"He lives nowhere on earth; he is dead,--just dead."
"A friend of yours?"
"A master once; now a presence eluding, haunting, torturing. He left me
this manuscript; it is a 'Philosophy of the Absolute.'" (Here Clifton
drew from a curiously contrived case of parchment a cluster of pages.)
"It has now twenty-two hours to appear in the present century. You shall
devote the night to reading it, and tell me that I have acted well."
A sultry August evening, a smoky boarding-house lamp, much skirmishing
of mosquitoes, and--a manuscript system of philosophy! The prospect was
not inviting. The reading of other people's manuscripts is surely the
crucial test of a devoted benevolence. There are few ways in which I am
so little ready to oblige my fellow-men. I had, indeed, at times, been
induced to inspect sundry romances in blotted embryo; but, as yet,
nobody had called upon me with a system of philosophy. _Printed_
philosophy is none too easy reading. But to sit there, under the
guardianship of Clifton, and spell out the dim dogmatism of some
nebulous fanatic,--of course it was not to be thought of for a moment.
With a _suave_ periphrasis of speech I questioned the expediency of the
proposition.
"I shall ring for candles that will burn during the night," said Mr.
Clifton, heedless of my expostulation. "Also some refreshment. You take
tea, I suppose? You shall read the first ten pages of Vannelle's
writing. It is possible you may exercise self-control enough to abandon
it unfinished. But you will not sleep tonight."
There was a confidence in the minister's tone which gave rather
unpleasant emphasis to this final prophecy. Still, I believed myself
capable of the ten pages without establishing a hopelessly wakeful
condition,--indeed, it was something to be guarantied against the
opposite infirmity. The tea, accompanied by a few thin shavings of
toast, presently arrived. The means of procuring light were also
furnished us. Clifton's hand lay heavily upon the manuscript until the
attendant had disappeared for the last time, and the door was locked
behind him. He then opened the papers before me, and signified that the
time had come. I braced myself as for a serious undertaking.
Thus I accepted the task. How give words to the singular emotions which
soon possessed me? As if some charm, some spell of magnetism, had been
given to the paper, my whole consciousness was riveted upon it. I know
not how to represent this bold, this startling attempt to establish a
positive basis for metaphysical philosophy, an exact science of all
things human and divine. Here was a man, perchance of more courage and
conscience, perchance of more devilish recklessness, than any of his
contemporaries. But how deal with what came to me from that wondrous
writing in the ambiguities of common language? All thought--even
supposing it embodied in a perfect form of speech--is subject to the
limitations of the recipient mind. My own glimpses of the writer's
meaning were necessarily most indistinct. I cannot attempt to transfer
them. I was controlled by a force not my own. The shadow of a mysterious
power was over me. The mists of sentimental pantheism were left far
below the clear-cut summits whither the reader was invited to ascend.
There was an interpretation of Revelation far more removed from the
apparent letter than that of Swedenborg. Here was reaffirmed (though for
a widely different purpose) what the Romish Church has ever
declared,--that the Scriptures, recording spiritual truth, cannot be
comprehensible to the natural understanding,--that, while the Sacred
Writings contain a natural letter, it can be translated into spiritual
verity only by a few exceptional men. If this scheme of philosophy was
an idealism, it nevertheless manifested itself through the plainest
realities. The solution of the problem seemed to come not from one
point, but from all points. Certainly there was a tendency towards the
supersensible; but this direction was taken through stern grappling with
the actual. At one time I struggled against the august spirit that was
borne in upon me; at another, I was utterly subdued by the lofty
enthusiasm of the writer,--something within me capable of absolute
cognition seemed responding to his appeals. But the pith and vitality of
this marvel could be recognized only by long experience. And here the
student was required to stake his soul upon a perilous cast. For, if not
pursued and fathomed to full satisfaction, this view of things would be
disturbing, paralyzing. With any half-acceptance a man might scarcely
live. It must fashion the mind as an artist fashions the passive metals
into a musical instrument, and then every event in time might touch it
to exquisite harmony. But the more ravishing the beauty which seemed
offered through perfect realization of this knowledge, the more
blighting would be its effects, if entertained in the spirit of a
selfish dilettanteism. For in certain passages were breathed faint
suggestions, that moral codes held sacred by the people could not bind
the initiated,--nay, that what seemed most evil might be so explained as
to become wholly legitimate to the elect.
It was far into the night. I had gone over about a third of the
manuscript. Sharp questions assailed my ears. Was I bound to jeopard
all the common good of life for the chance of--just failing to know
existence from a higher plane? Could I ascend so far above the frailties
of average men as to receive in purity and innocence the license which
acceptance of this strange scheme would surely give? Dim-sighted as I
was, it was necessary to rise and dispel this splendid phantasm. I
shuddered in sudden alarm at the danger which threatened me. By a
spasmodic movement, in which I failed to recognize any presence of my
will, the manuscript was closed and handed to Clifton. Welcome existence
under coarsest and harshest terms, rather than tamper with such fearful
possibilities!
For hours the minister had gazed into my face, partaking the excitement
to which he had subjected me. He had lighted and trimmed the candles, as
was necessary, but had never broken silence. And now there came from him
the deep sigh of relief from an absorbing interest; he sighed as a
little child when the fairytale is ended and the tense strain of
attention may be relaxed.
"What was this man?" I demanded, hurriedly.
"What he was is to be discovered through these writings, if it may be
found out at all. What he was is not for me nor for you to know. It is
possible that he may meet with competent judges hereafter, even among
men. Look at this address."
Clifton handed me a little memorandum relating to the ultimate
disposition of the manuscript. It was to remain for eighty years in the
Mather Safe, and was then to be consigned to the occupant of the Chair
of Moral Philosophy in the College.
"Say rather to the last minority-candidate for the professorship!" I
exclaimed. "I doubt if the actual winner of that comfortable possession
will feel disposed to abandon the market-worth of conventional
acquirements, and set forth as a humble student of unpopular truth."
The minister seemed struck with the suggestion, and made the alteration
I had indicated.
The darkest hour of the night had come. Every sound of human activity
had long ago ceased. It was the quiet time when one may most easily
probe an intense experience. I felt that more was to be
known,--something which the minister longed to tell,--something to which
what he had caused me to read was to serve as a prelude. I suspected how
powerless must have been this sensitive man in the presence of the Idea
which he had carried. Doubtless, in one of his peculiar tendencies, it
might prevent all harmonious action,--it might ever goad the intellect,
and crush the heart. As the confession trembled upon the lips of
Clifton, I signified my profound sympathy. It is an awful moment, when a
mature man tries to put off the solitariness of his life.
What was then communicated I can repeat only in the first person. The
pathetic earnestness of the speaker imprinted on my memory the very
phrases that he used; there can be few verbal changes as they now flow
from the pen.