THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH
HEDLEY PEEK
"Look on the Spirit as the rider! take
The Body for the chariot, and the Will
As charioteer! regard the mind as reins.
The senses as the steeds; and things of sense
The ways they trample on....
For whoso rides this chariot of the flesh,
The reins of mind well grasped, the charioteer
Faithful and firm--comes to his journey’s end."
_The Secret of Death_.
LONDON
LAWRENCE & BULLEN, LTD.
1897
NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
1897
[All rights reserved]
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.
Dedicated
TO
REV. S. A. TIPPLE
FOR THIRTY YEARS MY FRIEND AND TEACHER
In our definitions we grope after the _spiritual_ by
describing it as invisible. The true meaning of _spiritual_
is _real_.--EMERSON.
*THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH*
*PART I*
*CHAPTER I*
It is nearly eleven years since Alan Sydney left England, but I have
only recently been released from my promise of secrecy. So sacred to me
is the memory of our friendship, that, even now, I shrink from the task
of narrating his strange and curious history. A strong impulse,
however, urges me to break silence.
The village of Anstead, near which we both lived, is in Surrey, possibly
the best county in England to find mixed society. Here the
old-fashioned farmers, the labourers who have never travelled as far as
London, and a few country squires are mingled with, and influenced by,
retired London shopkeepers, merchant princes--with or without H’s--and a
sprinkling of literary and scientific dabblers; these last are regarded
with suspicion by all, but especially by the retired Army and Navy
magnates.
Nobody seemed to know to which class Alan Sydney belonged, and strange
to say he was admitted, chiefly, I fancy, because he was an eccentric
bachelor, into all societies. As I am wealthy and have been a confirmed
idler from my youth, the same privilege has been granted to me; a
privilege of which, however, I am seldom inclined to take advantage.
I had known Alan Sydney for some years before we became at all intimate.
He fascinated, repelled and puzzled me. "Why," I would say to myself,
"is this man so confoundedly unlike other men?"
It is not easy to describe him, because, instead of having to portray an
identity, I seem rather obliged to describe a number of individualities
peeping out through one person. Often you would fancy when speaking to
him that you were in the presence of a fool, to be sharply awakened to
the unpleasant discovery that it was far more probable you were being
fooled yourself. You had hardly decided that he was a liar before you
were conscious that, if once able to get behind the outside spray of
speech with which he was purposely blinding you, it might be possible to
trust him more fully than other men. I usually left him with the
unpleasant impression that instead of treating me as a man, he had been
dissecting me as a mental or spiritual corpse. He seemed to have about
as much regard for the opinion any one formed of his character as a
surgeon would have of the views once entertained by his unconscious
subject. Yet it was difficult to tell why one felt these sensations, for
his manner was outwardly pleasant even at times jovial; and if there was
satire in what he said it was certainly quite impossible for a third
party to be conscious of it. I have heard him at a dinner-party make
some trivial remark in his quiet voice to one of the guests which would
cause the person addressed to flush up with annoyance and surprise as
though he had been detected in a crime or stung by the lash of a whip.
I have never been able to find out why he chose me as his only
confidant, but so it came about.
It was a warm summer evening, and after dinner it occurred to me that I
would stroll over and consult him about an old manuscript which I had
recently purchased. From something that he had once said it seemed
probable that he might be able to help me with the Old English, which
was more than usually difficult on account of the writer having been a
North-countryman. Alan Sydney was in the garden inhaling a cigarette, a
bad habit which he frequently denounced and perpetually practised.
Sitting down beside him I remarked on his inconsistency.
"Consistency," he replied, smiling, "if we may believe Bacon, Emerson,
and at least ten other original thinkers, is the quixotism of little
minds. Inhaling cigarettes is the last infirmity of habitual smokers.
The boy-child begins with a cigarette; in youth or manhood he drifts
into cigars and pipes; later on, if he should be unfortunate enough once
to try the experiment of inhaling, he reverts to his first love."
I turned the subject by handing to him the manuscript, which he looked
over for some time with evident interest. When asked if he could make
out the meaning of some of the Old English words he answered that he
could not, and that there was probably no one living who could.
"You think I am conceited in making such a remark, but in that you are
mistaken. It is simply that I am better acquainted with ignorance than
you are. Most of these early English provincialisms, if I may use the
term for want of a better, can only be guessed at. There are not
sufficient local manuscripts of similar date for comparison to be of
much service. If a word cannot be traced either to Anglo-Saxon,
Moeso-Gothic, or Scandinavian, you may safely translate it as you please
and defy criticism. But let us come in, it is getting chilly."
We entered the house together, passing on to his study. The home was
typical of the man. From outside it might easily have been mistaken for
a small farm-house. It had the appearance of age, though built by its
present owner. It was constructed after the model of the oldest
existing style of a Surrey cottage. The walls were supported by and
interlaced with massive oak beams, and the roof was entirely composed of
thin slabs of rough ironstone which had served a similar purpose for
many centuries, having been collected from various dilapidated and
condemned buildings. The greatest care had been taken in removing these
slabs not to destroy the moss and lichen attached to them, and a few
years after the house was finished, an antiquarian might easily have
been deceived, so perfectly had every detail, external and internal,
been studied.
This humble-looking abode cost probably as much as many of the
surrounding mansions, and was unquestionably far more comfortable.
I thought that I was well acquainted with the interior. How far this
idea was correct will shortly be seen.
We looked over the manuscript together for some time, and I was
surprised to find that many words I had considered provincial were known
to my friend; and it was not often that he had to own himself beaten.
The matter, however, was most uninteresting, being a homily on the Roman
faith.
Presently my companion leaned back in his chair, and seemed to be
looking fixedly on some spot on the wall opposite him. I followed the
direction of his eyes, but could see nothing likely to attract his
attention. I spoke, but he did not answer. The light was rather dim,
and it was not possible to see his face distinctly, as the shade from
the lamp screened it, but I felt certain that something was wrong. I
placed my hand upon his arm, but he took no notice, and this now
thoroughly alarmed me.
My first inclination was to ring the bell; my second to move the shade
from the lamp so as to be quite sure that I was not mistaken. Lifting
the screen, I let the light fall brightly on Sydney’s face, and turned
to look more closely. For a moment his eyes still maintained their
fixed and vacant expression, then turned slowly toward the light. He
heaved a deep sigh, and then looked at me with a slightly dazed
expression.
"I am afraid you are not well," I said.
"It is nothing," he replied. "For the moment I felt faint, but the
sensation has passed."
Knowing something of fainting fits, and having noticed that he had never
changed colour nor shown any of the usual signs of faintness, I presumed
that he wished to deceive me, and began wondering what the attack could
have been.
"You are not satisfied," he continued. "However, let it pass now. Some
time I will explain."
Seeing that he wished to be alone, I said good-night.
"Can you come and dine with me to-morrow?" he asked. "I shall be alone,
and should be glad to have a quiet talk with you."
Accepting the invitation gladly, I went out into the warm summer night,
little thinking how much I was to learn before that door again closed
behind me.
*CHAPTER II*
On the following evening I dined with Alan Sydney for the first time.
It was one of his peculiarities not to ask acquaintances to his house;
his bachelorhood excused him from the necessity. I was therefore not a
little surprised to notice the dainty epicureanism of his meal. The
wines were such as it is an unexpected delight to find; the service a
thing to remember, but scarcely to hope to attain. Why have some men
this curious power of getting their slightest wish gratified, apparently
without effort? Money cannot purchase it, and ordinary mortals, whilst
they approach the semblance, miss the ease and quietude.
My host talked freely on many subjects, leaving me to suggest a topic,
and seeming equally at home whatever I might choose. Sport, philosophy,
science, history--I tried each subject, and seemed always the pupil of
an expert. At last I started on my pet hobby, Ancient Engravings.
"_Now_," I thought, "_it will be my turn_."
"I know little or nothing of the subject," he said.
I went off gaily, but even while preparing to air my wisdom, he would
apparently intercept my thought and take the very words out of my mouth.
"_This man must be deceiving me_," I mused. "_He has purposely led me
on to my favourite topic, to show that even in that he is my
superior!_."
My reverie was broken by his next remark--
"Why do you think me a liar?"
I turned round confused, protesting that of course I did nothing of the
kind.
"I often am guilty of what people call lying," he said, "but never
intentionally of deceiving a guest. That is why I so seldom indulge in
the pleasure of entertaining."
As he said this he rose, and we went together into his study.
"Come," he continued, "I have a surprise for you."
He went up to one of the book-cases, touched a concealed spring, and the
whole oak framework moved slowly round on a pivot, forming a doorway
through which we passed.
Having gone down a few steps into what I judged must be an underground
passage, we once more ascended into a large room, lined on every side
with crowded book-cases.
"You are surprised," he said, "to see so large a room in so small a
house. We are now in part of what are usually supposed to be my
farm-buildings. There are three rooms here which I use for different
purposes. I will show you the other two later on."
The library was lighted by a skylight arranged in such a way, that from
outside it would not be visible. My companion sat down on a comfortable
couch, and beckoning me to another, said--
"I must ask you to promise me that you will reveal nothing of what I am
now going to say, or anything which I may show you until you have my
permission. I have a strong opinion that for some reason or other the
time has not yet come when it would be advisable to make generally known
many facts which I have discovered belonging to a power which is lying
dormant in all men. The world, however, is progressing quickly, and the
responsibility must rest with you at some future time, when I am gone,
as to the wisdom of making known part or all of the knowledge which you
will gather from me."
Saying this, he got up, and going to one of the shelves in his
book-case, took down a volume.
"You may judge," he continued, "by the collection here, that at one time
I was an ardent lover of books. Now they have little interest for me:
but this volume will always have a special value, for it was from it
that I first gained the knowledge which has influenced my whole life.
"While travelling in France, and making, as was then my custom, a round
of any old book-stalls that came in my way, I noticed a small shop which
outwardly had little appearance of containing anything of interest to
the bibliomaniac. In the window there were various ancient curiosities,
but knowing that these antique dealers sometimes bought books which they
did not display, it seemed worth while to make an inquiry. I was well
rewarded, for the old man, after saying that he did not as a rule buy
books, told me that he had at various times picked up at sales a few
which he usually sent to be sold by auction in Paris. He had some by
him at the time, and amongst these a curious Latin manuscript. Though
evidently a seventeenth-century work, it was not dated. I thought at
first that it would probably prove of little value, until turning over
the leaves, I noticed that it was by no less celebrated a writer than
Descartes. This author’s works were at the time little known to me, and
it never occurred to my mind that this volume could be anything more
valuable than a manuscript of one of his published works. However,
published or unpublished, it was certainly worth a thousand times more
than the dealer asked for it, so I took it back to my hotel well pleased
with my morning’s work, and spent the whole afternoon reading. An
entirely new idea of existence seemed opening before me, and it appeared
incredible that a work of this description could have been known for two
hundred and fifty years without my having even heard a repetition of the
views found there. Then remembering that many of Descartes’ works had,
owing to the opposition of the Romish Church, never been printed, I
decided to find out at once whether by any chance this might be one of
them. I sent immediately to Paris for a complete edition of Descartes,
which had recently been published, and soon found that this volume was
not among them. A little further inquiry satisfied me of the
authenticity of the MS., and that it was entirely unknown.
"You may remember that Descartes, in his ’Discourse on Method,’
published in 1637, says, ’It appears to me that I have discovered many
truths more useful and more important than all I had before learned, or
even expected to learn. I have essayed to expound the chief of these
discoveries in a treatise which certain considerations prevent me from
publishing.’ Now we know that the chief consideration was his fear of
offending the Church, and every one who has read Descartes’ published
works must observe through them a perpetual veiling of what he thought
to be true so as to avoid being brought in conflict with the religious
opinions of his day. Notice this passage from the work just mentioned.
’It may be believed without discredit to the miracle of creation, that
things purely material might in course of time have become such as we
observe them at present, and their end is much more easily conceived
when they are beheld coming in this manner gradually into existence,
than when they are only considered as produced at once in a finished and
perfect state.’
"He then applies this theory to man. He says that as yet he has not
sufficient knowledge to treat of this development, and is obliged to
remain satisfied with the supposition that God formed the body of man
wholly like to one of ours, but at first placed in it no rational soul.
Having gone thus far and apparently fearing to go further, he breaks off
suddenly and never satisfactorily returns to the subject in his
published works. But how different is his method when we turn to the
manuscript before me, which I fancy must have been his last work, as it
is unfinished! How much more lucid and complete we find his conclusions
here! There is no attempt to suppress his real view. I will give you
briefly a summary of the chief conclusions which interested me, and
which will be enough for the present purpose.
"’All things have slowly developed.’
"’Man is the most perfectly developed being of whose existence we are
conscious.’
"’The lower orders of life have a varying number of powers of perception
which we term senses.’
"’The higher orders of life have five.’
"’These senses diminish in power as they increase in number, being
relieved one by the other.’
"’No deterioration in sense-power is known to have taken place without
causing deterioration to the possessor unless at the same time
accompanied by the development of a new perceptive faculty.’
"’Man alone is credited with being an exception to this rule. He is
inferior in keenness of sense to the animals below him, yet superior in
power. It is also noticeable that the savage is in like manner superior
to the civilized man. It is therefore probable that man is really the
possessor of a sixth sense as yet imperfectly developed and unequally
distributed.’
"Briefly this is the key to the remarkable conclusions at which he
eventually arrives, and which are worked out with his usual mathematical
exactitude and care. He has fully satisfied me that this theory
explains most of the mysteries of life; but there is not time now to go
more fully into the matter."
"But," I said, "he appears to have forgotten entirely the importance of
intellect."
"There you are mistaken. He goes very fully into the matter and
anticipates Darwin. ’Intellect,’ he writes, ’is not a means of
perception, but an organ for the arrangement and use of the senses, and
is to be found in all animal life though in a less developed form than
is noticeable in man.’"
"But," I interrupted, "is not that therefore the explanation; the higher
intellect of man needs a lower standard of sensitive faculty, and he is
thus enabled to produce from lesser gifts a greater gain?"
"I will," he answered, "as nearly as possible give you Descartes’ answer
to this objection. ’To say that the more highly developed a being, the
less it will require its perceptive powers, and that therefore through
want of use they have gradually deteriorated, would lead us to this
_reductio ad absurdum:_--that in time man will become so perfectly
developed that his senses must continue deteriorating until at last he
will arrive at the perfection of an insensitive existence, with
intellect to place in order all things which he perceives while he is
unable to perceive anything.’ Of course in endeavouring to give you his
argument in a few words--an argument which requires close and careful
reasoning, I do Descartes considerable injustice, but I hope on some
future occasion to be able to go more fully into the discussion. I have
said enough for my present purpose, and am not fond of argument unless
satisfied that my opponent agrees with me upon the primary ground of
discussion; much valuable time is otherwise wasted. For instance, if
you are speaking on the subject of the colour red to a man born blind
and his idea of red is some sound which resembles the blast of a
trumpet, you cannot possibly hope to arrive at any very satisfactory
conclusion. In the same way if man is unconscious of the power granted
him through the sixth; or, as for lack of a better term we may call it,
the spiritual sense, no argument on the subject would be of the least
value. It will suffice at present to say that the theory which
Descartes fully works out was to me personally a revelation; a
revelation, because it seemed but the perfected expression of my own
dormant thought. Having therefore carefully considered the advice which
the writer gives to those who are anxious to prove the value of this
partially developed power, namely, to use it, I started on a course of
experiments which, should you care to follow me, I will endeavour to
explain. You may thus be able to judge of the truth of the theory by
its results, which after all is by far the safer plan. Moreover, some
of my experiences may be of interest."
I expressed my anxiety to hear him further, and he continued--
"You must endeavour to realize clearly the work to which I had decided
to devote my energies and time. It was to cultivate and analyze every
perception or sensation which appeared to reach me through none of the
known organs of sense. The first conclusion arrived at was that I
imperfectly possessed the power to read other people’s thoughts; that at
certain times and under certain conditions ideas were conveyed to me
through no recognized organ of perception. I therefore decided for the
time being to devote all my energy to following up this clue. It was not
long before the truth of my idea was confirmed beyond any possibility of
doubt; but the difficulty was, firstly, in being confident from whom the
impression came; and secondly, in discerning truth from imagination.
Many others have gone as far as this point on the road to discovery, but
few have persevered much further. The story of how my path was cleared
of these uncertainties is worth describing in detail.
"About this time I became engaged to be married to a girl of seventeen.
It may be owing to prejudice, but I still think she possessed remarkable
beauty. It is not easy to give a reason, but a girl seldom at that time
seemed lovely to me after she was out of her teens. She might be more
interesting intellectually; but owing to some peculiarity in my
character, her chief charm was too often brushed away somewhere about
the age of twenty.
"I first met Vera Soudin at her father’s house in Scotland. I had gone
down to stay with a friend for grouse-shooting, and the members of her
family were practically our only neighbours, so that we saw a good deal
of each other. She was an only child, and must have found life rather
dull. Her father’s thoughts were chiefly concentrated on sport; her
mother was an invalid, and a decidedly uninteresting woman. It is
hardly surprising that Vera found the change from previous solitude a
relief. She had a remarkably weak will, though probably few outside her
intimate friends were aware of the fact, for, as is often the case with
such characters, she possessed a strong vein of obstinacy, which people
mistook for firmness. As a matter of fact she was little more than a
mirror which reflected surrounding influences. On the other hand, I may
possibly possess a will of rather unusual power, more powerful,
unfortunately, over others than myself. I was unconscious how great my
influence over her really was, nor did I know that in cultivating her
acquaintance I was allowing myself to be swayed by my affections.
"I had decided to take this opportunity of practising and perfecting, if
possible, my power of thought-reading. It is curious how often we are
influenced by an unconscious motive, and how long we take to find out in
ourselves an emotion which is perfectly obvious to those around us.
"Whatever the effect of our intercourse may have been in other ways, it
certainly enabled me to make considerable advance in my particular
study. To begin with, being often alone with her, the difficulty of
deciding from whom the impression came was at these times necessarily
removed. I had, therefore, only to satisfy myself as to whether these
impressions were real or imaginary; and it was easy with a girl who had
not yet learned the trick of hiding, or feigning emotions, to discover
by her face whether I had rightly or wrongly interpreted something which
was passing through her mind. A question on the subject was usually
sufficient. It mattered little to me how trivial or unimportant the
thought might be; I felt satisfied that there was a difference between
the effect caused on my mind by a true or by an imaginary impression.
The difficulty lay in defining this subtle difference.
"Before I had known the girl a week I was able, as far as she was
concerned, to overcome this obstacle, and to tell with certainty
whenever any thought of hers passed involuntarily through my mind. In
the same way when meeting her at dinner, among other people, I was
equally certain that the impression was a correct one if it came from
her; and this knowledge was a great assistance, enabling me, as it were,
to take the first step towards localizing the direction from which
thought was transmitted.
"One evening after dinner I was sitting alone with Vera Soudin; her
mother had not been well enough to come down to dinner, and the other
men had retired to the billiard-room. The light from the candles was
overpowered by the brightness of the fire, and as she leant back, this
ruddy glow gave an additional attraction to the delicate beauty of her
face. I forgot for the moment all about my new power, and sat looking
at her without speaking, the whole force of my will unconsciously
exercised in a desire to gain her love. She sat silent, gazing at the
burning logs as though unconscious of my presence. Then I recognized an
inaudible voice speaking. I use the words ’voice’ and ’speaking’
because as yet our language is too imperfect to express any sensations
connected with the sixth sense. The sentence was, however,
unmistakable.
"’_I love him._’
"I answered her aloud. ’Why do you?’
"Her face flushed and then lost all colour save what the firelight cast
there. ’Why do I what?’ she stammered.
"I cared for her too much to press my advantage. ’I love you!’ I said,
and getting up I went over and knelt by her side; then looking into her
eyes I saw an expression that I had never seen before.
"What man who has once been brought under this influence could ever
forget it--man’s passion reflected upon woman’s nature, the idealized
counterpart of his sensations revealed on the idol of worship? In a
moment such as this, reason is trampled under the feet of a hundred new
emotions, hurrying forward to find expression, and the man’s action will
be determined by natural instincts, and not, as is more often the case,
by the training and habits which have moulded them. During such times
of intoxication we become for once natural; and as all men tend by
nature, if on a lower plane, to idiocy, if on a higher to madness, such
moments are best kept private. An observer missing the more delicate
atmosphere of pathos which ever surrounds a truly comic situation, is
apt to rest his own instability more on the stick of ridicule than the
crutch of pity.
"As, however, owing to the power which I have of reading other people’s
thoughts of myself, my nature has become impervious to scorn; and as it
is better that you should have the opportunity of judging my actions
impartially, I will throw off reserve as far as possible.
"We remained much in the same attitude for an indefinite period of
sensations, which may probably have extended to thirty minutes, her
hands clasped in mine as we talked together. As far as I can remember,
the conversation rested principally with me, and her answers came back
chiefly in unspoken thoughts. I will endeavour to give you an idea of
what passed between us, audibly and inaudibly.
"’Beloved,’ I said, ’is it possible that you can care for me? That what
I have longed for, dreamed of, and despaired of ever attaining, is at
last mine? I cannot realize it! I feel rather that I am in a trance,
surrounded by a confusing, yet delightful mist.’
"’_I love you_.’
"’Say it again out loud that I can hear.’
"’I love you.’
"’But why--tell me why?’
"’I don’t know. Why do you love me? I cannot see that there can be
anything to love in me. I suppose it is only because I am pretty!’
"’Beauty is only a veil which the soul looks through; how perfect then
must be your soul, dearest!’
"Then came these unspoken words which puzzled me--
"’_What queer things men are!--but I like to hear him, and perhaps it is
true; but if so, how horrid most women must be!_’ Then out loud--’_I
fancy you will soon get tired of me._’
"’Tired! It makes me mad when I think of ever having an opportunity of
getting tired--to have you with me always--to know that we can never be
parted--to feel that death itself will only bring us closer: I almost
wish that we could die now, for such great happiness makes me afraid
something may come. Oh, Vera! you will always love me?’
"’Of course, dear!’
"Then this thought followed--
"’_I wish he would not talk about death; I hate death, I don’t want to
die. It is quite nice enough to be here having some one loving and
petting me, without thinking about the future. I wonder if he is going
to kiss me? I thought men always kissed girls when they proposed to
them!_’
"This was enough for me. I had been afraid to venture on what seemed so
great a liberty, but now I moved forward and was about to kiss her, when
to my surprise she drew away saying--
"’Oh, don’t! You frighten me!’
"’Why, dearest, you cannot be afraid of me? Will you not let me have
just one when you know how I should prize it!’
"’No, I cannot really, not yet anyway; perhaps some day!’
"I was so afraid of offending her that I moved back, puzzled and
discomfited, when once again I was conscious she was thinking.
"’_How foolish he is!--it would have been much nicer to have been forced
to give him one; he is so strong he could easily have held me back in
the chair and made me do it._’
"This came as a whip for my inclinations, and I did as suggested under a
storm of protests which soon died down, for I now found her thoughts
were wandering between the condition of her hair and the probability of
some one coming in from the billiard-room.
"I think I have now described sufficiently our first moments of
happiness, but I will own that before we were eventually disturbed I had
begun to get not a little annoyed with my new power of perception, and
began to wonder if after all we had arrived at a sufficient state of
perfection to be always happily employed when using it.
"The next half-hour which I spent with Vera’s father convinced me that
often it might be useful in the cause of humility.
"I asked to speak with him alone, a request that he readily granted,
though, if I interpreted his thoughts aright, he used strong language
internally. I felt horribly nervous, and at first he did nothing to help
me, but what was far worse, he kept on transmitting thoughts that made
me every moment more wretched and uncomfortable; they must have been
his, as I feel sure they would never otherwise have occurred to me as
being likely to proceed from the smiling old gentleman sitting opposite.
This is something of what I made out of them, but they were disjointed
and confused, for you must remember I had not as yet had an opportunity
of studying him as perfectly as his daughter.
"’_Confound it! I wish he had not been in such a hurry. I must delay
things in some way. I meant to make inquiries, but have been so busy.
Besides there is ... coming, and I quite fancy that when he sees her, he
... But after all, Sydney is an only son; I did find that out, and I
must not choke him off. I wonder how much longer he will stand there
like a fool and say nothing!_’
"You may well imagine that this kind of thing was hardly helpful to me.
I began at once to wonder who my rival might be. And here I may as well
mention that even now, when my thought-reading power has been developed
very nearly to perfection, I can seldom read the name of a person
passing through another’s mind, unless that person is also known to me.
This is probably owing to the fact that in thinking of an acquaintance
we disregard usually the name and are conscious only of the
individuality, for in the few cases when I have had a name conveyed
distinctly, it has been where the person referred to was comparatively a
stranger to the one whose thoughts I was studying.
"The silence was eventually broken by Mr. Soudin.
"’You wish to speak to me. I hope that you know me well enough to be
certain that if there is any service I can do for you I shall be
delighted!’
"’It is more than an ordinary service,’ I answered. ’I wish to take from
you your greatest treasure, and consequently you must excuse my
embarrassment in asking. I love your daughter, and would beg her from
you.’
"’_Young ass! Now he has once started he talks like a book bound in
morocco with gilt edges_,’ was his thought. His words--’You have taken
me greatly by surprise, Mr. Sydney. I have always looked upon my
daughter as a child, and it would be quite impossible for me to think of
allowing her at present to be disturbed by any question of marriage.
Hers is a sweet and delicate nature, influenced as yet but by the dreams
of childhood. I trust that nothing you have said to her can possibly
have ruffled the calm of innocence.’
"At this point I should have been placed in a position of difficulty had
not his thoughts continued--
"’_I would stake twenty to one the young cub has been sitting spooning
for the last half-hour. I wonder how he will try to get out of it._’
"I did not, therefore, try at all, but quietly told him the fact,
ignoring, however, the details. His anger was so well assumed, that
whilst it lasted his thoughts almost followed his words, or else the
latter so upset me that I missed the accompanying reflections.
"’It was, he said, a most unpardonable action thus to take advantage of
an innocent child who, he felt quite certain, had not even realized the
very meaning of the situation, etc., etc.’
"At last he cooled down a little, and when this happened, his thoughts
and words became mixed up in my mind somewhat in the following manner.
’You must realize, Mr. Sydney, that in speaking to you in this manner, I
am actuated by no unfriendly feeling--_it would be unwise to go too
far_--Personally from what I have seen of you, there are few young men
whom I could welcome more cordially into my family--_If only I were
certain that he possessed a safe five thousand a year_--But she is too
young, and I am quite sure that you will agree with me when you think it
over in a calmer mood, that it would be unfair to bind my daughter to an
engagement before she is fairly out of the nursery--_That ought to
smooth him down and keep up the romance at the same time. I must have a
good talk with Vera and see what is best to be done. I feel certain
that I shall have indigestion to-night. It always upsets me having to
think and bother about things after dinner._’
"I eventually agreed not to see Vera for a week, and at the end of that
time I was to be granted another interview with her father for the
purpose of arriving at some plan for the future.
"My feelings were of a mixed character as I walked away from the house
over the crisp, frozen ground. I felt excited, but neither satisfied
nor happy. I had tasted the sweets of love, and a little of the acidity
of disenchantment. I began to meditate somewhat after this fashion.
How lovely she looked with that expression on her face as I knelt down
by her side and took her hands in mine. ’Is it possible that the
physiognomists are correct when they tell us that the eye never changes,
and that the eyelids alone work those miracles of varying expression;
that a few slight wrinkles can convey such a world of meaning, and have
often the power to change the destiny of thousands? Is it not more
probable that some subtle influence passes from eye to eye that no
scientist can detect, owing to the fact that as yet science confines its
observations only to those influences which are discernible by animal
sense organs? But, whatever the cause, the fact is most remarkable, and
one must needs have loved to realize the full significance of its
power.’ However, I did not, after all, feel satisfied that I had
awakened quite the same feeling in Vera as that which I myself
experienced, and I began to think of another partially developed power
which Descartes attributes to this sixth sense, and to which I have not
hitherto referred.
"He maintains that the will-force is always unconsciously transmitted,
and that if this power were cultivated it would lead to surprising
results. We can now have no doubt that his theory is partially correct,
as it has been satisfactorily demonstrated through recent experiments in
hypnotism; but his views also convince me that the modern methods which
have been adopted for the transmission of this will-power are likely to
prove both dangerous and inadequate, as they are based on totally false
premises. As, however, I shall have occasion to go into all this matter
more fully later on, as well as to show you the light which Descartes
throws on theosophy, spiritualism, and many other modern mysteries, I
shall only refer now to the subject so far as I find it necessary in
order to make my story intelligible.
"The probability that this theory of transmitted will-power might have
been experimentally proved in my late interview with Vera sent a shock
of anxiety to my heart. What if after all she had been little better
than a semi-conscious mirror reflecting my newly-awakened sensations? I
argued, however, against my fear, that it could not be so, for I had
read in her thoughts sensations not only differing from my own, but even
foreign to a man’s inclinations. Yet even as I recalled these instances
with relief, a passage from Descartes flashed through my mind which
brought a painful reaction.
"’It must not be supposed,’ he writes, ’that the will-power, however
strong, can absolutely take possession of an alien mind. A person of
tender susceptibility cannot be induced to commit a murder, or a man of
brutal instinct be made, even for the time being, pure or lovable. That
part of the brain on which the will either of ourselves or others is
brought to bear, may be compared to a musical instrument on which this
force plays. A tune may be the same whether practised on a pipe or upon
a full organ, but there will be a considerable difference in the effect
produced, owing to the numerous variations, etc. of which the more
complex instrument is capable; so also on different natures a similar
impulse will produce totally different results. This difference of
effect is most noticeable in the actions of men and women who, if willed
by one influence, often act dissimilarly, singing, as it were, the same
melody to an accompanying music which flows forth from their complex
dispositions and sensibilities.’
"Having by this and similar reflections thoroughly unsettled my belief,
not only in the girl I loved, but in myself and in nearly everything
else, I went to bed wretched, and after tossing about for some hours, at
last fell into a troubled sleep, during which I had the following rather
curious dream.
"It seemed that I was walking hurriedly along a winding path, though for
what purpose, or whither, I thus hastened was hidden. On my left,
through its setting of ferns and pleasant flowers, there flowed a
stream, the waters of which cast back many fair reflections; yet so
great was my wish to gain some unknown object, that I was scarcely
conscious of the beauty around. As I turned a corner, however, I saw
across my path an object lying, and coming nearer found it to be a
woman; the face turned upwards bore all the traces of degradation which
dissipation and misery had engraved upon the image of one who in youth
might have been beautiful. My feelings, supersensitive to the slightest
coarseness, revolted at the spectacle before me, and crushing through
the undergrowth which grew beside my path, I strove to avoid getting in
closer contact with it, but I had not gone many paces forward before I
became hopelessly entangled. Then looking round I noticed an old man
standing near, who it seemed must have followed me unobserved. His hair
was of silvery whiteness, and though his face was lined with age, each
furrow seemed but the imprint of an habitual expression of kindliness.
He might have stood as a sculptor’s model for love that has outlived
passion.
"’Why have you wandered from the path?’ he said. ’It is not possible
for man to reach the place whither you are bound save by the way
appointed.’
"’But,’ I answered, ’He who called me is pure, and in the footpath lies
that which is abhorrent both to my Master and to me.’
"’Who then is thy master?’ he asked.
"Then I looked at him in surprise and said-- |
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