That very
singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four venerable friends to meet him
in his study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel
Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was the
Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, who had been unfortunate
in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was that they were not long ago in
their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous
merchant, but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little
better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his
health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth
to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of soul and
body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had
been so till time had buried him from the knowledge of the present generation,
and made him obscure instead of infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition
tells us that she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she
had lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories which had
prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance worth
mentioning that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel
Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and had
once been on the point of cutting each other's throats for her sake. And, before
proceeding further, I will merely hint that Dr. Heidegger and all his foul
guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves,--as is not
unfrequently the case with old people, when worried either by present troubles
or woful recollections.
"My dear old
friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, "I am desirous of
your assistance in one of those little experiments with which I amuse myself
here in my study."
If all
stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very curious place. It
was a dim, old-fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and besprinkled with
antique dust. Around the walls stood several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves
of which were filled with rows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos, and
the upper with little parchment-covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase
was a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, Dr.
Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations in all difficult cases of his
practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken
closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between
two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty plate
within a tarnished gilt frame. Among many wonderful stories related of this
mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients
dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in the face whenever he looked
thitherward. The opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the
full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk,
satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a
century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this young
lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of
her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening. The greatest
curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume,
bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There were no letters on the
back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. But it was well known to be a
book of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away
the dust, the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady
had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had peeped forth
from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and
said,--"Forbear!"
Such was Dr.
Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our tale a small round table, as
black as ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a cut-glass vase of
beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. The sunshine came through the window,
between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains, and fell directly
across this vase; so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen
visages of the five old people who sat around. Four champagne glasses were also
on the table.
"My dear old
friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, "may I reckon on your aid in performing an
exceedingly curious experiment?"
Now Dr.
Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity had become the
nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to my shame be
it spoken, might possibly be traced back to my own veracious self; and if any
passages of the present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be
content to bear the stigma of a fiction monger.
When the
doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, they anticipated
nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air pump, or the
examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some similar nonsense, with which
he was constantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without waiting
for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber, and returned with the
same ponderous folio, bound in black leather, which common report affirmed to be
a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from
among its black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the
green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient
flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands.
"This rose,"
said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered and crumbling flower,
blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, whose
portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it in my bosom at our wedding. Five
and fifty years it has been treasured between the leaves of this old volume.
Now, would you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever
bloom again?"
"Nonsense!"
said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. "You might as well ask
whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever bloom again."
"See!"
answered Dr. Heidegger.
He uncovered
the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water which it contained. At first,
it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its
moisture. Soon, however, a singular change began to be visible. The crushed and
dried petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower
were reviving from a deathlike slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage
became green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when
Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was scarcely full blown; for
some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist bosom, within
which two or three dewdrops were sparkling.
"That is
certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends; carelessly,
however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show; "pray how
was it effected?"
"Did you
never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth?' " asked Dr. Heidegger, "which Ponce De
Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or three centuries ago?"
"But did
Ponce De Leon ever find it?" said the Widow Wycherly.
"No,"
answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right place. The famous
Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of
the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by
several gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centuries old, have been
kept as fresh as violets by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance
of mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in the
vase."
"Ahem!" said
Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's story; "and what may
be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?"
"You shall
judge for yourself, my dear colonel," replied Dr. Heidegger; "and all of you, my
respected friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore
to you the bloom of youth. For my own part, having had much trouble in growing
old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With your permission, therefore, I
will merely watch the progress of the experiment."
While he
spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne glasses with the water
of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an effervescent
gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending from the depths of the
glasses, and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a
pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and
comfortable properties; and though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power,
they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought them to
stay a moment.
"Before you
drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be well that, with the
experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few general rules
for your guidance, in passing a second time through the perils of youth. Think
what a sin and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advantages, you should
not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the young people of the age!"
The doctor's
four venerable friends made him no answer, except by a feeble and tremulous
laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely repentance
treads behind the steps of error, they should ever go astray again.
"Drink,
then," said the doctor, bowing: "I rejoice that I have so well selected the
subjects of my experiment."
With palsied
hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor, if it really possessed
such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been bestowed on
four human beings who needed it more wofully. They looked as if they had never
known what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring of Nature's dotage,
and always the gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat
stooping round the doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or bodies
to be animated even by the prospect of growing young again. They drank off the
water, and replaced their glasses on the table.
Assuredly
there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the party, not unlike
what might have been produced by a glass of generous wine, together with a
sudden glow of cheerful sunshine brightening over all their visages at once.
There was a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that
had made them look so corpse-like. They gazed at one another, and fancied that
some magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions
which Father Time had been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wycherly
adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman again.
"Give us more
of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We are younger--but we are still
too old! Quick--give us more!"
"Patience,
patience!" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching the experiment with philosophic
coolness. "You have been a long time growing old. Surely, you might be content
to grow young in half an hour! But the water is at your service."
Again he
filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which still remained in
the vase to turn half the old people in the city to the age of their own
grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling on the brim, the doctor's
four guests snatched their glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at
a single gulp. Was it delusion? even while the draught was passing down their
throats, it seemed to have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes
grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks, they sat
around the table, three gentlemen of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond her
buxom prime.
"My dear
widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed
upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting from it like darkness from
the crimson daybreak.
The fair
widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's compliments were not always
measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading
that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three
gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved that the water of the Fountain of
Youth possessed some intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration
of spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness caused by the sudden removal of the
weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, but
whether relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily be
determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these fifty
years. Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about patriotism, national
glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in
a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience could
scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured accents, and a
deeply deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his wellturned
periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle
song, and ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered
toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the table,
Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, with which was
strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East Indies with ice, by
harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs.
As for the
Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and simpering to her own
image, and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than all the world
beside. She thrust her face close to the glass, to see whether some
long-remembered wrinkle or crow's foot had indeed vanished. She examined whether
the snow had so entirely melted from her hair that the venerable cap could be
safely thrown aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of
dancing step to the table.
"My dear old
doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another glass!"
"Certainly,
my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant doctor; "see! I have already
filled the glasses."
There, in
fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful water, the delicate
spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous
glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset that the chamber had grown
duskier than ever; but a mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the
vase, and rested alike on the four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure.
He sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a gray
dignity of aspect that might have well befitted that very Father Time, whose
power had never been disputed, save by this fortunate company. Even while
quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost awed by
the expression of his mysterious visage.
But, the next
moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot through their veins. They were
now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable train of cares and
sorrows and diseases, was remembered only as the trouble of a dream, from which
they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without
which the world's successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures,
again threw its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created
beings in a new-created universe.
"We are
young! We are young!" they cried exultingly.
Youth, like
the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked characteristics of middle
life, and mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of merry youngsters,
almost maddened with the exuberant frolicsomeness of their years. The most
singular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock the infirmity and
decrepitude of which they had so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at
their old-fashioned attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the
young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. One limped across
the floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of his
nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a
third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable
dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and leaped about the
room. The Widow Wycherly--if so fresh a damsel could be called a widow--tripped
up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face.
"Doctor, you
dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me!" And then the four young
people laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure the poor old
doctor would cut.
"Pray excuse
me," answered the doctor quietly. "I am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days
were over long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so
pretty a partner."
"Dance with
me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew
"No, no, I
will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gascoigne.
"She promised
me her hand, fifty years ago!" exclaimed Mr. Medbourne.
They all
gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his passionate grasp another
threw his arm about her waist--the third buried his hand among the glossy curls
that clustered beneath the widow's cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding,
laughing, her warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to
disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a
livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize.
Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, and the
antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected
the figures of the three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously contending
for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam.
But they were
young: their burning passions proved them so. Inflamed to madness by the
coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her favors,
the three rivals began to interchange threatening glances. Still keeping hold of
the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they
struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the vase dashed into a
thousand fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across
the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline
of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect fluttered lightly through the
chamber, and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger.
"Come, come,
gentlemen!--come, Madam Wycherly," exclaimed the doctor, "I really must protest
against this riot."
They stood
still and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time were calling them back from
their sunny youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of years. They
looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his carved arm-chair, holding the rose
of half a century, which he had rescued from among the fragments of the
shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats;
the more readily, because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful
though they were.
"My poor
Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the light of the sunset
clouds; "it appears to be fading again."
And so it
was. Even while the party were looking at it, the flower continued to shrivel
up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it
into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals.
"I love it as
well thus as in its dewy freshness," observed he, pressing the withered rose to
his withered lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from the
doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor.
His guests
shivered again. A strange chillness, whether of the body or spirit they could
not tell, was creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one another, and
fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm, and left a deepening
furrow where none had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a
lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four aged people,
sitting with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger?
"Are we grown
old again, so soon?" cried they, dolefully.
In truth they
had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more transient than that of
wine. The delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes! they were old
again. With a shuddering impulse, that showed her a woman still, the widow
clasped her skinny hands before her face, and wished that the coffin lid were
over it, since it could be no longer beautiful.
"Yes,
friends, ye are old again," said Dr. Heidegger, "and lo! the Water of Youth is
all lavished on the ground. Well--I bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at
my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my lips in it--no, though its
delirium were for years instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught
me!"
But the doctor's four friends
had taught no such lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make a
pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon, and night, from the Fountain
of Youth.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel.
“Twice-Told Tales, (Dr Heidegger’s Experiment)” American Stationers Co. 1837.