But I lived， and was to live for ever！ So said the unfortunatealchymist， and for a few days I believed his words. I rememberedthe glorious drunkenness that had followed my stolen draught. Ireflected on the change I had felt in my frame—in my soul. Thebounding elasticity of the one—the buoyant lightness of theother. I surveyed myself in a mirror， and could perceive nochange in my features during the space of the five years whichhad elapsed. I remembered the radiant hues and grateful scentof that delicious beverage—worthy the gift it was capable ofbestowing—I was， then， IMMORTAL！
A few days after I laughed at my credulity. The old proverb，that “a prophet is least regarded in his own country，” was truewith respect to me and my defunct master. I loved him as aman—I respected him as a sage—but I derided the notion thathe could command the powers of darkness， and laughed at thesuperstitious fears with which he was regarded by the vulgar.
He was a wise philosopher， but had no acquaintance withany spirits but those clad in flesh and blood. His science wassimply human； and human science， I soon persuaded myself，could never conquer nature’s laws so far as to imprison thesoul for ever within its carnal habitation. Cornelius had breweda soul-refreshing drink—more inebriating than wine—sweeterand more fragrant than any fruit： it possessed probably strongmedicinal powers， imparting gladness to the heart and vigorto the limbs； but its effects would wear out； already were theydiminished in my frame. I was a lucky fellow to have quaffedhealth and joyous spirits， and perhaps long life， at my master’shands； but my good fortune ended there： longevity was fardifferent from immortality.
I continued to entertain this belief for many years. Sometimesa thought stole across me—Was the alchymist indeeddeceived？ But my habitual credence was， that I should meetthe fate of all the children of Adam at my appointed time—alittle late， but still at a natural age. Yet it was certain that Iretained a wonderfully youthful look. I was laughed at for myvanity in consulting the mirror so often， but I consulted it invain—my brow was untrenched—my cheeks—my eyes—mywhole person continued as untarnished as in my twentieth year.
I was troubled. I looked at the faded beauty of Bertha—Iseemed more like her son. By degrees our neighbours beganto make similar observations， and I found at last that I wentby the name of the Scholar bewitched. Bertha herself grewuneasy. She became jealous and peevish， and at length shebegan to question me. We had no children； we were all in allto each other； and though， as she grew older， her vivaciousspirit became a little allied to ill-temper， and her beauty sadlydiminished， I cherished her in my heart as the mistress I hadidolized， the wife I had sought and won with such perfect love.
At last our situation became intolerable： Bertha was fifty—Itwenty years of age. I had， in very shame， in some measureadopted the habits of a more advanced age； I no longermingled in the dance among the young and gay， but my heartbounded along with them while I restrained my feet； and asorry figure I cut among the Nestors of our village. But beforethe time I mention， things were altered—we were universallyshunned； we were—at least， I was—reported to have kept upan iniquitous acquaintance with some of my former master’ssupposed friends. Poor Bertha was pitied， but deserted. I wasregarded with horror and detestation.
What was to be done？ we sat by our winter fire—poverty hadmade itself felt， for none would buy the produce of my farm； andoften I had been forced to journey twenty miles， to some placewhere I was not known， to dispose of our property. It is true wehad saved something for an evil day—that day was come.
We sat by our lone fireside—the old-hearted youth and hisantiquated wife. Again Bertha insisted on knowing the truth；she recapitulated all she had ever heard said about me， andadded her own observations. She conjured me to cast off thespell； she described how much more comely grey hairs werethan my chestnut locks； she descanted on the reverence andrespect due to age—how preferable to the slight regard paidto mere children： could I imagine that the despicable gifts ofyouth and good looks outweighed disgrace， hatred， and scorn？
Nay， in the end I should be burnt as a dealer in the black art，while she， to whom I had not deigned to communicate anyportion of my good fortune， might be stoned as my accomplice.
At length she insinuated that I must share my secret with her，and bestow on her like benefits to those I myself enjoyed， orshe would denounce me—and then she burst into tears.
Thus beset， methought it was the best way to tell the truth.
I revealed it as tenderly as I could， and spoke only of a verylong life， not of immortality—which representation， indeed，coincided best with my own ideas. When I ended， I rose andsaid，
“And now， my Bertha， will you denounce the lover of youryouth？ —You will not， I know. But it is too hard， my poorwife， that you should suffer from my ill-luck and the accursedarts of Cornelius. I will leave you—you have wealth enough，and friends will return in my absence. I will go； young as Iseem， and strong as I am， I can work and gain my bread amongstrangers， unsuspected and unknown. I loved you in youth；God is my witness that I would not desert you in age， but thatyour safety and happiness require it.”
I took my cap and moved towards the door； in a momentBertha’s arms were round my neck， and her lips were pressedto mine. “No， my husband， my Winzy，” she said， “you shall notgo alone—take me with you； we will remove from this place，and， as you say， among strangers we shall be unsuspected andsafe. I am not so very old as quite to shame you， my Winzy；and I dare say the charm will soon wear off， and， with theblessing of God， you will become more elderly-looking， as isfitting； you shall not leave me.”