Colonel Clay in THE EPISODE OF THE GERMAN PROFESSOR, by Grant Allen
That winter in town my respected brother-in-law had little time on his hands to bother himself about trifles like Colonel Clay. A thunderclap burst upon him. He saw his chief interest in South Africa threatened by a serious, an unexpected, and a crushing danger.
Charles does a little in gold, and a little in land; but his principal operations have always lain in the direction of diamonds. Only once in my life, indeed, have I seen him pay the slightest attention to poetry, and that was when I happened one day to recite the lines:—
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
He rubbed his hands at once and murmured enthusiastically, “I never thought of that. We might get up an Atlantic Exploration Syndicate, Limited.” So attached is he to diamonds. You may gather, therefore, what a shock it was to that gigantic brain to learn that science was rapidly reaching a point where his favourite gems might become all at once a mere drug in the market. Depreciation is the one bugbear that perpetually torments Sir Charles’s soul; that winter he stood within measurable distance of so appalling a calamity.
It happened after this manner.
We were strolling along Piccadilly towards Charles’s club one afternoon—he is a prominent member of the Croesus, in Pall Mall—when, near Burlington House, whom should we happen to knock up against but Sir Adolphus Cordery, the famous mineralogist, and leading spirit of the Royal Society! He nodded to us pleasantly. “Halloa, Vandrift,” he cried, in his peculiarly loud and piercing voice; “you’re the very man I wanted to meet today. Good morning, Wentworth. Well, how about diamonds now, Sir Gorgius? You’ll have to sing small. It’s all up with you Midases. Heard about this marvellous new discovery of Schleiermacher’s? It’s calculated to make you diamond kings squirm like an eel in a frying-pan.”
I could see Charles wriggle inside his clothes. He was most uncomfortable. That a man like Cordery should say such things, in so loud a voice, on no matter how little foundation, openly in Piccadilly, was enough in itself to make a sensitive barometer such as Cloetedorp Golcondas go down a point or two.
“Hush, hush!” Charles said solemnly, in that awed tone of voice which he always assumes when Money is blasphemed against. “Please don’t talk quite so loud! All London can hear you.”
Sir Adolphus ran his arm through Charles’s most amicably. There’s nothing Charles hates like having his arm taken.
“Come along with me to the Athenæum,” he went on, in the same stentorian voice, “and I’ll tell you all about it. Most interesting discovery. Makes diamonds cheap as dirt. Calculated to supersede South Africa altogether.”
Charles allowed himself to be dragged along. There was nothing else possible. Sir Adolphus continued, in a somewhat lower key, induced upon him by Charles’s mute look of protest. It was a disquieting story. He told it with gleeful unction. It seems that Professor Schleiermacher, of Jena, “the greatest living authority on the chemistry of gems,” he said, had lately invented, or claimed to have invented, a system for artificially producing diamonds, which had yielded most surprising and unexceptionable results.
Charles’s lip curled slightly. “Oh, I know the sort of thing,” he said. “I’ve heard of it before. Very inferior stones, quite small and worthless, produced at immense cost, and even then not worth looking at. I’m an old bird, you know, Cordery; not to be caught with chaff. Tell me a better one!”
Sir Adolphus produced a small cut gem from his pocket. “How’s that for the first water?” he inquired, passing it across, with a broad smile, to the sceptic. “Made under my own eyes—and quite inexpensively!”
Charles examined it close, stopping short against the railings in St. James’s Square to look at it with his pocket-lens. There was no denying the truth. It was a capital small gem of the finest quality.
“Made under your own eyes?” he exclaimed, still incredulous. “Where, my dear sir?—at Jena?”
The answer was a thunderbolt from a blue sky. “No, here in London; last night as ever was; before myself and Dr. Gray; and about to be exhibited by the President himself at a meeting of Fellows of the Royal Society.”
Charles drew a long breath. “This nonsense must be stopped,” he said firmly—“it must be nipped in the bud. It won’t do, my dear friend; we can’t have such tampering with important Interests.”
“How do you mean?” Cordery asked, astonished.
Charles gazed at him steadily. I could see by the furtive gleam in my brother-in-law’s eye he was distinctly frightened. “Where is the fellow?” he asked. “Did he come himself, or send over a deputy?”
“Here in London,” Sir Adolphus replied. “He’s staying at my house; and he says he’ll be glad to show his experiments to anybody scientifically interested in diamonds. We propose to have a demonstration of the process tonight at Lancaster Gate. Will you drop in and see it?”
Would he “drop in” and see it? “Drop in” at such a function! Could he possibly stop away? Charles clutched the enemy’s arm with a nervous grip. “Look here, Cordery,” he said, quivering; “this is a question affecting very important Interests. Don’t do anything rash. Don’t do anything foolish. Remember that Shares may rise or fall on this.” He said “Shares” in a tone of profound respect that I can hardly even indicate. It was the crucial word in the creed of his religion.
“I should think it very probable,” Sir Adolphus replied, with the callous indifference of the mere man of science to financial suffering.
Sir Charles was bland, but peremptory. “Now, observe,” he said, “a grave responsibility rests on your shoulders. The Market depends upon you. You must not ask in any number of outsiders to witness these experiments. Have a few mineralogists and experts, if you like; but also take care to invite representatives of the menaced Interests. I will come myself—I’m engaged to dine out, but I can contract an indisposition; and I should advise you to ask Mosenheimer, and, say, young Phipson. They would stand for the mines, as you and the mineralogists would stand for science. Above all, don’t blab; for Heaven’s sake, let there be no premature gossip. Tell Schleiermacher not to go gassing and boasting of his success all over London.”
“We are keeping the matter a profound secret, at Schleiermacher’s own request,” Cordery answered, more seriously.
“Which is why,” Charles said, in his severest tone, “you bawled it out at the very top of your voice in Piccadilly!”
However, before nightfall, everything was arranged to Charles’s satisfaction; and off we went to Lancaster Gate, with a profound expectation that the German professor would do nothing worth seeing.
He was a remarkable-looking man, once tall, I should say, from his long, thin build, but now bowed and bent with long devotion to study and leaning over a crucible. His hair, prematurely white, hung down upon his forehead, but his eye was keen and his mouth sagacious. He shook hands cordially with the men of science, whom he seemed to know of old, whilst he bowed somewhat distantly to the South African interest. Then he began to talk, in very German-English, helping out the sense now and again, where his vocabulary failed him, by waving his rather dirty and chemical-stained hands demonstratively about him. His nails were a sight, but his fingers, I must say, had the delicate shape of a man’s accustomed to minute manipulation. He plunged at once into the thick of the matter, telling us briefly in his equally thick accent that he “now brobosed by his new brocess to make for us some goot and sadisfactory tiamonds.”
He brought out his apparatus, and explained—or, as he said, “eggsblained”—his novel method. “Tiamonds,” he said, “were nozzing but pure crystalline carbon.” He knew how to crystallise it—“zat was all ze secret.” The men of science examined the pots and pans carefully. Then he put in a certain number of raw materials, and went to work with ostentatious