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THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH

LONDON LAWRENCE & BULLEN, LTD. 1897

NEW YORK LONGMANS, GREEN & CO. 1897

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, LONDON & BUNGAY.

FOR THIRTY YEARS MY FRIEND AND TEACHER

It is nearly eleven years since Alan Sydney left England, but I have only recently been released from my promise of secrecy. So sacred to me is the memory of our friendship, that, even now, I shrink from the task of narrating his strange and curious history. A strong impulse, however, urges me to break silence.

The village of Anstead, near which we both lived, is in Surrey, possibly the best county in England to find mixed society. Here the old-fashioned farmers, the labourers who have never travelled as far as London, and a few country squires are mingled with, and influenced by, retired London shopkeepers, merchant princes--with or without H's--and a sprinkling of literary and scientific dabblers; these last are regarded with suspicion by all, but especially by the retired Army and Navy magnates.

Nobody seemed to know to which class Alan Sydney belonged, and strange to say he was admitted, chiefly, I fancy, because he was an eccentric bachelor, into all societies. As I am wealthy and have been a confirmed idler from my youth, the same privilege has been granted to me; a privilege of which, however, I am seldom inclined to take advantage.

I had known Alan Sydney for some years before we became at all intimate. He fascinated, repelled and puzzled me. "Why," I would say to myself, "is this man so confoundedly unlike other men?"

It is not easy to describe him, because, instead of having to portray an identity, I seem rather obliged to describe a number of individualities peeping out through one person. Often you would fancy when speaking to him that you were in the presence of a fool, to be sharply awakened to the unpleasant discovery that it was far more probable you were being fooled yourself. You had hardly decided that he was a liar before you were conscious that, if once able to get behind the outside spray of speech with which he was purposely blinding you, it might be possible to trust him more fully than other men. I usually left him with the unpleasant impression that instead of treating me as a man, he had been dissecting me as a mental or spiritual corpse. He seemed to have about as much regard for the opinion any one formed of his character as a surgeon would have of the views once entertained by his unconscious subject. Yet it was difficult to tell why one felt these sensations, for his manner was outwardly pleasant even at times jovial; and if there was satire in what he said it was certainly quite impossible for a third party to be conscious of it. I have heard him at a dinner-party make some trivial remark in his quiet voice to one of the guests which would cause the person addressed to flush up with annoyance and surprise as though he had been detected in a crime or stung by the lash of a whip.

I have never been able to find out why he chose me as his only confidant, but so it came about.

It was a warm summer evening, and after dinner it occurred to me that I would stroll over and consult him about an old manuscript which I had recently purchased. From something that he had once said it seemed probable that he might be able to help me with the Old English, which was more than usually difficult on account of the writer having been a North-countryman. Alan Sydney was in the garden inhaling a cigarette, a bad habit which he frequently denounced and perpetually practised. Sitting down beside him I remarked on his inconsistency.

"Consistency," he replied, smiling, "if we may believe Bacon, Emerson, and at least ten other original thinkers, is the quixotism of little minds. Inhaling cigarettes is the last infirmity of habitual smokers. The boy-child begins with a cigarette; in youth or manhood he drifts into cigars and pipes; later on, if he should be unfortunate enough once to try the experiment of inhaling, he reverts to his first love."

I turned the subject by handing to him the manuscript, which he looked over for some time with evident interest. When asked if he could make out the meaning of some of the Old English words he answered that he could not, and that there was probably no one living who could.

"You think I am conceited in making such a remark, but in that you are mistaken. It is simply that I am better acquainted with ignorance than you are. Most of these early English provincialisms, if I may use the term for want of a better, can only be guessed at. There are not sufficient local manuscripts of similar date for comparison to be of much service. If a word cannot be traced either to Anglo-Saxon, Moeso-Gothic, or Scandinavian, you may safely translate it as you please and defy criticism. But let us come in, it is getting chilly."

We entered the house together, passing on to his study. The home was typical of the man. From outside it might easily have been mistaken for a small farm-house. It had the appearance of age, though built by its present owner. It was constructed after the model of the oldest existing style of a Surrey cottage. The walls were supported by and interlaced with massive oak beams, and the roof was entirely composed of thin slabs of rough ironstone which had served a similar purpose for many centuries, having been collected from various dilapidated and condemned buildings. The greatest care had been taken in removing these slabs not to destroy the moss and lichen attached to them, and a few years after the house was finished, an antiquarian might easily have been deceived, so perfectly had every detail, external and internal, been studied.

This humble-looking abode cost probably as much as many of the surrounding mansions, and was unquestionably far more comfortable.

I thought that I was well acquainted with the interior. How far this idea was correct will shortly be seen.

We looked over the manuscript together for some time, and I was surprised to find that many words I had considered provincial were known to my friend; and it was not often that he had to own himself beaten. The matter, however, was most uninteresting, being a homily on the Roman faith.

Presently my companion leaned back in his chair, and seemed to be looking fixedly on some spot on the wall opposite him. I followed the direction of his eyes, but could see nothing likely to attract his attention. I spoke, but he did not answer. The light was rather dim, and it was not possible to see his face distinctly, as the shade from the lamp screened it, but I felt certain that something was wrong. I placed my hand upon his arm, but he took no notice, and this now thoroughly alarmed me.

My first inclination was to ring the bell; my second to move the shade from the lamp so as to be quite sure that I was not mistaken. Lifting the screen, I let the light fall brightly on Sydney's face, and turned to look more closely. For a moment his eyes still maintained their fixed and vacant expression, then turned slowly toward the light. He heaved a deep sigh, and then looked at me with a slightly dazed expression.

"I am afraid you are not well," I said.

"It is nothing," he replied. "For the moment I felt faint, but the sensation has passed."

Knowing something of fainting fits, and having noticed that he had never changed colour nor shown any of the usual signs of faintness, I presumed that he wished to deceive me, and began wondering what the attack could have been.

"You are not satisfied," he continued. "However, let it pass now. Some time I will explain."

Seeing that he wished to be alone, I said good-night.

"Can you come and dine with me to-morrow?" he asked. "I shall be alone, and should be glad to have a quiet talk with you."

Accepting the invitation gladly, I went out into the warm summer night, little thinking how much I was to learn before that door again closed behind me.

On the following evening I dined with Alan Sydney for the first time. It was one of his peculiarities not to ask acquaintances to his house; his bachelorhood excused him from the necessity. I was therefore not a little surprised to notice the dainty epicureanism of his meal. The wines were such as it is an unexpected delight to find; the service a thing to remember, but scarcely to hope to attain. Why have some men this curious power of getting their slightest wish gratified, apparently without effort? Money cannot purchase it, and ordinary mortals, whilst they approach the semblance, miss the ease and quietude.

"I know little or nothing of the subject," he said.

I went off gaily, but even while preparing to air my wisdom, he would apparently intercept my thought and take the very words out of my mouth.

My reverie was broken by his next remark--

"Why do you think me a liar?"

I turned round confused, protesting that of course I did nothing of the kind.

"I often am guilty of what people call lying," he said, "but never intentionally of deceiving a guest. That is why I so seldom indulge in the pleasure of entertaining."

As he said this he rose, and we went together into his study.

"Come," he continued, "I have a surprise for you."

He went up to one of the book-cases, touched a concealed spring, and the whole oak framework moved slowly round on a pivot, forming a doorway through which we passed.

Having gone down a few steps into what I judged must be an underground passage, we once more ascended into a large room, lined on every side with crowded book-cases.

"You are surprised," he said, "to see so large a room in so small a house. We are now in part of what are usually supposed to be my farm-buildings. There are three rooms here which I use for different purposes. I will show you the other two later on."

The library was lighted by a skylight arranged in such a way, that from outside it would not be visible. My companion sat down on a comfortable couch, and beckoning me to another, said--

"I must ask you to promise me that you will reveal nothing of what I am now going to say, or anything which I may show you until you have my permission. I have a strong opinion that for some reason or other the time has not yet come when it would be advisable to make generally known many facts which I have discovered belonging to a power which is lying dormant in all men. The world, however, is progressing quickly, and the responsibility must rest with you at some future time, when I am gone, as to the wisdom of making known part or all of the knowledge which you will gather from me."

Saying this, he got up, and going to one of the shelves in his book-case, took down a volume.

"You may judge," he continued, "by the collection here, that at one time I was an ardent lover of books. Now they have little interest for me: but this volume will always have a special value, for it was from it that I first gained the knowledge which has influenced my whole life.

"While travelling in France, and making, as was then my custom, a round of any old book-stalls that came in my way, I noticed a small shop which outwardly had little appearance of containing anything of interest to the bibliomaniac. In the window there were various ancient curiosities, but knowing that these antique dealers sometimes bought books which they did not display, it seemed worth while to make an inquiry. I was well rewarded, for the old man, after saying that he did not as a rule buy books, told me that he had at various times picked up at sales a few which he usually sent to be sold by auction in Paris. He had some by him at the time, and amongst these a curious Latin manuscript. Though evidently a seventeenth-century work, it was not dated. I thought at first that it would probably prove of little value, until turning over the leaves, I noticed that it was by no less celebrated a writer than Descartes. This author's works were at the time little known to me, and it never occurred to my mind that this volume could be anything more valuable than a manuscript of one of his published works. However, published or unpublished, it was certainly worth a thousand times more than the dealer asked for it, so I took it back to my hotel well pleased with my morning's work, and spent the whole afternoon reading. An entirely new idea of existence seemed opening before me, and it appeared incredible that a work of this description could have been known for two hundred and fifty years without my having even heard a repetition of the views found there. Then remembering that many of Descartes' works had, owing to the opposition of the Romish Church, never been printed, I decided to find out at once whether by any chance this might be one of them. I sent immediately to Paris for a complete edition of Descartes, which had recently been published, and soon found that this volume was not among them. A little further inquiry satisfied me of the authenticity of the MS., and that it was entirely unknown.

"You may remember that Descartes, in his 'Discourse on Method,' published in 1637, says, 'It appears to me that I have discovered many truths more useful and more important than all I had before learned, or even expected to learn. I have essayed to expound the chief of these discoveries in a treatise which certain considerations prevent me from publishing.' Now we know that the chief consideration was his fear of offending the Church, and every one who has read Descartes' published works must observe through them a perpetual veiling of what he thought to be true so as to avoid being brought in conflict with the religious opinions of his day. Notice this passage from the work just mentioned. 'It may be believed without discredit to the miracle of creation, that things purely material might in course of time have become such as we observe them at present, and their end is much more easily conceived when they are beheld coming in this manner gradually into existence, than when they are only considered as produced at once in a finished and perfect state.'

"He then applies this theory to man. He says that as yet he has not sufficient knowledge to treat of this development, and is obliged to remain satisfied with the supposition that God formed the body of man wholly like to one of ours, but at first placed in it no rational soul. Having gone thus far and apparently fearing to go further, he breaks off suddenly and never satisfactorily returns to the subject in his published works. But how different is his method when we turn to the manuscript before me, which I fancy must have been his last work, as it is unfinished! How much more lucid and complete we find his conclusions here! There is no attempt to suppress his real view. I will give you briefly a summary of the chief conclusions which interested me, and which will be enough for the present purpose.

"'All things have slowly developed.'

"'Man is the most perfectly developed being of whose existence we are conscious.'

"'The lower orders of life have a varying number of powers of perception which we term senses.'

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