Man Without a Shadow

by Colin Wilson

  Cunningham then proposed that they go for a swim, but Wedmore was too excited. He stayed where he was, and watched the others swimming in the moonlight. They then came out of the water and copulated openly on the sand. Suddenly, Wedmore said, he understood the full grandeur of Cunningham’s conception. Cunningham wanted to shock people like himself and arouse doubts in their minds because truth itself is a paradox; he took an ironic pleasure in seeing them struggling with despair when he himself was in permanent contact with the truth, and knew that they could reach it too with a very slight effort of will.

  That night, Wedmore said, he felt as if he was being torn in two. He tried to kneel down and pray, but thought he heard a voice shout: ‘Don’t do that you fool, or you’re lost.’ He went out and walked over the island, cutting his bare feet badly on the stones, but not even noticing this. Something inside him kept saying: ‘I have discovered the truth, but perhaps it is too late. I have already destroyed too much of myself’. He realized that his religious training—even though he had been an avowed atheist since his fifteenth year—had given him a tendency to believe that only the conscious motives matter. He felt that if, on the Day of Judgement, he was accused of being a sink of filth and lust, he would be able to reply: ‘But I fought it with all my will-power.’ He had developed a very considerable will-power for suppressing his ‘lust’. Now, quite suddenly, he was told to try to listen to the voice of his lust and all the other obscure impulse from ‘down there’, to decide how he should live. But years of repressing these feelings had made him incapable of treating these impulses as friends; he had been regarding them as enemies for too long. This knowledge made him feel as if he was suffocating.

  For two days he went through a great crisis, sometimes praying, sometimes thinking about his past problems and how easily he might have solved them if he had known about his ‘true self’. Finally, the squealing and giggling of the other guests drove him to the other side of the island (which I gather is only a few hundred yards across), where he had a sense of tremendous greatness, of standing on a mountain top. He realized that Cunningham was the only one who shared this greatness with him. All the others were there from base motives. Their orgies were not the prompting of their ‘true will’, but self-conscious titillations that were only a temporary escape from their littleness. He felt that he had released something in himself that made him feel as great as a mountain or a giant; he was aware of subconscious powers as vast as the sea. This sense of his own limitlessness—that he had never before recognized—took away his breath. He said that he suddenly realized that he had been living in a tiny, cold room when he had a whole palace at his disposal.

  He now began to feel feverish excitement. He took advantage of the lax rules of the place to have sexual intercourse with every woman there. He even tried the two boys. This aroused the resentment of the Greek, and one of the Rome playboys insulted him and tried to get him to fight a duel. But he felt so superior to them that he only laughed, and pulled their girls into bed again. The Greek left in a rage, taking his girl (who was most reluctant to go). Wedmore now had a tremendous reaction of disgust and bewilderment; he begged Cunningham to initiate him into the innermost mysteries, but Cunningham laughed and said that he was an ignorant peasant. He decided that he must return to New Zealand. But on his last evening there, Cunningham projected his astral body so that it shared Wedmore’s body, and Wedmore was aware of being able to read all Cunningham’s thoughts and his past history, and of also revealing himself completely to Cunningham. That night, he had an exceptionally vivid dream in which he was a London paper merchant on his deathbed. The dream seemed to progress backwards in a series of scenes, and when he woke up, he was dreaming that he was witnessing the coronation of Queen Victoria. He knew, even before he spoke to Cunningham, that he had now penetrated into his last incarnation, the London businessman who had always had an urge to enter a monastery, and who died at the age of fifty of a cancer. When he told Cunningham, Cunningham replied that he was now beginning to gain control of his subconscious impulses, and would eventually learn about all his previous incarnations.

  Wedmore went back to New Zealand, but now he was a convinced disciple of Cunningham. He sent him money regularly, had established a Cunningham society in Auckland, and was now going to California to preach the Master’s doctrines there.

  What amused me was that Wedmore was still the shrewd and wideawake Scotch businessman. He had sold his farm, and invested the money in such a way as to ensure that he would have enough to last him for the rest of his life, which he would devote to spreading Cunningham’s ideas. Cunningham had tried to persuade him that he would do better to stay in New Zealand and continue to farm. Wedmore winked, and said: ‘I know what he’s after. With things as they are at present, I need all my money for travel and living expenses. If I stayed on in New Zealand, I’d have money to give Cunningham, and that’s what he’d prefer. But I’d rather travel!’ So in spite of his enthusiasm, he has no illusions about Cunningham!

  What interested me most was all the talk about magical ceremony. This is obviously an aspect of Cunningham that I have yet to see.

  Wedmore told me, incidentally, that two of the women in Cunningham’s life had committed suicide, having increased their mental instability with drugs. Drugs apparently do not affect Cunningham, and he claims he can use them and give them up exactly as he pleases.

  I told Wedmore something about myself, my ideas, my ambitions. He seemed puzzled; evidently I am too much of an ‘intellectual’ to appeal to his temperament. He finally said: ‘Well, you must have some remarkable qualities, or Cunningham wouldn’t have spoken of you as he has.’ I didn’t know whether this was flattery or an expression of disappointment.

  I ended by saying that I thought magic was nonsense. Then Wedmore said, ponderously: ‘Magic is only an attempt to invoke the force of life. All life is magic already.’ This struck me more than anything else he said to me.

  As I left, I told him Wise’s idea that Cunningham has exposed himself to spiritual reprisals for breaking some oaths. I expected him to deny this, but to my surprise, he nodded, and said: ‘I have sometimes thought the same. He is dogged by the most appalling bad luck. Still, all great prophets have to go through trials and torments. . . .’

  Nov. 26th.

  Yesterday evening was curious, but I am too tired to write about it at length. I must stop this writing; it leaves me exhausted, and I sometimes feel as if I’m writing my life instead of living it.

  Kirsten met Diana on the stairs when she came home from work. Naturally, he thought she was coming to see him, and she didn’t want to disillusion him. She told him that she was coming to collect some of her clothes, and that she was living alone for the time being. Kirsten told her he was moving, and she finally hit upon the excellent idea of storing her clothes in my flat until she finds a permanent place of her own. This means that she can be seen coming into my place now without arousing suspicion. So Kirsten and she moved several bags and suitcases up here, and now the place is littered with all kinds of women’s belongings. She let him understand that the liaison with the bookmaker is continuing, and this seems to satisfy him, although I think he is now permitting himself the sentimental pleasure of imagining that he’s unhappy about it.

  Later we went up to Cunningham’s, and found him in a most weird mood. I think he’d been taking drugs. As soon as Diana came in, he declared that she was giving off ‘psychic vibrations’ and that he suspected her of being a medium. He made her sit down, gave her a large gin, then made Oliver bring up one of his paintings—an abstract that looks as if its central object is the sun. He set this up on an armchair, illuminated by a table lamp, and made her stare at it, while he slowly stroked her forehead. In about two minutes she seemed to be asleep. Then he asked her where she was. She answered, in a rather monotonous voice: ‘Here, in this house.’ He said: ‘Have you any message for me?�
��, and she said: ‘No message. This house is full of evil.’ I felt myself shivering—there was something oddly impressive about it, although it wasn’t at all theatrical—in fact, it seemed somehow as commonplace as asking her questions while fully awake.

  Cunningham said: ‘What is the evil?’, and she replied: ‘It is the evil of displaced energy.’ (I saw Cunningham look puzzled at this; he asked her to elaborate, but she didn’t reply.) I can’t detail all the questions and answers. Some of them seemed meaningless to me. He would ask something like: ‘What is the meaning of 726?’, and she would reply: ‘I see two men clothed in red.’ I strongly suspected her of pulling his leg and only pretending to be in a trance.

  Finally, Cunningham asked her again: ‘What is the evil?’, and she replied: ‘It is the force of 726 who intends to destroy your work.’ At this, Cunningham went unexpectedly pale, and sat down. This made me realize that, at least as far as he was concerned, the thing was no joke. Then he asked, rather shakily: ‘Can I do anything to prevent it?’, and she replied: ‘Not unless the forces have forgiven you.’ ‘Can I do anything to hasten this?’ ‘Yes. Learn to live from your centre.’ He asked her for further details, but all she would say was: ‘There is one in the room who understands.’

  Cunningham seemed strangely upset by this. He said: ‘I am going to awaken you now. When you are awake, you will remember nothing of what you have said.’ He started to make passes over her forehead, when Kirsten interrupted him, and asked if she was bound to tell the truth in her state of trance. Cunningham said yes. Kirsten then asked if he could ask her questions. I wanted to interfere—this seemed to me unfair—then realized that my indignation arose from a sense that Diana was, in some sense, mine, and that I could hardly expect Kirsten to understand this! So I had to keep quiet. But all he asked her was: ‘Are you in love with someone else?’ She answered immediately: ‘Yes.’ He asked ‘Have you betrayed me with him?’, and again she answered, ‘Yes.’ I was now on tenterhooks; it seemed impossible that he would not now ask her the name of her lover. But Kirsten simply sat down gloomily, and said to Cunningham: ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  Cunningham’s face surprised me; he looked more downcast than I’ve ever seen him. He made passes over her forehead, and she woke up and didn’t seem at all curious about what had gone on while she was asleep. Then Cunningham asked us if we’d mind going downstairs to Oliver’s studio for a while, as he wanted to be alone. So we went. Oliver was working, but didn’t seem to resent the interruption. He asked: ‘Did it work?’, and when Kirsten said (rather unhappily) that it did, he looked pleased with himself, and said that he’d painted the picture upstairs to Cunningham’s specifications. I asked him how Cunningham could ‘describe’ an abstract painting as complex as the one we’d seen, and he replied: ‘He didn’t describe it—he showed it to me. He made me close my eyes, placed his hands on my head, and suddenly I saw exactly what he wanted.’ Kirsten shook his head and said: ‘That man is a black magician.’ Then, to my amazement, Diana gasped, and went horribly pale. We helped her into a chair. She looked at Kirsten and said: ‘What you said . . . it reminded me of something.’ Then she looked around, shivered, and said: ‘There is evil in this house.’ Oliver said cheerfully: ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I find the atmosphere helps me to work.’ I could see his point. His new paintings were very powerful indeed, full of that quality of atmosphere that Oliver has always possessed, which seems to have nothing to do with anything specific in the painting, but almost to have been added afterwards, like the varnish.

  Cunningham called to me to go upstairs. I found him sitting in the chair, now looking definitely ill. I asked him if I could get him anything, but he shook his head, and said: ‘This is not a physical illness. That girl has made me realize that I’ve got a hard fight ahead.’ I tried to make him explain himself. But all he would say was: ‘There are forces that want to kill me. They won’t succeed.’ This all sounded nonsensical to me. He sat there, staring at Oliver’s painting, and wouldn’t talk, so I helped myself to a gin and sat down. Then he said: ‘It’s a great pity. One imagines that one has broken through at last . . . into the daylight. Then the darkness comes again.’ Then, for another quarter of an hour, he didn’t speak at all. Finally, he said: ‘Gerard, perhaps you can help me. That girl’s a bad medium. Her own personality gets mixed up with the message. But if I could hypnotize you, you might be able to tell me how to defeat them.’ I said: ‘All right, if you think it’s worth trying.’ He said: ‘No, not now. At midnight.’ He then became more cheerful and we went down and joined the others. He suggested that we go out for a meal, and all five of us walked out towards Whitechapel High Street. On the way we passed the end of our street, and to my amazement I saw Gertrude’s blue Consul parked outside my door. I explained to them that I thought I had a visitor—this was out of a sense of duty, for I shrank from the idea of meeting her at the moment. So we all went up to my room, and found Gertrude sitting in the armchair, reading my book on Weir. Apparently she’d seen Father Carruthers during the afternoon, and he had mentioned seeing me in a taxicab with Radin and—believe it or not—said I looked unhappy! (How the devil you can see unhappiness through two panes of glass I don’t know.)

  I introduced her to everyone; as soon as she spoke to Diana, I felt that she smelt out her connection with me—or, at least, saw her as a rival. Even introducing Diana as Mrs Kirsten made no difference. (On second thoughts, no doubt it was the presence of Diana’s cases that made her suspicious.)

  She was obviously pleased to see Oliver again, and put herself out to be nice to him. I suggested that she should join us for a meal, and we all went off in her car to the Chinese restaurant. She didn’t ask me why I hadn’t been to see her, and I had a feeling that she hadn’t wanted me to go. One thing she said made me curious. She mentioned that Father Carruthers seems to have made a remarkable recovery and is now moving around a great deal. I asked her innocently why she’d been to see him, and she coloured. Oliver said cheerfully: ‘You’re not thinking of becoming a Catholic, are you?’, and to my surprise, she said: ‘Would that be so strange?’ Cunningham took this up immediately, and began telling her that she couldn’t take a better step. This startled me, coming from him, but it evidently delighted Gertrude, who immediately launched into an intimate conversation with Cunningham—as intimate, that is, as a dinner-table will permit. They sat at the end, and talked as if the rest of us weren’t present.

  We left at about eleven. I insisted on paying for Kirsten and Diana, for I’m tired of taking meals off Cunningham (and realizing that they’re paid for with Oliver’s money). Gertrude then said she should go home, but Cunningham persuaded her to come back to his place to have her fortune read in the Tarot. She explained that she didn’t believe in it, but came nevertheless. We all went into Oliver’s studio again—it is bigger, and has more chairs, than Cunningham’s—and Cunningham shuffled the Tarot cards, selected one that is supposed to stand for Gertrude, and then laid out ten cards. He then read the interpretation of the cards out of a book of Eliphaz Levi. I could see that Gertrude was impressed. She looked embarrassed and confused when Cunningham claimed that the cards revealed an element of sensuality in her past life (and Diana shot me an odd look—I wonder sometimes if she’s clairvoyant). But the card that represented her future was—the Pope! Cunningham then declared that they would cross-check the results by consulting the I Ching, and brought out three Chinese coins with holes in the middle, which he made Gertrude throw down six times. Each time she threw, he drew a line—either broken or unbroken. He then looked up the result, and again produced a result that was weirdly close to the reading in the Tarot. The book said that Gertrude was to be ‘given in marriage’, which symbolizes a religious commitment, and gave various other details of her past and future, including ‘loss of maidenly virtue’, all of which startled her.

  Diana very sensibly slipped off, saying that she had to go home. I had g
iven her a spare key to my flat, so she was able to let herself in. Gertrude and Cunningham got into a discussion of magic, in which she expressed herself strongly about the wickedness of such superstitions. This had the effect of rather spoiling the pleasant rapport between them. She finally left, but told me that she might come and see me soon; I got the impression that she had something on her mind. Finally, as midnight struck, Cunningham asked me to go up to his room. The first thing he asked me to do was to consult the Tarot for him. I did this under his instructions, and the results did not reassure him. The card representing his future was a tower collapsing, with people falling out of it. The card representing himself was—the Devil! And the card representing his ‘final end’ indicated absolution and repentance, followed by a restoration of grace.

  Cunningham became extremely depressed, and said: ‘It seems that the time of revelations has arrived.’ He said that there are certain times when the future is completely opaque, and others when it can be divined to a certain extent. The present, he said, was the opposite extreme from the opaque—complete clarity, and it would be necessary to take advantage of it while it lasted.

  He then said that he proposed to try and hypnotize me, and that I should do my best to help him by relaxing my will completely. He also offered various other instructions, which I can’t be bothered to detail. At all events, the whole thing was a failure. I was tired enough—I could barely keep my eyes open—but staring at the illuminated picture of Oliver’s only seemed to make me more awake. Cunningham tried swinging a bright silver medallion in front of my eyes, and stroking my forehead from behind, but it made absolutely no difference. My mind has never felt clearer and more sceptical. At one point, I thought I was ‘going off’, but I was only getting sleepy, and suddenly woke up with a start. After half an hour of this, Cunningham looked very tired. He said it was obviously no use going on, and that perhaps he might be able to hypnotize Oliver. He said he was puzzled about me—that he had a definite feeling that I would be an excellent medium, but that there was something in my personality that he had left out of account.