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THE
STOLEN BODY
By H. G. Wells
Mr.
Bessel was the senior partner in the firm of Bessel, Hart,
and
Brown, of St. Paul's Churchyard, and for many years he was
well
known among those interested in psychical research as a
liberal-minded
and conscientious investigator. He was an unmarried
man,
and instead of living in the suburbs, after the fashion of
his
class, he occupied rooms in the Albany, near Piccadilly. He
was
particularly interested in the questions of thought transference
and
of apparitions of the living, and in November, 1896, he commenced
a
series of experiments in conjunction with Mr. Vincey, of Staple Inn,
in
order to test the alleged possibility of projecting an apparition
of
one's self by force of will through space.
Their
experiments were conducted in the following manner: At a pre-
arranged
hour Mr. Bessel shut himself in one of his rooms in the
Albany
and Mr. Vincey in his sitting-room in Staple Inn, and each then
fixed
his mind as resolutely as possible on the other. Mr. Bessel
had
acquired the art of self-hypnotism, and, so far as he could,
he
attempted first to hypnotise himself and then to project himself
as
a "phantom of the living" across the intervening space of nearly
two
miles into Mr. Vincey's apartment. On several evenings this
was
tried without any satisfactory result, but on the fifth or sixth
occasion
Mr. Vincey did actually see or imagine he saw an apparition
of
Mr. Bessel standing in his room. He states that the appearance,
although
brief, was very vivid and real. He noticed that Mr. Bessel's
face
was white and his expression anxious, and, moreover, that
his
hair was disordered. For a moment Mr. Vincey, in spite of his
state
of expectation, was too surprised to speak or move, and in that
moment
it seemed to him as though the figure glanced over its shoulder
and
incontinently vanished.
It
had been arranged that an attempt should be made to photograph
any
phantasm seen, but Mr. Vincey had not the instant presence
of
mind to snap the camera that lay ready on the table beside him,
and
when he did so he was too late. Greatly elated, however, even
by
this partial success, he made a note of the exact time, and
at
once took a cab to the Albany to inform Mr. Bessel of this result.
He
was surprised to find Mr. Bessel's outer door standing open
to
the night, and the inner apartments lit and in an extraordinary
disorder.
An empty champagne magnum lay smashed upon the floor;
its
neck had been broken off against the inkpot on the bureau
and
lay beside it. An octagonal occasional table, which carried
a
bronze statuette and a number of choice books, had been rudely
overturned,
and down the primrose paper of the wall inky fingers had
been
drawn, as it seemed for the mere pleasure of defilement. One of
the
delicate chintz curtains had been violently torn from its rings
and
thrust upon the fire, so that the smell of its smouldering
filled
the room. Indeed the whole place was disarranged in the
strangest
fashion. For a few minutes Mr. Vincey, who had entered
sure
of finding Mr. Bessel in his easy chair awaiting him, could
scarcely
believe his eyes, and stood staring helplessly at these
unanticipated
things.
Then,
full of a vague sense of calamity, he sought the porter at
the
entrance lodge. "Where is Mr. Bessel?" he asked. "Do you know
that
all the furniture is broken in Mr. Bessel's room?" The porter
said
nothing, but, obeying his gestures, came at once to Mr. Bessel's
apartment
to see the state of affairs. "This settles it," he said,
surveying
the lunatic confusion. "I didn't know of this. Mr. Bessel's
gone
off. He's mad!"
He
then proceeded to tell Mr. Vincey that about half an hour
previously,
that is to say, at about the time of Mr. Bessel's
apparition
in Mr. Vincey's rooms, the missing gentleman had rushed
out
of the gates of the Albany into Vigo Street, hatless and with
disordered
hair, and had vanished into the direction of Bond Street.
"And
as he went past me," said the porter, "he laughed--a sort of
gasping
laugh, with his mouth open and his eyes glaring--I tell you,
sir,
he fair scared me!--like this."
According
to his imitation it was anything but a pleasant laugh.
"He
waved his hand, with all his fingers crooked and clawing--like
that.
And he said, in a sort of fierce whisper, 'LIFE!' Just that
one
word, 'LIFE!'"
"Dear
me," said Mr. Vincey. "Tut, tut," and "Dear me!" He
could
think
of nothing else to say. He was naturally very much surprised.
He
turned from the room to the porter and from the porter to the
room
in the gravest perplexity. Beyond his suggestion that probably
Mr.
Bessel would come back presently and explain what had happened,
their
conversation was unable to proceed. "It might be a sudden
toothache,"
said the porter, "a very sudden and violent toothache,
jumping
on him suddenly-like and driving him wild. I've broken
things
myself before now in such a case . . ." He thought. "If it was,
why
should he say 'LIFE' to me as he went past?"
Mr.
Vincey did not know. Mr. Bessel did not return, and at last
Mr.
Vincey, having done some more helpless staring, and having
addressed
a note of brief inquiry and left it in a conspicuous
position
on the bureau, returned in a very perplexed frame of mind
to
his own premises in Staple Inn. This affair had given him a shock.
He
was at a loss to account for Mr. Bessel's conduct on any sane
hypothesis.
He tried to read, but he could not do so; he went for
a
short walk, and was so preoccupied that he narrowly escaped
a
cab at the top of Chancery Lane; and at last--a full hour before
his
usual time--he went to bed. For a considerable time he could not
sleep
because of his memory of the silent confusion of Mr. Bessel's
apartment,
and when at length he did attain an uneasy slumber it was
at
once disturbed by a very vivid and distressing dream of Mr. Bessel.
He
saw Mr. Bessel gesticulating wildly, and with his face white
and
contorted. And, inexplicably mingled with his appearance,
suggested
perhaps by his gestures, was an intense fear, an urgency
to
act. He even believes that he heard the voice of his fellow
experimenter
calling distressfully to him, though at the time he
considered
this to be an illusion. The vivid impression remained
though
Mr. Vincey awoke. For a space he lay awake and trembling
in
the darkness, possessed with that vague, unaccountable terror of
unknown
possibilities that comes out of dreams upon even the bravest
men.
But at last he roused himself, and turned over and went to sleep
again,
only for the dream to return with enhanced vividness.
He
awoke with such a strong conviction that Mr. Bessel was in
overwhelming
distress and need of help that sleep was no longer
possible.
He was persuaded that his friend had rushed out to some dire
calamity.
For a time he lay reasoning vainly against this belief, but
at
last he gave way to it. He arose, against all reason, lit his gas,
and
dressed, and set out through the deserted streets--deserted, save
for
a noiseless policeman or so and the early news carts--towards Vigo
Street
to inquire if Mr. Bessel had returned.
But
he never got there. As he was going down Long Acre some
unaccountable
impulse turned him aside out of that street towards
Covent
Garden, which was just waking to its nocturnal activities. He
saw
the market in front of him--a queer effect of glowing yellow
lights
and busy black figures. He became aware of a shouting, and
perceived
a figure turn the corner by the hotel and run swiftly towards
him.
He knew at once that it was Mr. Bessel. But it was Mr. Bessel
transfigured.
He was hatless and dishevelled, his collar was torn open,
he
grasped a bone-handled walking-cane near the ferrule end, and his
mouth
was pulled awry. And he ran, with agile strides, very rapidly.
Their
encounter was the affair of an instant. "Bessel!" cried Vincey.
The
running man gave no sign of recognition either of Mr. Vincey
or
of his own name. Instead, he cut at his friend savagely with
the
stick, hitting him in the face within an inch of the eye.
Mr.
Vincey, stunned and astonished, staggered back, lost his footing,
and
fell heavily on the pavement. It seemed to him that Mr. Bessel
leapt
over him as he fell. When he looked again Mr. Bessel had
vanished,
and a policeman and a number of garden porters and salesmen
were
rushing past towards Long Acre in hot pursuit.
With
the assistance of several passers-by--for the whole street
was
speedily alive with running people--Mr. Vincey struggled to
his
feet. He at once became the centre of a crowd greedy to see
his
injury. A multitude of voices
competed to reassure him of his
safety,
and then to tell him of the behaviour of the madman, as
they
regarded Mr. Bessel. He had suddenly appeared in the middle
of
the market screaming "LIFE! LIFE!" striking left and right with a
blood-stained
walking-stick, and dancing and shouting with laughter
at
each successful blow. A lad and two women had broken heads,
and
he had smashed a man's wrist; a little child had been knocked
insensible,
and for a time he had driven every one before him,
so
furious and resolute had his behaviour been. Then he made a raid
upon
a coffee stall, hurled its paraffin flare through the window
of
the post office, and fled laughing, after stunning the foremost
of
the two policemen who had the pluck to charge him.
Mr.
Vincey's first impulse was naturally to join in the pursuit
of
his friend, in order if possible to save him from the violence
of
the indignant people. But his action was slow, the blow had
half
stunned him, and while this was still no more than a resolution
came
the news, shouted through the crowd, that Mr. Bessel had eluded
his
pursuers. At first Mr. Vincey could scarcely credit this, but
the
universality of the report, and presently the dignified return
of
two futile policemen, convinced him. After some aimless inquiries
he
returned towards Staple Inn, padding a handkerchief to a now
very
painful nose.
He
was angry and astonished and perplexed. It appeared to him
indisputable
that Mr. Bessel must have gone violently mad in the midst
of
his experiment in thought transference, but why that should make
him
appear with a sad white face in Mr. Vincey's dreams seemed
a
problem beyond solution. He racked his brains in vain to explain
this.
It seemed to him at last that not simply Mr. Bessel, but
the
order of things must be insane. But he could think of nothing
to
do. He shut himself carefully into his room, lit his fire--it was
a
gas fire with asbestos bricks--and, fearing fresh dreams if he
went
to bed, remained bathing his injured face, or holding up books
in
a vain attempt to read, until dawn. Throughout that vigil he had
a
curious persuasion that Mr. Bessel was endeavouring to speak
to
him, but he would not let himself attend to any such belief.
About
dawn, his physical fatigue asserted itself, and he went to bed
and
slept at last in spite of dreaming. He rose late, unrested
and
anxious, and in considerable facial pain. The morning papers
had
no news of Mr. Bessel's aberration--it had come too late for them.
Mr.
Vincey's perplexities, to which the fever of his bruise added
fresh
irritation, became at last intolerable, and, after a fruitless
visit
to the Albany, he went down to St. Paul's Churchyard to Mr. Hart,
Mr.
Bessel's partner, and, so far as Mr. Vincey knew, his nearest
friend.
He
was surprised to learn that Mr. Hart, although he knew nothing
of
the outbreak, had also been disturbed by a vision, the very
vision
that Mr. Vincey had seen--Mr. Bessel, white and dishevelled,
pleading
earnestly by his gestures for help. That was his impression
of
the import of his signs. "I was just going to look him up in the
Albany
when you arrived," said Mr. Hart. "I was so sure of something
being
wrong with him."
As
the outcome of their consultation the two gentlemen decided
to
inquire at Scotland Yard for news of their missing friend.
"He
is bound to be laid by the heels," said Mr. Hart. "He can't go
on
at that pace for long." But the police authorities had not laid
Mr.
Bessel by the heels. They confirmed Mr. Vincey's overnight
experiences
and added fresh circumstances, some of an even graver
character
than those he knew--a list of smashed glass along the upper
half
of Tottenham Court Road, an attack upon a policeman in Hampstead
Road,
and an atrocious assault upon a woman. All these outrages were
committed
between half-past twelve and a quarter to two in the morning,
and
between those hours--and, indeed, from the very moment of Mr.
Bessel's
first rush from his rooms at half-past nine in the evening--
they
could trace the deepening violence of his fantastic career. For
the
last hour, at least from before one, that is, until a quarter to
two,
he had run amuck through London, eluding with amazing agility
every
effort to stop or capture him.
But
after a quarter to two he had vanished. Up to that hour witnesses
were
multitudinous. Dozens of people had seen him, fled from him or
pursued
him, and then things suddenly came to an end. At a quarter to
two
he had been seen running down the Euston Road towards Baker Street,
flourishing
a can of burning colza oil and jerking splashes of flame
therefrom
at the windows of the houses he passed. But none of
the
policemen on Euston Road beyond the Waxwork Exhibition, nor
any
of those in the side streets down which he must have passed
had
he left the Euston Road, had seen anything of him. Abruptly he
disappeared.
Nothing of his subsequent doings came to light in spite
of
the keenest inquiry.
Here
was a fresh astonishment for Mr. Vincey. He had found considerable
comfort
in Mr. Hart's conviction: "He is bound to be laid by the heels
before
long," and in that assurance he had been able to suspend
his
mental perplexities. But any fresh development seemed destined
to
add new impossibilities to a pile already heaped beyond the powers
of
his acceptance. He found himself doubting whether his memory
might
not have played him some grotesque trick, debating whether any
of
these things could possibly have happened; and in the afternoon he
hunted
up Mr. Hart again to share the intolerable weight on his mind.
He
found Mr. Hart engaged with a well-known private detective,
but
as that gentleman accomplished nothing in this case, we need
not
enlarge upon his proceedings.
All
that day Mr. Bessel's whereabouts eluded an unceasingly active
inquiry,
and all that night. And all that day there was a persuasion
in
the back of Vincey's mind that Mr. Bessel sought his attention,
and
all through the night Mr. Bessel with a tear-stained face
of
anguish pursued him through his dreams. And whenever he saw
Mr.
Bessel in his dreams he also saw a number of other faces, vague
but
malignant, that seemed to be pursuing Mr. Bessel.
It
was on the following day, Sunday, that Mr. Vincey recalled certain
remarkable
stories of Mrs. Bullock, the medium, who was then attracting
attention
for the first time in London. He determined to consult her.
She
was staying at the house of that well-known inquirer, Dr. Wilson
Paget,
and Mr. Vincey, although he had never met that gentleman before,
repaired
to him forthwith with the intention of invoking her help.
But
scarcely had he mentioned the name of Bessel when Doctor Paget
interrupted
him. "Last night--just at the end," he said, "we had
a
communication."
He
left the room, and returned with a slate on which were certain
words
written in a handwriting, shaky indeed, but indisputably
the
handwriting of Mr. Bessel!
"How
did you get this?" said Mr. Vincey. "Do you mean--?"
"We
got it last night," said Doctor Paget. With numerous interruptions
from
Mr. Vincey, he proceeded to explain how the writing had been
obtained.
It appears that in her seances, Mrs. Bullock passes into
a
condition of trance, her eyes rolling up in a strange way under
her
eyelids, and her body becoming rigid. She then begins to talk
very
rapidly, usually in voices other than her own. At the same time
one
or both of her hands may become active, and if slates and pencils
are
provided they will then write messages simultaneously with
and
quite independently of the flow of words from her mouth. By many
she
is considered an even more remarkable medium than the celebrated
Mrs.
Piper. It was one of these messages, the one written by her
left
hand, that Mr. Vincey now had before him. It consisted of eight
words
written disconnectedly: "George Bessel . . . trial excavn. . . .
Baker
Street . . . help . . . starvation." Curiously enough, neither
Doctor
Paget nor the two other inquirers who were present had heard
of
the disappearance of Mr. Bessel--the news of it appeared only
in
the evening papers of Saturday--and they had put the message
aside
with many others of a vague and enigmatical sort that
Mrs.
Bullock has from time to time delivered.
When
Doctor Paget heard Mr. Vincey's story, he gave himself at once
with
great energy to the pursuit of this clue to the discovery of
Mr.
Bessel. It would serve no useful purpose here to describe the
inquiries
of Mr. Vincey and himself; suffice it that the clue was a
genuine
one, and that Mr. Bessel was actually discovered by its aid.
He
was found at the bottom of a detached shaft which had been sunk
and
abandoned at the commencement of the work for the new electric
railway
near Baker Street Station. His arm and leg and two ribs were
broken.
The shaft is protected by a hoarding nearly 20 feet high, and
over
this, incredible as it seems, Mr. Bessel, a stout, middle-aged
gentleman,
must have scrambled in order to fall down the shaft.
He
was saturated in colza oil, and the smashed tin lay beside him,
but
luckily the flame had been extinguished by his fall. And his
madness
had passed from him altogether. But he was, of course,
terribly
enfeebled, and at the sight of his rescuers he gave way
to
hysterical weeping.
In
view of the deplorable state of his flat, he was taken to the
house
of Dr. Hatton in Upper Baker Street. Here he was subjected to a
sedative
treatment, and anything that might recall the violent crisis
through
which he had passed was carefully avoided. But on the second
day
he volunteered a statement.
Since
that occasion Mr. Bessel has several times repeated this
statement--to
myself among other people--varying the details as
the
narrator of real experiences always does, but never by any
chance
contradicting himself in any particular. And the statement
he
makes is in substance as follows.
In
order to understand it clearly it is necessary to go back to his
experiments
with Mr. Vincey before his remarkable attack. Mr. Bessel's
first
attempts at self-projection, in his experiments with Mr. Vincey,
were,
as the reader will remember, unsuccessful. But through all
of
them he was concentrating all his power and will upon getting
out
of the body--"willing it with all my might," he says. At last,
almost
against expectation, came success. And Mr. Bessel asserts that
he,
being alive, did actually, by an effort of will, leave his body
and
pass into some place or state outside this world.
The
release was, he asserts, instantaneous. "At one moment I was
seated
in my chair, with my eyes tightly shut, my hands gripping
the
arms of the chair, doing all I could to concentrate my mind
on
Vincey, and then I perceived myself outside my body--saw my body
near
me, but certainly not containing me, with the hands relaxing
and
the head drooping forward on the breast."
Nothing
shakes him in his assurance of that release. He describes
in
a quiet, matter-of-fact way the new sensation he experienced.
He
felt he had become impalpable--so much he had expected, but
he
had not expected to find himself enormously large. So, however,
it
would seem he became. "I was a great cloud--if I may express it
that
way--anchored to my body. It appeared to me, at first, as if
I
had discovered a greater self of which the conscious being in my
brain
was only a little part. I saw the Albany and Piccadilly and
Regent
Street and all the rooms and places in the houses, very minute
and
very bright and distinct, spread out below me like a little
city
seen from a balloon. Every now and then vague shapes like
drifting
wreaths of smoke made the vision a little indistinct, but
at
first I paid little heed to them. The thing that astonished me
most,
and which astonishes me still, is that I saw quite distinctly
the
insides of the houses as well as the streets, saw little people
dining
and talking in the private houses, men and women dining,
playing
billiards, and drinking in restaurants and hotels, and several
places
of entertainment crammed with people. It was like watching
the
affairs of a glass hive."
Such
were Mr. Bessel's exact words as I took them down when he told
me
the story. Quite forgetful of Mr. Vincey, he remained for a space
observing
these things. Impelled by curiosity, he says, he stooped
down,
and, with the shadowy arm he found himself possessed of,
attempted
to touch a man walking along Vigo Street. But he could
not
do so, though his finger seemed to pass through the man. Something
prevented
his doing this, but what it was he finds it hard to describe.
He
compares the obstacle to a sheet of glass.
"I
felt as a kitten may feel," he said, "when it goes for the first
time
to pat its reflection in a mirror." Again and again, on the
occasion
when I heard him tell this story, Mr. Bessel returned to that
comparison
of the sheet of glass. Yet it was not altogether a precise
comparison,
because, as the reader will speedily see, there were
interruptions
of this generally impermeable resistance, means of
getting
through the barrier to the material world again. But,
naturally,
there is a very great difficulty in expressing these
unprecedented
impressions in the language of everyday experience.
A
thing that impressed him instantly, and which weighed upon him
throughout
all this experience, was the stillness of this place--he
was
in a world without sound.
At
first Mr. Bessel's mental state was an unemotional wonder.
His
thought chiefly concerned itself with where he might be. He was
out
of the body--out of his material body, at any rate--but that
was
not all. He believes, and I for one believe also, that he was
somewhere
out of space, as we understand it, altogether. By a strenuous
effort
of will he had passed out of his body into a world beyond
this
world, a world undreamt of, yet lying so close to it and so
strangely
situated with regard to it that all things on this earth
are
clearly visible both from without and from within in this other
world
about us. For a long time, as it seemed to him, this realisation
occupied
his mind to the exclusion of all other matters, and then
he
recalled the engagement with Mr. Vincey, to which this astonishing
experience
was, after all, but a prelude.
He
turned his mind to locomotion in this new body in which he found
himself.
For a time he was unable to shift himself from his attachment
to
his earthly carcass. For a time this new strange cloud body
of
his simply swayed, contracted, expanded, coiled, and writhed
with
his efforts to free himself, and then quite suddenly the link
that
bound him snapped. For a moment everything was hidden by
what
appeared to be whirling spheres of dark vapour, and then
through
a momentary gap he saw his drooping body collapse limply,
saw
his lifeless head drop sideways, and found he was driving along
like
a huge cloud in a strange place of shadowy clouds that had
the
luminous intricacy of London spread like a model below.
But
now he was aware that the fluctuating vapour about him was
something
more than vapour, and the temerarious excitement of his first
essay
was shot with fear. For he perceived, at first indistinctly,
and
then suddenly very clearly, that he was surrounded by FACES!
that
each roll and coil of the seeming cloud-stuff was a face.
And
such faces! Faces of thin shadow, faces of gaseous tenuity.
Faces
like those faces that glare with intolerable strangeness
upon
the sleeper in the evil hours of his dreams. Evil, greedy eyes
that
were full of a covetous curiosity, faces with knit brows and
snarling,
smiling lips; their vague hands clutched at Mr. Bessel
as
he passed, and the rest of their bodies was but an elusive streak
of
trailing darkness. Never a word they said, never a sound from
the
mouths that seemed to gibber. All about him they pressed in that
dreamy
silence, passing freely through the dim mistiness that was
his
body, gathering ever more numerously about him. And the shadowy
Mr.
Bessel, now suddenly fear-stricken, drove through the silent,
active
multitude of eyes and clutching hands.
So
inhuman were these faces, so malignant their staring eyes,
and
shadowy, clawing gestures, that it did not occur to Mr. Bessel
to
attempt intercourse with these drifting creatures. Idiot phantoms,
they
seemed, children of vain desire, beings unborn and forbidden
the
boon of being, whose only expressions and gestures told of
the
envy and craving for life that was their one link with existence.
It
says much for his resolution that, amidst the swarming cloud
of
these noiseless spirits of evil, he could still think of Mr. Vincey.
He
made a violent effort of will and found himself, he knew not how,
stooping
towards Staple Inn, saw Vincey sitting attentive and alert
in
his arm-chair by the fire.
And
clustering also about him, as they clustered ever about all
that
lives and breathes, was another multitude of these vain voiceless
shadows,
longing, desiring, seeking some loophole into life.
For
a space Mr. Bessel sought ineffectually to attract his friend's
attention.
He tried to get in front of his eyes, to move the objects
in
his room, to touch him. But Mr. Vincey remained unaffected,
ignorant
of the being that was so close to his own. The strange
something
that Mr. Bessel has compared to a sheet of glass separated
them
impermeably.
And
at last Mr. Bessel did a desperate thing. I have told how that
in
some strange way he could see not only the outside of a man
as
we see him, but within. He extended his shadowy hand and thrust
his
vague black fingers, as it seemed, through the heedless brain.
Then,
suddenly, Mr. Vincey started like a man who recalls his attention
from
wandering thoughts, and it seemed to Mr. Bessel that a little
dark-red
body situated in the middle of Mr. Vincey's brain swelled
and
glowed as he did so. Since that experience he has been shown
anatomical
figures of the brain, and he knows now that this is
that
useless structure, as doctors call it, the pineal eye. For,
strange
as it will seem to many, we have, deep in our brains--where
it
cannot possibly see any earthly light--an eye! At the time this,
with
the rest of the internal anatomy of the brain, was quite new
to
him. At the sight of its changed appearance, however, he thrust
forth
his finger, and, rather fearful still of the consequences,
touched
this little spot. And instantly Mr. Vincey started, and
Mr.
Bessel knew that he was seen.
And
at that instant it came to Mr. Bessel that evil had happened
to
his body, and behold! a great wind blew through all that world
of
shadows and tore him away. So strong was this persuasion that
he
thought no more of Mr. Vincey, but turned about forthwith, and all
the
countless faces drove back with him like leaves before a gale.
But
he returned too late. In an instant he saw the body that he had
left
inert and collapsed--lying, indeed, like the body of a man
just
dead--had arisen, had arisen by virtue of some strength and
will
beyond his own. It stood with staring eyes, stretching its limbs
in
dubious fashion.
For
a moment he watched it in wild dismay, and then he stooped
towards
it. But the pane of glass had closed against him again,
and
he was foiled. He beat himself passionately against this, and
all
about him the spirits of evil grinned and pointed and mocked.
He
gave way to furious anger. He compares himself to a bird that
has
fluttered heedlessly into a room and is beating at the window-
pane
that holds it back from freedom.
And
behold! the little body that had once been his was now dancing
with
delight. He saw it shouting, though he could not hear its shouts;
he
saw the violence of its movements grow. He watched it fling
his
cherished furniture about in the mad delight of existence,
rend
his books apart, smash bottles, drink heedlessly from the jagged
fragments,
leap and smite in a passionate acceptance of living.
He
watched these actions in paralysed astonishment. Then once more
he
hurled himself against the impassable barrier, and then with all
that
crew of mocking ghosts about him, hurried back in dire confusion
to
Vincey to tell him of the outrage that had come upon him.
But
the brain of Vincey was now closed against apparitions, and
the
disembodied Mr. Bessel pursued him in vain as he hurried out
into
Holborn to call a cab. Foiled and terror-stricken, Mr. Bessel
swept
back again, to find his desecrated body whooping in a glorious
frenzy
down the Burlington Arcade. . . .
And
now the attentive reader begins to understand Mr. Bessel's
interpretation
of the first part of this strange story. The being
whose
frantic rush through London had inflicted so much injury
and
disaster had indeed Mr. Bessel's body, but it was not Mr. Bessel.
It
was an evil spirit out of that strange world beyond existence,
into
which Mr. Bessel had so rashly ventured. For twenty hours it held
possession
of him, and for all those twenty hours the dispossessed
spirit-body
of Mr. Bessel was going to and fro in that unheard-of
middle
world of shadows seeking help in vain. He spent many hours
beating
at the minds of Mr. Vincey and of his friend Mr. Hart.
Each,
as we know, he roused by his efforts. But the language that
might
convey his situation to these helpers across the gulf he did
not
know; his feeble fingers groped vainly and powerlessly in their
brains.
Once, indeed, as we have already told, he was able to turn
Mr.
Vincey aside from his path so that he encountered the stolen
body
in its career, but he could not make him understand the thing
that
had happened: he was unable to draw any help from that
encounter.
. . .
All
through those hours the persuasion was overwhelming in Mr. Bessel's
mind
that presently his body would be killed by its furious tenant,
and
he would have to remain in this shadow-land for evermore.
So
that those long hours were a growing agony of fear. And ever
as
he hurried to and fro in his ineffectual excitement, innumerable
spirits
of that world about him mobbed him and confused his mind.
And
ever an envious applauding multitude poured after their successful
fellow
as he went upon his glorious career.
For
that, it would seem, must be the life of these bodiless things
of
this world that is the shadow of our world. Ever they watch,
coveting
a way into a mortal body, in order that they may descend,
as
furies and frenzies, as violent lusts and mad, strange impulses,
rejoicing
in the body they have won. For Mr. Bessel was not the only
human
soul in that place. Witness the fact that he met first one,
and
afterwards several shadows of men, men like himself, it seemed,
who
had lost their bodies even it may be as he had lost his, and
wandered,
despairingly, in that lost world that is neither life
nor
death. They could not speak because that world is silent, yet
he
knew them for men because of their dim human bodies, and because
of
the sadness of their faces.
But
how they had come into that world he could not tell, nor where
the
bodies they had lost might be, whether they still raved about
the
earth, or whether they were closed forever in death against
return.
That they were the spirits of the dead neither he nor I
believe.
But Doctor Wilson Paget thinks they are the rational souls
of
men who are lost in madness on the earth.
At
last Mr. Bessel chanced upon a place where a little crowd of such
disembodied
silent creatures was gathered, and thrusting through them
he
saw below a brightly-lit room, and four or five quiet gentlemen
and
a woman, a stoutish woman dressed in black bombazine and sitting
awkwardly
in a chair with her head thrown back. He knew her from
her
portraits to be Mrs. Bullock, the medium. And he perceived
that
tracts and structures in her brain glowed and stirred as he had
seen
the pineal eye in the brain of Mr. Vincey glow. The light was
very
fitful; sometimes it was a broad illumination, and sometimes
merely
a faint twilight spot, and it shifted slowly about her brain.
She
kept on talking and writing with one hand. And Mr. Bessel saw
that
the crowding shadows of men about him, and a great multitude
of
the shadow spirits of that shadowland, were all striving and
thrusting
to touch the lighted regions of her brain. As one gained
her
brain or another was thrust away, her voice and the writing of
her
hand changed. So that what she said was disorderly and confused
for
the most part; now a fragment of one soul's message, and now
a
fragment of another's, and now she babbled the insane fancies
of
the spirits of vain desire. Then Mr. Bessel understood that she
spoke
for the spirit that had touch of her, and he began to struggle
very
furiously towards her. But he was on the outside of the crowd
and
at that time he could not reach her, and at last, growing anxious,
he
went away to find what had happened meanwhile to his body. For a
long
time he went to and fro seeking it in vain and fearing that it
must
have been killed, and then he found it at the bottom of the shaft
in
Baker Street, writhing furiously and cursing with pain. Its leg and
an
arm and two ribs had been broken by its fall. Moreover, the evil
spirit
was angry because his time had been so short and because of the
painmaking
violent movements and casting his body about.
And
at that Mr. Bessel returned with redoubled earnestness to the
room
where the seance was going on, and so soon as he had thrust
himself
within sight of the place he saw one of the men who stood
about
the medium looking at his watch as if he meant that the seance
should
presently end. At that a great number of the shadows who had
been
striving turned away with gestures of despair. But the thought
that
the seance was almost over only made Mr. Bessel the more
earnest,
and he struggled so stoutly with his will against the others
that
presently he gained the woman's brain. It chanced that just
at
that moment it glowed very brightly, and in that instant she wrote
the
message that Doctor Wilson Paget preserved. And then the other
shadows
and the cloud of evil spirits about him had thrust Mr. Bessel
away
from her, and for all the rest of the seance he could regain
her
no more.
So
he went back and watched through the long hours at the bottom
of
the shaft where the evil spirit lay in the stolen body it had
maimed,
writhing and cursing, and weeping and groaning, and learning
the
lesson of pain. And towards dawn the thing he had waited for
happened,
the brain glowed brightly and the evil spirit came out,
and
Mr. Bessel entered the body he had feared he should never enter
again.
As he did so, the silence--the brooding silence--ended;
he
heard the tumult of traffic and the voices of people overhead,
and
that strange world that is the shadow of our world--the dark
and
silent shadows of ineffectual desire and the shadows of lost
men--vanished
clean away.
He
lay there for the space of about three hours before he was found.
And
in spite of the pain and suffering of his wounds, and of the dim
damp
place in which he lay; in spite of the tears--wrung from him
by
his physical distress--his heart was full of gladness to know
that
he was nevertheless back once more in the kindly world of men.