Twilight Land. Говард ПайлЧитать онлайн книгу.
days passed, and all was as sweet and happy as a spring day. But at the end of that time the Fiddler began to wonder what was to be seen in the castle. The queen was very fond of him, and was glad enough to show him all the fine things that were to be seen; so hand in hand they went everywhere, from garret to cellar.
But you should have seen how splendid it all was! The Fiddler felt more certain than ever that it was better to be a king than to be the richest man in the world, and he was as glad as glad could be that Ill-Luck had brought him from the rich little old man over yonder to this.
So he saw everything in the castle but one thing. “What is behind that door?” said he.
“Ah! that,” said the queen, “you must not ask or wish to know. Should you open that door Ill-Luck will be sure to overtake you.”
“Pooh!” said the Fiddler, “I don’t care to know, anyhow,” and off they went, hand in hand.
Yes, that was a very fine thing to say; but before an hour had gone by the Fiddler’s head began to hum and buzz like a beehive. “I don’t believe,” said he, “there would be a grain of harm in my peeping inside that door; all the same, I will not do it. I will just go down and peep through the key-hole.” So off he went to do as he said; but there was no key-hole to that door, either. “Why, look!” says he, “it is just like the door at the rich man’s house over yonder; I wonder if it is the same inside as outside,” and he opened the door and peeped in. Yes; there was the long passage and the spark of light at the far end, as though the sun were shining. He cocked his head to one side and listened. “Yes,” said he, “I think I hear the water rushing, but I am not sure; I will just go a little further in and listen,” and so he entered and closed the door behind him. Well, he went on and on until – pop! there he was out at the farther end, and before he knew what he was about he had stepped out upon the sea-shore, just as he had done before.
Whiz! whirr! Away flew the Fiddler like a bullet, and there was Ill-Luck carrying him by the belt again. Away they sped, over hill and valley, over moor and mountain, until the Fiddler’s head grew so dizzy that he had to shut his eyes. Suddenly Ill-Luck let him drop, and down he fell – thump! bump! – on the hard ground. Then he opened his eyes and sat up, and, lo and behold! there he was, under the oak-tree whence he had started in the first place. There lay his fiddle, just as he had left it. He picked it up and ran his fingers over the strings – trum, twang! Then he got to his feet and brushed the dirt and grass from his knees. He tucked his fiddle under his arm, and off he stepped upon the way he had been going at first.
“Just to think!” said he, “I would either have been the richest man in the world, or else I would have been a king, if it had not been for Ill-Luck.”
And that is the way we all of us talk.
Dr. Faustus had sat all the while neither drinking ale nor smoking tobacco, but with his hands folded, and in silence. “I know not why it is,” said he, “but that story of yours, my friend, brings to my mind a story of a man whom I once knew – a great magician in his time, and a necromancer and a chemist and an alchemist and mathematician and a rhetorician, an astronomer, an astrologer, and a philosopher as well.”
“Tis a long list of excellency,” said old Bidpai.
“Tis not as long as was his head,” said Dr. Faustus.
“It would be good for us all to hear a story of such a man,” said old Bidpai.
“Nay,” said Dr. Faustus, “the story is not altogether of the man himself, but rather of a pupil who came to learn wisdom of him.”
“And the name of your story is what?” said Fortunatus.
“It hath no name,” said Dr. Faustus.
“Nay,” said St. George, “everything must have a name.”
“It hath no name,” said Dr. Faustus. “But I shall give it a name, and it shall be – ”
Empty Bottles
In the old, old days when men were wiser than they are in these times, there lived a great philosopher and magician, by name Nicholas Flamel. Not only did he know all the actual sciences, but the black arts as well, and magic, and what not. He conjured demons so that when a body passed the house of a moonlight night a body might see imps, great and small, little and big, sitting on the chimney stacks and the ridge-pole, clattering their heels on the tiles and chatting together.
He could change iron and lead into silver and gold; he discovered the elixir of life, and might have been living even to this day had he thought it worth while to do so.
There was a student at the university whose name was Gebhart, who was so well acquainted with algebra and geometry that he could tell at a single glance how many drops of water there were in a bottle of wine. As for Latin and Greek – he could patter them off like his A B C’s. Nevertheless, he was not satisfied with the things he knew, but was for learning the things that no schools could teach him. So one day he came knocking at Nicholas Flamel’s door.
“Come in,” said the wise man, and there Gebhart found him sitting in the midst of his books and bottles and diagrams and dust and chemicals and cobwebs, making strange figures upon the table with jackstraws and a piece of chalk – for your true wise man can squeeze more learning out of jackstraws and a piece of chalk than we common folk can get out of all the books in the world.
No one else was in the room but the wise man’s servant, whose name was Babette.
“What is it you want?” said the wise man, looking at Gebhart over the rim of his spectacles.
“Master,” said Gebhart, “I have studied day after day at the university, and from early in the morning until late at night, so that my head has hummed and my eyes were sore, yet I have not learned those things that I wish most of all to know – the arts that no one but you can teach. Will you take me as your pupil?”
The wise man shook his head.
“Many would like to be as wise as that,” said he, “and few there be who can become so. Now tell me. Suppose all the riches of the world were offered to you, would you rather be wise?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose you might have all the rank and power of a king or of an emperor, would you rather be wise?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose I undertook to teach you, would you give up everything of joy and of pleasure to follow me?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you are hungry,” said the master.
“Yes,” said the student, “I am.”
“Then, Babette, you may bring some bread and cheese.”
It seemed to Gebhart that he had learned all that Nicholas Flamel had to teach him.
It was in the gray of the dawning, and the master took the pupil by the hand and led him up the rickety stairs to the roof of the house, where nothing was to be seen but gray sky, high roofs, and chimney stacks from which the smoke rose straight into the still air.
“Now,” said the master, “I have taught you nearly all of the science that I know, and the time has come to show you the wonderful thing that has been waiting for us from the beginning when time was. You have given up wealth and the world and pleasure and joy and love for the sake of wisdom. Now, then, comes the last test – whether you can remain faithful to me to the end; if you fail in it, all is lost that you have gained.”
After he said that he stripped his cloak away from his shoulders and laid bare the skin. Then he took a bottle of red liquor and began bathing his shoulder-blades with it; and as Gebhart, squatting upon the ridge-pole, looked, he saw two little lumps bud out upon the smooth skin, and then grow and grow and grow until they became two great wings as white as snow.
“Now then,” said the master, “take me by the belt and grip fast, for there is a long, long journey before us, and if you should lose your head and let go your hold you will fall and be dashed to pieces.”
Then he spread the two