“Plenty, plenty, thank you!” he insisted, as the liquor reached the
brim of the glass.
“But the trouble with Westermark and the other scientific observers,” I
began, “is that they give you second-hand knowledge of men and women,
theirs is mostly book knowledge. I always feel that I am reading works
upon heated blood written by cold, dried-up, bloodless professors, who
lack the first-hand experience of one’s own life.”
“I am a professor myself;” said he.
“I beg your pardon, but I mean--”
“Tush--tush!” said he, “you are entirely right. I had to resign my
professorship because of a woman. I say, this is a mighty good drink.”
He took the pitcher and refilled his own glass.
“My dear sir,” said he, unbending and stretching his legs, “I like you,
for sometimes we can say things to a stranger which we would not dare
breathe to a life-long friend. Fourteen years ago I was a professor at
a Theological Seminary; I was a lover of beauty, a devout searcher for
truth, as natural and free as I am with you now. (Here he lighted one
of my cigars.) One twilight in April, the Chairman of the Faculty came
to my room, told me that I was the subject of gossip, that my words
shocked the New Englanders, and that I must be more circumspect in my
conduct. His words wounded my frank nature. I went to Boston and got
intoxicated, and sent the Faculty this telegram, saying, “Good-bye,
my colleagues. Your world is not my world. Yours is a world of sham
learning, hypocritical inconsistency between your reason and your
emotions. Good-bye.” Naturally, it was an indiscreet thing to do; but
you can wager that they never published that telegram.”
“I should think not;” I said, smiling.
He knocked the ashes off his cigar and continued:
“Seriously, my friend, it is this theological tinkering that has caused
most of the trouble in this world. Long ago when the world was young,
men wanted to do certain things; so they invented gods and told their
people that it was the gods, not themselves, who wanted these things
done. Then began the tinkering with what was beyond man’s sphere. Then
man began to tinker with elements over which he had no control, with
elements which he was never meant to comprehend. He segregated men and
women apart, and made the distance between them contrary to natural
laws. Instead of allowing Nature to run her beautiful course, he set
up laws out of his own little brain. In order to protect himself as a
selfish egoist, in order to gain power over his fellow men, in order to
be able to own any woman whom he might desire under the guise of divine
right, he had the assurance to say that these laws were God-given,
and that therefore his wilful possession of a woman was a sacrament!
That is what I mean by his tinkering, mental juggling with elemental
truths which he did not understand and had no right to touch. It was
his conceit. His sophistry for physical perversion. Do you know what
‘God-given’ means? I don’t. And I have been trying to find out for
twenty years. And woman, like the silly she has always been, said
it was grand, and acquiesced; while all other animals have, without
man’s arrogance, remained true to their elemental nature, and so are
spared our trials and shortcomings. I am right, I am right, I know I am
right! That is why civilization is a failure, caused by man’s tinkering
with the fundamental, basic operations of the ordinary course of the
perpetuation of the species.”
When the strange professor finished speaking, I confess that I was at a
loss for words, and asked:
“Do you really believe that civilization is a failure?”
“My dear sir, look about you. Side by side with material progress, with
perfected inventions and conquest of disease, how much have our morals
improved? How much have our vanities diminished? Do men and women grow
more and more faithful to that sacrament? Do our cities grow more and
more pure, and free from the taint of perversion? With our much-vaunted
inheritance of art and culture, what has become of the freedom of the
will, which was said to be the supreme good in that inheritance?”
“Well,” I said, “you are not saying anything new; we all know
that! What are you going to do about it? You Ibsens are wonderful
diagnosticians, but what we want is a cure!”
“That is only a quibble, if indeed it is not nonsense,” answered the
strange professor, “for then you admit that we have not freedom of the
will, that there is no such thing; well, my friend, I heartily agree
with you. It is not a question of free will with us, it is a question
of strength of will and weakness of will, which is purely a matter of
fate.”
“Surely you are not a fatalist!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, every inch a fatalist. You doubt my faith in my convictions,
I see? Would you like me to prove them to you by supernatural means?”
Here the man leered at me with defiance, and I grew uneasy and longed
for Sandy’s return.
“Proceed if you wish;” I said, folding my arms.
“My dear sir,” he began, rising and holding out his hand for me to
clasp, “can I trust you? If you do not wish to believe me, may I prove
my position to you by a discovery for which I searched a lifetime,
an invention on which I lavished the slavery of years, an invention
whose workings may warp your credulity until you doubt my sanity and
your own. Can I trust you with my secret? I have the instrument in
that valise. That is why I have walked up the seven flights of stairs,
because the elevator’s motion would upset its delicate mechanism. Can I
trust you?”
“Proceed if you wish;” I said, without taking his hand, for there was
something uncanny about the man in his present state.
“Listen to me. I may be a trifle long, but if you knew how I am
enjoying myself, yes, how I am relieving my brain by detaining you! I
say relieving my brain, for it is about pent-up brains that I am about
to speak. Have you ever thought that when each one of us dies, how many
facts, memories, griefs, joys, are enclosed in the folds of our brain?
How our skull is literally the storehouse of all we knew, felt and
experienced. That in there, it was; and that in there, it must be? I
have spent hours roaming through museums in which mummies were exposed;
I have spent still more hours passing through cemeteries where the
countless dead, known and unknown, lie. What if their skulls could be
tapped? I asked myself, would we not find a few ideas, perhaps, which
had filtered to the bone and survived alone of all the mind that was?
“My dear sir, you know what we have done with electricity? Thirty years
ago, the first time I heard over the telephone, it sounded like a voice
from the other world, and many believed that it was, until we got so
we could recognize the individual voice. On that line of the vibratory
properties of matter, I have worked. If we can vibrate with the dead,
they will reply. I followed the example of that famous musician who
said he would fiddle down a bridge. And he did. I, in turn, sought to
fiddle down that invisible bridge over which we must all walk with
astral steps. And, sir, my efforts have been rewarded.”
That instant he ceased speaking, and there came the same gentle knock
at my inner closet door.
“There he is now!” uttered the strange professor.
“Who?” I asked, breathlessly.
“My mummy! My mummy! You shall hear him orate. Has he tapped before I
came this evening?”
I was paralyzed with fear, believing that I was in the presence of a
spiritualistic maniac. But I maintained my composure as the surest
means of safeguard, and held my tongue.
The strange professor took from his pocket a bunch of keys, unlocked
his valise, produced an instrument not unlike the phonograph, attached
a long rubber tube to it, the tube having two metal balls at the other
end; these balls he carried to the closet door, unlocked it and drew
out the case of an Egyptian mummy! The professor turned off the lights.
What he did, I know not. I heard him start his machine. I heard him
rummage in the closet and say, “Here is your suit of modern clothes!”
After long trying moments for me, he turned on the lights, and a man
with a yellow complexion sat between us; and the mummy case was empty.
I swear it upon my oath.
“Tell the gentleman who you are,” demanded the strange professor, “make
for him your oration, as you did for me. Are you able to stand alone
now?”
The man arose and said:
“I belong to the Undying Ones. I am the Thracian, named Zalmoxis, of
whom Herodotus tells. I could not endure the civilization of my time,
and had a subterranean hall built in which to reside. The people of my
day believed that I never died. But I did die, though I contracted with
an Egyptian priest to embalm and mummify me. And here is my secret. I
took with me the power to return at the end of certain cycles of years
to the land of the living. How I came by that power, I reveal to no
man, neither do I reveal the term of my cycles, lest the living plot
against me. Besides this, I learned the art wherewith to speak the
language of whatever land or age in which I may arise. The last I spoke
was Arabic. At another time I was a contemporary of Cartaphilus, the
Usher of the Divan in Jerusalem. He was Pilate’s door-keeper at the
time of Christ’s trial. I myself saw him strike Jesus on the neck when
the young men were leading Him from the hall of judgment. I hear that
this Jew who smote Jesus has also lived since.
“Ah, if you could believe that with these eyes of mine, I have seen the
ancient caliphs of Babylon; that with these legs I have traveled the
empire of the Saracens; that with these arms, I fought throughout the
wars in the Holy Land. I was a compatriot of the bravest man who ever
walked the earth, Godfrey de Bouillon.”
“Tell us,” said the strange professor, cutting him short, “in your
various revisits to this land of the living, what impresses you the
most?”
“I look back with surprise and wonder at the intricate systems of the
theology of the ancient Greek and Roman, and can scarcely credit the
credulity which could receive them as truths and cherish them with
reverence from age to age. I marvel at my own faith in them. Yet the
doctrines of the Trinity and of the Resurrection, no whit less dark and
intricate, and requiring nothing less of credulity, I see you receive
with religious reverence, and respect as revelations of Deity.
“Indeed, when I consider the faith which is requisite for your own
religion, and without which you are destitute of any religion, it
should teach you to look with respect at least upon the passionate but
noble gods of Rome, at the artful but polished deities of Greece.
“Even the gods are not immortal! And these are a great and forgotten
race. The calm, majestic Neptune, who soothed the mighty ocean with
his trident, has sunk beneath its waves to rise no more forever. The
roar of cannon has frightened Mars from out the world. Alas for sighing
youth, that laughter-loving, blushing Venus lives only in the skies. A
dark shade hangs over Pluto; and the entrance to the realms of Tartarus
has been withdrawn from mortal ken. High in heaven, another deity now
sits upon the seat of dethroned Jove; and the book of fate, new-bound
and new-entitled ‘Providence’ is yet preserved, though the three
sisters no longer guard its sacred records.
“Thus with curiosity unmixed with reverence, I recall the names of the
departed gods whom I once worshipped, and sometimes with a confidence
mingled with a doubt, I wonder lest such should be the fate of your own
religion.”
At this point, the man’s knees trembled, and the strange professor
motioned him to be seated, as he seemed about to collapse. The whole
spectacle was too much for me; and I sprang out of my chair.
“Come, we must go out in the open air,” I suggested, “the heat of this
room is oppressive.”
“Nothing would suit us better,” said the strange professor, “it will
do my friend good, and afford him an opportunity to see our great
metropolis.” Upon this, I began at once to change my costume.
“To what nationality does he claim to belong?” I asked.
“I am an Egyptian,” spoke up the man, “I was born a Thracian, but I
moved to Egypt. I lived at Memphis, a superb city which has long since
passed into complete oblivion. I often think that not one of us as we
used to walk its streets could ever have believed such utter desolation
possible. Away in the distance only the pyramids of our Pharaohs stand.
When I saw them last, I could hardly recognize them.”
“Why did you go to Memphis when you were alive?” asked the strange
professor.
“On account of a common concubine. I had to be a foolish young man.”
By this time, we had reached the elevators, and the professor said
that he would have to walk down, as he took with him the valise which
contained the mechanism too sensitive to be taken upon an elevator.
Whereupon, I insisted upon the three of us walking down, for I did not
wish to be left alone with the Egyptian.
When at last we reached the street, I offered to take them to the
opera, though I confessed that it would be nearly over. I hoped that
even a few strains of music might soothe my troubled brain. I purchased
three tickets, and we mingled with the magnificent assemblage in the
foyer. After looking about him, the Egyptian suddenly stood aghast.
“Is that the best your women can do?” asked the Egyptian, turning first
to me and then to the professor.
“What is the matter with them?” we asked together.
“After all these centuries, is the best they can do, the wearing of
trinkets on their ears, bangles on their arms, and their fingers stiff
with rings? Why, the barbaric brain of the early Egyptian perfected
every known design of jewelry. Is woman at heart still a savage? And
these absurd head-dresses! And that dirty powder on their faces! Have
you not gotten beyond even that common sort of vanity?”
“I am afraid that your friend will not enjoy it here,” I said, fearing
a scene, “let us leave.”
As it was now late in the evening, I took them to a famous French
café. We had hardly seated ourselves at a table, when the place filled
with people who came from the closing of the theatres. Soon the corks
popped from the bottles, soon the men became noisy and drowned the
music, and soon the painted women became vulgar.
“Is this the best your men can do?” asked the Egyptian, looking about
him, as though a pall of ennui had fallen upon him, “after all these
generations since I was foolish, is man’s chief diversion that of
getting drunk with low women? I used to do this with the strumpets
of Babylon; and those chartered courtesans were at least naturally
beautiful.”
“You had better go back to your mummy case,” said the professor, “we
have nothing more to offer you. Here is your sleeping powder.”
The Egyptian took the powder and willingly made his escape. The
professor looked at me, and I looked at the professor. I fear that I
was rather sheep-faced and ashamed of the only civilization we had to
offer. The professor saw my chagrin, and that he had scored in favor of
his doctrines.
“I have just one more experiment to prove to you the scope of my
invention,” said he, “and then I shall bid you good-night.”
He took me by the arm, and with the other hand he carried his valise.
He led me into the downtown districts, along the great thoroughfare
which is so crowded by day and so deserted by night. We came to the
gates of an old cemetery, and after looking up and down the street to
make sure that the police did not observe us, the strange professor
ushered me into the cemetery, and we sat down upon a cold marble slab,
and once more in the hush and chill of quiet moonlight, the man became
uncanny.
“I know what you think,” said he, “you think that I have this power
over only that one man. You even suspect me. You fear lest I have you
in a state of hypnosis or morbid sleep, and that even the Egyptian
himself was an illusion. I know you. You tried to get me intoxicated
with your sangaree. I admit that you have a power of extracting
confidences. You thought that perhaps you had found in me some
interesting phantast who would amuse you. But let me tell you the most
profound paradox in the world: if you possess a power, and abuse your
power, that power will be taken away from you. Take care!
“Now for my last experiment. Answer me, if you can not believe
your eyes, can you trust your ears? Listen to the sentiments which
have outlasted the brains of a few of the dead. Often these ideas
crystallize their whole experience.”
He undid his valise, placed two hard rubber tubes in my ears, and
then slowly inserted the two metal balls into the head of a grave. I
saw his spider-like fingers reach out and touch the valise, and the
machine started.
“Hold the tubes tightly in your ears.”
Presently a gurgling vibration ceased and these words came distinctly:
“I should like to see the sun shining, and my sheep nibbling the green,
tender grass. I was happy.”
Then the vibration stopped. The professor seemed to know it, probably
from the relaxed intentness of my expression. He said not a word, but
motioned me to follow him. We moved to another grave where he repeated
the operations. Then came these words to my ears:
“Too late, too late; everything came for me too late. They even tried
to cure me too late. Alas, poor Dorothy!”
The next grave gave forth these words:
“I believed in God and said my prayers. That was my only solace.”
We moved again to a mound covered with fresh earth and new flowers. The
professor whispered that the lately dead often had confused ideas. This
was the message:
“Last night was my first night in the grave. I trusted my lover. His
faithlessness turned me into a bad woman. I weighed only ninety-two
pounds when I died. I wish that I could drink and dance with him once
more. I wish I could see his eyes beam on me. I do love him.”
The words ceased to come and the vibration stopped.
The professor whispered that he would go to three more graves and then
depart.
The first gave out only one sentence:
“I married a man whom I did not love, yet I kept him from knowing the
truth.”
And the second:
“My eight children which I bore my husband gave me much joy and some
sorrow. I was so proud of my son, Charlie.”
And the last:
“I was known as the rich spinster of the place where I lived. Ah, they
little knew that money does not, can not, make one happy. Why had I to
be sterile?”
To my dying day, I shall hear that plaintive, unselfish question. And
when they tap my skull, the answer will be graven there.
The strange professor put the metal balls and the tubes back in their
place, and closed the valise. We issued forth again upon the sidewalk.
“Why was it that only women spoke?” I asked.
“Because most women die keeping the true secrets of their existence;
whereas few men can maintain a life-long self within a self. Men are
more vain, but they have less pride than women. Goodnight! Good-bye!”
Without another word the strange professor took a passing street
car and left me stark alone. And I walked for hours before I cared,
or rather dared, to go to my hotel. Daylight was coming through the
windows when at last I reached my rooms. The mummy case was gone! The
closet door was open, and the closet empty! I went into Sandy’s room,
and there he sat awaiting me.
“Lor’, maarstar, you done do me wrong. I jest come home, after tryin’
to spy on you. I sees you once with two gen’lemen.”
“What? Were there three of us, Sandy?”
“Yes, maarstar, you know one of them was yaller. He never did look like
he come from this country.”
“Do you swear it, Sandy?” I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder.
“I sirtainly do, maarstar;” said he, looking up at me as if I were
bereft of my reason.
“Thank heaven!” I uttered aloud, “I almost thought that I might be
going mad. We must leave this city, Sandy, for while I am here, I keep
thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking of the days I spent here once
as a boy. Oh, Sandy, that morning in May when I awoke to find that it
was true! Too true! You remember, the following February Miss Susanne
died?--Let us pack the trunks.”