I longed to probe this madness of his that I might convince myself of it, otherwise Hubert"s situation must for ever appal me.
He answered quietly, "I will tell you--n.o.body else knows--and even you may--"
He hesitated, then he said:--
"No, you will believe it."
"Yes, if you tell me it is true."
"It is absolutely true.
"Bernard, you know what I was when you left England for America--gay, frivolous in my pleasures, although earnest when I was working. You know how I lived to sound the depths of sensation, how I loved to stretch all my mental and physical capacities to the snapping-point, how I shrank from no sin that could add one jot or t.i.ttle to my knowledge of the mind of any man or woman who interested me. My life seemed a full life then.
I moved in the midst of a thousand intrigues. I strung beads of all emotions upon my rosary, and told them until at times my health gave way. You remember my recurring periods of extraordinary and horrible mental depression--when life was a demon to me, and all my success in literature less than nothing; when I fancied myself hated, and could believe I heard phantom voices abusing me. Then those fits pa.s.sed away, and once more I lived as ardently as ever, the most persistent worker, and the most persistent excitement-seeker in London.
"Well, after you went away I continued my career. As you know, my success increased. Through many sins I had succeeded in diving very deep into human hearts of men and women. Often I led people deliberately away from innocence in order that I might observe the gradual transformation of their natures. Often I spurred them on to follies that I might see the effect our deeds have upon our faces--the seal our actions set upon our souls. I was utterly unscrupulous, and yet I thought myself good-hearted. You remember that my servants always loved me, that I attracted people. I can say this to you. For some time my usual course was not stayed. Then--I recollect it was in the middle of the London season--one of my horrible fits of unreasonable melancholy swept over me. It stunned my soul like a heavy blow. It numbed me. I could not go about. I could not bear to see anybody. I could only shut myself up and try to reason myself back into my usual gaiety and excitement. My writing was put aside. My piano was locked. I tried to read, but even that solace was denied to me. My attention was utterly self-centred, riveted upon my own condition.
"Why, I said to myself, am I the victim of this despair, this despair without a cause? What is this oppression which weighs me down without reason? It attacks me abruptly, as if it were sent to me by some power, shot at me like an arrow by an enemy hidden in the dark. I am well--I am gay. Life is beautiful and wonderful to me. All that I do interests me.
My soul is full of vitality. I know that I have troops of friends, that I am loved and thought of by many people. And then suddenly the arrow strikes me. My soul is wounded and sickens to death. Night falls over me, night so sinister that I shudder when its twilight comes. All my senses faint within me. Life is at once a hag, weary, degraded, with tears on her cheeks and despair in her hollow eyes. I feel that I am deserted, that my friends despise me, that the world hates me, that I am less than all other men--less in powers, less in attraction--that I am the most crawling, the most grovelling of all the human species, and that there is no one who does not know it. Yet the doctors say I am not physically ill, and I know that I am not mad. Whence does this awful misery, this unmeaning, causeless horror of life and of myself come? Why am I thus afflicted?
"Of course I could find no answer to all these old questions, which I had asked many times before. But this time, Bernard, my depression was more lasting, more overwhelming than usual. I grew terribly afraid of it. I thought I might be driven to suicide. One day a crisis seemed to come. I dared no longer remain alone, so I put on my hat and coat, took my stick, and hurried out, without any definite intention. I walked along Piccadilly, avoiding the glances of those whom I met. I fancied they could all read the agony, the degradation of my soul. I turned into Bond Street, and suddenly I felt a strong inclination to stop before a certain door. I obeyed the impulse, and my eyes fell on a bra.s.s plate, upon which was engraved these words:--
VANE.
Clairvoyant.
11 till 4 daily.
"I remember I read them several times over, and even repeated them in a whisper to myself. Why? I don"t know. Then I turned away, and was about to resume my walk. But I could not. Again I stopped and read the legend on the bra.s.s plate. On the right-hand side of the door was an electric bell. I put my finger on it and pressed the b.u.t.ton inwards. The door opened, and I walked, like a man in a dream, I think, up a flight of narrow stairs. At the top of them was a second door, at which a maidservant was standing.
""You want to see Mr Vane, sir?"
""Yes. Can I?"
""If you will come in, sir, I will see."
"She showed me into a commonplace, barely-furnished little room, and, after a short period of waiting, summoned me to another, in which stood a tall, dark youth, dressed in a gown rather like a college gown. He bowed to me, and I silently returned the salutation. The servant left us. Then he said:--
""You wish me to exert my powers for you?"
""Yes."
""Will you sit here?"
"He motioned me to a seat beside a small round table, sat down opposite to me, and took my hand. After examining it through a gla.s.s, and telling my character fairly correctly by the lines in it, he laid the gla.s.s down and regarded me narrowly.
""You suffer terribly from depression," he said.
""That is true."
"He continued to gaze upon me more and more fixedly. At length he said:--
""Do you know that everybody has a companion?"
""How--a companion?"
""Somebody incessantly with them, somebody they cannot see."
""You believe in the theory of guardian angels?"
""I do not say these companions are always guardian angels. I see your companion now, as I look at you. His face is by your shoulder."
"I started, and glanced hastily round; but, of course, could see nothing.
""Shall I describe him?"
""Yes," I said.
""His face is dark, like yours; shaven, like yours. He has brown eyes, just as brown as yours are. His mouth and his chin are firm and small, as firm and small as yours."
""He must be very like me."
""He is. But there is a difference between you."
""What is it?"
""His hair is cut more closely than yours, and part of it is shaved off."
""He is a priest, then?"
""He wears a cowl. He is a monk."
""A monk! But why does he come to me?"
""I should say that he cannot help it, that he is your spirit in some former state. Yes"--and he stared at me till his eyes almost mesmerised me--"you must have been a monk once."
""I--a monk! Impossible! Even if I have lived on earth before, it could never have been as a monk."
""How do you know that?"
""Because I am utterly without superst.i.tions, utterly free from any lingering desire for an ascetic life. That existence of silence, of ignorance, of perpetual prayer, can never have been mine."
""You cannot tell," was all his answer.
II
"When I left Bond Street that afternoon I was full of disbelief.
However, I had paid my half-guinea and escaped from my own core of misery for a quarter of an hour. That was something. I didn"t regret my visit to this man Vane, whom I regarded as an agreeable charlatan. For a moment he had interested me. For a moment he had helped me to forget my useless wretchedness. I ought to have been grateful to him. And, as always, my soul regained its composure at last. One morning I awoke and said to myself that I was happy. Why? I did not know. But I got up. I was able to write once more. I was able to play. I felt that I had friends who loved me and a career before me. I could again look people in the face without fear. I could even feel a certain delightful conceit of mind and body. Bernard, I was myself. So I thought, so I knew. And yet, as days went by, I caught myself often thinking of this invisible, tonsured, and cowled companion of mine, whom Vane had seen, whom I did not see. Was he indeed with me? And, if so, had he thoughts, had he the holy thoughts of a spirit that has renounced the world and all fleshly things? Did he still keep that cloistered nature which is at home with silence, which aspires, and prays, and lives for possible eternity, instead of for certain time? Did he still hold desolate vigils? Did he still scourge himself along the th.o.r.n.y paths of faith? And, if he did, how must he regard me?
"I remember one night especially how this last thought was with me in a dreary house, where I sinned, and where I dissected a heart.