Dark Mondays (17 page)

Jan 3. A dead calm all day. Occupied myself in exploring the light-house… It is not quite 160 feet, I should say, from the low-water mark to the top of the lantern. From the bottom inside the shaft, however, the distance to the summit is 180 feet at least—thus the floor is 20 feet below the surface of the sea, even at low-tide…

It seems to me that the hollow interior at the bottom should have been filled in with solid masonry. Undoubtedly the whole would have been thus rendered more safe—I have heard seamen say occasionally, with a wind at South-West, the sea has been known to run higher here than anywhere with the single exception of the Western opening of the Straits of Magellan.

No mere sea, though, could accomplish anything with this solid iron-riveted wall—which, at 50 feet from high-water mark, is 4 feet thick, if one inch…

Jan 4. Wind out of the South-West—I am uneasy in my mind. Swell very high, and though the sky is a bright and mild blue, there are prodigious streaks of foam on the wide surge. More—a moaning, at times a muffled howling in the long hollow throat of this tower. I have twice descended to the floor of the shaft, but can find no source for the sound, other than conduction of the walls themselves, reverberating with the blast. I will just go down once more to be certain…

Though the sunken floor is quite dry—some comfort at least—I was appalled to discover, on opening the door, that the tide has risen nearly to the threshold, and I now observe, as I did not in the excitement on my arrival, that the hand-rails are deeply eaten with rust. All the same—no rust on the
inside
, and the patent lock is well greased. So I am quite safe.

I shall master myself. Will I exist here perpetually under the fear of horrible danger? Let lesser races quail…

I will just move this table to the far wall…

Jan 5. Wind has not shifted—in 24 hours no falling off of the sea. The tower shrieks now like a damned creature.

The waves rise in absolute mountains, to break in a fury of shattered water well over the door now, as I discovered when I went up to the lantern-walk and peered down. The wind is a roaring physical
force
, no less than the sea—only by clutching my woolen cap with both hands was I able to prevent it from being torn away and whirled a sickening distance out on the vast face of the waters.

I will go down just this once more. All is secure, I know, and yet—that chalk foundation…

Jan 6. I still live—yet the tempest has truly come. I watched it advance like a host armored in copper, spreading implacably from the South-West, boiling and hissing over the sea. I have retreated with this journal to the topmost chamber—tried to write a while in the lantern room but soon regretted it—gigantic seas! Frenzied, heaving, headlong seas rushing with monstrous velocity! Such high, black, mountainous ridges of water—

The tower shakes with each blow. The ghastly crests break, higher with each successive wave—
something is out there!
That cannot be what it seems. 4 feet thick. 4 feet thick. 4 feet thick. 4 feet—

There is a
boat
—

Jan 7. Oh, intolerable!

My solitude has been violated. They have at least now withdrawn to the lowest chamber, with interminable protestations of thanks, with endless apologies—the voluble Italian servant particularly offends, with his grating and presumptive familiarity. The mute is hardly less irritating, with his absurd antic gestures…

I see that I will be obliged to endure their company, if the boat is ever to be dislodged from the lantern room. It cannot be left as it is, protruding out like a wave-thrown dart—a full 8 feet and 7 inches.

Some sort of hauling tackle must be improvised—and rope must be found to lower it to the rock below, before any effort can be made to get the damned thing seaworthy again—and my unwelcome guests sent on their way. The broken glass must be repaired as well—I trust they do not expect
me
to replace the panes. This has made the draught worse—and I am certain I caught a chill when my clothing was soaked. What shall I do if it develops into something more dangerous? At any other time I should have been glad of the presence of a doctor…

On the whole I do not place much faith in Herr Doctor Treibholz, or in his story. His rapid and insinuating flow of speech—his sly, sidelong glances—above all that villainous bottle-green tailcoat, and the disgraceful condition of his wig—all argue the mountebank rather than the respectable physician, much less holder of the Chair of Splanchology at the University of Bohemia, as he claims. His vile cheroot produces clouds of fume at least as offensive as Orndoff’s meerschaum—my eyes are red and watering yet. And his young assistant Luftschiff is altogether too smooth and urbane to be trusted—a thoroughgoing courtier in his manners. Exactly the sort I fled to this hermitage to escape!

That their ship unaccountably sank I find suspicious—I hardly think castaways would have found the time to pack such a vast quantity of trunks and barrels as my uninvited guests have brought with them—it is far more likely they were set adrift on purpose, whether for stealing from their fellow passengers or merely annoying them with disgusting chatter…

Yet I cannot imagine that the woman is party to whatever villainy they perpetrated.

“The woman”—how ungallant a phrase! These interlopers have provoked me to incivility.
She
is Frau Von Berg, a widow of a certain age yet still fair, Junoesque in her beauty, clearly of purest descent—I am reminded of my dear mother. She appears quite bewildered by her unlikely companions. I must find some way of conveying to her that she, and she alone, is free to come and go as she pleases here—I shall not mind
her
gentle company…

Jan 8. My suspicions are confirmed—Herr Doctor is the basest kind of charlatan!

I descended as far as the storeroom this morning for oil for the lantern, and encountered Frau Von Berg on the stair. I greeted her cordially, wishing to correct the perhaps unfavorable impression of me she may have formed on the evening of the wreck—asked her if there were anything I might do to make her enforced stay more pleasant—she replied there was—

It transpired that she had been sent to borrow a cup of sugar—
she
, a lady, meekly running errands for Doctor Treibholz! Concealed my outrage and invited her to the upper room for tea. She accepted my offer without reluctance, rather with that air of bemusement I had previously noted in her…

Prepared tea at the stove and used the opportunity to “draw her out” a little—spoke lightly of the curious fortune that brought a nobleman and a gentlewoman together under barbarous conditions—she asked, and was told my lineage—I warmed to her even more, seeing she was obviously impressed. Frau Von Berg related a little of her own history—widow of the younger brother of Baron Rittenhaus, her late husband a shrewd investor—
very
well provided for in his will—such a sum named that an involuntary tremor caused me to spill tea in my lap. Fortunately she did not notice…

She then volunteered the most fantastic story…

That Doctor Treibholz, having taken a sabbatical from his duties at the University, had traveled to certain regions in Africa. There, exploring an uncharted wilderness, he discovered a tribe of Pygmies worshipping an idol of ancient manufacture—clearly Greek, from the inscription, which I take to have read παρτηενογενεσισ—most likely the Goddess Athena—perhaps left by some pupil of Archimedes. The idol proving, upon examination, to be in fact a
device
—Doctor Treibholz saw with his own eyes its remarkable properties…

For the Pygmies (he claims) are generated not as other races, but are rather formed from “a coalescence of atomies”—which I gather are particles floating in the air—focused like light through a burning glass—the operative mechanism an ingenious system of lenses mounted in a bronze ring above the head of Pallas!

Utter nonsense! And yet—with what sweet solemnity did Frau Von Berg relate this tale—clearly she believes every word. She must have led a sheltered life—as is only fitting for a lady of her rank—I cannot think less of her, though I instantly despised
him
.

The conclusion—that, owing to some misunderstanding, Herr Doctor was obliged by the Pygmies to flee for his life without further study of the fantastic device. Nonetheless he had observed it closely enough to attempt a copy. Money was wanted—he persuaded dear, trusting Frau Von Berg to invest her fortune—the copy made and now in working order—he
claims
.

And he
claims
to have improved on the original machine! For the one in Africa produced, naturally enough, half-scale African Negroes; but Doctor Treibholz purports to be able to produce half-scale white Europeans with his device. Nor is this all—each diminutive specimen steps forth from the mechanism a fully grown adult, complete in reason and understanding!

And so—Frau Von Berg informs me—this preposterous liar coaxed her to arrange passage to the late American colonies, with the intention of presenting his fraudulent contraption to the President there. For, since the Americans are presently in the process of domesticating a savage and empty wilderness—what, after all, would be more useful there than an army of sturdy homunculi, fit to cut wood and draw water?

I was assured by the poor, innocent woman that these Improved Pygmies had many advantages over colonists of the usual kind—for example, being smaller, they were more economical to feed, and required less room—moreover, were engendered without the necessity of an immoral act, unlike the rest of society…

Could see it was no use remonstrating with her—her trusting nature is too pure. But it is plain to me the scoundrel must have employed a troupe of itinerant dwarves to masquerade as specimens—for, she assures me, the device worked perfectly well on board the ship in which they were bound for America—indeed, produced a number of Improved Pygmies who were quite useful—though regrettably they all perished in the shipwreck…

It would be laughable were it not the basest confidence trick. Felt such ire on Frau Von Berg’s behalf, I had palpitations for upwards of two hours afterward. Checked my pulse just now—still unsteady. Perhaps Treibholz has Mesmerized her! That must be the case…

For, she says, the mechanism itself was rescued, and will now be used to produce a crew of little workmen who will salvage and repair the boat, to enable Treibholz to return to the mainland and charter another ship—however, the necessary atomic particles are in short supply in this remote place—something about the air—but the device may be primed with
sugar
, which makes a tolerable substitute!

Absurd…

Jan 9. My head swims. I cling to this rational act of ordering my thoughts on paper—Perhaps I have become a raving lunatic—perhaps hallucinations have paraded before my eyes. Or—can it be—I too have been somehow Mesmerized?

I was sitting over my solitary breakfast in blessed silence when there came a peremptory knock at my chamber door. Before I could respond, the door was opened—the Italian servant, Beppo, put his head in. I leapt to my feet in indignation at his audacity, but he smiled broadly—assured me he was only there to take care of the boat.

Reluctantly I bid him enter, then—he flung wide the door and ushered in not only his mute and grinning companion, as I had expected, but a half-dozen dwarves!!!

They wore the blue uniform of some engineering corps and, stranger still, carried with them several fathom of rope—blocks and sheaves—all necessary tools. They were all so alike as to have been brothers. As I gazed in stupefaction, they mounted the stair to the lantern room without a word to me—busily set to work up there, clearing the broken glass from the frame, lashing pulleys in place, readying the boat for its removal.

I turned back as the last of them vanished through the door, only to see the mute lurking near my breakfast. I ordered him away at once—he scrambled aside, miming innocence, rolling his eyes to heaven. The Italian intervened, scolding him, and apologized—I demanded to know whence the little workmen had come.

He then related a story that agreed substantially with that of Frau Von Berg—though there were some sordid details, concerning the erstwhile African explorer’s adventures amongst the Pygmies, of which I am sure Frau Von Berg knew nothing. Yes, the dwarves had come out of the remarkable machine—had coalesced not only fully formed, but clothed and equipped, rope, blocks, tackle and all!

My expressions of disbelief were met with a smile and a wave of the hand—what I had just seen was nothing compared to what
il Dottore
could do. When they reached America, he said, everyone would want Improved Pygmies. Improved Pygmies, he said, loved to work—why, they were restless and unhappy if they couldn’t work—and
il Dottore
was going to be a wealthy man, I would see…

All the while he spoke, a constant din of thumps and creaks above our heads suggested that the dwarves were indeed working like demons—presently a dark shape dropped by the window, descending in steady jerks as the boat was winched to the rock below. As I observed this, there was a knock at the door—the mute opened with a flourish—and in came yet another dwarf, bearing a file of panes of glass bound to his back, for all the world like monstrous insect wings—as well as carrying a bucketful of putty and a glazier’s knife!

The little creature would have gone straight up without a word and set to work—I persuaded the Italian to stop him a moment, while I took his measurement—He was exactly 3 feet tall, and—with the exception of the panes of glass—all his tools, clothing and other gear seemed to be to scale as well. I was unable to get precise measurements on these, because he shook himself free with some irritation and proceeded with his task.

They have all departed now. When the door had at last closed behind them, I raced up to the lantern room—beheld it empty and serene, the boat gone, the twisted window leads repaired—Were it not that the new panes have a greenish cast compared to the other glass, I should have thought the whole fantastic episode a dream…