CHAPTER X
"Superstition is outside reason; so
is revelation."
--OLD SAYING
And O'Malley understood that he had pressed the
doctor to the verge of confessing some belief that he was ashamed to utter or
to hold, something forced upon him by his out-of-the-way experience of life to
which his scientific training said peremptorily "No." Further, that
he watched him keenly all the time, noting the effect his words produced.
"He is not a human being at all," he
continued with a queer thin whisper that conveyed a gravity of conviction
singularly impressive, "in the sense in which you and I are accustomed to
use the term. His inner being is not shaped, as his outer body, upon
quite--human lines. He is a Cosmic Being--a direct expression of cosmic life. A
little bit, a fragment, of the Soul of the World, and in that sense a
survival--a survival of her youth."
The Irishman, as he listened to these utterly
unexpected words, felt something rise within him that threatened to tear him
asunder. Whether it was joy or terror, or compounded strangely of the two, he
could not tell. It seemed as if he stood upon the edge of hearing
something--spoken by a man who was no mere dreamer like himself--that would
explain the world, himself, and all his wildest cravings. He both longed and
feared to hear it. In his hidden and most secret thoughts, those thoughts he
never uttered to another, this deep belief in the Earth as a conscious,
sentient, living Being had persisted in spite of all the forces education and
modern life had turned against it. It seemed in him an undying instinct, an
unmovable conviction, though he hardly dared acknowledge it even to himself.
He had always "dreamed" the Earth alive,
a mothering organism to humanity; and himself, via his love of Nature, in some
sweet close relation to her that other men had forgotten or ignored. Now,
therefore, to hear Stahl talk of Cosmic Beings, fragments of the Soul of the
World, and "survivals of her early life" was like hearing a great
shout of command to his soul to come forth and share it in complete
acknowledgment.
He bit his lips, pinched himself, stared. Then he
took the black cigar he was aware was being handed to him, lit it with fingers
that trembled absurdly, and smoked as hard as though his sanity depended on his
finishing it in a prescribed time. Great clouds rose before his face. But his
soul within him came up with a flaming rush of speed, shouting, singing....
There was enough ash to knock off into the bronze
tray beside him before either said a word. He watched the little operation as
closely as though he were aiming a rifle. The ash, he saw, broke firmly.
"This must be a really good cigar," he thought to himself, for as yet
he had not been conscious of tasting it. The ash-tray, he also saw, was a kind
of nymph, her spread drapery forming the receptacle. "I must get one of those,"
he thought. "I wonder what they cost." Then he puffed violently
again. The doctor had risen and was pacing the cabin floor slowly over by the
red curtain that concealed the bunk. O'Malley absent-mindedly watched him, and
as he did so the words he had heard kept on roaring at the back of his mind.
And then, while silence still held the
room,--swift, too, as a second although it takes time to write--flashed through
him a memory of Fechner, the German philosopher who held that the Universe was
everywhere consciously alive, and that the Earth was the body of a living
Entity, and that the World-Soul or Cosmic Consciousness is something more than
a picturesque dream of the ancients....
The doctor came to anchor again on the sofa
opposite. To his great relief he was the first to break the silence, for
O'Malley simply did not know how or where to begin.
"We know today--you certainly know for I've
read it accurately described in your books--that the human personality can
extend itself under certain conditions called abnormal. It can project portions
of itself, show itself even at a distance, operate away from the central
covering body. In exactly similar fashion may the Being of the Earth have
projected portions of herself in the past. Of such great powers or beings there
may be conceivably a survival ... a survival of a hugely remote period when her
Consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn
before the tide of advancing humanity ... forms of which poetry and legend
alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical
beings of all sorts and kinds...."
And then, suddenly, as though he had been
deliberately giving his imagination rein yet now regretted it, his voice
altered, his manner assumed a shade of something colder. He shifted the key, as
though to another aspect of his belief. The man was talking swiftly of his
experiences in the big and private hospitals. He was describing the very belief
to which he had first found himself driven--the belief that had opened the door
to so much more. So far as O'Malley could follow it in his curiously excited
condition of mind, it was little more or less than a belief he himself had
often played lovingly with--the theory that a man has a fluid or etheric
counterpart of himself which is obedient to strong desire and can, under
certain conditions, be detached--projected in a shape dictated by that desire.
He only realized this fully later perhaps, for the
doctor used a phraseology of his own. Stahl was telling calmly how he had been
driven to some such belief by the facts that had come under his notice both in
the asylums and in his private practice.
"...That in the amazingly complex personality
of a human being," he went on, "there does exist some vital
constituent, a part of consciousness, that can leave the body for a short time
without involving death; that it is something occasionally visible to others;
something malleable by thought and desire--especially by intense and prolonged
yearning; and that it can even bring relief to its owner by satisfying in some
subjective fashion the very yearnings that drew it forth."
"Doctor! You mean the 'astral'?"
"There is no name I know of. I can give it
none. I mean in other words that it can create the conditions for such
satisfaction--dream-like, perhaps, yet intense and seemingly very real at the
time. Great emotion, for instance, drives it forth, explaining thus appearances
at a distance, and a hundred other phenomena that my investigations of abnormal
personality have forced me to recognize as true. And nostalgia often is the
means of egress, the channel along which all the inner forces and desires of
the heart stream elsewhere toward their fulfillment in some person, place, or
dream."
Stahl was giving himself his head, talking freely
of beliefs that rarely found utterance. Clearly it was a relief to him to do
so--to let himself be carried away. There was, after all, the poet in him side
by side with the observer and analyst, and the fundamental contradiction in his
character stood most interestingly revealed. O'Malley listened, half in a
dream, wondering what this had to do with the Cosmic Life just mentioned.
"Moreover, the appearance, the aspect of this
etheric Double, molded thus by thought, longing, and desire, corresponds to
such thought, longing, and desire. Its shape, when visible shape is assumed,
may be various--very various. The form might conceivably be felt, discerned
clairvoyantly as an emanation rather than actually seen," he continued.
Then he added, looking closely at his companion,
"and in your own case this Double--it has always seemed to me--may be
peculiarly easy of detachment from the rest of you."
"I certainly create my own world and slip
into it--to some extent," murmured the Irishman, absorbingly interested;
"--reverie and so forth; partially, at any rate."
"'Partially,' yes, in your reveries of waking
consciousness," Stahl took him up, "but in sleep--in the trance
consciousness--completely! And therein lies your danger," he added
gravely; "for to pass out completely in waking consciousness, is the next
step--an easy one; and it constitutes, not so much a disorder of your being, as
a readjustment, but a readjustment difficult of sane control." He paused
again. "You pass out while fully awake--a waking delusion. It is usually
labeled--though in my opinion wrongly so--insanity."
"I'm not afraid of that," O'Malley
laughed, almost nettled. "I can manage myself all right--have done so far,
at any rate."
It was curious how the rôles had shifted. O'Malley
it was now who checked and criticized.
"I suggest caution," was the reply, made
earnestly. "I suggest caution."
"I should keep your warnings for mediums,
clairvoyants, and the like," said the other tartly. He was half amazed,
half alarmed even while he said it. It was the personal application that
annoyed him. "They are rather apt to go off their heads, I believe."
Dr. Stahl rose and stood before him as though the
words had given him a cue he wanted. "From that very medium-class,"
he said, "my most suggestive 'cases' have come, though not for one moment
do I think of including you with them. Yet these very 'cases' have been due one
and all to the same cause--the singular disorder I have just mentioned."
They stared at one another a moment in silence.
Stahl, whether O'Malley liked it or no, was impressive. He gazed at the little
figure in front of him, the ragged untidy beard, the light shining on the bald
skull, wondering what was coming next and what all this bewildering confession
of unorthodox belief was leading up to. He longed to hear more about that
hinted Cosmic Life ... and how yearning might lead to its realization.
"For any phenomena of the séance-room that
may be genuine," he heard him saying, "are produced by this fluid,
detachable portion of the personality, the very thing we have been speaking
about. They are projections of the personality--automatic projections of the
consciousness."
And then, like a clap of thunder upon his
bewildered mind, came this man's amazing ultimatum, linking together all the
points touched upon and bringing them to a head. He repeated it emphatically.
"And in similar fashion," concluded the
calm, dispassionate voice beside him, "there have been projections of the
Earth's great consciousness--direct expressions of her cosmic life--Cosmic
Beings. And of these distant and primitive manifestations, it is conceivable
that one or two may still--here and there in places humanity has never
stained--actually survive. This man is one of them."
He turned on the two electric lights behind him
with an admirable air of finality. The extraordinary talk was at an end. He
moved about the cabin, putting chairs straight and toying with the papers on
his desk. Occasionally he threw a swift and searching glance at his companion,
like a man who wished to note the effect of an attack.
For, indeed, this was the impression that his
listener retained above all else. This flood of wild, unorthodox, speculative
ideas had been poured upon him helter-skelter with a purpose. And the
abruptness of the climax was cleverly planned to induce impulsive, hot
confession.
But O'Malley found no words. He sat there in his
armchair, passing his fingers through his tumbled hair. His inner turmoil was
too much for speech or questions ... and presently, when the gong for dinner
rang noisily outside the cabin door, he rose abruptly and went out without a
single word. Stahl turned to see him go. He merely nodded with a little smile.
But he did not go to his stateroom. He walked the
deck alone for a time, and when he reached the dining room, Stahl, he saw, had already
come and gone. Halfway down the table, diagonally across, the face of the big
Russian looked up occasionally at him and smiled, and every time he did so the
Irishman felt a sense of mingled alarm and wonder greater than anything he had
ever known in his life before. One of the great doors of life again had opened.
The barriers of his heart broke away. He was no longer caged and manacled
within the prison of a puny individuality. The world that so distressed him
faded. The people in it were dolls. The fur-merchant, the Armenian priest, the
tourists and the rest were mere automatic puppets, all made to scale--petty
scale, amazingly dull, all exactly alike--tiny, unreal, half alive.
The ship, meanwhile, he reflected with a joy that
was passion, was being borne over the blue sea, and this sea lay spread upon
the curved breast of the round and spinning earth. He, too, and the big Russian
lay upon her breast, held close by gravity so-called, caught closer still,
though, by something else besides. And his longings increased with his
understanding. Stahl, wittingly or unwittingly, had given them an immense push
forwards.
CHAPTER XI
"In scientific terms one can say:
Consciousness is everywhere; it is awake when and wherever the bodily energy
underlying the spiritual exceeds that degree of strength which we call the
threshold. According to this, consciousness can be localized in time and
space."
--FECHNER, Buchlein vom Leben nach dem
Tode
The offer of the cabin, meanwhile, remained open.
In the solitude that O'Malley found necessary that evening he toyed with it,
though knowing that he would never really accept.
Like a true Celt his imagination took the main
body of Stahl's words and ensouled them with his own vivid temperament. There
stirred in him this nameless and disquieting joy that wrought for itself a Body
from material just beyond his thoughts--that region of enormous experience that
ever fringes the consciousness of imaginative men. He took the picture at its
face value, took it inside with his own thoughts, delighted in it, raised it,
of course, very soon to a still higher scale. If he criticized at all it was
with phrases like "The man's a poet after all! Why, he's got creative
imagination!" To find his own intuitions endorsed, even half explained, by
a mind of opposite type was a new experience. It emphasized amazingly the
reality of that inner world he lived in.
This explanation of the big Russian's effect upon
himself was terrific, and that a "doctor" should have conceived it,
glorious. That some portion of a man's spirit might assume the shape of his
thoughts and project itself visibly seemed likely enough. Indeed, to him, it
seemed already a "fact," and his temperament did not linger over it.
But that other suggestion fairly savaged him with its strange grandeur. He
played lovingly with it.
That the Earth was a living being was a conception
divine in size as in simplicity, and that the Gods and mythological figures had
been projections of her consciousness--this thought ran with a magnificent new
thunder about his mind. It was overwhelming, beautiful as Heaven and as
gracious. He saw the ancient shapes of myth and legend still alive in some
gorgeous garden of the primal world, a corner too remote for humanity to have
yet stained it with their trail of uglier life. He understood in quite a new
way, at last, those deep primitive longings that hitherto had vainly craved
their full acknowledgment. It meant that he lay so close to the Earth that he
felt her pulses as his own. The idea stormed his belief.
It was the Soul of the Earth herself that all
these years had been calling to him.
And while he let his imagination play with the
soaring beauty of the idea, he remembered certain odd little facts. He
marshaled them before him in a row and questioned them: The picture he had seen
with the Captain's glasses--those speeding shapes of beauty; the new aspect of
a living Nature that the Russian's presence stirred in him; the man's broken
words as they had leaned above the sea in the dusk; the curious passion that
leaped to his eyes when certain chance words had touched him at the
dinner-table. And, lastly, the singular impression of giant bulk he produced
sometimes upon the mind, almost as though a portion of him--this detachable
portion molded by the quality of his spirit as he felt himself to be--emerged
visibly to cause it.
Vaguely, in this way, O'Malley divined how
inevitable was the apparent isolation of these two, and why others
instinctively avoided them. They seemed by themselves in an enclosure where the
parent lumberingly, and the boy defiantly, disported themselves with a kind of
lonely majesty that forbade approach.
And it was later that same night, as the steamer
approached the Lipari Islands, that the drive forward he had received from the
doctor's words was increased by a succession of singular occurrences. At the
same time, Stahl's deliberate and as he deemed it unjustifiable interference,
helped him to make up his mind decisively on certain other points.
The first "occurrence" was of the same
order as the "bigness"-- extraordinarily difficult, that is, to
confirm by actual measurement.
It was ten o'clock, Stahl still apparently in his
cabin by himself, and most of the passengers below at an impromptu concert,
when the Irishman, coming down from his long solitude, caught sight of the
Russian and his boy moving about the dark after-deck with a speed and vigor that
instantly arrested his attention. The suggestion of size, and of rapidity of
movement, had never been more marked. It was as though a cloud of the summer
darkness moved beside them.
Then, going cautiously nearer, he saw that they
were neither walking quickly, nor running, as he had first supposed, but--to
his amazement--were standing side by side upon the deck--stock still. The
appearance of motion, however, was not entirely a delusion, for he next saw
that, while standing there steady as the mast and life-boats behind them,
something emanated shadow-like from both their persons and seemed to hover and
play about them--something that was only approximately of their own outer
shapes, and very considerably larger. Now it veiled them, now left them clear.
He thought of smoke-clouds moving to and fro about dark statues.
So far as he could focus his sight upon them,
these "shadows," without any light to cast them, moved in distorted
guise there on the deck with a motion that was somehow rhythmical--a great
movement as of dance or gambol.
As with the appearance of "bigness," he
perceived it first out of the corner of his eye. When he looked again he saw
only two dark figures, motionless.
He experienced the sensation a man sometimes knows
on entering a deserted chamber in the nighttime, and is aware that the things
in it have just that instant--stopped. His arrival puts abrupt end to some busy
activity they were engaged in, which begins again the moment he goes. Chairs,
tables, cupboards, the very spots and patterns of the wall have just flown back
to their usual places whence they watch impatiently for his departure--with the
candle.
This time, on a deck instead of in a room,
O'Malley with his candle had surprised them in the act: people, moreover, not
furniture. And this shadowy gambol, this silent Dance of the Emanations,
immense yet graceful, made him think of Winds flying, visible and uncloaked,
somewhere across long hills, or of Clouds passing to a stately, elemental
measure over the blue dancing-halls of an open sky. His imagery was confused
and gigantic, yet very splendid. Again he recalled the pictured shapes seen
with his mind's eye through the Captain's glasses. And as he watched, he felt
in himself what he called "the wild, tearing instinct to run and join
them," more even--that by rights he ought to have been there from the
beginning--dancing with them--indulging a natural and instinctive and
rhythmical movement that he had somehow forgotten.
The passion in him was very strong, very urgent,
it seems, for he took a step forward, a call of some kind rose in his throat,
and in another second he would have been similarly cavorting upon the deck,
when he felt his arm clutched suddenly with vigor from behind. Some one seized
him and held him back. A German voice spoke with a guttural whisper in his ear.
Dr. Stahl, crouching and visibly excited, drew him
forward a little. "Hold up!" he heard whispered--for their India
rubber soles slithered on the wet decks. "We shall see from here, eh? See
something at last?" He still whispered. O'Malley's sudden anger died down.
He could not give vent to it without making noise, for one thing, and above all
else he wished to--see. He merely felt a vague wonder how long Stahl had been
watching.
They crouched behind the lee of a boat. The
outline of the ship rose, distinctly visible against the starry sky, masts,
spars, and cordage. A faint gleam came through the glass below the compass-box.
The wheel and the heaps of coiled rope beyond rose and fell with the motion of
the vessel, now against the stars, now black against the phosphorescent foam
that trailed along the sea like shining lace. But the human figures, he next
saw, were now doing nothing, not even pacing the deck; they were no longer of
unusual size either. Quietly leaning over the rail, father and son side by
side, they were guiltless of anything more uncommon than gazing into the sea.
Like the furniture, they had just--stopped!
Dr. Stahl and his companion waited motionless for
several minutes in silence. There was no sound but the dull thunder of the
screws, and a faint windy whistle the ship's speed made in the rigging. The
passengers were all below. Then, suddenly, a burst of music came up as some one
opened a saloon port-hole and as quickly closed it again--a tenor voice singing
to the piano some trivial modern song with a trashy sentimental lilt. It
was--in this setting of sea and sky--painful; O'Malley caught himself thinking
of a barrel-organ in a Greek temple.
The same instant father and son, as though
startled, moved slowly away down the deck into the further darkness, and Dr.
Stahl tightened his grip of the Irishman's arm with a force that almost made
him cry out. A gleam of light from the opened port-hole had fallen about them
before they moved. Quite clearly it revealed them bending busily over, heads
close together, necks and shoulders thrust forward and down a little.
"Look, by God!" whispered Stahl hoarsely
as they moved off. "There's a third!"
He pointed. Where the two had been standing
something, indeed, still remained. Concealed hitherto by their bulk, this other
figure had been left. They saw its large, dim outline. It moved. Apparently it
began to climb over the rails, or to move in some way just outside them,
hanging half above the sea. There was a free, swaying movement about it, not
ungainly so much as big--very big.
"Now, quick!" whispered the doctor
excited, in English; "this time I find out, sure!"
He made a violent movement forward, a pocket
electric lamp in his hand, then turned angrily, furiously, to find that
O'Malley held him fast. There was a most unseemly struggle--for a minute, and
it was caused by the younger man's sudden passionate instinct to protect his
own from discovery, if not from actual capture and destruction.
Stahl fought in vain, being easily overmatched; he
swore vehement German oaths under his breath; and the pocket-lamp, of course
unlighted, fell and rattled over the deck, sliding with the gentle roll of the
steamer to leeward. But O'Malley's eyes, even while he struggled, never for one
instant left the spot where the figure and the "movement" had been;
and it seemed to him that when the bulwarks dipped against the dark of the sea,
the moving thing completed its efforts and passed into the waves with a swift
leap. When the vessel righted herself again the outline of the rail was clear.
Dr. Stahl, he then saw, had picked up the lamp and
was bending over some mark upon the deck, examining a wide splash of wet upon which
he directed the electric flash. The sense of revived antagonism between the men
for the moment was strong, too strong for speech. O'Malley feeling half
ashamed, yet realized that his action had been instinctive, and that another
time he would do just the same. He would fight to the death any too close
inspection, since such inspection included also now--himself.
The doctor presently looked up. His eyes shone
keenly in the gleam of the lamp, but he was no longer agitated.
"There is too much water," he said
calmly, as though diagnosing a case; "too much to permit of definite
traces." He glanced round, flashing the beam about the decks. The other
two had disappeared. They were alone. "It was outside the rail all the
time, you see," he added, "and never quite reached the decks."
He stooped down and examined the splash once more. It looked as though a wave
had topped the scuppers and left a running line of foam and water.
"Nothing to indicate its exact nature," he said in a whisper that conveyed
something between uneasiness and awe, again turning the light sharply in every
direction and peering about him. "It came to them--er--from the sea,
though; it came from the sea right enough. That, at least, is positive."
And in his manner was perhaps just a touch to indicate relief.
"And it returned into the sea,"
exclaimed O'Malley triumphantly. It was as though he related his own escape.
The two men were now standing upright, facing one
another. Dr. Stahl, betraying no sign of resentment, looked him steadily in the
eye. He put the lamp back into his pocket. When he spoke at length in the
darkness, the words were not precisely what the Irishman had expected. Under
them his own vexation and excitement faded instantly. He felt almost sheepish
when he remembered his violence.
"I forgive your behavior, of course,"
Stahl said, "for it is consistent--splendidly consistent--with my theory
of you; and of value, therefore. I only now urge you again"--he moved
closer, speaking almost solemnly--"to accept the offer of a berth in my
cabin. Take it, my friend, take it--tonight."
"Because you wish to watch me at close
quarters."
"No," was the reply, and there was
sympathy in the voice, "but because you are in danger--especially in
sleep."
There was a moment's pause before O'Malley said
anything.
"It is kind of you, Dr. Stahl, very
kind," he answered slowly, and this time with grave politeness; "but
I am not afraid, and I see no reason to make the change. And as it's now
late," he added somewhat abruptly, almost as though he feared he might be
persuaded to alter his mind, "I will say good-night and turn in--if you
will forgive me--at once."
Dr. Stahl said no further word. He watched him,
the other was aware, as he moved down the deck toward the saloon staircase, and
then turned once more with his lamp to stoop over the splashed portion of the
boards. He examined the place apparently for a long time.
But O'Malley, as he went slowly down the hot and
stuffy stairs, realized with a wild and rushing tumult of joy that the
"third" he had seen was of a splendor surpassing the little figures
of men, and that something deep within his own soul was most gloriously akin
with it. A link with the Universe had been subconsciously established,
tightened up, adjusted. From all this living Nature breathing about him in the
night, a message had reached the strangers and himself--a message shaped in
beauty and in power. Nature had become at last aware of his presence close
against her ancient face. Henceforth would every sight of Beauty take him
direct to the place where Beauty comes from. No middleman, no Art was
necessary. The gates were opening. Already he had caught a glimpse.
