“As to time,” he said, “we must allow for exaggeration in those old stories. But the possible duration would depend, no doubt, on the strength of the person, and the degree to which he had used the power. Myself, I am as yet still recovering from a severe illness—a person in perfect health would probably find no difficulty in remaining in that state of trance on first trial for double the time that I can last out now. I have discovered this power only of late, and was on first discovery afraid to use it. I have had little practice. But already the duration which I can bear is rapidly increasing. It was only for a few moments at first. This morning I extended the period to five minutes, timing myself by my watch.”
“And your consciousness while in that state?”
He paused again.
“I cannot speak on that point,” he said at last. “I can tell you that I do not experience the impossible visions that stand recorded in saintly legends; but as to the kind or degree of my consciousness, I have arrived at no accurate knowledge on that point myself. The duration of the separation is so very short. Consciousness wholly distinct from the senses is such a strange process. It is only after many months that infants learn to use their senses—to think and feel through them. And I suffer the reverse process,—and only for a few moments at a time. I could not say that I heard or saw in that state, and yet I am conscious. It is impossible to explain. I myself have as great a curiosity and eagerness to learn more as you can have.”
We were both silent.
Then Mauleverer continued.
“You disbelieve those old stories that come down to us, intermixed with superstitious additions. But there are plenty of later stories, of cases here in England, well-attested, and without a shadow of imposture or superstition in them. Take, for example, the case of Colonel Townshend.”
He got up, went to a book-case, and taking down a book, searched through the leaves for a moment or two, and at length handed it open to me.
I glanced through it. The case was related by a physician, and other physicians attested it. The details were told at length, and with perfect clearness. No explanation, physical or other, was attempted. Colonel Townshend died, and returned to life—could do so habitually. There it was under the hands of the doctors.
“But,” I said, after consideration of the case, “Colonel Townshend was at this time in ill health—a ‘nephritic complaint,’ as the book says—was, in fact, in the last stage of a long-continuing disease. This was surely some pre-monitor of death, no normal power of healthful nature.”
Mauleverer’s face darkened—it became very sad and weary.
I do not think at that time I at all took in the drift of his argument. Thinking over it many, many times afterwards, I can see plainly now that, feeling the awful separation between himself and his fellow-men, he was eager to prove himself not different from, but like them. “All others have this awful power that I possess; the only difference is, that they have not discovered that they possess it. It is simply a natural gift, little used.” That was his argument. A victim to catalepsy, he found—he made up his mind to find—in this strange accompaniment of the disease (undoubtedly one of its symptoms) a new tie between himself and the ordinary people of the world—a discovery made by him, the weak, which the strong had failed to make. He triumphed in this awful force of diseased nature with an altogether morbid pride. I learned afterwards that before his fall in hunting he had been another man to what he became subsequently to it. A revulsion had taken place in his character. Previously devoted to active exercises, he had become during his long illness a student. The ambition which had before been directed to bodily superiority was of necessity turned into another channel. The terrible burden and disgrace of his involuntary cataleptic fits, he managed by an insane self-deception to counteract by pride in that cataleptic trance which he could bring on at will.
My observation on the story of Colonel Townshend was unwittingly cruel. Far more cruel, however, my persistence in my original curiosity.
What I write here as our conversation is derived from memory at the distance of a long period. It is of little consequence if I pass on abruptly to its conclusion.
Mauleverer had resumed his place in the window-seat. The chapel service was not yet over. During his previous monologue, the antiphonic chants of the psalms, the silences of the spoken portion of the service, the momentary but long-drawn sounds of the choral Amens had accompanied his animated utterance. It was about this time that the anthem began—an anthem of Beethoven’s, which under influence of (what I believe they call) the tremulato stop of the organ quivered down the long chapel, and out into the air, in measured waves of distinct and separated sound. An echo in the opposite corner of the quadrangle gave back these musical waves vaguely and faintly, as the reflection of a rainbow repeats dimly the colours of its original.
“Of course,” said Mauleverer, “you have never tried to exercise this power? Will you try to-night for the first time? I am most anxious to attempt experiments in this way, and it is impossible for one person alone to do much. I will show you first how it is done, then, if you have no objection, you shall try.”
“I will,” I said.
“Then,” he said, stretching his legs on the window-seat, his back and head being propped against the shutter, “then in the first place you must be silent; stand by me without making any noise; even hold your breath if you can; I am peculiarly sensitive to noise. In the next place, do not on any account touch me; I have always a fear of some fate like that of Hermotimus.” He paused and then added, “It is fair to tell you. Take care of your thoughts. You asked me about my consciousness. In the trance I fancy I do become conscious of the thoughts of those who are present.”
The light from the lamp fell upon his face, and,
