occupied—so he told a few friends in Russia, where he was born—in serious scientific investigations29,—but the “friends,” deeming him mad, held aloof30 till those investigations should become results. If the results proved disappointing, there would be no need to notice him any more,—if successful, why then, by a mystic process known only to themselves, the “friends” would so increase and multiply that he would be quite inconveniently31 surrounded by them. In the meantime, nobody wrote to him, or came to see him, except El-Râmi; and it was El-Râmi now, who, towards ten o’clock in the evening, knocked at the door of his lonely habitation and was at once admitted with every sign of deference32 and pleasure by the servant Karl.
“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,”—said this individual cheerfully,—“The Herr Doctor has not been out all day, and he eats less than ever. It will do him good to see you.”
“He is in the tower as usual, at work?” inquired El-Râmi, throwing off his coat.
Karl assented33, with rather a doleful look,—and, opening the door of a small dining-room, showed the supper-table laid for two.
El-Râmi smiled.
“It’s no good, Karl!” he said kindly—“It’s very well meant on your part, but it’s no good at all. You will never persuade your master to eat at this time of night, or me either. Clear all these things away,—and make your mind easy,—go to bed and sleep. To-morrow morning prepare as excellent a breakfast as you please—I promise you we’ll do justice to it! Don’t look so discontented—don’t you know that over-feeding kills the working capacity?”
“And over-starving kills the man,—working capacity and all”—responded Karl lugubriously—“However, I suppose you know best, sir!”
“In this case I do”—replied El-Râmi—“Your master expects me?”
Karl nodded,—and El-Râmi, with a brief “good-night,” ascended34 the staircase rapidly and soon disappeared. A door banged aloft—then all was still. Karl sighed profoundly, and slowly cleared away the useless supper.
“Well! How wise men can bear to starve themselves just for the sake of teaching fools, is more than I shall ever understand!” he said half aloud—“But then I shall never be wise—I am an ass27 and always was. A good dinner and a glass of good wine have always seemed to me better than all the science going,—there’s a shameful35 confession36 of ignorance and brutality37 together, if you like. ‘Where do you think you will go to when you die, Karl?’ says the poor old Herr Doctor. And what do I say? I say—‘I don’t know, mein Herr—and I don’t care. This world is good enough for me so long as I live in it.’ ‘But afterwards, Karl,—afterwards?’ he says, with his gray head shaking. And what do I say? Why, I say—‘I can’t tell, mein Herr! but whoever sent me Here will surely have sense enough to look after me There!’ And he laughs, and his head shakes worse than ever. Ah! Nothing can ever make me clever, and I’m very glad of it!”
He whistled a lively tune6 softly, as he went to bed in his little side-room off the passage, and wondered again, as he had wondered hundreds of times before, what caused that solemn low humming noise that throbbed so incessantly38 through the house, and seemed so loud when everything else was still. It was a grave sound,—suggestive of a long-sustained organ-note held by the pedal-bass;—the murmuring of seas and rivers seemed in it, as well as the rush of the wind. Karl had grown accustomed to it, though he did not know what it meant,—and he listened to it, till drowsiness39 made him fancy it was the hum of his mother’s spinning-wheel, at home in his native German village among the pine-forests, and so he fell happily asleep.
Meanwhile El-Râmi, ascending40 to the tower, knocked sharply at a small nail-studded door in the wall. The mysterious murmuring noise was now louder than ever,—and the knock had to be repeated three or four times before it was attended to. Then the door was cautiously opened, and the “Herr Doctor” himself looked out, his wizened41, aged42, meditative43 face illumined like a Rembrandt picture by the small hand-lamp he held in his hand.
“Ah!—El-Râmi!” he said in slow yet pleased tones—“I thought it might be you. And like ‘Bernardo’—you ‘come most carefully upon your hour.’”
He smiled, as one well satisfied to have made an apt quotation44, and opened the door more widely to admit his visitor.
“Come in quickly,”—he said—“The great window is open to the skies, and the wind is high,—I fear some damage from the draught,—come in—come in!”
His voice became suddenly testy45 and querulous,—and El-Râmi stepped in at once without reply. Dr. Kremlin shut to the door carefully and bolted it—then he turned the light of the lamp he carried full on the dark handsome face and dignified46 figure of his companion.
“You are looking well—well,”—he muttered,—“Not a shade older—always sound and strong! Just Heavens!—if I had your physique, I think, with Archimedes, that I could lift the world! But I am getting very old,—the life in me is ebbing47 fast,—and I have not done my work— ... God! ... God! I have not done my work!”
He clenched48 his hands, and his voice quavered down into a sound that was almost a groan49. El-Râmi’s black beaming eyes rested on him compassionately50.
“You are worn out, my dear Kremlin,”—he said gently—“worn out and exhausted51 with long toil52. You shall sleep to-night. I have come according to my promise, and I will do what I can for you. Trust me—you shall not lose the reward of your life’s work by want of time. You shall have time,—even leisure to complete your labours,—I will give you ‘length of days’!”
The elder man sank into a chair trembling, and rested his head wearily on one hand.
“You cannot;”—he said faintly—“you cannot stop the advance of death, my friend! You are a very clever man—you have a far-reaching subtlety53 of brain,—but your learning and wisdom must pause there—there at the boundary-line of the grave. You cannot overstep it or penetrate54 beyond it—you cannot slacken the pace of the on-rushing years;—no, no! I shall be forced to depart with half my discovery uncompleted.”
“You, who have faith in so much that cannot be proved, are singularly incredulous of a fact that can be proved;”—he said—“Anyway, whatever you choose to think, here I am in answer to your rather sudden summons—and here is your saving remedy;—” and he placed a gold-stoppered flask56 on the table near which they sat—“It is, or might be called, a veritable distilled57 essence of time,—for it will do what they say God cannot do, make the days spin backward!”
“You are so positive of its action?”
“Positive. I have kept one human creature alive and in perfect health for six years on that vital fluid alone.”
“Wonderful!—wonderful!”—and the old scientist held it close to the light, where it seemed to flash like a diamond,—then he smiled dubiously—“Am I the new Faust, and you Mephisto?”
“Bah!” and El-Râmi shrugged59 his shoulders carelessly—“An old nurse’s tale!—yet, like all old nurses’ tales and legends of every sort under the sun, it is not without its grain of truth. As I have often told you, there is really nothing imagined by the human brain that is not possible of realisation, either here or hereafter. It would be a false note and a useless calculation to allow thought to dwell on what cannot be,—hence our airiest visions are bound to become facts in time. All the same, I am not of such superhuman ability that I can make you change your skin like a serpent, and blossom into youth and the common vulgar lusts60 of life, which to the thinker must be valueless. No. What you hold there will simply renew the tissues, and gradually enrich the blood with fresh globules—nothing more,—but that is all you need. Plainly and practically speaking, as long as the tissues and the blood continue to renew themselves, you cannot die except by violence.”
“Cannot die!” echoed Kremlin, in stupefied wonder—“Cannot die?”
“Except by violence—” repeated El-Râmi with emphasis, “Well!—and what now? There is nothing really astonishing in the statement. Death by violence is the only death possible to any one familiar with the secrets of Nature, and there is more than one lesson to be learned from the old story of Cain and Abel. The first death in the world, according to that legend, was death by violence. Without violence, life should be immortal61, or at least renewable at pleasure.”
“Immortal!” muttered Dr. Kremlin—“Immortal! Renewable at pleasure! My God!—then I have time before me—plenty of time!”
“You have, if you care for it—” said El-Râmi with a tinge62 of melancholy in his accents—“and if you continue to care for it. Few do, nowadays.”
But his companion scarcely heard him. He was balancing the little flask in his hand in wonderment and awe63.
“Death by violence?” he repeated slowly. “But, my friend, may not God Himself use violence towards us? May He not snatch the unwilling64 soul from its earthly tenement65 at an unexpected moment,—and so, all the scheming and labour and patient calculation of years be ended in one flash of time?”
“God—if there be a God, which some are fain to believe there is,—uses no violence—” replied El-Râmi—“Deaths by violence are due to the ignorance, or brutality, or long-inherited foolhardiness and interference of man alone.”
“What of shipwreck66?—storm?—lightning?”—queried67 Dr. Kremlin, still playing with the flask he held.
“You are not going to sea, are you?” asked El-Râmi smiling—“And surely you, of all men, should know that even shipwrecks68 are due to a lack of mathematical balance in shipbuilding. One little trifle of exactitude, which is always missing, unfortunately,—one little delicate scientific adjustment, and the fiercest storm and wind could not prevail against the properly poised69 vessel70. As for lightning—of course people are killed by it if they persist in maintaining an erect22 position like a lightning-rod or conductor, while the electrical currents are in full play. If they were to lie flat down, as savages71 do, they could not attract the descending72 force. But who, among arrogant73 stupid men, cares to adopt such simple precautions? Any way, I do not see that you need fear any of these disasters.”
“No, no,”—said the old man meditatively74, “I need not fear,—no, no! I have nothing to fear.”
His voice sank into silence. He and El-Râmi were sitting in a small square chamber75 of the tower,—very narrow, with only space enough for the one tiny table and two chairs which furnished it,—the walls were covered with very curious maps, composed of lines and curves and zigzag76 patterns, meaningless to all except Kremlin himself, whose dreamy gaze wandered to them between-whiles with an ardent77 yearning78 and anxiety. And ever that strange deep, monotonous79 humming noise surged through the tower as of a mighty80 wheel at work, the vibration81 of the sound seemed almost to shake the solid masonry82, while mingling83 with it now and again came the wild sea-bird cry of the wind. El-Râmi listened.
“And still it moves?” he queried softly, using almost the words of Galileo,—“e pur si muove.”
“Ay!—still it moves!” he responded with a touch of eager triumph in his tone—“Still it moves—and still it sounds! The music of the Earth, my friend!—the dominant85 note of all Nature’s melody! Hear it!—round, full, grand, and perfect!—one tone in the ascending scale of the planets,—the song of one Star,—our Star—as it rolls on its predestined way! Come!—come with me!” and he sprang up excitedly—“It is a night for work;—the heavens are clear as a mirror,—come and see my Dial of the Fates,—you have seen it before, I know, but there are new reflexes upon it now,—new lines of light and colour,—ah, my good El-Râmi, if you could solve my problem, you would be soon wiser than you are! Your gift of long life would be almost valueless compared to my proof of what is beyond life——”
“Yes—if the proof could be obtained—” interposed El-Râmi.
“It shall be obtained!” cried Kremlin wildly—“It shall! I will not die till the secret is won! I will wrench86 it out from the Holy of Holies—I will pluck it from the very thoughts of God!”
He trembled with the violence of his own emotions,—then passing his hand across his forehead, he relapsed into sudden calm, and, smiling gently, said again—
“Come!”
El-Râmi rose at once in obedience87 to this request,—and the old man preceded him to a high narrow door which looked like a slit88 in the wall, and which he unbarred and opened with an almost jealous care. A brisk puff89 of wind blew in their faces through the aperture90, but this subsided91 into mere25 cool freshness of air as they entered and stood together within the great central chamber of the tower,—a lofty apartment, where the strange work of Kremlin’s life was displayed in all its marvellous complexity,—a work such as no human being had ever attempted before, or would be likely to attempt again.
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收听单词发音
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1
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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10
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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12
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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13
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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14
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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15
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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16
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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18
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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19
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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astronomical
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| adj.天文学的，（数字）极大的 | |
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21
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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23
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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29
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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30
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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33
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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40
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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41
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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42
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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43
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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44
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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45
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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46
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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47
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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48
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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50
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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51
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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52
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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53
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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54
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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55
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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56
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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57
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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58
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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59
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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61
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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62
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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63
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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64
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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65
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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66
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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67
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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68
shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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