CHAPTER VII

IN THE ALCHEMIST’S LOFT

Joseph found himself too sleepy when he was inside his tiny bedroom to give any further attention either to the flashes of light from the loft above or to the mysterious grumblings of Stas. And the beginning of his studies at the Collegium Minus on the following day, drove, for the time being, all matters of lesser importance from his mind. There was an evening a week or more later, however, when the incident recurred to him. He had accompanied his father as was his custom to the tower, and, returning early, had paused for a moment on the landing outside his door before entering the house. The night was fine and he peered contentedly about over the star-lit roofs, the red chimneys, and the black walls. Down below him Wolf started uneasily in his sleep as if he were dreaming of evil things. From the little window of the room beside the door of his own dwelling there was thrown upon the darkness a faint glimmer from a lamp which signified that his mother was sitting up, perhaps with Elzbietka, who had said earlier in the day that she would come down that evening.

He fell to musing in the sweet calm of the night as young people will do, and in his musing wondered mightily what might be the importance which his father had attached to the treasure which he had brought to Krakow. It might be a gem worth thousands and thousands of gold zloty—it might be merely a fashioned piece of glass of value only to the tradesmen who worked in glass. But then why had it made the impression that it had upon Jan Kanty, and why was the bold stranger so eager to gain possession of it? And why in such a peaceful world must names be changed and goings and comings veiled in a mantle of night? Why——

Flash I Into the night suddenly leaped the same brilliance that had startled him on that earlier evening when he had been alone in the court with Stas. Only, immediately following it now, here came a cry of someone in fright or pain.

The door at the landing above him was thrown open and a figure in white emerged. It began to descend the stairs hurriedly, and, as it came near, Joseph saw that it was Elzbietka in her night clothes, over which she had thrown a white cover-lid from her bed.

He spoke quickly in order that his presence might not alarm her.

“Elzbietka,” he said, “it is I, Joseph. What has happened?”

“My uncle,” she cried, “Joseph, I know not what they are doing.”

“I thought you were with my mother,” he exclaimed.

“I was, but I became sleepy, and she told me to go up and sleep. I did sleep, for some time, too. But then this loud talking and noise began. Joseph,” she came close up to him, “Joseph, I am frightened. Something is going on upstairs that is not good. The student Tring is with my uncle always now. He came early in the evening, and they have been there together ever since. Uncle never used to go up there at night before—he stayed with me. Joseph, I fear that student Tring.”

“I know what you feel,” he said.

“I believe that he has some power over people that is not of this earth,” she continued. “You do not know how much my uncle has changed since he first knew him. And I am all alone.”

“What did you hear to-night?” asked the boy.

“I was wakened by a loud tramping on the floor. Then my uncle said, ‘No, that will kill.’ Then the student laughed a terrible laugh. After that there was a long, long silence. I was almost asleep again when I heard another voice—it was like to no one that I had ever heard before. There was something about it that made me think it was my uncle speaking, but it was in such a tone that it made my blood run cold. And now there are those flashes of light. Joseph, if you would serve me, climb the stairway and look through the casement. Do not let them see you, and do not stay long. Come down as soon as you can and tell me that my uncle is alive and well.”

“I will. But first you go in and stay with mother. You can sleep here to-night if you wish, and to-morrow I will ask my father what can be done.”

He knocked at the door, but without waiting for his mother to come, ran up the second flight of stairs and reached out for the first board of the rude staircase. When he had found it he managed the ascent by clinging to the rail at the side, for the steps here were much steeper than those below; indeed in the dark it seemed to him a dizzy bit of a climb, but he managed it nimbly and found when he reached the landing that he could just peep in through one corner of the opened window shutter. Had the shutter been closed, as it usually was, he could have seen nothing, for the glass, consisting of little round uneven blocks, was unglazed and set into a network of lead. Through the opening he peered, clinging to the railing of the stairs for support, and keeping one foot close to the top step, in order to descend in haste at the first hint that the occupants of the room were aware of the presence of a third person.

What he saw at first glance startled him, for the loft was literally blazing with light coming from oils burning in four copper braziers which hung from the ceiling. Above these braziers, to protect the roof from the heat, were layers of metal, one separated from the other so that an air current played between them and cooled them. A fifth brazier, not now alight, hung close to the window where Joseph was peering, and it was from this brazier that the flame had sprung that had lighted up the whole court—as a matter of fact, the light had come from the rapid combustion of a handful of powder which the alchemist had thrown on the brazier’s charcoal.

The loft itself was higher than the boy had realized—there was but one large room in it, for on the farther side could be seen the shutters of the building’s outer wall. In the middle of the room at the back was a closet—for Pan Kreutz’s most valuable substances, Joseph decided, since it was fastened with chains as well as with a huge lock and key. The beams of the roof, sloping but slightly, were well above the height of a tall man, and were not of bare wood as is common in lofts and attics, but were plastered over with some thick white substance.

In the center of the room stood a tripod supporting an iron basin and in it was burning some substance that gave a peculiar, pungent odor.

The alchemist in his black robe and the student Tring in his leather jacket sat elbow to elbow before this basin. They were watching something that was burning there in flames of many colors.

“It takes away my strength,” Joseph heard the alchemist tell Tring, “to experiment in the fashion which you have suggested. It has interested me, and I know that it has its fascination, but it is not, after all, in my sphere. I am an alchemist, one who seeks the truth above all things in the actions and reactions of material substances. I mix vinegar and sugar and soda, and there is immediately a bubbling and a change. Something new is created. I melt lead and silver and copper, and they form together some metal that is new.”

“But are not these changes influenced also by the position of the stars in heaven?” asked Tring.

“Yes, and no. The sea, I admit, seems to follow the pull of the moon. Harvests depend upon seasons and seasons sometimes seem to be servants of the movements of the heavenly bodies. But as to other things I know not. Besides, I am not an astrologer. I am an alchemist. The powers of the sky may be found by those who search the skies.”

“But is not the conduct and life of man governed by the stars?”

“That I leave to magicians and necromancers, as likewise I leave to them that hideous magic which makes compounds of cats’ paws, and owls’ eyes, and dead men’s fingers.”

“But,” persisted the student, “you seek the Elixir of Life, do you not?”

“No,” answered the alchemist, “although in regard to it I admit that I have much curiosity. If it is true that all things are subject to change, then one might change from old to young as well as from young to old if one could but find the laws to reverse the process of life. And as to this I do not doubt that a restorer of youth can be found. Yet I am not interested as are those who have lived vain lives and hope to do better it life may be relived.”

“The Philosopher’s Stone, what think you of that?” Joseph noticed a distinct change in the student’s voice as he said this; his eyes shone with a greedy light, and his fingers seemed to curl perceptibly.

“Well,” answered the alchemist, “that is indeed much sought. To the superstitious and ignorant the Philosopher’s Stone means only some substance which by magical power can transform all things it touches into gold, like King Midas of ancient days. But to us who study and work, it is apparent that only a process and not a substance can bring this to pass.”

“How—how?” demanded the student, leaning forward.

“Well, it is commonly known that each substance in the world such as brass, or paper, or glass, has certain properties in itself. Did not Archimedes, father of all our learning, establish this truth by the proof that different substances thrown separately into water each displace a different amount of water? Gold is a substance, brass is a substance, both susceptible to change in the elementals, fire, water, air, and earth. Fire melts, water changes the color or disintegrates, air hardens, and earth darkens. To make brass of gold, or gold of brass is not impossible if one might know what would break down the dissimilarity between them.”

“Then why do you not keep trying until you find the secret?”

The alchemist drew a long breath. “There are things that interest me more. Though I am an alchemist I am much concerned with the spirit which is behind material things. I would learn if life itself is a matter of substance, if there is not the same difference between man and man that there is between metal and metal. I would learn the secrets of the earth, the messages of the sky, and I would know as well the secret of the soul, and how one might seek to help and save the souls of men whose bodies are from birth misshapen. I would learn, if I might, the composition of the earth, the reasons for the spring and summer and such phenomena—I would learn what makes the stars to shine and the sea to be tempestuous. God has given me a mind that searches ever for the light, and I feel that I am doing His will when I seek the truths that lie about us on every hand.”

Tring came close and spoke very low, though his voice carried to Joseph at the casement.

“You are a fool, you, Pan Kreutz,” he said. “Here are you, the most gifted scholar and alchemist of our time, fretting away your hours in such pursuits with a much greater object to be gained at your very elbow.”

“You mean——”

“You know what I mean. You and I have begun to experiment in things that men know but little of.”

“I know, and I am of two minds about it. There is something in what you persuade me into that I like not. But upon such matters you are indeed the teacher and I the student. This I do know, and that is that when I am in a trance such as you sent me into a short time ago I can see things and hear things and even know things that I am not familiar with in my everyday mind. But such experiments, though they enthrall the soul, are perhaps dangerous to men. They are tried in Nuremberg, I believe, and in other lonely places in the Black Forest. But here in Krakow we have ever been wary of them.”

The alchemist was looking into the fire. Tring, sitting beside him, cast at him at these words such a malicious look and leer that Joseph shuddered. There flashed into Joseph’s mind the word “demon”—a veritable demon from the darkness Tring seemed, striving to exert some influence over his victim.

The look passed. “Pan Kreutz,” began Tring again, “I know from my teachers in the old town of Nuremberg that man has in reality two brains. One of these brains is wise and powerful and dominant, and yet one knows nothing of it except when one is asleep in such a trance as I put you in but a short while ago. The other is the brain of daily life; by it we know when to eat, work, and rest. It is the lesser brain.”

“Something of this you have proven to me,” said the alchemist.

“Then use your higher brain,” commanded Tring.

“To what end?” asked Kreutz.

“To the end that all men would reach. Gold!”

He said the word with an intensity that sent a cold thrill through Joseph.

“Gold matters not so much to me,” answered the alchemist.

“It does—it does—it does,” insisted Tring. “You do not know what you could do with it. With this secret, you and I could become the very kings of the earth. We could live in the finest palace in the world—we could have diamonds and rubies and emeralds—we could travel about the lands of Europe like the mightiest of merchant princes—armies would be at our disposal, and we could make every human being perform our will.”

For a moment he forgot the alchemist as he reveled in this dream made out of fancy and desire, but as a glance at Kreutz’s face found no response there, he went on more cunningly:

“Think what you could do as an alchemist I Is this attic a fitting place for your experiments? Are these poor tools sufficient for the concoctions that you would devise, and for the laws which you would prove? You could become the greatest alchemist in Poland—in the world! You could work in a room that would contain this poor attic a dozen times. In it would be every instrument that has ever been invented for the study of alchemy. No precious substance that comes out of the East, no priceless gem nor precious stone would be beyond the means that you would possess. Does this not tempt you?”

He had touched him this time. “It would tempt any poor scholar,” Kreutz replied, in the voice of one who had seen a sudden vision. Then more keenly, “But do you think that I possess in myself, my greater self as you call it, this secret of changing base metals into gold?”

“I am sure of it”—Tring was almost dancing about his chair in eager enthusiasm—“if you will cease being a plodding scholar and a fool, and set yourself night and day to conquer this problem of the universe. Gold—gold—gold—that is what every man wants. Success always means gold, and those who work all their lives professing none but unselfish motives are but deceiving others in order to make themselves reverenced some of them perhaps are deceiving themselves. Why, with gold—think what you could do for your niece, think what you could do for the students of the university—you could make this school and, ay, the whole kingdom of Poland the greatest and most desired place in all the world.”

Kreutz thought deeply for some minutes. It was quite evident even to Joseph, young and inexperienced as he was, that Tring had utterly poisoned the alchemist’s mind. Indeed now Kreutz looking at life through the philosophy of Tring saw that his own life was the life of a dusty plodder; it was the life not only of a poor man, but of a foolish man who might be better off if he wished, who now had the opportunity to do a great deal for those whom he loved, if he would but set himself to it. His thoughts had been on a plane too high for practicality. He had idealized mankind and he had tried to learn things which had seemed to him to be the very jewels of knowledge in the crown of wisdom—yes, that was what he had been, a dusty old plodder.

And with these thoughts he surrendered utterly to Tring. “You are right, I truly believe,” he said with a sigh—“perhaps then we can possess this secret which will make us kings of the earth, as you say. With gold we can do these things, we can accomplish what we wish in the world, we can help the struggling, cure the sick, and do away with poverty entirely in this kingdom. Yes, it is, after all, a noble task—shall we repeat the experiment again to-night? Shall I enter into a trance again?”

“Nay,” Tring had gained his end, “it is getting late and I would not repeat the experiment so shortly after the first trial, for fear perhaps that it would not be so successful as before. To-morrow evening we shall try it when we are both fresh again. . . . It was curious that to-night when you were in the deepest part of the trance, you called out that which every astrologer, alchemist, and magician had sought for centuries was within a few yards of the place where you sat. I had begun to think that we were upon the eve of a great discovery.”

“Ay, it was then that something awoke me,” said the alchemist.

“Yes, the worse for us all,” said Tring sourly. “It was a cry that brought you to your senses, upon the eve of so great a revelation. It was the cry of your niece from the room below.”

“Elzbietka,” exclaimed the alchemist with concern. “And why did she cry?”

“You were not silent in your trance. You shouted that there were some demons near by ready to kill you—you almost screamed in your fear—and then you talked as if your tongue were a pendulum.”

“And I did not answer the child?”

“No. You sank back in your chair again, asleep, and this time it was a natural sleep, for when I questioned you again, you said nothing.”

The alchemist rubbed his eyes. “I am sleepy now, in faith.” Then, wondering, “What could have been the revelation? I know of no prize that could be near by. On the ground floor is the old woman and her half-wit son whom I frighten with fire—then on the second floor but the three poor refugees installed recently. Across the court, only you and two poor students. No, it can be nothing in the possession of any one of these. Well, as you say, this for to-night is enough—” And at these words Joseph scampered down the stairway.