Dr. Stahl appeared to hesitate.
“It is not new to me, of course,” pursued the other, “but I should like to know more.”
Stahl still seemed irresolute. “It is true,” he replied at length slowly, “that in an unguarded moment I let drop certain observations. It is better you should consider them unsaid perhaps: forget them.”
“And why, pray?”
The answer was well calculated to whet his appetite.
“Because,” answered the doctor, bending over to him as he crossed over to his side, “they are dangerous thoughts to play with, dangerous to the interests of humanity in its present state today, unsettling to the soul, shaking the foundations of sane consciousness.” He looked hard at him. “Your own mind,” he added softly, “appears to me to be already on their track. Whether you are aware of it or not, you have in you that kind of very passionate desire — of yearning — which might reconstruct them and make them come true — for yourself — if you get out.”
O’Malley, his eyes shining, looked up into his face.
“‘Reconstruct — make them come true — if I get out’!” he repeated stammeringly, fearful that if he appeared too eager the other would stop. “You mean, of course, that this Double in me would escape and build its own heaven?”
Stahl nodded darkly. “Driven forth by your intense desire.” After a pause he added, “The process already begun in you would complete itself.”
Ah! So obviously what the doctor wanted was a description of his sensations in that haunted cabin.
“Temporarily?” asked the Irishman under his breath.
The other did not answer for a moment. O’Malley repeated the question.
“Temporarily,” said Stahl, turning away again toward his desk, “unless — the yearning were too strong.”
“In which case — ?”
“Permanently. For it would draw the entire personality with it….”
“The soul?”
Stahl was bending over his books and papers. The answer was barely audible.
“Death,” was the whispered word that floated across the heavy air of that little sun-baked cabin.
The word if spoken at all was so softly spoken that the Irishman scarcely knew whether he actually heard it, or whether it was uttered by his own thought. He only realized — catching some vivid current from the other man’s mind — that this separation of a vital portion of himself that Stahl hinted at might involve a kind of nameless inner catastrophe which should mean the loss of his personality as it existed today — an idea, however, that held no terror for him if it meant at the same time the recovery of what he so passionately sought.
And another intuition flashed upon its heels — namely, that this extraordinary doctor spoke of something he knew as a certainty; that his amazing belief, though paraded as theory, was to him more than theory. Had he himself undergone some experience that he dared not speak of, and were his words based upon a personal experience instead of, as he pretended, merely upon the observation of others? Was this a result of his study of the big man two years ago? Was this the true explanation of his being no longer an assistant at the H — hospital, but only a ship’s doctor? Had this “modern” man, after all, a flaming volcano of ancient and splendid belief in him, akin to what was in himself, yet ever fighting it?
Thoughts raced and thundered through his mind as he watched him across the cigar smoke. The rattling of that donkey-engine, the shouts of the lightermen, the thuds of the sulfur-sacks — how ridiculous they all sounded, the clatter of a futile, meaningless existence where men gathered — rubbish, for mere bodies that lived amid dust a few years, then returned to dust forever.
He sprang from his sofa and crossed over to the doctor’s side. Stahl was still bending over a littered desk.
“You, too,” he cried, and though trying to say it loud, his voice could only whisper, “you, too, must have the Urmensch in your heart and blood, for how else, by my soul, could you know it all? Tell me, doctor, tell me!” And he was on the very verge of adding, “Join us! Come and join us!” when the little German turned his bald head slowly round and fixed upon the excited Irishman such a cool and quenching stare that instantly he felt himself convicted of foolishness, almost of impertinence.
He dropped backwards into an armchair, and the doctor at the same moment let himself down upon the revolving stool that was nailed to the floor in front of the desk. His hands smoothed out papers. Then he leaned forward, still holding his companion’s eyes with that steady stare which forbade familiarity.
“My friend,” he said quietly in German, “you asked me just now to tell you of the theory — Fechner’s theory — that the Earth is a living, conscious Being. If you care to listen, I will do so. We have time.” He glanced round at the shady cabin, took down a book from the shelf before him, puffed his black cigar and began to read.
“It is from one of your own people — William James; what you call a ‘Hibbert Lecture’ at Manchester College. It gives you an idea, at least, of what Fechner saw. It is better than my own words.”
So Stahl, in his turn, refused to be “drawn.” O’Malley, as soon as he recovered from the abruptness of the change from that other conversation, gave all his attention. The uneasy feeling that he was being played with, coaxed as a specimen to the best possible point for the microscope, passed away as the splendor of the vast and beautiful conception dawned upon him, and shaped those nameless yearnings of his life in glowing language.
CHAPTER XV
The shadows of the September afternoon were lengthening toward us from the Round Pond by the time O’Malley reached this stage of his curious and fascinating story. It was chilly under the trees, and the “wupsey-up, wupsey-down” babies, as he termed them, had long since gone in to their teas, or whatever it is that London babies take at six o’clock.
We strolled home together, and he welcomed the idea of sharing a dinner we should cook ourselves in the tiny Knightsbridge flat. “Stewpot evenings,” he called these occasions. They reminded us of camping trips together, although it must be confessed that in the cage-like room the “stew” never tasted quite as it did beside running water on the skirts of the forest when the dews were gathering on the little gleaming tent, and the wood-smoke mingled with the scents of earth and leaves.
Passing that grotesque erection opposite the Albert Hall, gaudy in the last touch of sunset, I saw him shudder. The spell of the ship and sea and the blazing Sicilian sunshine lay still upon us, Etna’s cones towering beyond those gilded spikes of the tawdry Memorial. I stole a glance at my companion. His light blue eyes shone, but with the reflection of another sunset — the sunset of forgotten, ancient, far-off scenes when the world was young.
His personality held something of magic in that silent stroll homewards, for no word fell from either one of us to break its charm. The untidy hair escaped from beneath the broad-brimmed old hat, and his faded coat of grey flannel seemed touched with the shadows that the dusk brings beneath wild-olive trees. I noticed the set of his ears, and how the upper points of them ran so sharply into the hair. His walk was springy, light, very quiet, suggesting that he moved on open turf where a sudden running jump would land him, not into a motor-bus, but into a mossy covert where ferns grew. There was a certain fling of the shoulders that had an air of rejecting streets and houses. Some fancy, wild and sweet, caught me of a faun passing down through underbrush of woodland glades to drink at a forest pool; and, chance giving back to me a little verse of Alice Corbin’s, I turned and murmured it while watching him:
What dim Arcadian pastures
Have I known,
That suddenly, out of nothing,
A wind is blown,
Lifting a veil and a darkness,
Showing a purple sea —
And under your hair, the faun’s eyes
Look out on me?
It was, of course, that whereas his body marched along Hill Street and through Montpelier Square, his thoughts and spirit flitted
through the haunted, old-time garden he forever craved. I thought of the morrow — of my desk in the Life Insurance Office, of the clerks with oiled hair brushed back from the forehead, all exactly alike, trousers neatly turned up to show fancy colored socks from bargain sales, their pockets full of cheap cigarettes, their minds busy with painted actresses and the names of horses! A Life Insurance Office! All London paying yearly sums to protect themselves against — against the most interesting moment of life. Premiums upon escape and freedom!
Again, it was the spell of my companion’s personality that turned all this paraphernalia of the busy, modern existence into the counters in some grotesque and rather sordid game. Tomorrow, of course, it would all turn real and earnest again, O’Malley’s story a mere poetic fancy. But for the moment I lived it with him, and found it magnificent.
And the talk we had that evening when the stew-pot was empty and we were smoking on the narrow-ledged roof of the prison-house — for he always begged for open air, and with cushions we often sat beneath the stars and against the grimy chimney-pots — that talk I shall never forget. Life became constructed all anew. The power of the greatest fairy tale this world can ever know lay about me, raised to its highest expression. I caught at least some touch of reality — of awful reality — in the idea that this splendid globe whereon we perched like insects peeping timidly from tiny cells, might be the body of a glorious Being — the mighty frame to which some immense Collective Consciousness, vaster than that of men, and wholly different in kind, might be attached.
In the story, as I found it later in the dusty little Paddington room, O’Malley reported, somewhat heavily, it seemed to me, the excerpts chosen by Dr. Stahl. As an imaginative essay, they were interesting, of course, and vitally suggestive, but in a tale of adventure such as this they overweight the barque of fancy. Yet, in order to appreciate what followed, it seems necessary for the mind to steep itself in something of his ideas. The reader who dreads to think, and likes his imagination to soar unsupported, may perhaps dispense with the balance of this section; but to be faithful to the scaffolding whereon this Irishman built his amazing dream, I must attempt as best I can some précis of that conversation.
CHAPTER XVI
“Every fragment of visible Nature might, as far as is known, serve as part in some organism unlike our bodies…. As to that which can, and that which cannot, play the part of an organism, we know very little. A sameness greater or less with our own bodies is the basis from which we conclude to other bodies and souls…. A certain likeness of outward form, and again some amount of similarity in action, are what we stand on when we argue to psychical life. But our failure, on the other side, to discover these symptoms is no sufficient warrant for positive denial. It is natural in this connection to refer to Fechner’s vigorous advocacy.” — F.H. BRADLEY, Appearance and Reality
It was with an innate resistance — at least a stubborn prejudice — that I heard him begin. The earth, of course, was but a bubble of dried fire, a huge round clod, dead as mutton. How could it be, in any permissible sense of the word — alive?
Then, gradually, as he talked there among the chimney-pots of old smoky London, there stole over me this new and disquieting sense of reality — a strange, vast splendor, too mighty to lie in the mind with comfort. Laughter fled away, ashamed. A new beauty, as of some amazing dawn, flashed and broke upon the world. The autumn sky overhead, thick-sown with its myriad stars, came down close, sifting gold and fire about my life’s dull ways. That desk in the Insurance Office of Cornhill gleamed beyond as an altar or a possible throne.
The glory of Fechner’s immense speculation flamed about us both, majestic yet divinely simple. Only a dim suggestion of it, of course, lay caught in the words the Irishman used — words, as I found later, that were a mixture of Professor James and Dr. Stahl, flavored strongly with Terence O’Malley — but a suggestion potent enough to have haunted me ever since and to have instilled meanings of stupendous divinity into all the commonest things of daily existence. Mountains, seas, wide landscapes, forests, — all I see now with emotions of wonder, delight, and awe unknown to me before. Flowers, rain, wind, even a London fog, have come to hold new meanings.
I never realized before that the mere size of our old planet could have hindered the perception of so fair a vision, or her mere quantitative bulk have killed automatically in the mind the possible idea of her being in some sense living. A microbe, endowed with our powers of consciousness, might similarly deny life to the body of the elephant on which it rode; or some wee arguing atom, endowed with mind and senses, persuade itself that the monster upon whose flesh it dwelt were similarly a “heavenly body” of dead, inert matter; the bulk of the “world” that carried them obstructing their perception of its Life.
And Fechner, as it seems, was no mere dreamer, playing with a huge poetical conception. Professor of Physics in Leipsic University, he found time amid voluminous labors in chemistry to study electrical science with the result that his measurements in galvanism are classic to this day. His philosophical work was more than considerable. “A book on the atomic theory, classic also; four elaborate mathematical and experimental volumes on what he called psychophysics (many persons consider Fechner to have practically founded scientific psychology in the first of these books); a volume on organic evolution, and two works on experimental æsthetics, in which again Fechner is thought by some judges to have laid the foundations of a new science,” are among his other performances…. “All Leipsic mourned him when he died, for he was the pattern of the ideal German scholar, as daringly original in his thought as he was homely in his life, a modest, genial, laborious slave to truth and learning…. His mind was indeed one of those multitudinously organized crossroads of truth which are occupied only at rare intervals by children of men, and from which nothing is either too far or too near to be seen in due perspective. Patientest observation, exactest mathematics, shrewdest discrimination, humanest feeling, flourished in him on the largest scale, with no apparent detriment to one another. He was in fact a philosopher in the ‘great’ sense.”
“Yes,” said O’Malley softly in my ear as we leaned against the chimneys and watched the tobacco curl up to the stars, “and it was this man’s imagination that had evidently caught old Stahl and bowled him over. I never fathomed the doctor quite. His critical and imaginative apparatus got a bit mixed up, I suspect, for one moment he cursed me for asking ‘suspicious questions,’ and the next sneered sarcastically at me for boiling over with a sudden inspirational fancy of my own. He never gave himself away completely, and left me to guess that he made that Hospital place too hot to hold him. He was a wonderful bird. But every time I aimed at him I shot wide and hit a cloud. Meantime he peppered me all over — one minute urging me into closer intimacy with my Russian — his cosmic being, his Urmensch type — so that he might study my destruction, and half an hour later doing his utmost apparently to protect me from him and keep me sane and balanced.” His laugh rang out over the roofs.
“The net result,” he added, his face tilted toward the stars as though he said it to the open sky rather than to me, “was that he pushed me forwards into the greatest adventure life has ever brought to me. I believe, I verily believe that sometimes, there were moments of unconsciousness — semi-consciousness perhaps — when I really did leave my body — caught away as Moses, or was it Job or Paul? — into a Third Heaven, where I touched a bit of Reality that fairly made me reel with happiness and wonder.”
“Well, but Fechner — and his great idea?” I brought him back.
He tossed his cigarette down into the back-garden that fringed the
Park, leaning over to watch its zigzag flight of flame.
“Is simply this,” he replied, “— ‘that not alone the earth but the whole Universe in its different spans and wave-lengths, is everywhere alive and conscious.’ He regards the spiritual as the rule in Nature, not the exception. The professorial philosophers have no vision. Fechner towers above them as
a man of vision. He dared to imagine. He made discoveries — whew!!” he whistled, “and such discoveries!”
“To which the scholars and professors of today,” I suggested, “would think reply not even called for?”
“Ah,” he laughed, “the solemn-faced Intellectuals with their narrow outlook, their atrophied vision, and their long words! Perhaps! But in Fechner’s universe there is room for every grade of spiritual being between man and God. The vaster orders of mind go with the vaster orders of body. He believes passionately in the Earth Soul, he treats her as our special guardian angel; we can pray to the Earth as men pray to their saints. The Earth has a Collective Consciousness. We rise upon the Earth as wavelets rise upon the ocean. We grow out of her soil as leaves grow from a tree. Sometimes we find our bigger life and realize that we are parts of her bigger collective consciousness, but as a rule we are aware only of our separateness, as individuals. These moments of cosmic consciousness are rare. They come with love, sometimes with pain, music may bring them too, but above all — landscape and the beauty of Nature! Men are too petty, conceited, egoistic to welcome them, clinging for dear life to their precious individualities.”
He drew breath and then went on: “‘Fechner likens our individual persons on the earth to so many sense-organs of her soul, adding to her perceptive life so long as our own life lasts. She absorbs our perceptions, just as they occur, into her larger sphere of knowledge. When one of us dies, it is as if an eye of the world were closed, for all perceptive contributions from that particular quarter cease.’”
“Go on,” I exclaimed, realizing that he was obviously quoting verbatim fragments from James that he had since pondered over till they had become his own, “Tell me more. It is delightful and very splendid.”
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 66