LITMIR.BIZ

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asked Darcy.

      “I can’t explain that; but by translating it into a bodily attitude it is this.”

      Frank sat up for a moment quite straight in his chair, then slowly sunk back with arms outspread and head drooped.

      “That,” he said, “an effortless attitude, but open, resting, receptive. It is just that which you must do with your soul.”

      Then he sat up again.

      “One word more,” he said, “and I will bore you no further. Nor unless you ask me questions shall I talk about it again. You will find me, in fact, quite sane in my mode of life. Birds and beasts you will see behaving somewhat intimately to me, like that moor-hen, but that is all. I will walk with you, ride with you, play golf with you, and talk with you on any subject you like. But I wanted you on the threshold to know what has happened to me. And one thing more will happen.”

      He paused again, and a slight look of fear crossed his eyes.

      “There will be a final revelation,” he said, “a complete and blinding stroke which will throw open to me, once and for all, the full knowledge, the full realization and comprehension that I am one, just as you are, with life. In reality there is no ‘me,’ no ‘you,’ no ‘it.’ Everything is part of the one and only thing which is life. I know that that is so, but the realization of it is not yet mine. But it will be, and on that day, so I take it, I shall see Pan. It may mean death, the death of my body, that is, but I don’t care. It may mean immortal, eternal life lived here and now and for ever. Then having gained that, ah, my dear Darcy, I shall preach such a gospel of joy, showing myself as the living proof of the truth, that Puritanism, the dismal religion of sour faces, shall vanish like a breath of smoke, and be dispersed and disappear in the sunlit air. But first the full knowledge must be mine.”

      Darcy watched his face narrowly.

      “You are afraid of that moment,” he said.

      Frank smiled at him.

      “Quite true; you are quick to have seen that. But when it comes I hope I shall not be afraid.”

      For some little time there was silence; then Darcy rose.

      “You have bewitched me, you extraordinary boy,” he said. “You have been telling me a fairy-story, and I find myself saying, ‘Promise me it is true.’”

      “I promise you that,” said the other.

      “And I know I shan’t sleep,” added Darcy.

      Frank looked at him with a sort of mild wonder as if he scarcely understood.

      “Well, what does that matter?” he said.

      “I assure you it does. I am wretched unless I sleep.”

      “Of course I can make you sleep if I want,” said Frank in a rather bored voice.

      “Well, do.”

      “Very good: go to bed. I’ll come upstairs in ten minutes.”

      Frank busied himself for a little after the other had gone, moving the table back under the awning of the veranda and quenching the lamp. Then he went with his quick silent tread upstairs and into Darcy’s room. The latter was already in bed, but very wide-eyed and wakeful, and Frank with an amused smile of indulgence, as for a fretful child, sat down on the edge of the bed.

      “Look at me,” he said, and Darcy looked.

      “The birds are sleeping in the brake,” said Frank softly, “and the winds are asleep. The sea sleeps, and the tides are but the heaving of its breast. The stars swing slow, rocked in the great cradle of the Heavens, and——”

      He stopped suddenly, gently blew out Darcy’s candle, and left him sleeping.

      Morning brought to Darcy a flood of hard commonsense, as clear and crisp as the sunshine that filled his room. Slowly as he woke he gathered together the broken threads of the memories of the evening which had ended, so he told himself, in a trick of common hypnotism. That accounted for it all; the whole strange talk he had had was under a spell of suggestion from the extraordinary vivid boy who had once been a man; all his own excitement, his acceptance of the incredible had been merely the effect of a stronger, more potent will imposed on his own. How strong that will was, he guessed from his own instantaneous obedience to Frank’s suggestion of sleep. And armed with impenetrable commonsense he came down to breakfast. Frank had already begun, and was consuming a large plateful of porridge and milk with the most prosaic and healthy appetite.

      “Slept well?” he asked.

      “Yes, of course. Where did you learn hypnotism?”

      “By the side of the river.”

      “You talked an amazing quantity of nonsense last night,” remarked Darcy, in a voice prickly with reason.

      “Rather. I felt quite giddy. Look, I remembered to order a dreadful daily paper for you. You can read about money markets or politics or cricket matches.”

      Darcy looked at him closely. In the morning light Frank looked even fresher, younger, more vital than he had done the night before, and the sight of him somehow dinted Darcy’s armor of commonsense.

      “You are the most extraordinary fellow I ever saw,” he said. “I want to ask you some more questions.”

      “Ask away,” said Frank.

      * * * *

      For the next day or two Darcy plied his friend with many questions, objections and criticisms on the theory of life and gradually got out of him a coherent and complete account of his experience. In brief then, Frank believed that “by lying naked,” as he put it, to the force which controls the passage of the stars, the breaking of a wave, the budding of a tree, the love of a youth and maiden, he had succeeded in a way hitherto undreamed of in possessing himself of the essential principle of life. Day by day, so he thought, he was getting nearer to, and in closer union with the great power itself which caused all life to be, the spirit of nature, of force, or the spirit of God. For himself, he confessed to what others would call paganism; it was sufficient for him that there existed a principle of life. He did not worship it, he did not pray to it, he did not praise it. Some of it existed in all human beings, just as it existed in trees and animals; to realize and make living to himself the fact that it was all one, was his sole aim and object.

      Here perhaps Darcy would put in a word of warning. “Take care,” he said. “To see Pan meant death, did it not?”

      Frank’s eyebrows would rise at this.

      “What does that matter?” he said. “True, the Greeks were always right, and they said so, but there is another possibility. For the nearer I get to it, the more living, the more vital and young I become.”

      “What then do you expect the final revelation will do for you?”

      “I have told you,” said he. “It will make me immortal.”

      But it was not so much from speech and argument that Darcy grew to grasp his friend’s conception, as from the ordinary conduct of his life. They were passing, for instance, one morning down the village street, when an old woman, very bent and decrepit, but with an extraordinary cheerfulness of face, hobbled out from her cottage. Frank instantly stopped when he saw her.

      “You old darling! How goes it all?” he said.

      But she did not answer, her dim old eyes were riveted on his face; she seemed to drink in like a thirsty creature the beautiful radiance which shone there. Suddenly she put her two withered old hands on his shoulders.

      “You’re just the sunshine itself,” she said, and he kissed her and passed on.

      But scarcely a hundred yards further a strange contradiction of such tenderness occurred. A child running along the path towards them fell on its face, and set up a dismal cry of fright and pain. A look of horror came into Frank’s eyes, and, putting his fingers in his ears, he fled at full speed down the

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