Scientific Romance

by Brian Stableford

  “Behold!” cried Lord Westaway, “the altar on which the world sacrifices to Nature for the sin of Civilization!”

  It is not known when the last flame of the great fire went out; but in the end of February the first fleet of vessels from Polynesia arrived in the Clyde. They landed their cargoes among the ruins of Glasgow; and the debris on the Broomielaw was soon covered with the dust of the coral insect.

  In six months the reclamation of Scotland to the bosom of Nature was completed by a million men, who wrought in three relays, night and day. Professor Penpergwyn’s piers were then destroyed; and a cordon of five hundred war-vessels was placed along the coast, and not a human foot trod Scottish earth—or Polynesian earth in Scotland—for two years.

  Lord Westaway, on the day the company granted him the isle of Arran, had shut himself up in his study. Three hours he brooded, and then summoned his son Lewellyn, a handsome boy in his eleventh year.

  “Lewellyn,” said Lord Westaway, “I am going to prepare Arran for you. You will enter into possession of it on your twenty-first birthday. I will make it the most remarkable island in the world.”

  “How will you do that, Papa?”

  “Do not inquire; don’t try to discover from any source; your surprise and pleasure ten years hence will be the greater.”

  The boy, who worshiped his father, agreed to this unhesitatingly.

  The World’s Pleasance brought down the world. At the close of the first season in which the rejuvenated Scotland was open to the public, instead of the fifteen per cent expected by the promoters, a dividend of thirty per cent was declared on all the shares. From many glowing contemporary accounts of the wonders of the great pleasure-ground, I select the flowing letter of the young Empress of the Far East to her Prime Minister, whom she afterwards married, as being the least overcharged:

  Extract from the Letter of the Empress of the East

  “We landed in the end of June on the shore where Leith once stood. I was carried up to Edinburgh in a litter, the rugged nature of the ground preventing any other mode of conveyance. A Greek temple-like building—formerly a picture-gallery, I believe—had been prepared for us.1 The rent of it is enormous, as the company put up to auction all the habitable buildings in the country. This was rendered necessary by the battles which took place for the possession of historical or finely-situated houses.

  “At first the directors thought that the fighting would lend an additional charm to life here; but when Ling-long, the American president, besieged the Emperor of the French in Holyrood with bows and arrows and battering rams—a bye-law forbids the use of all explosives—and took the place with the loss of several lives on both sides, interference was deemed expedient. All fighting, except in the tourney, is now done with quarter-staves. Every third day we have a quarrel with some other potentate about a fishing-stream or a glade for hawking in.

  “My greatest enemy is the King of England, who lives in Edinburgh Castle. We are very warm friends and model disputants, complying graciously with the bye-law which adjudges victory to the side that first draws blood. Although the King’s retinue exceeds mine, my Tartar giant, by his superior strength and agility, manages, as a rule, to finish the fight in our favor.

  “I will just go on scribbling in my woman’s way as I have begun. The next thing that occurs to me is the splendor of Edinburgh. It is pronounced by everybody the most beautiful piece of the juvenile country. Scientific men are much perplexed by it, as indeed they are by all the newly naturalized land. It would seem that there is a struggle going on between the imported tropical vegetation and the native plants and grasses. The latter have conquered in Edinburgh. It is covered with young heather and broom and bracken, and only here and there a dwarfed alien plant appears. The billows of purple and green and gold toss about in what was the New Town, and, swirling along the valley, roll up the High Street to throw splashes of color here and there on the Castle Esplanade.

  “We are clad in sixteenth century costumes; the King of England and his Court in dresses of the time of the Charleses. Nearly all the Americans go about in Greek robes, as gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines. The French court is a miniature of that of Louis XIV. The Russians are dressed in Lincoln green; the Czar is called Robin Hood, and the Czarina Maid Marian. We have no clocks; the dial is our only timekeeper. It is all a great masque, from the country itself to the pot-boys and scullions.

  “Last week I rode as far north as Perth, and seemed to journey through all the times and peoples of Europe. Here, in a broad meadow, we saw a tournament, where some princesses sat as queens of love and beauty. A few miles further on we passed a water-party of the Restoration, with music and laughter. Then a pavilion gleamed white among the trees, and there two knights of the Round Table hung out their blazoned shields. Up rode, with lofty air, Don Quixote, wearing the veritable helmet of Mambrino. Behind, all amort, on a sorry ass, ambled the wisest of fools, dear old Sancho Panza.

  “ ‘What, ho! vile recreants!’ cried the knight of La Mancha, and struck exultingly one of the shields. We stood aside to watch the encounter, and beheld him of the sorrowful countenance go down before the spear of Lancelot of the Lake.

  “Anon, Mary Queen of Scots, followed by Douglases and Graemes and Setons, sped by, chasing a stag of ten.

  “ ‘Splendeur de Dieu!’ cried a deep voice in front; and a body of Norman knights charged the Scotsman. But after a brief battle, William the Conqueror and Mary Stuart agreed to hunt together.

  “O me! my heart is sick with dreaming over these old times. And yet, although I know it is the signal for my return, I long for the day when you are to come, my faithful friend.

  “I have some, and shall have more, very pleasant stories to tell you of a party of Germans, who have undertaken to act through all Shakespeare’s comedies, with the whole World’s Pleasance for stage, naming places after localities in the plays, and traveling about as the scene requires. They have already acted two comedies, and in each of them real passions and events have grown out of the fiction, so that the company has lost half its original members owing to elopements and quarrels.

  “This is a long letter, and I am tired.”

  One result of the success of the World’s Pleasance Company was the establishment of similar companies in nearly every country. The Americans reclaimed Peru and California. The Empress of the East was the principal promoter of a company for the naturalization of Greece. The French reclaimed Provence. Italy was given over entirely to Nature; and the whole Italian nation became brigands. This country was much frequented by young people in search of adventure. The African Republics made pleasances of Algeria and the country about the great lakes; and a gigantic Asiatic company bought up the Himalayas and the Indo-Chinese peninsula.

  For eight years all those pleasance companies paid great percentages and immense fortunes were made. Every other man was a millionaire. Then it seemed that the world came bankrupt. Thousands of people committed suicide. Famine followed bankruptcy; and after it came a new disease. It began in India, and traveled almost as fast as the news of its ravages.

  People fled to their pleasances for refuge, but the pest was there before them. Cities were emptied in a day. In every town and hamlet the last to die thought himself the last man, and posed mentally as such. London was swept of life like the deck of a vessel by a mountainous wave. In the World’s Pleasance people wandered about in twos and threes, shunning strangers, digging roots, dropping dead. Most of them wore their holiday costumes. Some few carried bottles of wine, and laughed and sang. But the time for such desperate jollity soon passed, and the plague remained.

  In the beginning of July, an old man of great freshness and vigor appeared in that part of the Pleasance formerly known as Ayrshire. He approached everybody he met. To those whom he could say, he put this question: “Do you know anything of Lewellyn Westaway?”

  A languid shake of the head was all the answer he ever got. So many kept him aloof, that he resorted to calling out his qu
estion at the pitch of his voice. For an entire forenoon he did this; and shortly after midday a man dropped out of a tree almost on his head and said, “I am Lewellyn Westaway.”

  “And I,” said the old man, “am Professor Penpergwyn.”

  The Professor wore a white hat and a black frock coat, old and dusty. Lewellyn was dressed in a purple velvet doublet, and from his close-fitting cap a feather hung gracefully, and mingled with his long hair. The contrast was striking.

  “What do you want with me?” asked Lewellyn.

  “Why are you not in Arran?”

  “In Arran?”

  “Yes; you are twenty-one now, and the island awaits you.”

  “I had forgotten about it.”

  “Drink this, and go there at once.”

  “What’s this? And why should I go there at once?”

  “This,” said the Professor, opening the morocco case he had offered Lewellyn, and holding up a little vial, “is an infallible remedy for the plague.”

  Lewellyn laughed scornfully.

  “Faithless, faithless!” cried the Professor, looking earnestly with his strong, convincing eyes into those of the young man.

  Lewellyn was bound by his gaze; and the Professor continued: “I tell you, who may die this moment, who must die within a week, that this will save you, and you laugh in my face. Will you take it or not?”

  Lewellyn took it.

  “Drink it.”

  He did so in silence.

  “Now listen to me.”

  The Professor leaned against a tree, while Lewellyn stood meekly before him.

  “First tell me—are your father and mother dead?”

  “They are.”

  “Then you are as free as I could wish you to be, unless you are married.”

  “I am not.”

  “Good. Many years ago I discovered this disease in Kamchatka. It is really nothing more or less than hunger, the millionth power of hunger. I have not time to explain it. It must often have appeared in the world. Probably it has always existed actively, but never till this great famine has it fairly got wing. I recognized its power in Kamchatka, and saw that if it should get enough strength from feeding on a few hundred thousand lives, it would kill the world. Its power and velocity increase with its progress. It knows no crisis. In a few days it will be as swift as the lightning. I began in Kamchatka to try for a remedy. I labored for years, and then had to come west for materials. It was during that visit that I burned Scotland. On my return to Kamchatka I found that a filtrate I had left standing had clarified itself, and was, in fact, the required remedy. For the last ten years I have been trying to repeat the process, but have always failed. When I heard of the breaking out of the pest I came at once from Kamchatka. I had sufficient of my remedy to save two lives. My wife is dead, so I gave one half to you. Now, sir, go to Arran.”

  “Why give me half?”

  “Is that your gratitude? Had I not found you I should have given it to the finest young fellow I could meet with. But ask no more questions. Do as I bid you. You will find it to your advantage. You will never see me more. Within a fortnight all who have not drunk of my medicament will be dead.”

  “What! Are we two to be the only men left alive, and are we to part forever?”

  “Yes. Your father has saved Nature, but in a way he little expected. Goodbye for ever.”

  Lewellyn realized but faintly what the old man had said with such authority, and stood irresolute.

  “Go,” said the Professor; and Lewellyn, like one under a spell, hurried down to the coast. He was hardly out of sight when Professor Penpergwyn dropped dead.

  On the shore Lewellyn found many boats—some floating, some high and dry—all masterless. He chose the one he judged the swiftest sailer, and was soon flying across the firth with a strong east wind behind him. As he neared Arran he saw a white flag run up a short pole on a little eminence near the beach. He was too much battered with wonder to feel this new stroke. Involuntarily he steered for the flag.

  When he was some hundred yards from land he observed below the flag-pole, seated on a rock, a figure like that of a woman, motionless and watching him intently. In landing, his boat occupied all his attention, so that when he stepped ashore and found a tall girl standing with her back to him, but within reach of his arm, the effect upon him was almost as great as if he had not seen her before.

  He stood still, expecting her to turn round; but she remained as she was for some moments fingering a bow she carried. A quiver full of arrows was slung across her shoulder. Her dress, of some dark blue homely stuff, came to her ankles. She wore shoes of untanned leather, and a belt of the same, in which was stuck a short sword. On her head she had a little fur cap, and her short golden brown hair curled on her shoulders.

  Slowly she turned and gave him a side glance. Then she looked him full in the face and sighed deeply, but as if some doubt had been resolved to her satisfaction.

  He fell back a step at the splendor of her eyes. Her face was broad and her complexion delicate, though browned. He hardly noticed her low forehead, her straight eyebrows, her strong, round chin, and full red mouth; her eyes held him. He did not think of their color. He was subdued by their intense expression. They seemed to pierce him with intuition, and at the same time to bathe him in a soft, warm light. She spoke, and her voice seemed to caress him; but all she said was: “Do you come from Professor Penpergwyn?”

  He bowed. If he spoke he felt the vision would vanish.

  “Have you drunk the other half?”

  He bowed again, understanding her to mean the other half of the Professor’s remedy.

  “Did he tell you that there was only enough for two?”

  He found his tongue and answered “Yes,” whispering as intently as she did, but wondering why there should be so much passion about the matter.

  “Do you know who drank the rest?”

  “I supposed it was the Professor.”

  She sighed again, a deep sigh of satisfaction, and sank on the beach sobbing. Lewellyn, after a moment’s thought, knelt beside her and held one of her hands in both his. She made no resistance. In a little she dried her tears with her disengaged hand, shook back her hair and looked him in the face.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she said; “I have been alone here for a week. You needn’t ask any questions. I’ll tell you it all at once. Professor Penpergwyn is my Papa. Is he alive?”

  “He was four hours ago.”

  “He may be dead now, though. Poor Papa! He would always have his own way. Papa expected to find you. When he didn’t, he left me alone and went to search for you. We brought some provisions and weapons with us, and I have managed to get on very well. But I’m glad you’ve come. Are you Lewellyn Westaway?” she cried sharply, springing to her feet in sudden doubt.

  “Yes I am—Lord Westaway, if it’s of any consequence.”

  “I’m very glad. Tell me, what was the name of your father’s steward?”

  “Dealtry—Henry Dealtry.”

  “It was; it was!”

  The lady smiled, and looked as happy and self-satisfied as if she had exercised the most extraordinary subtlety in putting his question, and as if Lewellyn’s answer were conclusive proof of his identity.

  “But you must be hungry,” she said, suddenly. “Come.”

  She led him to a tent at the entrance of a little glen, and bade him sit on the turf at the door, while she went in. A pleasant odor came through the canvas, and he heard the clatter of dishes—a very wholesome sound to one who had been living a half-savage life for several weeks.

  Soon, she cried: “Come in,” and he entered.

  “I began to prepare this little dinner when I saw your boat, far away.”

  He thanked her, and they ate in silence, stealing shy glances at each other, and feeling a little uncomfortable. But being hungry they did not mind that much.

  “Now,” she said, resuming her frankness, not perfectly however, “if you’re quite satisfied, com
e and I’ll show you the wonders of your island. You know your father promised you it should be the most remarkable island in the world.”

  “And so it is,” he said, looking at her steadily.

  She blushed, and said nothing.

  They had not taken many steps up the glen when a roar shook the ground.

  He stopped in wonder. She answered the question in his eyes.

  “That’s the old lion. He’s the only one left.”

  “The only one!”

  “Are you frightened? He’s not at all dangerous. He’s got hardly any teeth, and he just crawls. I’ll tell you all about it now, although I meant to show it to you before explaining. My father and I met Dealtry, your father’s steward, in London, and he told us about the island being yours, and how your father promised you it should be the most remarkable island in the world, and how in fulfillment of that promise he stocked it with all kinds of wild beasts and birds and insects, intending it to be a great hunting-ground. Dealtry told us you would be sure to be here.”

  “I had forgotten all about it.”

  “Well, except this old lion, all the originals are dead. But there are many elephants, lions, tigers, bears, leopards, hyenas and beasts I don’t know the names of—all very little, and not at all fierce. They’re fast dying out too, for they can’t get any food. You’ll hardly see a deer, and even rabbits are scarce. There’s a tiger!”

  Lewellyn saw a striped beast about the size of a Newfoundland dog slinking across the path before them. While he looked at it curiously, something whistled through the air, and with a scream the beast rolled over, pierced in the heart by one of Miss Penpergwyn’s arrows.

  “I always shoot them,” she said, “and you will do so too; for we must get rid of them. That was Papa’s order.”

  Lewellyn sighed, and thought of his father. This was the end of his high-pitched imaginings and passionate endeavors to realize what others would never dream of imagining. A melancholy, profounder than that which was normal to all high-strung souls at that dread time, seized him and was reflected by his companion. They wandered about the island, hand in hand, saying little. Every foreign beast, bird and insect they saw, all small, and much less brilliant than in their native climes, increased his melancholy until it became almost an agony, and he was glad when he reached the tent again. She bade him sit once more at the entrance while she got supper ready.