THE TWO BROTHERS.
This story has been told by a pen of far greater dramatic capability
than mine, and with a wealth of detail for which I have here no space,
in _The Theosophical Review_ of November, 1897, p. 229. To that
account I would refer the reader, since my own description of the case
will be a mere outline, as brief as is consistent with clearness. The
names given are of course fictitious, but the incidents are related
with scrupulous accuracy.
Our _dramatis personae_ are two brothers, the sons of a country
gentleman--Lancelot, aged fourteen, and Walter, aged eleven--very good
boys of the ordinary healthy, manly type, like hundreds of others in
this fair realm, with no obvious psychic qualifications of any sort,
except the possession of a good deal of Celtic blood. Perhaps the most
remarkable feature about them was the intensity of the affection that
existed between them, for they were simply inseparable--neither would
go anywhere without the other, and the younger idolized the elder as
only a younger boy can.
One unlucky day Lancelot was thrown from his pony and killed, and
for Walter the world became empty. The child’s grief was so real and
terrible that he could neither eat nor sleep, and his mother and nurse
were at their wits’ end as to what to do for him. He seemed deaf alike
to persuasion and blame; when they told him that grief was wicked, and
that his brother was in heaven, he simply answered that he could not be
certain of that, and that even if it were true, he knew that Lancelot
could no more be happy in heaven without him than he could on earth
without Lancelot.
Incredible as it may sound, the poor child was actually dying of
grief, and what made the case even more pathetic was the fact that,
all unknown to him, his brother stood at his side all the time, fully
conscious of his misery, and himself half-distracted at the failure of
his repeated attempts to touch him or speak to him.
Affairs were still in this most pitiable condition on the third
evening after the accident, when Cyril’s attention was drawn to the
two brothers--he cannot tell how. “He just happened to be passing,”
he says; yet surely the will of the Lords of Compassion guided him
to the scene. Poor Walter lay exhausted yet sleepless--alone in his
desolation, so far as he knew, though all the time his sorrowing
brother stood beside him. Lancelot, free from the chains of the flesh,
could see and hear Cyril, so obviously the first thing to do was to
soothe his pain with a promise of friendship and help in communicating
with his brother.
As soon as the dead boy’s mind was thus cheered with hope, Cyril turned
to the living one, and tried with all his strength to impress upon his
brain the knowledge that his brother stood beside him, not dead, but
living and loving as of yore. But all his efforts were in vain; the
dull apathy of grief so filled poor Walter’s mind that no suggestion
from without could enter, and Cyril knew not what to do. Yet so deeply
was he moved by the sad sight, so intense was his sympathy and so firm
his determination to help in some way or other at any cost of strength
to himself, that somehow (even to this day he cannot tell how) he found
himself able to touch and speak to the heart-broken child.
Putting aside Walter’s questions as to who he was and how he came
there, he went straight to the point, telling him that his brother
stood beside him, trying hard to make him hear his constantly repeated
assurances that he was not dead, but living and yearning to help and
comfort him. Little Walter longed to believe, yet hardly dared to
hope; but Cyril’s eager insistence vanquished his doubts at last, and
he said,
“Oh! I do believe you, because you’re so kind; but if I could only see
him, then I should _know_, then I should be quite sure; and if I
could only hear his voice telling me he was happy, I shouldn’t mind a
bit his going away again afterwards.”
Young though he was at the work, Cyril knew enough to be aware that
Walter’s wish was one not ordinarily granted, and was beginning
regretfully to tell him so, when suddenly he felt a Presence that all
the helpers know, and though no word was spoken it was borne in upon
his mind that instead of what he had meant to say, he was to promise
Walter the boon his heart desired. “Wait till I come back,” he said,
“and you shall see him then.” And then--he vanished.
That one touch from the Master had shown him what to do and how to do
it, and he rushed to fetch the older friend who had so often helped
him before. This older man had not yet retired for the night, but on
hearing Cyril’s hurried summons, he lost no time in accompanying him,
and in a few minutes they were back at Walter’s bedside. The poor child
was just beginning to believe it all a lovely dream, and his delight
and relief when Cyril reappeared were beautiful to see. Yet how much
more beautiful was the scene a moment later, when, in obedience to a
word from the Master, the elder man materialized the eager Lancelot,
and the living and the dead stood hand in hand once more!
Now in very truth for both the brothers had sorrow been turned into
joy unspeakable, and again and again they both declared that now they
should never feel sad any more, because they knew that death had no
power to part them. Nor was their gladness damped even when Cyril
explained carefully to them, at his older friend’s suggestion, that
this strange physical reunion would not be repeated, but that all day
long Lancelot would be near Walter, even though the latter could not
see him, and every night Walter would slip out of his body and be
consciously with his brother once more.
Hearing this, poor weary Walter sank to sleep at once and proved its
truth, and was amazed to find with what hitherto unknown rapidity he
and his brother could fly together from one to another of their old
familiar haunts. Cyril thoughtfully warned him that he would probably
forget most of his freer life when he awoke next day; but by rare good
fortune he did _not_ forget, as so many of us do. Perhaps the
shock of the great joy had somewhat aroused the latent psychic faculty
which belongs to the Celtic blood; at any rate he forgot no single
detail of all that had happened, and next morning he burst upon the
house of mourning with a wondrous tale which suited it but ill.
His parents thought that grief had turned his brain, and, since he is
now the heir, they have been watching long and anxiously for further
symptoms of insanity, which happily they have not found. They still
think him a monomaniac on this point, though they fully recognize
that his “delusion” has saved his life; but his old nurse (who is a
Catholic) is firm in her belief that all he says is true--that the Lord
Jesus, who was once a child himself, took pity on that other child as
he lay dying of grief, and sent one of His angels to bring his brother
back to him from the dead as a reward for a love which was stronger
than death. Sometimes popular superstition gets a good deal nearer to
the heart of things than does educated scepticism!
Nor does the story end here, for the good work begun that night is
still progressing, and none can say how far the influence of that one
act may ramify. Walter’s astral consciousness, once having been thus
thoroughly awakened, remains in activity; every morning he brings
back into his physical brain the memory of his night’s adventures
with his brother; every night they meet their dear friend Cyril,
from whom they have learned so much about the wonderful new world
that has opened before them, and the other worlds to come that lie
higher yet. Under Cyril’s guidance they also--the living and the dead
alike--have become eager and earnest members of the band of helpers;
and probably for years to come--until Lancelot’s vigorous young astral
body disintegrates--many a dying child will have cause to be grateful
to these three who are trying to pass on to others something of the joy
that they have themselves received.
Nor is it to the dead alone that these new converts have been of use,
for they have sought and found some other living children who show
consciousness on the astral plane during sleep; and one at least
of those whom they have thus brought to Cyril has already proved a
valuable little recruit to the children’s band, as well as a very kind
little friend down here on the physical plane.
Those to whom all these ideas are new sometimes find it very difficult
to understand how children can be of any use in the astral world.
Seeing, they would say, that the astral body of a child must be
undeveloped, and the ego thus limited by childhood on the astral as
well as the physical plane, in what way could such an ego be of use, or
be able to help towards the spiritual, mental and moral evolution of
humanity, which we are told is the chief concern of the helpers?
When first such a question was asked, shortly after the publication of
one of these stories in our magazine, I sent it to Cyril himself, to
see what he would say to it, and his answer was this:
“It is quite true, as the writer says, that I am only a boy, and know
very little yet, and that I shall be much more useful when I have
learnt more. But I am able to do a little even now, because there are
so many people who have learnt nothing about Theosophy yet, though they
may know very much more than I do about everything else. And you see
when you want to get to a certain place, a little boy who knows the way
can do more for you than a hundred wise men who don’t know it.”
It may be added that when even a child had been awakened upon the
astral plane the development of the astral body would proceed so
rapidly that he would very soon be in a position upon that plane but
little inferior to that of the awakened adult, and would of course
be much in advance, so far as usefulness is concerned, of the wisest
man who was as yet unawakened. But unless the ego expressing himself
through that child-body possessed the necessary qualification of a
determined yet loving disposition, and had clearly manifested it in his
previous lives, no occultist would take the very serious responsibility
of awakening him upon the astral plane. When, however, their karma is
such that it is possible for them to be thus aroused, children often
prove most efficient helpers, and throw themselves into their work
with a whole-souled devotion which is very beautiful to see. And so is
fulfilled once more the ancient prophecy “a little child shall lead
them.”
Another question that suggests itself to one’s mind in reading this
last story of the two brothers is this: Since Cyril was somehow able
to materialize himself by sheer force of love and pity and strength
of will, is it not strange that Lancelot, who had been trying so much
longer to communicate, had not succeeded in doing the same thing?
Well, there is of course no difficulty in seeing why poor Lancelot was
unable to communicate with his brother, for that inability is simply
the normal condition of affairs; the wonder is that Cyril _was_
able to materialize himself, not that Lancelot was _not_. Not
only, however, was the feeling probably stronger in Cyril’s case, but
he also knew exactly what he wanted to do--knew that such a thing as
materialization was a possibility, and had some general idea as to how
it was done--while Lancelot naturally knew nothing of all this then,
though he does now.