Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (85 page)

I laid my pencil down, having covered sheet
upon sheet with questions I knew to be futile—because I should never ask them.
They were worthless, in any case, because unanswerable. I challenged myself, as
I challenge anybody, to think of better ones. He had no terms, I had no terms,
in which comprehensible answers could be given and understood. The Great War?
Pain? Sleep? Love?—I drew my pencil through at least a hundred such, and leaned
back in my chair to await events. . . .

Dusk
was falling, the room darkening, shadows gathering, and my eyes, ever on the
mysterious sleeper, saw details of wall and furniture less clearly now.
Outlines of bed and chairs and windows faded, the silhouette of the sheets
above the sleeper became filmed, there was a blur over the entire room, yet I
had the queer feeling that this was less due to the waning light than to a lack
of reality in the objects themselves. Each picture lost vividness because it
was but a transient appearance of something more real that lay behind,
something the senses never knew because no sense could apprehend directly. The
idea came, then vanished again. At the same time I became aware of an invading
stupor stealing over me, a stupor I fought against with all my power—not sleep
or exhaustion of physical kind, but a dulling of my surface consciousness, as
though some brighter faculty beyond it were trying to assert itself. That I
resisted was, I came to believe long afterwards, a mistake; I here missed an
opportunity, offered directly or indirectly by Mantravers. I can only guess at
this. It was fear that prevented. Remembering Vronski's vehement warning, I
held on to myself as tightly as I could, afraid of losing grip upon my
personality. I was afraid, too, of being caught unawares, of being taken by
surprise, suddenly horrified at the sight of the sleeper rising from his bed,
coming across the room, standing beside me, looking down into my face. . . .
And, it seemed, a long period passed, whose duration quite escaped my measurement,
for though I can swear I did not sleep, I recall that my eyes now opened with a
sudden start, and my ears similarly became sharply alert. Had twelve hours
passed or twenty-four, or a few minutes only? It was the first definite thought
that came to me—was it evening still, or early morning? The same thin layer as
of dusk or twilight lay upon the room, but objects were more plainly visible
than before. There was a light somewhere, it seemed.

The questions rose, but there was no time to
satisfy them, for the
nerves of sight and hearing were too insistent for me to think of anything
else. There had, once again, been sound and movement. I looked, I listened,
with all my power. The sleeping man was sitting up in his bed, that bell-like
resonance vibrated in the air, the syllables of my name still echoed. I saw the
figure, half upright, like some awful deity upon its throne, and the same
second, the first instant of paralysis having passed, I had sprung to my feet.
And it was at this moment, as I dashed across the carpet, that I heard a cock
crow in the distance, and knew that it was early morning.

"Come
to me, come quickly," rang the bell-like voice, "before
I
leave. Let the useless questions go. Just come to me."

I
was already beside the bed. He was sitting up, leaning back upon his hands. I
had the extraordinary impression he was going to rise and take the air. The
radiance in his eyes and face and skin was marvellous. I saw a dark blue stain
glow out upon his right temple, then fade away. It was like a bullet wound. All
memory of my questions had wholly vanished. "Dying—you mean?" came
automatically from my lips. "Is it—death?"

And
then he laughed. His eyes ran over my face, the eyes
I
had been told to avoid.

"My second death. There are so many.
This is the life
I
owed de
Frasne. All the lives are simultaneous
---------
"

A
flow of words that rushed on I cannot remember, even if I registered them.
They held no meaning for me—in the instant of utterance, that is, they held a
meaning I understood, as in a timeless flash, but meaning and understanding
were gone again as soon as born. Only the shattering effect remained, as of
something better left untold, unknown. The laughter, too, unnerved me, that
sweet, careless, unearthly laughter that seemed to break up and destroy
whatever was left of coherence in me.

"Tell us," I believe I cried,
"tell me—before you go." I know that something of the sort burst from
me. I can still hear my hoarse, breathless cry saying this. I was shaking with
terror at the same time lest he touch me, for his hand came groping towards me
where I stood against the bed. It seemed to me that if he touched me, my being
somehow must dissolve. It seemed my very self was threatened, while yet that
threatened self, trembling in the balance, understood why "life must be
lost to find it," and that my courage failed. The awful yearning and
the
awful
dread
were
there.
It
was
the
bell-like
voice,
with
its
sound of
death
or
freedom,
that
caught
me
back
into
my
pitiful
restricted cage
again,
though
not
before
I
had
realised
something
of
the
loneliness,
the
deific
beauty
and
glory
in
that
loss
of
self
without
which
no heaven
is
attainable.

"Stop
thinking,"
was
what
I
caught
of
his
answer.
"Behind
thought lies
the
entrance.
Reason
and
thinking
hold
us
in
the
life
of
least importance.
Go
behind
both
to
find
the
beginning—behind
the
mind —into
a
different
way.
You
will
find
several
lives
together
and
at once—and
more
than
one
kind
of
death.
.
.
."

His
meaning,
at
the
moment,
flashed
like
lightning
across
my
understanding,
but
his
eyes
were
now
holding
mine,
and
I
could
not
speak. Did
his
conditions
flow
over
into
me?
Did
I
borrow
some
faint
reflection
of
what
he
knew,
of
where
he
was,
of
a
difference
he
tried
to convey?
I
cannot
say.
Words
left
my
mind,
for
they
were
useless,
vain, meaningless.
No
words
existed
anywhere—the
few
he
used
are
reported
as
feebly,
inaccurately,
as
those
I
fought
to
choose
for
myself. The
mind,
as
an
instrument,
lay
helpless,
withered.
His
eyes
held mine.
I
looked,
that
is,
straight
into
his
own.
And
I
understood—oh, so
easily
and
clearly
and
simply
then—that
my
full
earth-life
was
but a
fraction,
a
trivial
rivulet,
that
ran
parallel
with
numerous
other streams
that
were
deeper,
mightier,
more
important.
It
was
a
question of
focusing
upon
this
little
rivulet,
or
spreading
attention
and
consciousness
over
them
all,
yet
simultaneously.
In
his
eyes
I
read
this fantastic
but
literal
certainty.
I
became
aware
of
stresses
of
a
kind never
before
experienced.
No
mental
or
emotional
tension
life
had brought
me
hitherto,
either
by
way
of
love,
hate,
passion,
yearning, fear,
was
akin
to
it.
I
was
stretched
and
altered,
altered
above
all,
in my
deepest
essential
being,
and
yet
such
alteration
was
easy,
natural, right,
while
entirely
new,
and
different
to
anything
I
could,
imaginatively
or
intellectually,
have
even
supposed
possible.
For
above
all
I noticed
this—that
it
was
unlike
anything
my
mind
could
have
even imagined.
.