"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 tittle 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 passed 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 brass 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 brass plate. On the right-hand side of the door was an electric
bell. I put my finger on it and pressed the button 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 glass, and telling
my character fairly correctly by the lines in it, he laid the glass 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 superstitions, 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.