CHAPTER VIII.
THE FAITHFUL DOG.
On the following morning, when Leon entered the laboratory, he foundDr. Medjora busily engaged upon a chemical analysis. He, therefore,without interrupting him, went to his own table, and took up hismorning's task. Half an hour passed in silence, and then the Doctorspoke:
"Good-morning, Leon," said he. "I hope that the late hour at which youretired last night did not interfere with your rest?"
"On the contrary, Doctor," said Leon, "I slept very soundly; sosoundly that I did not awaken as early as usual this morning. Yet I ampuzzled by one thing."
"And that is----?"
"A dream. I have a distinct recollection of a dream, and yet I am surethat I slept soundly until the very moment of my awakening. I havealways thought that dreams come only when one dozes, or is half awake.Do you think that one might sleep soundly, and nevertheless dream?"
"It is a question much disputed. If you have done so, however, youhave proven the possibility. Tell me your dream."
Thus adroitly did the Doctor avoid committing himself by a statementwhich would have lead to an argument, Leon's controversial instinctbeing a prominent characteristic.
"The dream was singular," replied Leon, "not so much because of what Idreamed, but rather because of the impression made upon my mind. As arule, what one dreams is recalled as a dimly defined vision, but inthis instance, I can see the temple of AEsculapius as clearly as thoughI had really visited the place."
"Then in your dream you imagined that you saw that wonderful place?"
"Yes. There is nothing odd about that, because you told me that youwould take me into the chamber to-night. I went to sleep with thedesire to see the temple prominently present in my thoughts, andconsequently, in my dream, that wish was gratified. But now I amanxious to verify my vision, to note how much resemblance there willbe between the real and the imaginary. It would be very curious if Ishould be able to recognize the place!"
Leon looked away off into space, as one gazes at nothing when deeplyabsorbed in the contemplation of some perplexing problem. The Doctorat once recognized the danger that presented. Leon's memory was morevivid than he had intended it to be. If taken into the crypt, in hispresent state of active inquiry into the phenomenon which his mind wasconsidering, and if he really should become convinced that what hethought a dream was the exact counterpart of the real, it would not beimprobable that his suspicion of the truth might be aroused. It wastherefore essential that his mind should be led into a safer channel.The Doctor undertook to do this.
"Leon," said he, "you are always interested in psychologicalphenomena, and therefore I will discuss this with you. The action ofthe mind is always an attractive study; attractive mainly because mancannot thoroughly unravel the mysteries surrounding the working of ahuman mind. Ordinarily, what one cannot comprehend and explain, iswritten down as a miracle. There are no miracles, except as the wordsmay be used to describe that which mystifies. But the mystificationpasses, as soon as the explanation is arrived at. Now it is manifestlyimpossible that you should dream of a place which you have never seen,and obtain an accurate mental image of it."
"I do not say that I have done so. I only wonder how much resemblancewill exist between the dream and the chamber itself."
"True! But I should not be at all surprised, when I take you there, ifyou claim that it is the counterpart of your dream."
"Why do you think that, Doctor, when you have just said truly, thatsuch a fact would be impossible?"
"It would be impossible that such a thing should be a fact, but it isnot at all impossible that you should think it to be a fact. Let meexplain myself more clearly. As I said before, one cannot produce inthe mind an absolutely accurate image of a thing which he has neverseen. But mental images may be created, not alone through the sense ofsight, but also through the sense of hearing. Last night I told youthe story of AEsculapius. I described to you the _teocali_ which hadbeen reared in his memory. I told you that at the very top a dome-likechamber was specially dedicated to AEsculapius. I also explained to youthat in the dome which I have discovered the walls are covered withhieroglyphical sculpturing. With such a description of the place,meagre as it is, you could readily construct a mental image, whichwould be sufficiently like the original for you to believe itidentical. A dome is a dome, and, in regard to hieroglyphical figures,in the books in my library you have seen many pictures of those foundon this continent."
"Still, Doctor, that would only enable me to create an image whichwould be similar. It could not be identical."
"No! It could not be identical. But suppose that you enter the crypt!Instantly you look about you, and an image of the place is imprintedupon your brain. This is objectively produced. You compare it with thesubjective image left by your dream, and you are astonished at thesimilarity. Note the word! You look around you again, and again anobjective image is formed. Again you essay a comparison: but whathappens now? As clearly fixed upon your brain as you believe yourdream to be, it is but a shadowy impression compared to those whichcome to you when awake. So your subjective image of the place isreadily displaced by that first objective impression, and when youcompare the second, it is with this, and not with your dream at all.As both are identical, you form the conclusion that your dream and theactuality are identical. So your first idea that they are similarpasses, and you adopt the erroneous belief that they are identical.You have compared two objective impressions, where you believe thatone was the subjective image of your dream. Thus you are deceived intobelieving that a miracle has occurred. And thus have all miracles beenaccepted as such; thus have all superstitions been created, throughthe incorrect appreciation of events and their causes."
"I see what you mean, Doctor, and I recognize, now, how easy it is tofall into error. Few in this world have the analytical instinctpossessed by yourself. Yet, I must confess, I am anxious for the testto-night. Now that you have warned me, I wish to see whether my firstcomparison will give me the idea that the two images are identical, ormerely similar."
From this speech Dr. Medjora saw that the lad was not entirelyconvinced. He concluded therefore to risk a test, that woulddefinitely settle the question.
"Leon," said he, "you are a good draughtsman. Draw for me a picture ofany part of the hieroglyphical sculpture which is most distinct inyour recollection!"
In this the Doctor depended upon the fact that Leon could have but anindistinct remembrance of the place itself, because, from the momentof his awakening in the crypt, his mind had been confused by the rapidseries of surprises presented to his eyes. The revolving lamps, andthe glare emitted by them, would have been sufficient to create suchshadows, that the sculptured figures would have been distorted, themind itself being too much occupied for more than a very cursoryglance at the walls of the place. Leon, however, at once began todraw, and within a few minutes he handed the paper to the Doctor, whowas pleased to find upon it a poor copy of some figures in_Kingsborough's Antiquities_. Thus the Doctor's speculation wasvindicated, because as soon as Leon had endeavored to draw, he copiedan image in his mind, made by a picture which he had had time to studyclosely, yet which in his thought replaced the indistinct impressionobtained in the crypt.
"You are quite sure, Leon," asked the Doctor, "that this is a figurewhich you saw in your dream."
"Quite sure," answered Leon, promptly, "although, of course, there maybe some slight inaccuracy in my draught of it."
The Doctor then went to the library, and returned with the volume ofKingsborough, in which was the picture which Leon had really copied.When he showed this to the lad, he convinced him of his originalproposition, that the hieroglyphical sculptures of his dream were butrecollections of what he had seen in books. Thus he averted thethreatening danger, and once more proved that, through his knowledgeof psychical laws, he was an adept in controlling the minds of men.
Later in the day, Leon called at the home of Mr. Dudley, having beensent thither by the Doctor.
Doctor
Medjora had given Leon a letter, with instructions to take itto the house, and if Mr. Dudley should be out, to await his return todeliver it and obtain a reply. In this he was actuated by a motive. Hechose an hour when he knew certainly that the Judge would not be athome, though Agnes would. He wished Leon to be thrown into her societymore often than circumstances had permitted heretofore. In the future,he intended so to arrange that the young people should meet morefrequently. Dr. Medjora was willing to abide by the acts ofProvidence, as long as they aided his own designs; when they failed todo so, then he considered it time to control Providence, and guide itto his will.
When Leon was admitted into the reception-room at Judge Dudley's, hefound Agnes reading. She laid aside her book and arose to greet himcordially. He explained the object of his visit, and that he wouldlike to await the return of the Judge. Agnes therefore invited him tobe seated. His great fondness for books led him to utilize her readingas a starting-point for conversation.
"I am sorry, Miss Dudley," he began, "that I have interrupted yourreading. May I be permitted to ask what book you have?"
"Certainly!" she replied. "I have been reading a novel!"
"Oh!" was all that Leon said, but the tone excited Agnes at once, forin it she thought she detected a covert sneer.
"Do you never read novels?" she asked.
"I have little time for anything but science. I think that I have readbut two novels in my life."
"May I ask what they were?"
"George MacDonald's _Malcolm_ from which I named my dog 'Lossy,' and abook called _Ardath_. I do not remember the name of the author."
"_Ardath_, and you do not remember the name of the author? She wouldfeel quite complimented at the impression made upon you, I am sure.Perhaps you would like to refresh your memory?" Agnes spoke with atone of triumphant satisfaction, as she handed to him the book whichshe held. He took it and read on the title-page, "_Ardath; The Storyof a Dead Self_; by Marie Corelli."
"This is a coincidence, is it not, Miss Dudley," said Leon, returningthe volume. "I suppose it was very stupid of me to forget the author'sname, but really I am so much more interested in the world of science,that romance has little attraction for me. In the one we deal infacts, while the other is all fiction."
"Is that your estimate of the relation existing between the two," saidAgnes, with a twinkle in her eye. She always delighted in an argument,when she felt that she held the mastery of the situation, as she didnow. Therefore she entered the combat, about to begin, with a zestequal to the love of debate which Leon possessed.
"You say that science deals only in facts. If you remember anything of_Ardath_, which is not probable, since you forget the writer, you mayrecall that in his wanderings through the city, Al-Kyris, Theos meetsMira-Khabur, the Professor of Positivism. The description of thismeeting, and the conversation between the men is admirable, as asatire upon the claims of the scientists. Let me read to you one ofthe Professor's speeches. Theos has said:
"Then the upshot of all your learning sir, is that one can never be quite certain of anything?"
"Exactly so!" replied the pensive sage, with a grave shake of the head. "Judged by the very finest lines of metaphysical argument you cannot really be sure whether you behold in me a Person, or a Phantasm! You _think_ you see me,--I _think_ I see you,--but after all it is only an _impression_ mutually shared--an impression which, like many another less distinct, may be entirely erroneous! Ah, my dear young sir! education is advancing at a very rapid rate, and the art of close analysis is reaching such a pitch of perfection, that I believe we shall soon be able logically to prove, not only that we do not actually exist, but, moreover, that we never have existed."
"What have you to say to that?" asked Agnes closing the book, butkeeping one finger between the leaves, to mark the place.
"Why," said Leon, smiling, "that it is a very clever paragraph, andrecalls to my mind the whole scene. I think that, later, this sameProfessor of Positivism declares that the only thing he is positiveof, is the 'un-positiveness of Positivism!'"
"Ah! Then you do remember some of the novel. That is a hopeful signfor novelists, I am sure. But, jesting aside, you have not defendedyour pet hobby, science, from the charge brought against her!"
"If you wish me to take you seriously, then of course I must do so.What you have read, is clever, but not necessarily true. It is good inits place, and as used by the author. It typifies the character of theman, from whose mouth the words escape. But, in doing this, it showsus that he is merely the disciple of a school which depends for itsexistence upon bombast rather than true knowledge; upon sophisticalcloudiness of expression rather than upon logical arguments, basedupon reason and fact."
"Ah! Now I have you back to your first statement, that science dealswith facts. But is it not true, that by your logical arguments variousand varying deductions are obtained by different students, all seekingthese finalities, which you term facts? Then which of them all is thetrue fact, and which is mere speculation?"
"I am afraid, Miss Dudley, that you have asked me a question which Iam scarcely qualified to answer. All I can say is, that so long asmatters are in dispute, we can have no knowledge of what is the truth.In speaking of facts, I only alluded to those proven hypotheses, whichhave been finally accepted by all scientists. Those are the facts ofwhich science boasts."
"Yes, many of them are accepted for a decade, and then cast aside asexploded errors. But come, I do not wish to argue too strongly againstscience. I love it too well. What I prefer to do, is to defend myother hobby, romance; that which you called fiction. I will give you aparadox. I claim that there is more fact in good fiction, and morereal fiction in accepted fact, than is generally credited."
"I am afraid I do not comprehend what you mean," said Leon, very muchpuzzled. He was growing interested in this girl who talked so well.
"Good," said Agnes. "I will gladly expound my doctrine. The bestexponent of so called fact which I can cite, is the daily press. Thenewspapers pretend to relate actual events; to tell us what reallyoccurs. But let us look into the matter but a moment, and we discoverthat only on rare occasions is the reporter present when the thinghappens, of which he is expected to write. Thus, he is obliged todepend upon others for his facts. Each person interrogated, gives hima version of the affair according with his own received impressions.But occurrences impress different persons in very different ways. ThusMr. Reporter, when he comes to his desk, finds that he must sift outhis facts from a mass of error. He does so, and obtains anapproximation of the truth. It would be erroneous enough if he werenow to write what he has deduced; but if he is at all capable, as acaterer to the public taste, he is compelled to serve his goose with afancy sauce. He must weave an amount of fiction into and around hisfacts, so that the article may have some flavor. And the flavor issweet or sour, nice or nasty, in accordance with the knownpredilections of the subscribers. What wonder that one who truly seeksfor the facts in the case, endeavoring to obtain them by readingseveral accounts, finally throws all the newspapers away in disgust!"
"Bravo, Miss Dudley! You have offered an excellent arraignment againstthe integrity of the press. But I am more curious than ever to hearyou prove that fiction contains fact."
"It must, or it is essentially inartistic. The writer who seeks topaint the world, the people, and the events of the world, as theyreally are, sets up in his mind, as a subject for copy, the sum of hisobservation of the world and the people in it. First, we will imaginethat he weaves a plot. This is the fiction of his romance. If hewrites out this story, adhering closely to his tale, calling the heroA, the heroine B, and the villain C, he deals in fiction only. Buteven here it would have no material attraction, unless it is concededto be possible; it need not be probable. But if it is a possiblesequence of events, at once we see that the basis is in fact. But whenhe goes further, and calls A, Arthur, B, Beatrice, and C, Clarence, atonce they begin to acquire the characteristics of real pe
ople, or elsepuppets. If the latter, there is no value to the conception, while ifthe former, then in dealing with these creations of his mind, thewriter must allot to each a personality, emotions, demeanor, andmorality, which must be recognizable as human. He must in other wordsclothe his dummies with the semblance of reality, and for that he mustturn to the facts of life, as he has observed them. Thus good fictionis really all fact. Q. E. D."
"Your argument is certainly ingenious, and worthy of consideration. Itis a new way to look upon fiction, and I am glad that you havereconciled me to the idea of reading novels, for I must confess thatthough, when reading _Ardath_, I felt guilty of neglecting moreimportant studies, nevertheless I was very much entertained by thebook, which contains many ideas well thought, and well presented. Butto resume the argument, as to the facts of fiction, let me say this.Is it not true that the predominant theme with novelists is love? Andwould you contend that love is the most important fact in the world?"
"Unquestionably it is the predominant fact, to use your own word. Allthe joy and misery, good and evil, is directly traceable to that oneabsorbing passion."
"You speak with feeling. Pardon my asking if it is a predominantemotion with yourself?"
"It is not," answered the girl, quickly and frankly. "Of course Iunderstand you to mean by love, the feeling which exists between twopersons of opposite sex, who are unrelated by ties of consanguinity;or, where a relationship does exist, that sort of affection which ismore than cousinly, and which leads to marriage. Such an emotion isentirely foreign to my nature, and therefore of course does not form apredominant characteristic of my being. But on this you cannot base anargument against what I claim, because I am an exception to the rule.With the vast majority, love is undoubtedly the leading motive ofexistence."
"Miss Dudley, if you find the study of mankind interesting in the formof novels, which you say record the impressions of the authors, thenyou must pardon my studying your character as you kindly reveal it tome. This must explain my further questioning. May I proceed?"
"Oh! I see! You wish to use me as the surgeon does the cadaver. Youwould dissect me, merely for the purposes of general study. It ishardly fair, but proceed." She laughed gayly.
"You said," continued Leon, "that love, such as you have described, isforeign to your nature. Am I to understand that you could not form anattachment of that kind which leads to matrimony?"
"Well, all girls say that. But I believe I may say so, and betruthful. I doubt whether any man will ever inspire me with that love,without which I would consider marriage a sin. I do not say this idly,or upon the impulse of the moment. While I have never felt thoseheart-aches of which the novelists write, yet I have considered thesubject deeply, in so far as it affects myself. So I say again, loveis foreign to my nature."
"It is very singular!" said Leon, and he spoke almost as thoughsoliloquizing. "I have the same feelings. I have always thought thatno one would ever love me; but, latterly, I have come to consider thesubject from the other stand-point, and now I believe as you do that Ishall never love any woman. If I may go further, I would like to askyou why you have adopted this theory about yourself? I will agree toexplain myself, if you will reply."
"With pleasure! From childhood I have been thrown almost exclusivelyinto the companionship of two exceptional men, my father, and Dr.Medjora. I have the sincerest affection for them both. I say this, forwithout loving them I would probably never have been so influenced bythem as I have been. While they are very unlike in theirpersonalities, yet they have one characteristic in common: a deeplonging for intellectual advancement. Growing up in such anenvironment, I have acquired the same predilection, so that now my oneaim in life is knowledge. I do not see how love could aid me in this,while I do see how it might prove a great obstacle in my pathway.Household cares, and with them the care of a man, are not conducive tothe acquirement of learning. Now I will listen to you."
"In a measure our cases are similar. I too have always deemed thesearch for knowledge the highest aim in life, but I did not extractthat desire from my surroundings, for there was no inspiration aboutme. What I have learned, prior to my companionship with Dr. Medjora,was rather stolen sweets, that I obtained only in secret. The ideasabout love, however, probably did emanate from my environment, forwhile I believe that my adopted mother loved me, I did not discover ituntil the day on which she died. Because no one loved me, I believedthat no one ever would. But in my later analysis I have come tobelieve, that after starving from the lack of affection for so manyyears, I have finally lost the responsive feeling that gives birth tothe emotion. I think that no one can attract me to that extentnecessary to enkindle in my heart the emotion called love."
He looked away in a wistful manner, and Agnes felt a slight pity forthe lad who had never known the love of his parents.
"Does it sadden you to think that way?" she asked softly.
"You have detected that? Yes! It is very curious. Ordinarily I acceptthe idea calmly. But occasionally I seem to be two persons, and one,who recognizes the happiness possible from love, looks at the otherwith pitying sympathy, because he will never love. Then in a moment Iam my single self again, but the momentary hallucination puzzles me.It is as though I had been in the presence of a wraith, and the nameof the spectre, dead to me, were Love itself. It is not a pleasantthought, and you must pardon my telling you. Ah! There comes theJudge!"
He bowed his adieux and went out into the hall to meet Judge Dudley.Agnes took up her book and essayed to read again, but the spectre oflove which he had described, danced like a little red demon withforked tail, up and down the pages, until she put the book aside andwent up to her room, where she threw herself on her lounge and lostherself in thought.
When Leon reached his room, upon returning home, he was surprised tofind his dog, Lossy, lying under his bed, growling ominously at MadameMedjora, who was poking at him with a broom handle. She was evidentlydisturbed at Leon's entrance, and turned upon him angrily.
"This dog of yours must not come in the house. I will not have it. Iam mistress here, and dogs must be kept in the stable."
Without waiting for a reply she hurried out of the room. Leon, notcomprehending what was the matter, but realizing that his pet wasunhappy, stooped to his knees and coaxed him from his hiding-place. Hewas much astonished to find that Lossy held a letter between histeeth, which, however, he yielded readily to his master. When Leon hadtaken it from him, Lossy stood in the middle of the floor and shookhimself, as a dog does after swimming, until his rumpled fur stoodsmooth and bushy. In the same moment his good temper returned. Leonrecognized the letter, as one which he had read that morning, butthough he perused it again mechanically, it did not explain to hismind the scene, of which he had witnessed only the end. Had he beenable to comprehend the situation, much of what occurred later mighthave been avoided.
What had happened was this. In the morning's mail a letter had comefor Leon, and he had read it at the breakfast-table. This excited thecuriosity of Madame Medjora, because it was the first that had come tothe boy since he had lived with them. She therefore had noted that heplaced it in his pocket, and she studied how she might becomepossessed of it. No chance offered until Leon went out, to call atJudge Dudley's. Then he changed his coat, and he had scarcely left thehouse, before the woman entered his room and eagerly searched for, andfound the letter. So engrossed was she in the perusal of it, that shedid not notice that Lossy had followed her from his master's apartmentinto her own boudoir, whither she had gone, before reading it.
The letter was as follows. As a specimen of chirography, and anexample of high grade orthography, it was worthy of a place in amuseum.
"mister leon Grath, my Dare nevue have you forgot yore Ant Matildy I hav not hearn frum you in menny menny wekes an I mus say I have fretted myself most to deth abowt my Dare Sisters little boy leon all alone in this wide wide wurld A weke ago mister potter the man that ocshioned off the Farm Wuz up to owr plase and he tole us how you wu
z makin lots of money in York along of Doctor mejory. Now ef its tru that you be makin so much money I think it only fare to let you know how much yore Ant Matildy who wus always gud an kined to you is now in knead of help the farm is goin to rack an ruin sence you lef and I want you to sen me a hundred dollars as sune as this reaches you as I knead it dredful It would be better for you and for Doctor Mejory too ef the money is sent rite off as if not I mite tell things I know wich wont be plessant Matildy Grath"
Unfortunately for Leon's future happiness later in the day Madamecopied this letter carefully, and also noted the postmark on theenvelope. Otherwise the action of Lossy would have left her dependentupon her memory, to do what she had immediately decided upon. It waswhile she was reading over her copy, that Lossy came stealthilyforward, stood upon his hind legs and took the letter, which he hadseen her steal from his master's coat. Before she fully realized herloss, the dog was scampering along the hall. She followed him intoLeon's room, and used every means to get him from under the bed.Coaxing failed, and she tried the broomstick, which she was stillusing when Leon entered.
But of all this the lad knew nothing. He read the letter again; thentore it up and threw it into the fire, supposing that the matter endedthere.
A Modern Wizard Page 19