The ladies were out driving, the following afternoon, when Dr. Hull
arrived, but Paul was at home. He brought out some cigars, and they made
themselves comfortable on the piazza.
Dr. Hull was full of questions about Ida? how she appeared; what
relations had established themselves between Miss Ludington and her;
whether she showed any memory whatever of her disembodied state; whether
the knowledge of the mystery involving her seemed in any way to affect
her spirits or temper, or to set her apart in her own estimation from
others, with many other acute and carefully considered queries calculated
to elicit the facts of her mental and spiritual condition?
"There is one point," said the doctor, "about which I am particularly
curious. How is it with her memory of her former life on earth? Does it
break off suddenly, as if on some particular day or hour her spirit had
made way for its successor, and passed away from earth?"
"On the contrary," said Paul, "she has intimated, in talking over the
past with Miss Ludington, that the memory of her life on earth is clear
and precise during its earlier portions, but that toward the last it
grows hazy and indistinct."
"Exactly," broke in the doctor. "Just as if her personality had a little
overlapped and melted at the edge into that which followed it. Yes, it is
as I thought it might be. Youth, or childhood, or infancy, or any other
epoch of life, does not abruptly cease and give place to another. Their
souls are gradually withdrawn as the light is withdrawn from the sky at
evening, and a space of twilight renders the transition from one to the
other perceptible only in the result, not in the process. This I think is
a view of the matter, that is corroborated by the testimony of our own
consciousness, don't you, Mr. De Riemer?"
"On the whole, yes," replied Paul. "And still, if she had said that the
severing of her personality from that which succeeded it was sharp and
clearly defined, so that up to a certain day, or even hour, her memory
was full and distinct, and then became a blank, there are passages in my
own experience, and I think in that of many persons, which her statement
would have made comprehensible. I think that to many, perhaps to all
persons of reflective turn of mind, there come days, even hours, when
they feel that they have suddenly passed from one epoch of life into
another. A voice says in their hearts with unmistakable clearness,
'Yesterday I was young; to day I am young no longer.' There is also
sometimes a day, I think, when the middle-aged man becomes suddenly aware
that he is old. Who shall deny the truth of these intuitions, or say that
it is not in that very day and hour that the spirit of youth or of
maturity takes its flight?"
"By the way," said Dr. Hull, "have you ever speculated on the probable
number of the souls of an individual? It is an interesting question."
"I suppose that the number may greatly differ in different individuals,"
replied Paul. "In individuals of many-sided minds and versatile
dispositions, there are, perhaps, more distinct personalities than
constitute an individual of less complex character. But how many in
either case only God can tell. Who can say? It may be that with every
breath which I expire a soul or spiritual impression of myself is sent
forth. The universe is large enough even for that. Such may at least be
the case in moments of special intensity, when we live, as we say, a year
in an hour."
They smoked on awhile in silence. Presently Paul said, "When the world
comes to recognize the composite character of the individual, that it is
composed of not one, but many persons, a new department will be added to
ethics, relating to the duties of the successive selves of an individual
to one another. It will be recognized, on the one hand, that it is the
duty of a man to fulfil all reasonable obligations incurred by his past
selves, on the same principle that a pious son fulfils the equitable
obligations incurred by a parent. This duty is, indeed, recognized
to-day, although not on the correct basis. As regards the ethical
relation of a man to the selves who succeed him, a wholly new idea will
be introduced. It will be seen that the duty of a man to lead a wise
life, to be prudent, to make the most of his powers, to maintain a good
name, is not a duty to himself, merely an enlightened selfishness, as it
is now called, but a genuine form of altruism, a duty to others, as truly
as if those others bore different names instead of succeeding to his
name. It will be seen that a man's duty to his later selves is like the
duty of a father to his helpless children: to provide for their
inheritance, to see that he leaves them a sound body and a good name, if
nothing more. It will be perceived that the man who is charitably called
'his own worst enemy,' is not only no better, but worse, than if he were
the enemy of his neighbours, because he is blasting coming lives that
have a far nearer claim upon him than any neighbour can have.
"There will arise, also, in that day, I fancy," said Paul, "some rather
delicate questions, as to how far a man may properly bind his future
selves by pledges and engagements which he has no means of knowing will
meet with their approval, and which may quite possibly prove intolerable
yokes to them."
"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor, "that is indeed an interesting point. And,
meanwhile, I should say the intelligible discussion of these questions
will involve a modification in grammatical usage. If we believe that our
present selves are distinct persons from our past selves, it is
manifestly improper to use the first person in speaking of our past
selves. Either the third person must be used, or some new grammatical
form invented."
"Yes," said Paul. "If entire accuracy is sought the first person cannot
be properly employed by any one in referring either to his past or his
future selves, to what has been done or to what will be done by them."
At this moment the carriage drew up before the house, and Paul helped the
ladies out.
Miss Ludington greeted Dr. Hull cordially, and stopped upon the piazza in
hat and shawl to talk with him. But Ida merely bowed stiffly, with
lowered eyes, and passed within.
Before they were called to tea Paul found an opportunity to tell the
doctor how sensitive Ida was to any discussion of the mystery connected
with her, and to suggest that at table any direct reference to the
subject should be avoided.
The expression of disappointment on Dr. Hull's countenance seemed to
indicate that he had anticipated thoroughly cross-questioning her in the
interest of spiritual science; but he said that he would regard Paul's
suggestion, and even admitted that it was, perhaps, natural she should
feel as she did, although he had not anticipated it.
At the table, therefore, Ida was spared any direct reference to herself
as a phenomenon, and although Dr. Hull talked of nothing but spiritualism
and the immortality of past selves, it was in their broad and general
aspects that the subjects were discussed.
"Your nephew," he said to Miss Ludington, "has evidently given much time
and profound thought to these matters; and although I am an old man, and
have been more interested in the spiritual than the material universe for
these many years, I was glad of an opportunity to sit at his feet this
afternoon."
Turning to Paul, he added, "What you were saying about the possibility
that souls, or, at least, spiritual impressions, destined to eternity,
are given forth by us constantly, as if at every breath, is wonderfully
borne out in a passage from a communication I had from Mrs. Legrand
yesterday, to which I meant to have alluded at the time you were
speaking. She said that those who supposed that the spirit-land contained
only one soul for every individual that had ever lived had no conception
of its vastness, and that the stream of souls constantly ascending is
like a thick mist rising from all the earth. The phrase struck me as
strangely strong, but I can conceive now how she might have come to use
it.
"What is your conjecture, or have you none at all," he added, after a
moment's thought, still addressing Paul, "as to the relation which will
exist in the spirit-land among the several souls of the same individual?"
"It seems to me," said Paul, "that the souls of an individual, being
contemporaneous over there, and all together in the eternal present, will
be capable of blending in a unity which here on earth, where one is gone
before another comes, is impossible. The result of such a blending would
be a being which, in stead of shining with the single ray of a soul on
earth, would blaze from a hundred facets simultaneously. The word
'individual,' as applied here on earth, is a misuse of language. It is
absurd to call that an individual which every hour divides. The, earthly
stage of human life is so small that there is room for but one of the
persons of an individual upon it at one time. The past and future selves
have to wait in the side scenes. But over there the stage is larger.
There will be room for all at once. The idea of an individual, all whose
personalities are contemporaneous, may there be realized, and such an
individual would be, by any earthly measurement, a god.
"But there are many individuals," he pursued after a pause, "of which we
cannot imagine a blending of the successive persons to be possible.
There, for instance, are cases where there exist radical and bitter
oppositions and differences of character, and propensity between the
youth and the manhood of the individual. In the case of such ill-assorted
personalities a divorce _ex vinculo individui_ may be the only remedy;
and, possibly, the parties to it may be sent back to earth, to take their
chances of finding more congenial companions."
Ida had not said a word during the time they had sat at table. She had,
indeed, scarcely lifted her eyes from her plate.
As they rose she challenged Paul to a game at croquet, for which the
twilight left ample opportunity.
Miss Ludington and Dr. Hull sat upon the piazza in full view of the
players.
"What do you call her?" he asked, abruptly, after a pause in their
conversation.
"Why, we call her Ida, of course," replied Miss Ludington, with some
surprise. "What else could we call her? Is not her name Ida Ludington?"
"On my own account," said Dr. Hull, "I should not have needed to ask you,
because I am acquainted with the circumstances of the reassumption of her
earthly life and name, but how would you introduce her to one who was not
so acquainted--to any one, in fact, besides yourself, your nephew, and
myself?"
"In the same way, I suppose," replied Miss Ludington.
"Precisely," said the doctor "but if they were acquainted with your
family, or if they took any special interest in her, would they not want
to know what was the nature of her relationship to you? She could not be
your daughter. They would ask what was her connection with your family.
To tell them the truth would be of no use at all, for no one on earth
would believe what we know to be true, nor could I blame them, for I,
myself, would not have believed it if I had not been a witness."
Miss Ludington was silent a while. Then she said: "It does not matter; we
see few, I may say no strangers, or even acquaintances; we live alone. It
is enough that we know her."
"Yes," replied the doctor. "It is, indeed, quite another thing to what it
would be if you had a large circle of acquaintances. So long as you live,
it is not important, and I presume that your health is good."
"What is it that is not important?" demanded Miss Ludington.
"Why that she should have a name," replied the doctor, lifting his
eyebrows with an expression of slight surprise. "Unfortunately, the
courts do not recognize such a relation as exists between you and this
young lady. You are the only Miss Ludington in the eye of the law, and
she is non-existent, or, at least, an anonymous person. She has not so
much as a name sign on a hotel-register. But so long as you live to look
after her she is not likely to suffer."
"But I may die!" exclaimed Miss Ludington.
"In that case it would be rather awkward for her," said the doctor. "She
would die with you in the eye of the law" and here he branched off into
rather a fantastical discourse on the oddities and quiddities of the law
and lawyers, against whom he seemed to have a great grudge.
"But, Dr. Hull, what can I do about it?" said Miss Ludington, as he
quieted down.
"Excuse me. About what?"
"How can I give her a name in the eye of the law?"
"Oh--ah--exactly? Well, that's easy enough; there are two ways. You can
adopt her, or some young fellow can marry her, and if I were a young
man--if you'll excuse an old gentleman for the remark--it would not be my
fault if she were not provided with a legal title very soon."
Declining Miss Ludington's proposal to send him to the ferry in her
carriage, the doctor, soon after, took his leave.
He paused as he passed the croquet-ground and stood watching the players.
It came Ida's turn, and he waited to see her play. It was a very easy
shot which she had to make; she missed it badly. He bade them
good-evening, and went on.