THE FAITHFUL DOG.
On the following morning, when Leon entered the laboratory, he found
Dr. Medjora busily engaged upon a chemical analysis. He, therefore,
without interrupting him, went to his own table, and took up his
morning's task. Half an hour passed in silence, and then the Doctor
spoke:
"Good-morning, Leon," said he. "I hope that the late hour at which you
retired last night did not interfere with your rest?"
"On the contrary, Doctor," said Leon, "I slept very soundly; so
soundly that I did not awaken as early as usual this morning. Yet I am
puzzled by one thing."
"And that is----?"
"A dream. I have a distinct recollection of a dream, and yet I am sure
that I slept soundly until the very moment of my awakening. I have
always thought that dreams come only when one dozes, or is half awake.
Do you think that one might sleep soundly, and nevertheless dream?"
"It is a question much disputed. If you have done so, however, you
have proven the possibility. Tell me your dream."
Thus adroitly did the Doctor avoid committing himself by a statement
which would have lead to an argument, Leon's controversial instinct
being a prominent characteristic.
"The dream was singular," replied Leon, "not so much because of what I
dreamed, but rather because of the impression made upon my mind. As a
rule, what one dreams is recalled as a dimly defined vision, but in
this instance, I can see the temple of AEsculapius as clearly as though
I had really visited the place."
"Then in your dream you imagined that you saw that wonderful place?"
"Yes. There is nothing odd about that, because you told me that you
would take me into the chamber to-night. I went to sleep with the
desire to see the temple prominently present in my thoughts, and
consequently, in my dream, that wish was gratified. But now I am
anxious to verify my vision, to note how much resemblance there will
be between the real and the imaginary. It would be very curious if I
should be able to recognize the place!"
Leon looked away off into space, as one gazes at nothing when deeply
absorbed in the contemplation of some perplexing problem. The Doctor
at once recognized the danger that presented. Leon's memory was more
vivid than he had intended it to be. If taken into the crypt, in his
present state of active inquiry into the phenomenon which his mind was
considering, and if he really should become convinced that what he
thought a dream was the exact counterpart of the real, it would not be
improbable that his suspicion of the truth might be aroused. It was
therefore essential that his mind should be led into a safer channel.
The Doctor undertook to do this.
"Leon," said he, "you are always interested in psychological
phenomena, and therefore I will discuss this with you. The action of
the mind is always an attractive study; attractive mainly because man
cannot thoroughly unravel the mysteries surrounding the working of a
human mind. Ordinarily, what one cannot comprehend and explain, is
written down as a miracle. There are no miracles, except as the words
may be used to describe that which mystifies. But the mystification
passes, as soon as the explanation is arrived at. Now it is manifestly
impossible that you should dream of a place which you have never seen,
and obtain an accurate mental image of it."
"I do not say that I have done so. I only wonder how much resemblance
will exist between the dream and the chamber itself."
"True! But I should not be at all surprised, when I take you there, if
you claim that it is the counterpart of your dream."
"Why do you think that, Doctor, when you have just said truly, that
such a fact would be impossible?"
"It would be impossible that such a thing should be a fact, but it is
not at all impossible that you should think it to be a fact. Let me
explain myself more clearly. As I said before, one cannot produce in
the mind an absolutely accurate image of a thing which he has never
seen. But mental images may be created, not alone through the sense of
sight, but also through the sense of hearing. Last night I told you
the story of AEsculapius. I described to you the _teocali_ which had
been reared in his memory. I told you that at the very top a dome-like
chamber was specially dedicated to AEsculapius. I also explained to you
that in the dome which I have discovered the walls are covered with
hieroglyphical sculpturing. With such a description of the place,
meagre as it is, you could readily construct a mental image, which
would be sufficiently like the original for you to believe it
identical. A dome is a dome, and, in regard to hieroglyphical figures,
in the books in my library you have seen many pictures of those found
on this continent."
"Still, Doctor, that would only enable me to create an image which
would be similar. It could not be identical."
"No! It could not be identical. But suppose that you enter the crypt!
Instantly you look about you, and an image of the place is imprinted
upon your brain. This is objectively produced. You compare it with the
subjective image left by your dream, and you are astonished at the
similarity. Note the word! You look around you again, and again an
objective image is formed. Again you essay a comparison: but what
happens now? As clearly fixed upon your brain as you believe your
dream to be, it is but a shadowy impression compared to those which
come to you when awake. So your subjective image of the place is
readily displaced by that first objective impression, and when you
compare the second, it is with this, and not with your dream at all.
As both are identical, you form the conclusion that your dream and the
actuality are identical. So your first idea that they are similar
passes, and you adopt the erroneous belief that they are identical.
You have compared two objective impressions, where you believe that
one was the subjective image of your dream. Thus you are deceived into
believing that a miracle has occurred. And thus have all miracles been
accepted as such; thus have all superstitions been created, through
the incorrect appreciation of events and their causes."
"I see what you mean, Doctor, and I recognize, now, how easy it is to
fall into error. Few in this world have the analytical instinct
possessed by yourself. Yet, I must confess, I am anxious for the test
to-night. Now that you have warned me, I wish to see whether my first
comparison will give me the idea that the two images are identical, or
merely similar."
From this speech Dr. Medjora saw that the lad was not entirely
convinced. He concluded therefore to risk a test, that would
definitely settle the question.
"Leon," said he, "you are a good draughtsman. Draw for me a picture of
any part of the hieroglyphical sculpture which is most distinct in
your recollection!"
In this the Doctor depended upon the fact that Leon could have but an
indistinct remembrance of the place itself, because, from the moment
of his awakening in the crypt, his mind had been confused by the rapid
series of surprises presented to his eyes. The revolving lamps, and
the glare emitted by them, would have been sufficient to create such
shadows, that the sculptured figures would have been distorted, the
mind itself being too much occupied for more than a very cursory
glance at the walls of the place. Leon, however, at once began to
draw, and within a few minutes he handed the paper to the Doctor, who
was pleased to find upon it a poor copy of some figures in
_Kingsborough's Antiquities_. Thus the Doctor's speculation was
vindicated, because as soon as Leon had endeavored to draw, he copied
an image in his mind, made by a picture which he had had time to study
closely, yet which in his thought replaced the indistinct impression
obtained in the crypt.
"You are quite sure, Leon," asked the Doctor, "that this is a figure
which you saw in your dream."
"Quite sure," answered Leon, promptly, "although, of course, there may
be some slight inaccuracy in my draught of it."
The Doctor then went to the library, and returned with the volume of
Kingsborough, in which was the picture which Leon had really copied.
When he showed this to the lad, he convinced him of his original
proposition, that the hieroglyphical sculptures of his dream were but
recollections of what he had seen in books. Thus he averted the
threatening danger, and once more proved that, through his knowledge
of psychical laws, he was an adept in controlling the minds of men.
Later in the day, Leon called at the home of Mr. Dudley, having been
sent thither by the Doctor.
Doctor Medjora had given Leon a letter, with instructions to take it
to the house, and if Mr. Dudley should be out, to await his return to
deliver it and obtain a reply. In this he was actuated by a motive. He
chose an hour when he knew certainly that the Judge would not be at
home, though Agnes would. He wished Leon to be thrown into her society
more often than circumstances had permitted heretofore. In the future,
he intended so to arrange that the young people should meet more
frequently. Dr. Medjora was willing to abide by the acts of
Providence, as long as they aided his own designs; when they failed to
do so, then he considered it time to control Providence, and guide it
to his will.
When Leon was admitted into the reception-room at Judge Dudley's, he
found Agnes reading. She laid aside her book and arose to greet him
cordially. He explained the object of his visit, and that he would
like to await the return of the Judge. Agnes therefore invited him to
be seated. His great fondness for books led him to utilize her reading
as a starting-point for conversation.
"I am sorry, Miss Dudley," he began, "that I have interrupted your
reading. May I be permitted to ask what book you have?"
"Certainly!" she replied. "I have been reading a novel!"
"Oh!" was all that Leon said, but the tone excited Agnes at once, for
in it she thought she detected a covert sneer.
"Do you never read novels?" she asked.
"I have little time for anything but science. I think that I have read
but two novels in my life."
"May I ask what they were?"
"George MacDonald's _Malcolm_ from which I named my dog 'Lossy,' and a
book called _Ardath_. I do not remember the name of the author."
"_Ardath_, and you do not remember the name of the author? She would
feel quite complimented at the impression made upon you, I am sure.
Perhaps you would like to refresh your memory?" Agnes spoke with a
tone of triumphant satisfaction, as she handed to him the book which
she held. He took it and read on the title-page, "_Ardath; The Story
of a Dead Self_; by Marie Corelli."
"This is a coincidence, is it not, Miss Dudley," said Leon, returning
the volume. "I suppose it was very stupid of me to forget the author's
name, but really I am so much more interested in the world of science,
that romance has little attraction for me. In the one we deal in
facts, while the other is all fiction."
"Is that your estimate of the relation existing between the two," said
Agnes, with a twinkle in her eye. She always delighted in an argument,
when she felt that she held the mastery of the situation, as she did
now. Therefore she entered the combat, about to begin, with a zest
equal to the love of debate which Leon possessed.
"You say that science deals only in facts. If you remember anything of
_Ardath_, which is not probable, since you forget the writer, you may
recall that in his wanderings through the city, Al-Kyris, Theos meets
Mira-Khabur, the Professor of Positivism. The description of this
meeting, and the conversation between the men is admirable, as a
satire upon the claims of the scientists. Let me read to you one of
the Professor's speeches. Theos has said:
"Then the upshot of all your learning sir, is that one can
never be quite certain of anything?"
"Exactly so!" replied the pensive sage, with a grave shake of
the head. "Judged by the very finest lines of metaphysical
argument you cannot really be sure whether you behold in me a
Person, or a Phantasm! You _think_ you see me,--I _think_ I
see you,--but after all it is only an _impression_ mutually
shared--an impression which, like many another less distinct,
may be entirely erroneous! Ah, my dear young sir! education
is advancing at a very rapid rate, and the art of close
analysis is reaching such a pitch of perfection, that I
believe we shall soon be able logically to prove, not only
that we do not actually exist, but, moreover, that we never
have existed."
"What have you to say to that?" asked Agnes closing the book, but
keeping one finger between the leaves, to mark the place.
"Why," said Leon, smiling, "that it is a very clever paragraph, and
recalls to my mind the whole scene. I think that, later, this same
Professor of Positivism declares that the only thing he is positive
of, is the 'un-positiveness of Positivism!'"
"Ah! Then you do remember some of the novel. That is a hopeful sign
for novelists, I am sure. But, jesting aside, you have not defended
your pet hobby, science, from the charge brought against her!"
"If you wish me to take you seriously, then of course I must do so.
What you have read, is clever, but not necessarily true. It is good in
its place, and as used by the author. It typifies the character of the
man, from whose mouth the words escape. But, in doing this, it shows
us that he is merely the disciple of a school which depends for its
existence upon bombast rather than true knowledge; upon sophistical
cloudiness of expression rather than upon logical arguments, based
upon reason and fact."
"Ah! Now I have you back to your first statement, that science deals
with facts. But is it not true, that by your logical arguments various
and varying deductions are obtained by different students, all seeking
these finalities, which you term facts? Then which of them all is the
true fact, and which is mere speculation?"
"I am afraid, Miss Dudley, that you have asked me a question which I
am scarcely qualified to answer. All I can say is, that so long as
matters are in dispute, we can have no knowledge of what is the truth.
In speaking of facts, I only alluded to those proven hypotheses, which
have been finally accepted by all scientists. Those are the facts of
which science boasts."
"Yes, many of them are accepted for a decade, and then cast aside as
exploded errors. But come, I do not wish to argue too strongly against
science. I love it too well. What I prefer to do, is to defend my
other hobby, romance; that which you called fiction. I will give you a
paradox. I claim that there is more fact in good fiction, and more
real fiction in accepted fact, than is generally credited."
"I am afraid I do not comprehend what you mean," said Leon, very much
puzzled. He was growing interested in this girl who talked so well.
"Good," said Agnes. "I will gladly expound my doctrine. The best
exponent of so called fact which I can cite, is the daily press. The
newspapers pretend to relate actual events; to tell us what really
occurs. But let us look into the matter but a moment, and we discover
that only on rare occasions is the reporter present when the thing
happens, of which he is expected to write. Thus, he is obliged to
depend upon others for his facts. Each person interrogated, gives him
a version of the affair according with his own received impressions.
But occurrences impress different persons in very different ways. Thus
Mr. Reporter, when he comes to his desk, finds that he must sift out
his facts from a mass of error. He does so, and obtains an
approximation of the truth. It would be erroneous enough if he were
now to write what he has deduced; but if he is at all capable, as a
caterer to the public taste, he is compelled to serve his goose with a
fancy sauce. He must weave an amount of fiction into and around his
facts, so that the article may have some flavor. And the flavor is
sweet or sour, nice or nasty, in accordance with the known
predilections of the subscribers. What wonder that one who truly seeks
for the facts in the case, endeavoring to obtain them by reading
several accounts, finally throws all the newspapers away in disgust!"
"Bravo, Miss Dudley! You have offered an excellent arraignment against
the integrity of the press. But I am more curious than ever to hear
you prove that fiction contains fact."
"It must, or it is essentially inartistic. The writer who seeks to
paint the world, the people, and the events of the world, as they
really are, sets up in his mind, as a subject for copy, the sum of his
observation of the world and the people in it. First, we will imagine
that he weaves a plot. This is the fiction of his romance. If he
writes out this story, adhering closely to his tale, calling the hero
A, the heroine B, and the villain C, he deals in fiction only. But
even here it would have no material attraction, unless it is conceded
to be possible; it need not be probable. But if it is a possible
sequence of events, at once we see that the basis is in fact. But when
he goes further, and calls A, Arthur, B, Beatrice, and C, Clarence, at
once they begin to acquire the characteristics of real people, or else
puppets. If the latter, there is no value to the conception, while if
the former, then in dealing with these creations of his mind, the
writer must allot to each a personality, emotions, demeanor, and
morality, which must be recognizable as human. He must in other words
clothe his dummies with the semblance of reality, and for that he must
turn to the facts of life, as he has observed them. Thus good fiction
is really all fact. Q. E. D."
"Your argument is certainly ingenious, and worthy of consideration. It
is a new way to look upon fiction, and I am glad that you have
reconciled me to the idea of reading novels, for I must confess that
though, when reading _Ardath_, I felt guilty of neglecting more
important studies, nevertheless I was very much entertained by the
book, which contains many ideas well thought, and well presented. But
to resume the argument, as to the facts of fiction, let me say this.
Is it not true that the predominant theme with novelists is love? And
would you contend that love is the most important fact in the world?"
"Unquestionably it is the predominant fact, to use your own word. All
the joy and misery, good and evil, is directly traceable to that one
absorbing passion."
"You speak with feeling. Pardon my asking if it is a predominant
emotion with yourself?"
"It is not," answered the girl, quickly and frankly. "Of course I
understand you to mean by love, the feeling which exists between two
persons of opposite sex, who are unrelated by ties of consanguinity;
or, where a relationship does exist, that sort of affection which is
more than cousinly, and which leads to marriage. Such an emotion is
entirely foreign to my nature, and therefore of course does not form a
predominant characteristic of my being. But on this you cannot base an
argument against what I claim, because I am an exception to the rule.
With the vast majority, love is undoubtedly the leading motive of
existence."
"Miss Dudley, if you find the study of mankind interesting in the form
of novels, which you say record the impressions of the authors, then
you must pardon my studying your character as you kindly reveal it to
me. This must explain my further questioning. May I proceed?"
"Oh! I see! You wish to use me as the surgeon does the cadaver. You
would dissect me, merely for the purposes of general study. It is
hardly fair, but proceed." She laughed gayly.
"You said," continued Leon, "that love, such as you have described, is
foreign to your nature. Am I to understand that you could not form an
attachment of that kind which leads to matrimony?"
"Well, all girls say that. But I believe I may say so, and be
truthful. I doubt whether any man will ever inspire me with that love,
without which I would consider marriage a sin. I do not say this idly,
or upon the impulse of the moment. While I have never felt those
heart-aches of which the novelists write, yet I have considered the
subject deeply, in so far as it affects myself. So I say again, love
is foreign to my nature."
"It is very singular!" said Leon, and he spoke almost as though
soliloquizing. "I have the same feelings. I have always thought that
no one would ever love me; but, latterly, I have come to consider the
subject from the other stand-point, and now I believe as you do that I
shall never love any woman. If I may go further, I would like to ask
you why you have adopted this theory about yourself? I will agree to
explain myself, if you will reply."
"With pleasure! From childhood I have been thrown almost exclusively
into the companionship of two exceptional men, my father, and Dr.
Medjora. I have the sincerest affection for them both. I say this, for
without loving them I would probably never have been so influenced by
them as I have been. While they are very unlike in their
personalities, yet they have one characteristic in common: a deep
longing for intellectual advancement. Growing up in such an
environment, I have acquired the same predilection, so that now my one
aim in life is knowledge. I do not see how love could aid me in this,
while I do see how it might prove a great obstacle in my pathway.
Household cares, and with them the care of a man, are not conducive to
the acquirement of learning. Now I will listen to you."
"In a measure our cases are similar. I too have always deemed the
search for knowledge the highest aim in life, but I did not extract
that desire from my surroundings, for there was no inspiration about
me. What I have learned, prior to my companionship with Dr. Medjora,
was rather stolen sweets, that I obtained only in secret. The ideas
about love, however, probably did emanate from my environment, for
while I believe that my adopted mother loved me, I did not discover it
until the day on which she died. Because no one loved me, I believed
that no one ever would. But in my later analysis I have come to
believe, that after starving from the lack of affection for so many
years, I have finally lost the responsive feeling that gives birth to
the emotion. I think that no one can attract me to that extent
necessary to enkindle in my heart the emotion called love."
He looked away in a wistful manner, and Agnes felt a slight pity for
the lad who had never known the love of his parents.
"Does it sadden you to think that way?" she asked softly.
"You have detected that? Yes! It is very curious. Ordinarily I accept
the idea calmly. But occasionally I seem to be two persons, and one,
who recognizes the happiness possible from love, looks at the other
with pitying sympathy, because he will never love. Then in a moment I
am my single self again, but the momentary hallucination puzzles me.
It is as though I had been in the presence of a wraith, and the name
of the spectre, dead to me, were Love itself. It is not a pleasant
thought, and you must pardon my telling you. Ah! There comes the
Judge!"
He bowed his adieux and went out into the hall to meet Judge Dudley.
Agnes took up her book and essayed to read again, but the spectre of
love which he had described, danced like a little red demon with
forked tail, up and down the pages, until she put the book aside and
went up to her room, where she threw herself on her lounge and lost
herself in thought.
When Leon reached his room, upon returning home, he was surprised to
find his dog, Lossy, lying under his bed, growling ominously at Madame
Medjora, who was poking at him with a broom handle. She was evidently
disturbed at Leon's entrance, and turned upon him angrily.
"This dog of yours must not come in the house. I will not have it. I
am mistress here, and dogs must be kept in the stable."
Without waiting for a reply she hurried out of the room. Leon, not
comprehending what was the matter, but realizing that his pet was
unhappy, stooped to his knees and coaxed him from his hiding-place. He
was much astonished to find that Lossy held a letter between his
teeth, which, however, he yielded readily to his master. When Leon had
taken it from him, Lossy stood in the middle of the floor and shook
himself, as a dog does after swimming, until his rumpled fur stood
smooth and bushy. In the same moment his good temper returned. Leon
recognized the letter, as one which he had read that morning, but
though he perused it again mechanically, it did not explain to his
mind the scene, of which he had witnessed only the end. Had he been
able to comprehend the situation, much of what occurred later might
have been avoided.
What had happened was this. In the morning's mail a letter had come
for Leon, and he had read it at the breakfast-table. This excited the
curiosity of Madame Medjora, because it was the first that had come to
the boy since he had lived with them. She therefore had noted that he
placed it in his pocket, and she studied how she might become
possessed of it. No chance offered until Leon went out, to call at
Judge Dudley's. Then he changed his coat, and he had scarcely left the
house, before the woman entered his room and eagerly searched for, and
found the letter. So engrossed was she in the perusal of it, that she
did not notice that Lossy had followed her from his master's apartment
into her own boudoir, whither she had gone, before reading it.
The letter was as follows. As a specimen of chirography, and an
example of high grade orthography, it was worthy of a place in a
museum.
"mister leon Grath, my Dare nevue have you forgot yore Ant
Matildy I hav not hearn frum you in menny menny wekes an I
mus say I have fretted myself most to deth abowt my Dare
Sisters little boy leon all alone in this wide wide wurld A
weke ago mister potter the man that ocshioned off the Farm
Wuz up to owr plase and he tole us how you wuz makin lots of
money in York along of Doctor mejory. Now ef its tru that you
be makin so much money I think it only fare to let you know
how much yore Ant Matildy who wus always gud an kined to you
is now in knead of help the farm is goin to rack an ruin
sence you lef and I want you to sen me a hundred dollars as
sune as this reaches you as I knead it dredful It would be
better for you and for Doctor Mejory too ef the money is sent
rite off as if not I mite tell things I know wich wont be
plessant Matildy Grath"
Unfortunately for Leon's future happiness later in the day Madame
copied this letter carefully, and also noted the postmark on the
envelope. Otherwise the action of Lossy would have left her dependent
upon her memory, to do what she had immediately decided upon. It was
while she was reading over her copy, that Lossy came stealthily
forward, stood upon his hind legs and took the letter, which he had
seen her steal from his master's coat. Before she fully realized her
loss, the dog was scampering along the hall. She followed him into
Leon's room, and used every means to get him from under the bed.
Coaxing failed, and she tried the broomstick, which she was still
using when Leon entered.
But of all this the lad knew nothing. He read the letter again; then
tore it up and threw it into the fire, supposing that the matter ended
there.