Book: A Strange Story, Volume 3.
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Edward Bulwer Lytton >> A Strange Story, Volume 3.
Thus I ran on, supporting my views with anecdote and facts, to which Sir
Philip listened with placid gravity.
When I had come to an end he said: "Of mesmerism, as practised in Europe,
I know nothing except by report. I can well understand that medical men
may hesitate to admit it amongst the legitimate resources of orthodox
pathology; because, as I gather from what you and others say of its
practice, it must, at the best, be far too uncertain in its application to
satisfy the requirements of science. Yet an examination of its
pretensions may enable you to perceive the truth that lies hid in the
powers ascribed to witchcraft; benevolence is but a weak agency compared
to malignity; magnetism perverted to evil may solve half the riddles of
sorcery. On this, however, I say no more at present. But as to that
which you appear to reject as the most preposterous and incredible
pretension of the mesmerists, and which you designate by the word
'clairvoyance,' it is clear to me that you have never yourself witnessed
even those very imperfect exhibitions which you decide at once to be
imposture. I say imperfect, because it is only a limited number of
persons whom the eye or the passes of the mesmerist can effect; and by
such means, unaided by other means, it is rarely indeed that the magnetic
sleep advances beyond the first vague shadowy twilight-dawn of that
condition to which only in its fuller developments I would apply the name
of 'trance.' But still trance is as essential a condition of being as
sleep or as waking, having privileges peculiar to itself. By means within
the range of the science that explores its nature and its laws, trance,
unlike the clairvoyance you describe, is producible in every human being,
however unimpressible to mere mesmerism."
"Producible in every human being! Pardon me if I say that I will give any
enchanter his own terms who will produce that effect upon me."
"Will you? You consent to have the experiment tried on yourself?"
"Consent most readily."
"I will remember that promise. But to return to the subject. By the word
'trance' I do not mean exclusively the spiritual trance of the
Alexandrian Platonists. There is one kind of trance,--that to which all
human beings are susceptible,--in which the soul has no share: for of this
kind of trance, and it was of this I spoke, some of the inferior animals
are susceptible; and, therefore, trance is no more a proof of soul than is
the clairvoyance of the mesmerists, or the dream of our ordinary sleep,
which last has been called a proof of soul, though any man who has kept a
dog must have observed that dogs dream as vividly as we do. But in this
trance there is an extraordinary cerebral activity, a projectile force
given to the mind, distinct from the soul, by which it sends forth its own
emanations to a distance in spite of material obstacles, just as a flower,
in an altered condition of atmosphere, sends forth the particles of its
aroma. This should not surprise you. Your thought travels over land and
sea in your waking state; thought, too, can travel in trance, and in
trance may acquire an intensified force. There is, however, another kind
of trance which is truly called spiritual, a trance much more rare, and
in which the soul entirely supersedes the mere action of the mind."
"Stay!" said I; "you speak of the soul as something distinct from the
mind. What the soul may be, I cannot pretend to conjecture; but I cannot
separate it from the intelligence!"
"Can you not? A blow on the brain can destroy the intelligence! Do you
think it can destroy the soul?
'From Marlbro's eyes the tears of dotage flow,
And Swift expires, a driveller and a show.'
"Towards the close of his life even Kant's giant intellect left him. Do
you suppose that in these various archetypes of intellectual man the soul
was worn out by the years that loosened the strings, or made tuneless the
keys, of the perishing instrument on which the mind must rely for all
notes of its music? If you cannot distinguish the operations of the mind
from the essence of the soul, I know not by what rational inductions you
arrive at the conclusion that the soul is imperishable."
I remained silent. Sir Philip fixed on me his dark eyes quietly and
searchingly, and, after a short pause, said,--
"Almost every known body in nature is susceptible of three several states
of existence,--the solid, the liquid, the aeriform. These conditions
depend on the quantity of heat they contain. The same object at one
moment may be liquid; at the next moment solid; at the next aeriform. The
water that flows before your gaze may stop consolidated into ice, or
ascend into air as a vapour. Thus is man susceptible of three states of
existence,--the animal, the mental, the spiritual; and according as he is
brought into relation or affinity with that occult agency of the whole
natural world, which we familiarly call heat, and which no science has yet
explained, which no scale can weigh, and no eye discern, one or the other
of these three states of being prevails, or is subjected."
I still continued silent, for I was unwilling discourteously to say to a
stranger so much older than myself, that he seemed to me to reverse all
the maxims of the philosophy to which he made pretence, in founding
speculations audacious and abstruse upon unanalogous comparisons that
would have been fantastic even in a poet. And Sir Philip, after another
pause, resumed with a half smile,--
"After what I have said, it will perhaps not very much surprise
you when I add that but for my belief in the powers I ascribe to trance,
we should not be known to each other at this moment."
"How? Pray explain!"
"Certain circumstances, which I trust to relate to you in detail
hereafter, have imposed on me the duty to discover, and to bring human
laws to bear upon, a creature armed with terrible powers of evil. This
monster, for without metaphor, monster it is, not man like ourselves, has,
by arts superior to those of ordinary fugitives, however dexterous in
concealment, hitherto for years eluded my research. Through the trance
of an Arab child, who, in her waking state, never heard of his existence,
I have learned that this being is in England, is in L----. I am here to
encounter him. I expect to do so this very night, and under this very
roof."
"Sir Philip!"
"And if you wonder, as you well may, why I have been talking to you with
this startling unreserve, know that the same Arab child, on whom I thus
implicitly rely, informs me that your life is mixed up with that of the
being I seek to unmask and disarm,--to be destroyed by his arts or his
agents, or to combine in the causes by which the destroyer himself shall
be brought to destruction."
"My life!--your Arab child named me, Allen Fenwick?"
"My Arab child told me that the person in whom I should thus naturally seek
an ally was he who had saved the life of the man whom I then meant for my
heir, if I died unmarried and childless. She told me that I should not be
many hours in this town, which she described minutely, before you would be
made known to me. She described this house, with yonder lights, and yon
dancers. In her trance she saw us sitting together, as we now sit. I
accepted the invitation of our host, when he suddenly accosted me on
entering the town, confident that I should meet you here, without even
asking whether a person of your name were a resident in the place; and now
you know why I have so freely unbosomed myself of much that might well
make you, a physician, doubt the soundness of my understanding. The same
infant, whose vision has been realized up to this moment, has warned me
also that I am here at great peril. What that peril may be I have
declined to learn, as I have ever declined to ask from the future what
affects only my own life on this earth. That life I regard with supreme
indifference, conscious that I have only to discharge, while it lasts, the
duties for which it is bestowed on me, to the best of my imperfect power;
and aware that minds the strongest and souls the purest may fall into the
sloth habitual to predestinarians, if they suffer the action due to the
present hour to be awed and paralyzed by some grim shadow on the future!
It is only where, irrespectively of aught that can menace myself, a light
not struck out of my own reason can guide me to disarm evil or minister to
good, that I feel privileged to avail myself of those mirrors on which
things, near and far, reflect themselves calm and distinct as the banks
and the mountain peak are reflected in the glass of a lake. Here, then,
under this roof, and by your side, I shall behold him who--Lo! the moment
has come,--I behold him now!"
As he spoke these last words, Sir Philip had risen, and, startled by his
action and voice, I involuntarily rose too. Resting one hand on my
shoulder, he pointed with the other towards the threshold of the ballroom.
There, the prominent figure of a gay group--the sole male amidst a
fluttering circle of silks and lawn, of flowery wreaths, of female
loveliness and female frippery--stood the radiant image of Margrave. His
eyes were not turned towards us. He was looking down, and his light laugh
came soft, yet ringing, through the general murmur.
I turned my astonished gaze back to Sir Philip; yes, unmistakably it was
on Margrave that his look was fixed. Impossible to associate crime with
the image of that fair youth! Eccentric notions, fantastic speculations,
vivacious egotism, defective benevolence,--yes. But crime! No!
impossible!
"Impossible," I said aloud. As I spoke, the group had moved on. Margrave
was no longer in sight. At the same moment some other guests came from
the ballroom, and seated themselves near us.
Sir Philip looked round, and, observing the deserted museum at the end of
the corridor, drew me into it.
When we were alone, he said in a voice quick and low, but decided,--
"It is of importance that I should convince you at once of the nature of
that prodigy which is more hostile to mankind than the wolf is to the
sheepfold. No words of mine could at present suffice to clear your sight
from the deception which cheats it. I must enable you to judge for
yourself. It must be now and here. He will learn this night, if he has
not learned already, that I am in the town. Dim and confused though his
memories of myself may be, they are memories still; and he well knows
what cause he has to dread me. I must put another in possession of his
secret. Another, and at once! For all his arts will be brought to bear
against me, and I cannot foretell their issue. Go, then; enter that giddy
crowd, select that seeming young man, bring him hither. Take care only
not to mention my name; and when here, turn the key in the door, so as to
prevent interruption,--five minutes will suffice."
"Am I sure that I guess whom you mean? The young light-hearted man, known
in this place under the name of Margrave? The young man with the radiant
eyes, and the curls of a Grecian statue?"
"The same; him whom I pointed out. Quick, bring him hither."
My curiosity was too much roused to disobey. Had I conceived that
Margrave, in the heat of youth, had committed some offence which placed
him in danger of the law and in the power of Sir Philip Derval, I
possessed enough of the old borderer's black-mail loyalty to have given
the man whose hand I had familiarly clasped a hint and a help to escape.
But all Sir Philip's talk had been so out of the reach of common-sense,
that I rather expected to see him confounded by some egregious illusion
than Margrave exposed to any well-grounded accusation. All, then, that I
felt as I walked into the ballroom and approached Margrave was that
curiosity which, I think, any one of my readers will acknowledge that, in
my position, he himself would have felt.
Margrave was standing near the dancers, not joining them, but talking with
a young couple in the ring. I drew him aside.
"Come with me for a few minutes into the museum; I wish to talk to you."
"What about,--an experiment?"
"Yes, an experiment."
"Then I am at your service."
In a minute more, he had followed me into the desolate dead museum. I
looked round, but did not see Sir Philip.
CHAPTER XXXII.
MARGRAVE threw himself on a seat just under the great anaconda; I closed
and locked the door. When I had done so, my eye fell on the young man's
face, and I was surprised to see that it had lost its colour; that it
showed great anxiety, great distress; that his hands were visibly
trembling.
"What is this?" he said in feeble tones, and raising himself half from his
seat as if with great effort. "Help me up! come away! Something in this
room is hostile to me, hostile, overpowering! What can it be?"
"Truth and my presence," answered a stern, low voice; and Sir Philip
Derval, whose slight form the huge bulk of the dead elephant had before
obscured from my view, came suddenly out from the shadow into the full
rays of the lamps which lit up, as if for Man's revel, that mocking
catacomb for the playmates of Nature which he enslaves for his service or
slays for his sport. As Sir Philip spoke and advanced, Margrave sank back
into his seat, shrinking, collapsing, nerveless; terror the most abject
expressed in his staring eyes and parted lips. On the other hand, the
simple dignity of Sir Philip Derval's bearing, and the mild power of his
countenance, were alike inconceivably heightened. A change had come over
the whole man, the more impressive because wholly undefinable.
Halting opposite Margrave he uttered some words in a language unknown to
me, and stretched one hand over the young man's head. Margrave at once
became stiff and rigid, as if turned to stone. Sir Philip said to me,--
"Place one of those lamps on the floor,--there, by his feet."
I took down one of the coloured lamps from the mimic tree round which the
huge anaconda coiled its spires, and placed it as I was told.
"Take the seat opposite to him, and watch."
I obeyed.
Meanwhile, Sir Philip had drawn from his breast-pocket a small steel
casket, and I observed, as he opened it, that the interior was subdivided
into several compartments, each with its separate lid; from one of these
he took and sprinkled over the flame of the lamp a few grains of a powder,
colourless and sparkling as diamond dust. In a second or so, a delicate
perfume, wholly unfamiliar to my sense, rose from the lamp.
"You would test the condition of trance; test it, and in the spirit."
And, as he spoke, his hand rested lightly on my head. Hitherto, amidst a
surprise not unmixed with awe, I had preserved a certain defiance, a
certain distrust. I had been, as it were, on my guard.
But as those words were spoken, as that hand rested on my head, as that
perfume arose from the lamp, all power of will deserted me. My first
sensation was that of passive subjugation; but soon I was aware of a
strange intoxicating effect from the odour of the lamp, round which there
now played a dazzling vapour. The room swam before me. Like a man
oppressed by a nightmare, I tried to move, to cry out, feeling that to do
so would suffice to burst the thrall that bound me: in vain.
A time that seemed to me inexorably long, but which, as I found
afterwards, could only have occupied a few seconds, elapsed in this
preliminary state, which, however powerless, was not without a vague
luxurious sense of delight. And then suddenly came pain,--pain, that in
rapid gradations passed into a rending agony. Every bone, sinew, nerve,
fibre of the body, seemed as if wrenched open, and as if some hitherto
unconjectured Presence in the vital organization were forcing itself to
light with all the pangs of travail. The veins seemed swollen to
bursting, the heart labouring to maintain its action by fierce spasms. I
feel in this description how language fails me. Enough that the anguish I
then endured surpassed all that I have ever experienced of physical pain.
This dreadful interval subsided as suddenly as it had commenced. I felt
as if a something undefinable by any name had rushed from me, and in that
rush that a struggle was over. I was sensible of the passive bliss which
attends the release from torture, and then there grew on me a wonderful
calm, and, in that calm, a consciousness of some lofty intelligence
immeasurably beyond that which human memory gathers from earthly
knowledge. I saw before me the still rigid form of Margrave, and my sight
seemed, with ease, to penetrate through its covering of flesh, and to
survey the mechanism of the whole interior being.
"View that tenement of clay which now seems so fair, as it was when I last
beheld it, three years ago, in the house of Haroun of Aleppo!"
I looked, and gradually, and as shade after shade falls on the mountain
side, while the clouds gather, and the sun vanishes at last, so the form
and face on which I looked changed from exuberant youth into infirm old
age,--the discoloured wrinkled skin, the bleared dim eye, the flaccid
muscles, the brittle sapless bones. Nor was the change that of age alone;
the expression of the countenance had passed into gloomy discontent, and
in every furrow a passion or a vice had sown the seeds of grief.
And the brain now opened on my sight, with all its labyrinth of cells. I
seemed to have the clew to every winding in the maze.
I saw therein a moral world, charred and ruined, as, in some fable I have
read, the world of the moon is described to be; yet withal it was a brain
of magnificent formation. The powers abused to evil had been originally
of rare order,--imagination, and scope, the energies that dare, the
faculties that discover. But the moral part of the brain had failed to
dominate the mental,--defective veneration of what is good or great;
cynical disdain of what is right and just; in fine, a great intellect
first misguided, then perverted, and now falling with the decay of the
body into ghastly but imposing ruins,--such was the world of that brain
as it had been three years ago. And still continuing to gaze thereon, I
observed three separate emanations of light,--the one of a pale red hue,
the second of a pale azure, the third a silvery spark.
The red light, which grew paler and paler as I looked, undulated from the
brain along the arteries, the veins, the nerves. And I murmured to
myself, "Is this the principle of animal life?"
The azure light equally permeated the frame, crossing and uniting with the
red, but in a separate and distinct ray, exactly as, in the outer world, a
ray of light crosses or unites with a ray of heat, though in itself a
separate individual agency. And again I murmured to myself, "Is this the
principle of intellectual being, directing or influencing that of animal
life; with it, yet not of it?"
But the silvery spark! What was that? Its centre seemed the brain; but I
could fix it to no single organ. Nay, wherever I looked through the
system, it reflected itself as a star reflects itself upon water. And I
observed that while the red light was growing feebler and feebler, and the
azure light was confused, irregular,--now obstructed, now hurrying, now
almost lost,--the silvery spark was unaltered, un disturbed. So
independent was it of all which agitated and vexed the frame, that I
became strangely aware that if the heart stopped in its action, and the
red light died out; if the brain were paralyzed, that energetic mind
smitten into idiotcy, and the azure light wandering objectless as a meteor
wanders over the morass,--still that silver spark would shine the same,
indestructible by aught that shattered its tabernacle. And I murmured to
myself, "Can that starry spark speak the presence of the soul? Does the
silver light shine within creatures to which no life immortal has been
promised by Divine Revelation?"
Involuntarily I turned my sight towards the dead forms in the motley
collection, and lo, in my trance or my vision, life returned to them
all!--to the elephant and the serpent; to the tiger, the vulture, the
beetle, the moth; to the fish and the polypus, and to yon mockery of man
in the giant ape.
I seemed to see each as it lived in its native realm of earth, or of air,
or of water; and the red light played more or less warm through the
structure of each, and the azure light, though duller of hue, seemed to
shoot through the red, and communicate to the creatures an intelligence
far inferior indeed to that of man, but sufficing to conduct the current
of their will, and influence the cunning of their instincts. But in none,
from the elephant to the moth, from the bird in which brain was the
largest to the hybrid in which life seemed to live as in plants,--in none
was visible the starry silver spark. I turned my eyes from the creatures
around, back again to the form cowering under the huge anaconda, and in
terror at the animation which the carcasses took in the awful illusions of
that marvellous trance; for the tiger moved as if scenting blood, and to
the eyes of the serpent the dread fascination seemed slowly returning.
Again I gazed on the starry spark in the form of the man. And I murmured
to myself, "But if this be the soul, why is it so undisturbed and
undarkened by the sins which have left such trace and such ravage in the
world of the brain?" And gazing yet more intently on the spark, I became
vaguely aware that it was not the soul, but the halo around the soul, as
the star we see in heaven is not the star itself, but its circle of rays;
and if the light itself was undisturbed and undarkened, it was because no
sins done in the body could annihilate its essence, nor affect the
eternity of its duration. The light was clear within the ruins of its
lodgment, because it might pass away, but could not be extinguished.
But the soul itself in the heart of the light reflected back on my own
soul within me its ineffable trouble, humiliation, and sorrow; for those
ghastly wrecks of power placed at its sovereign command it was
responsible, and, appalled by its own sublime fate of duration, was about
to carry into eternity the account of its mission in time. Yet it seemed
that while the soul was still there, though so forlorn and so guilty, even
the wrecks around it were majestic. And the soul, whatever sentence it
might merit, was not among the hopelessly lost; for in its remorse and its
shame, it might still have retained what could serve for redemption. And
I saw that the mind was storming the soul, in some terrible rebellious
war,--all of thought, of passion, of desire, through which the azure light
poured its restless flow, were surging up round the starry spark, as in
siege. And I could not comprehend the war, nor guess what it was that the
mind demanded the soul to yield. Only the distinction between the two was
made intelligible by their antagonism. And I saw that the soul, sorely
tempted, looked afar for escape from the subjects it had ever so ill
controlled, and who sought to reduce to their vassal the power which had
lost authority as their king. I could feel its terror in the sympathy of
my own terror, the keenness of my own supplicating pity. I knew that it
was imploring release from the perils it confessed its want of strength
to encounter. And suddenly the starry spark rose from the ruins and the
tumult around it,--rose into space and vanished; and where my soul had
recognized the presence of soul, there was a void. But the red light
burned still, becoming more and more vivid; and as it thus repaired and
recruited its lustre, the whole animal form, which had been so decrepit,
grew restored from decay, grew into vigour and youth: and I saw Alargrave
as I had seen him in the waking world, the radiant image of animal life in
the beauty of its fairest bloom.
And over this rich vitality and this symmetric mechanism now reigned only,
with the animal life, the mind. The starry light fled and the soul
vanished, still was left visible the mind,--mind, by which sensations
convey and cumulate ideas, and muscles obey volition; mind, as in those
animals that have more than the elementary, instincts; mind, as it might
be in men, were men not immortal. As my eyes, in the Vision, followed the
azure light, undulating as before, through the cells of the brain, and
crossing the red amidst the labyrinth of the nerves, I perceived that the
essence of that azure light had undergone a change: it had lost that
faculty of continuous and concentred power by which man improves on the
works of the past, and weaves schemes to be developed in the future of
remote generations; it had lost all sympathy in the past, because it had
lost all conception of a future beyond the grave; it had lost conscience,
it had lost remorse; the being it informed was no longer accountable
through eternity for the employment of time. The azure light was even
more vivid in certain organs useful to the conservation of existence, as
in those organs I had observed it more vivid among some of the inferior
animals than it is in man,--secretiveness, destructiveness, and the ready
perception of things immediate to the wants of the day; and the azure
light was brilliant in cerebral cells, where before it had been dark, such
as those which harbour mirthfulness and hope, for there the light was
recruited by the exuberant health of the joyous animal-being. But it was
lead-like, or dim, in the great social organs, through which man
subordinates his own interest to that of his species, and utterly lost in
those through which man is reminded of his duties to the throne of his
Maker.