In the Wrong Paradise, and Other Stories Page 10

  IN THE WRONG PARADISEAN OCCIDENTAL APOLOGUE.

  In the drawing-room, or, as it is more correctly called, the "dormitory,"of my club, I had been reading a volume named "Sur l'Humanite Posthume,"by M. D'Assier, a French follower of Comte. The mixture of positivismand ghost-stories highly diverted me. Moved by the sagacity andpertinence of M. D'Assier's arguments for a limited and fortuitousimmortality, I fell into such an uncontrollable fit of laughter ascaused, I could see, first annoyance and then anxiety in those members ofmy club whom my explosion of mirth had awakened. As I still chuckled andscreamed, it appeared to me that the noise I made gradually grew fainterand more distant, seeming to resound in some vast empty space, even morefunereal and melancholy than the dormitory of my club, the "Tepidarium."It has happened to most people to laugh themselves awake out of a dream,and every one who has done so must remember the ghastly, hollow, andmaniacal sound of his own mirth. It rings horribly in a quiet room wherethere has been, as the Veddahs of Ceylon say is the case in the world atlarge, "nothing to laugh at." Dean Swift once came to himself, after adream, laughing thus hideously at the following conceit: "I told Aproniato be very careful especially about the legs." Well, the explosions ofmy laughter crackled in a yet more weird and lunatic fashion about my ownears as I slowly became aware that I had died of an excessive sense ofthe ludicrous, and that the space in which I was so inappropriatelygiggling was, indeed, the fore-court of the House of Hades. As I grewmore absolutely convinced of this truth, and began dimly to discern astrange world visible in a sallow light, like that of the London streetswhen a black fog hangs just over the houses, my hysterical chucklinggradually died away. Amusement at the poor follies of mortals wassucceeded by an awful and anxious curiosity as to the state ofimmortality and the life after death. Already it was certain that "theManes are somewhat," and that annihilation is the dream of peoplesceptical through lack of imagination. The scene around me now resolveditself into a high grey upland country, bleak and wild, like the wastepastoral places of Liddesdale. As I stood expectant, I observed a figurecoming towards me at some distance. The figure bore in its hand a gun,and, as I am short-sighted, I at first conceived that he was thegamekeeper. "This affair," I tried to say to myself, "is only a dreamafter all; I shall wake and forget my nightmare."

  But still the man drew nearer, and I began to perceive my error.Gamekeepers do not usually paint their faces red and green, neither dothey wear scalp-locks, a tuft of eagle's feathers, moccasins, and buffalo-hide cloaks, embroidered with representations of war and the chase. Thiswas the accoutrement of the stranger who now approached me, and whosecopper-coloured complexion indicated that he was a member of the RedIndian, or, as the late Mr. Morgan called it the "Ganowanian" race. Thestranger's attire was old and clouted; the barrel of his flint-lockmusket was rusted, and the stock was actually overgrown with smallfunguses. It was a peculiarity of this man that everything he carriedwas more or less broken and outworn. The barrel of his piece was riven,his tomahawk was a mere shard of rusted steel, on many of hisaccoutrements the vapour of fire had passed. He approached me with astately bearing, and, after saluting me in the fashion of his people,gave me to know that he welcomed me to the land of spirits, and that hewas deputed to carry me to the paradise of the Ojibbeways. "But, sir," Icried in painful confusion, "there is here some great mistake. I am noOjibbeway, but an Agnostic; the after-life of spirits is only (as one ofour great teachers says) 'an hypothesis based on contradictoryprobabilities;' and I really must decline to accompany you to a place ofwhich the existence is uncertain, and which, if it does anywhere exist,would be uncongenial in the extreme to a person of my habits."

  To this remonstrance my Ojibbeway Virgil answered, in effect, that in theenormous passenger traffic between the earth and the next worlds mistakesmust and frequently do occur. Quisque suos patimur manes, as the Romansays, is the rule, but there are many exceptions. Many a man findshimself in the paradise of a religion not his own, and suffers from theconsequences. This was, in brief, the explanation of my guide, who couldonly console me by observing that if I felt ill at ease in the Ojibbewayparadise, I might, perhaps, be more fortunate in that of some othercreed. "As for your Agnostics," said he, "their main occupation in theirown next world is to read the poetry of George Eliot and thephilosophical works of Mr. J. S. Mill." On hearing this, I was muchconsoled for having missed the entrance to my proper sphere, and Iprepared to follow my guide with cheerful alacrity, into the paradise ofthe Ojibbeways.

  Our track lay, at first, along the "Path of Souls," and the still, greyair was only disturbed by a faint rustling and twittering of spirits onthe march. We seemed to have journeyed but a short time, when a redlight shone on the left hand of the way. As we drew nearer, this lightappeared to proceed from a prodigious strawberry, a perfect mountain of astrawberry. Its cool and shining sides seemed very attractive to athirsty Soul. A red man, dressed strangely in the feathers of a raven,stood hard by, and loudly invited all passers-by to partake of thisrefreshment. I was about to excavate a portion of the monstrousstrawberry (being partial to that fruit), when my guide held my hand andwhispered in a low voice that they who accepted the invitation of the manthat guarded the strawberry were lost. He added that, into whateverparadise I might stray, I must beware of tasting any of the food of thedeparted. All who yield to the temptation must inevitably remain wherethey have put the food of the dead to their lips. "You," said my guide,with a slight sneer, "seem rather particular about your future home, andyou must be especially careful to make no error." Thus admonished, Ifollowed my guide to the river which runs between our world and theparadise of the Ojibbeways. A large stump of a tree lies half across thestream, the other half must be crossed by the agility of the wayfarer.Little children do but badly here, and "an Ojibbeway woman," said myguide, "can never be consoled when her child dies before it is fairlyexpert in jumping. Such young children they cannot expect to meet againin paradise." I made no reply, but was reminded of some good and unhappywomen I had known on earth, who were inconsolable because their babes haddied before being sprinkled with water by a priest. These babes they,like the Ojibbeway matrons, "could not expect to meet again in paradise."To a grown-up spirit the jump across the mystic river presented nodifficulty, and I found myself instantly among the wigwams of theOjibbeway heaven. It was a remarkably large village, and as far as theeye could see huts and tents were erected along the river. The sound ofmagic songs and of drums filled all the air, and in the fields thespirits were playing lacrosse. All the people of the village haddeserted their homes and were enjoying themselves at the game. Outsideone hut, however, a perplexed and forlorn phantom was sitting, and to mysurprise I saw that he was dressed in European clothes. As we drewnearer I observed that he wore the black garb and white neck-tie of aminister in some religious denomination, and on coming to still closerquarters I recognized an old acquaintance, the Rev. Peter McSnadden. NowPeter had been a "jined member" of that mysterious "U. P. Kirk" which,according to the author of "Lothair," was founded by the Jesuits for thegreater confusion of Scotch theology. Peter, I knew, had been active asa missionary among the Red Men in Canada; but I had neither heard of hisdeath nor could conceive how his shade had found its way into a paradiseso inappropriate as that in which I encountered him. Though never veryfond of Peter, my heart warmed to him, as the heart sometimes does to anacquaintance unexpectedly met in a strange land. Coming cautiouslybehind him, I slapped Peter on the shoulder, whereon he leaped up with awild unearthly yell, his countenance displaying lively tokens of terror.When he recognized me he first murmured, "I thought it was thesemurdering Apaches again;" and it was long before I could soothe him, orget him to explain his fears, and the circumstance of his appearance inso strange a final home. "Sir," said Peter, "it's just some terriblemistake. For twenty years was I preaching to these poor painted bodiesanent heaven and hell, and trying to win them from their fearsome notionsabout a place where they would play at the ba' on the Sabbath, and
thelike shameful heathen diversions. Many a time did I round it to themabout a far, far other place--

  "Where congregations ne'er break up, And sermons never end!"

  And now, lo and behold, here I am in their heathenish Gehenna, where theSabbath-day is just clean neglected; indeed, I have lost count myself,and do not know one day from the other. Oh, man, it's just rideec'lous.A body--I mean a soul--does not know where to turn." Here Peter, whoseaccent I cannot attempt to reproduce (he was a Paisley man), burst intohonest tears. Though I could not but agree with Peter that his situationwas "just rideec'lous," I consoled him as well as I might, saying that aman should make the best of every position, and that "where there waslife there was hope," a sentiment of which I instantly perceived thefutility in this particular instance. "Ye do not know the worst," theRev. Mr. McSnadden went on. "I am here to make them sport, like Samsonamong the Philistines. Their paradise would be no paradise to them ifthey had not a pale-face, as they say, to scalp and tomahawk. And I amthat pale-face. Before you can say 'scalping-knife' these awful Apachesmay be on me, taking my scalp and other leeberties with my person. Itgrows again, my scalp does, immediately; but that's only that they maytake it some other day." The full horror of Mr. McSnadden's situationnow dawned upon me, but at the same time I could not but perceive that,without the presence of some pale-face to torture--Peter oranother--paradise would, indeed, be no paradise to a Red Indian. In thesame way Tertullian (or some other early Father) has remarked that thepleasures of the blessed will be much enhanced by what they observe ofthe torments of the wicked. As I was reflecting thus two wild yellsburst upon my hearing. One came from a band of Apache spirits who hadstolen into the Ojibbeway village; the other scream was uttered by myunfortunate friend. I confess that I fled with what speed I might, nordid I pause till the groans of the miserable Peter faded in the distance.He was, indeed, a man in the wrong paradise.

  In my anxiety to avoid sharing the fate of Peter at the hands of theApaches, I had run out of sight and sound of the Ojibbeway village. WhenI paused I found myself alone, on a wide sandy tract, at the extremity ofwhich was an endless thicket of dark poplar-trees, a grove dear toPersephone. Here and there in the dank sand, half buried by the fallengenerations of yellow poplar-leaves, were pits dug, a cubit every way,and there were many ruinous altars of ancient stones. On some wereengraved figures of a divine pair, a king and queen seated on a throne,while men and women approached them with cakes in their hands or with thesacrifice of a cock. While I was admiring these strange sights, I beheldas it were a moving light among the deeps of the poplar thicket, andpresently saw coming towards me a young man clad in white raiment and ofa radiant aspect. In his hand he bore a golden wand whereon were wingsof gold. The first down of manhood was on his lip; he was in that seasonof life when youth is most gracious. Then I knew him to be no other thanHermes of the golden rod, the guide of the souls of men outworn. He tookmy hand with a word of welcome, and led me through the gloom of thepoplar trees.

  Like Thomas the Rhymer, on his way to Fairyland--

  "We saw neither sun nor moon, But we heard the roaring of the sea."

  This eternal "swowing of a flode" was the sound made by the circlingstream of Oceanus, as he turns on his bed, washing the base of the WhiteRock, and the sands of the region of dreams. So we fleeted onwards tillwe came to marvellous lofty gates of black adamant, that rose before uslike the steep side of a hill. On the left side of the gates we beheld afountain flowing from beneath the roots of a white cypress-tree, and tothis fountain my guide forbade me to draw near. "There is anotheryonder," he said, pointing to the right hand, "a stream of still waterthat issues from the Lake of Memory, and there are guards who keep thatstream from the lips of the profane. Go to them and speak thus: 'I amthe child of earth and of the starry sky, yet heavenly is my lineage, andthis yourselves know right well. But I am perishing with thirst, so giveme speedily of that still water which floweth forth of the mere ofMemory.' And they will give thee to drink of that spring divine, andthen shalt thou dwell with the heroes and the blessed." So I did as hesaid, and went before the guardians of the water. Now they were veiled,and their voices, when they answered me, seemed to come from far away."Thou comest to the pure, from the pure," they said, "and thou art asuppliant of holy Persephone. Happy and most blessed art thou, advanceto the reward of the crown desirable, and be no longer mortal, butdivine." Then a darkness fell upon me, and lifted again like mist on thehills, and we found ourselves in the most beautiful place that can beconceived, a meadow of that short grass which grows on some shores besidethe sea. There were large spaces of fine and solid turf, but, where thelittle streams flowed from the delicate-tinted distant mountains, therewere narrow valleys full of all the flowers of a southern spring. Heregrew narcissus and hyacinths, violets and creeping thyme, and crocus andthe crimson rose, as they blossomed on the day when the milk-white bullcarried off Europa. Beyond the level land beside the sea, between thesecoasts and the far-off hills, was a steep lonely rock, on which were setthe shining temples of the Grecian faith. The blue seas that begirt thecoasts were narrow, and ran like rivers between many islands not lessfair than the country to which we were come, while other isles, each withits crest of clear-cut hills, lay westward, far away, and receding intothe place of the sunset. Then I recognized the Fortunate Islands spokenof by Pindar, and the paradise of the Greeks. "Round these the oceanbreezes blow and golden flowers are glowing, some from the land on treesof splendour, and some the water feedeth, with wreaths whereof theyentwine their hands." {124} And, as Pindar says again, "for them shinethbelow the strength of the sun, while in our world it is night, and thespace of crimson-flowered meadows before their city is full of the shadeof frankincense-trees and of fruits of gold. And some in horses and inbodily feats, and some in dice, and some in harp-playing have delight,and among them thriveth all fair flowering bliss; and fragrance everstreameth through the lovely land as they mingle incense of every kindupon the altars of the gods." In this beautiful country I took greatdelight, now watching the young men leaping and running (and they weremarvellously good over a short distance of ground), now sitting in achariot whereto were harnessed steeds swifter than the wind, like thosethat, Homer says, "the gods gave, glorious gifts, to Peleus." And thepeople, young and old, received me kindly, welcoming me in their Greekspeech, which was like the sound of music. And because I had ever been alover of them and of their tongue, my ears were opened to understandthem, though they spoke not Greek as we read it. Now when I had beheldmany of the marvels of the Fortunate Islands, and had sat at meat withthose kind hosts (though I only made semblance to eat of what they placedbefore me), and had seen the face of Rhadamanthus of the golden hair, whois the lord of that country, my friends told me that there was come amongthem one of my own nation who seemed most sad and sorrowful, and theycould make him no mirth. Then they carried me to a house in a grove, andall around it a fair garden, and a well in the midst.

  Now stooping over the well, that he might have sight of his own face, wasa most wretched man. He was pale and very meagre; he had black ringsunder his eyes, and his hair was long, limp, and greasy, falling over hisshoulders. He was clad somewhat after the manner of the old Greeks, buthis raiment was wofully ill-made and ill-girt upon him, nor did he everseem at his ease. As soon as I beheld his sallow face I knew him for oneI had seen and mocked at in the world of the living. He was a certainFiggins, and he had been honestly apprenticed to a photographer; but,being a weak and vain young fellow, he had picked up modern notions aboutart, the nude, plasticity, and the like, in the photographer's workroom,whereby he became a weariness to the photographer and to them that satunto him. Being dismissed from his honest employment, this chitterlingmust needs become a model to some painters that were near as ignorant ashimself. They talked to him about the Greeks, about the antique, aboutPaganism, about the Renaissance, till they made him as much the child offolly as themselves. And they painted him as Antinous
, as Eros, asSleep, and I know not what, but whatever name they called him he wasalways the same lank-haired, dowdy, effeminate, pasty-facedphotographer's young man. Then he must needs take to writing poems allabout Greece, and the free ways of the old Greeks, and Lais, and Phryne,and therein he made "Aeolus" rhyme to "control us." For of Greek thisfellow knew not a word, and any Greek that met him had called him a[Greek text], and bidden him begone to the crows for a cursed fellow, andone that made false quantities in every Greek name he uttered. But hislittle poems were much liked by young men of his own sort, and by some ofthe young women. Now death had come to Figgins, and here he was in theFortunate Islands, the very paradise of those Greeks about whom he hadalways been prating while he was alive. And yet he was not happy. Alittle lyre lay beside him in the grass, and now and again he twanged onit dolorously, and he tried to weave himself garlands from the flowersthat grew around him; but he knew not the art, and ever and anon he feltfor his button-hole, wherein to stick a lily or the like. But he had nobutton-hole. Then he would look at himself in the well, and yawn andwish himself back in his friends' studios in London. I almost pitied thewretch, and, going up to him, I asked him how he did. He said he hadnever been more wretched. "Why," I asked, "was your mouth not alwaysfull of the 'Greek spirit,' and did you not mock the Christians and theirreligion? And, as to their heaven, did you not say that it was a tediousplace, full of pious old ladies and Philistines? And are you not got tothe paradise of the Greeks? What, then, ails you with your lot?" "Sir,"said he, "to be plain with you, I do not understand a word these fellowsabout me say, and I feel as I did the first time I went to Paris, beforeI knew enough French to read the Master's poems. {128} Again, every onehere is mirthful and gay, and there is no man with a divinely passionatepotentiality of pain. When I first came here they were always asking meto run with them or jump against them, and one fellow insisted I shouldbox with him, and hurt me very much. My potentiality of pain isconsiderable. Or they would have me drive with them in these dangerousopen chariots,--me, that never rode in a hansom cab without feelingnervous. And after dinner they sing songs of which I do not catch themeaning of one syllable, and the music is like nothing I ever heard in mylife. And they are all abominably active and healthy. And such of theirpoets as I admired--in Bohn's cribs, of course--the poets of theAnthology, are not here at all, and the poets who are here are tremendousproud toffs" (here Figgins relapsed into his natural style as it wasbefore he became a Neopagan poet), "and won't say a word to a cove. AndI'm sick of the Greeks, and the Fortunate Islands are a blooming fraud,and oh, for paradise, give me Pentonville." With these words, perhapsthe only unaffected expression of genuine sentiment poor Figgins had everuttered, he relapsed into a gloomy silence. I advised him to cultivatethe society of the authors whose selected works are in the GreekDelectus, and to try to make friends with Xenophon, whose Greek is aboutas easy as that of any ancient. But I fear that Figgins, like the Rev.Peter McSnadden, is really suffering a kind of punishment in the disguiseof a reward, and all through having accidentally found his way into whathe foolishly thought would be the right paradise for him.

  Now I might have stayed long in the Fortunate Islands, yet, beautiful asthey were, I ever felt like Odysseus in the island of fair Circe. Thecountry was lovely and the land desirable, but the Christian souls werenot there without whom heaven itself were no paradise to me. And itchanced that as we sat at the feast a maiden came to me with apomegranate on a plate of silver, and said, "Sir, thou hast now been herefor the course of a whole moon, yet hast neither eaten nor drunk of whatis set before thee. Now it is commanded that thou must taste if it werebut a seed of this pomegranate, or depart from among us." Then, makingsuch excuses as I might, I was constrained to refuse to eat, for no soulcan leave a paradise wherein it has tasted food. And as I spoke thewalls of the fair hall wherein we sat, which were painted with theeffigies of them that fell at Thermopylae and in Arcadion, wavered andgrew dim, and darkness came upon me.

  The first of my senses which returned to me was that of smell, and Iseemed almost drowned in the spicy perfumes of Araby. Then my eyesbecame aware of a green soft fluttering, as of the leaves of a greatforest, but quickly I perceived that the fluttering was caused by thegreen scarfs of a countless multitude of women. They were "fine women"in the popular sense of the term, and were of the school of beautyadmired by the Faithful of Islam, and known to Mr. Bailey, in "MartinChuzzlewit," as "crumby." These fond attendant nymphs carried me intogardens twain, in each two gushing springs, in each fruit, and palms, andpomegranates. There were the blessed reclining, precisely as the Prophethas declared, "on beds the linings whereof are brocade, and the fruit ofthe two gardens within reach to cull." There also were the "maids ofmodest glances," previously indifferent to the wooing "of man or ginn.""Bright and large-eyed maids kept in their tents, reclining on greencushions and beautiful carpets. About the golden couches went eternalyouths with goblets and ewers, and a cup of flowing wine. No headacheshall they feel therefrom," says the compassionate Prophet, "nor shalltheir wits be dimmed." And all that land is misty and fragrant with theperfume of the softest Latakia, and the gardens are musical with thebubbling of countless narghiles; and I must say that to the Christiansoul which enters that paradise the whole place has, certainly, a rathercurious air, as of a highly transcendental Cremorne. There could be nodoubt, however, that the Faithful were enjoying themselvesamazingly--"right lucky fellows," as we read in the new translation ofthe Koran. Yet even here all was not peace and pleasantness, for I heardmy name called by a small voice, in a tone of patient subduedquerulousness. Looking hastily round, I with some difficulty recognized,in a green turban and silk gown to match, my old college tutor andprofessor of Arabic. Poor old Jones had been the best and the most shyof university men. As there was never any undergraduate in his time (itis different now) who wished to learn Arabic, his place had been asinecure, and he had chiefly devoted his leisure to "drawing" pupils whowere too late for college chapel. The sight of a lady of hisacquaintance in the streets had at all times been alarming enough todrive him into a shop or up a lane, and he had not survived the creationof the first batch of married fellows. How he had got into thisthoroughly wrong paradise was a mystery which he made no attempt toexplain. "A nice place this, eh?" he said to me. "Nice gardens; remindme of Magdalene a good deal. It seems, however, to be decidedly rathergay just now; don't you think so? Commemoration week, perhaps. A greatmany young ladies up, certainly; a good deal of cup drunk in the gardenstoo. I always did prefer to go down in Commemoration week, myself; neverwas a dancing man. There is a great deal of dancing here, but the youngladies dance alone, rather like what is called the ballet, I believe, atthe opera. I must say the young persons are a little forward; a littleembarrassing it is to be alone here, especially as I have forgotten agood deal of my Arabic. Don't you think, my dear fellow, you and I couldmanage to give them the slip? Run away from them, eh?" He uttered atimid little chuckle, and at that moment an innumerable host of hourisbegan a ballet d'action illustrative of a series of events in the careerof the Prophet. It was obvious that my poor uncomplaining old friend wasreally very miserable. The "thornless loto trees" were all thorny tohim, and the "tal'h trees with piles of fruit, the outspread shade, andwater outpoured" could not comfort him in his really very naturalshyness. A happy thought occurred to me. In early and credulous youth Ihad studied the works of Cornelius Agrippa and Petrus de Abano. Theirlessons, which had not hitherto been of much practical service, recurredto my mind. Stooping down, I drew a circle round myself and my oldfriend in the fragrant white blossoms which were strewn so thick thatthey quite hid the grass. This circle I fortified by the usual signsemployed, as Benvenuto Cellini tells us, in the conjuration of evilspirits. I then proceeded to utter one of the common forms of exorcism.Instantly the myriad houris assumed the forms of irritated demons; thesmoke from the uncounted narghiles burned thick and black; the cries ofthe frustrated ginns, who were no bet
ter than they should be, rang wildlyin our ears; the palm-trees shook beneath a mighty wind; the distantsummits of the minarets rocked and wavered, and, with a tremendous crash,the paradise of the Faithful disappeared.

  * * * * *

  As I rang the bell, and requested the club-waiter to carry away thesmoking fragments of the moderator-lamp which I had accidentally knockedover in awaking from my nightmare, I reflected on the vanity of men andthe unsubstantial character of the future homes that their fancy hasfashioned. The ideal heavens of modern poets and novelists, and ofancient priests, come no nearer than the drugged dreams of the angekokand the biraark of Greenland and Queensland to that rest and peacewhereof it has not entered into the mind of man to conceive. To thewrong man each of our pictured heavens would be a hell, and even to theappropriate devotee each would become a tedious purgatory.