A Journey in Other Worlds [100]
which became more and more like words.
Ayrault was puzzled, and then amazed. There could be no doubt
about it. "You should be happy," it kept repeating--"you should
be happy," in soft musical tones.
"I know I should," replied Ayrault, finally recognizing the voice
of Violet Slade in the song of the wind, "and I cannot understand
why I am not. Tell me, is this paradise, Violet, or is it not
rather purgatory?"
The notes ranged up and down again, and he perceived that she was
causing the wind to blow as she desired--in other words, she was
making it play upon his harp.
"That depends on the individual," she replied. "It is rather
sheol, the place of departed spirits. Those whose consciences
made them happy on earth are in paradise here; while those good
enough to reach heaven at last, but in whom some dross remains,
are further refined in spirit, and to them it is purgatory.
Those who are in love can be happy in but one way while their
love lasts. What IS happiness, anyway?"
"It is the state in which desires are satisfied, my fair Violet,"
answered Ayrault.
"Say, rather, the state in which desire coincides with duty,"
replied the song. "Self-sacrifice for others gives the truest
joy; being with the object of one's love, the next. You never
believed that I loved you. I dissembled well; but you will see
for yourself some day, as clearly as I see your love for another
now."
"Yes," replied Ayrault, sadly, "I am in love. I have no reason
to believe there is cause for my unrest, and, considering every
thing, I should be happy as man can be; yet, mirabile dictu, I am
in--hades, in the very depths!"
"Your beloved is beyond my vision; your heart is all I can see.
Yet I am convinced she will not forget you. I am sure she loves
you still."
"I have always believed in homoeopathy to the extent of the
similia similibus curantur, Violet, and it is certain that where
nothing else will cure a man of love for one woman, his love for
another will. You can see how I love Sylvia, but you have never
seemed so sweet to me as to-day."
"It is a sacrilege, my friend, to speak so to me now. You are
done with me forever. I am but a disembodied spirit, and escaped
hades by the grace of the Omnipotent, rather than by virtue of
any good I did on earth. So far as any elasticity is left in my
opportunities, I am dead as yon moon. You have still the gift
that but one can give. Within your animal body you hold an
immortal soul. It is pliable as wax; you can mould it by your
will. As you shape that soul, so will your future be. It is the
ark that can traverse the flood. Raise it, and it will raise
you. It is all there is in yourself. Preserve that gift, and
when you die you will, I hope, start on a plane many thousands of
years in advance of me. There should be no more comparison
between us than between a person with all his senses and one that
is deaf and blind. Though you are a layman, you should, with
your faith and frame of mind, soon be but little behind our
spiritual bishop."
"I supposed after death a man had rest. Is he, then, a bishop
still?"
"The progress, as he told you, is largely on the old lines. As
he stirred men's hearts on earth, he will stir their souls in
heaven; and this is no irksome or unwelcome work."
"You say he WILL do this in heaven. Is he, then, not there yet?"
"He was not far from heaven on earth, yet technically none of us
can be in heaven till after the general resurrection. Then, as
we knew on earth, we shall receive bodies, though, as yet,
concerning their exact nature we know but little more than then.
We are all in sheol--the just in purgatory and paradise, the
unjust in hell."
"Since you are still in purgatory, are you unhappy?"
"No, our state is very happy. All physical pain is past, and can
never be felt again. We know that our evil desires are overcome,
and that their imprints are being gradually erased. I
occasionally shed an intangible tear, yet
Ayrault was puzzled, and then amazed. There could be no doubt
about it. "You should be happy," it kept repeating--"you should
be happy," in soft musical tones.
"I know I should," replied Ayrault, finally recognizing the voice
of Violet Slade in the song of the wind, "and I cannot understand
why I am not. Tell me, is this paradise, Violet, or is it not
rather purgatory?"
The notes ranged up and down again, and he perceived that she was
causing the wind to blow as she desired--in other words, she was
making it play upon his harp.
"That depends on the individual," she replied. "It is rather
sheol, the place of departed spirits. Those whose consciences
made them happy on earth are in paradise here; while those good
enough to reach heaven at last, but in whom some dross remains,
are further refined in spirit, and to them it is purgatory.
Those who are in love can be happy in but one way while their
love lasts. What IS happiness, anyway?"
"It is the state in which desires are satisfied, my fair Violet,"
answered Ayrault.
"Say, rather, the state in which desire coincides with duty,"
replied the song. "Self-sacrifice for others gives the truest
joy; being with the object of one's love, the next. You never
believed that I loved you. I dissembled well; but you will see
for yourself some day, as clearly as I see your love for another
now."
"Yes," replied Ayrault, sadly, "I am in love. I have no reason
to believe there is cause for my unrest, and, considering every
thing, I should be happy as man can be; yet, mirabile dictu, I am
in--hades, in the very depths!"
"Your beloved is beyond my vision; your heart is all I can see.
Yet I am convinced she will not forget you. I am sure she loves
you still."
"I have always believed in homoeopathy to the extent of the
similia similibus curantur, Violet, and it is certain that where
nothing else will cure a man of love for one woman, his love for
another will. You can see how I love Sylvia, but you have never
seemed so sweet to me as to-day."
"It is a sacrilege, my friend, to speak so to me now. You are
done with me forever. I am but a disembodied spirit, and escaped
hades by the grace of the Omnipotent, rather than by virtue of
any good I did on earth. So far as any elasticity is left in my
opportunities, I am dead as yon moon. You have still the gift
that but one can give. Within your animal body you hold an
immortal soul. It is pliable as wax; you can mould it by your
will. As you shape that soul, so will your future be. It is the
ark that can traverse the flood. Raise it, and it will raise
you. It is all there is in yourself. Preserve that gift, and
when you die you will, I hope, start on a plane many thousands of
years in advance of me. There should be no more comparison
between us than between a person with all his senses and one that
is deaf and blind. Though you are a layman, you should, with
your faith and frame of mind, soon be but little behind our
spiritual bishop."
"I supposed after death a man had rest. Is he, then, a bishop
still?"
"The progress, as he told you, is largely on the old lines. As
he stirred men's hearts on earth, he will stir their souls in
heaven; and this is no irksome or unwelcome work."
"You say he WILL do this in heaven. Is he, then, not there yet?"
"He was not far from heaven on earth, yet technically none of us
can be in heaven till after the general resurrection. Then, as
we knew on earth, we shall receive bodies, though, as yet,
concerning their exact nature we know but little more than then.
We are all in sheol--the just in purgatory and paradise, the
unjust in hell."
"Since you are still in purgatory, are you unhappy?"
"No, our state is very happy. All physical pain is past, and can
never be felt again. We know that our evil desires are overcome,
and that their imprints are being gradually erased. I
occasionally shed an intangible tear, yet