“I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.”
—Shakespeare.
I have frequently wondered if the majority of mankind ever pause to reflect upon the occasionally
titanic significance of dreams, and of the obscure world to which they belong. Whilst the greater
number of our nocturnal visions are perhaps no more than faint and fantastic reflections of
our waking experiences—Freud to the contrary with his puerile symbolism—there are
still a certain remainder whose immundane and ethereal character permits of no ordinary interpretation,
and whose vaguely exciting and disquieting effect suggests possible minute glimpses into a sphere
of mental existence no less important than physical life, yet separated from that life by an
all but impassable barrier. From my experience I cannot doubt but that man, when lost to terrestrial
consciousness, is indeed sojourning in another and uncorporeal life of far different nature
from the life we know; and of which only the slightest and most indistinct memories linger after
waking. From those blurred and fragmentary memories we may infer much, yet prove little. We
may guess that in dreams life, matter, and vitality, as the earth knows such things, are not
necessarily constant; and that time and space do not exist as our waking selves comprehend them.
Sometimes I believe that this less material life is our truer life, and that our vain presence
on the terraqueous globe is itself the secondary or merely virtual phenomenon.
It was from a youthful reverie filled with speculations of this sort that I
arose one afternoon in the winter of 1900–1901, when to the state psychopathic institution
in which I served as an interne was brought the man whose case has ever since haunted me so
unceasingly. His name, as given on the records, was Joe Slater, or Slaader, and his appearance
was that of the typical denizen of the Catskill Mountain region; one of those strange, repellent
scions of a primitive colonial peasant stock whose isolation for nearly three centuries in the
hilly fastnesses of a little-travelled countryside has caused them to sink to a kind of barbaric
degeneracy, rather than advance with their more fortunately placed brethren of the thickly settled
districts. Among these odd folk, who correspond exactly to the decadent element of “white
trash” in the South, law and morals are non-existent; and their general mental status
is probably below that of any other section of the native American people.
Joe Slater, who came to the institution in the vigilant custody of four state
policemen, and who was described as a highly dangerous character, certainly presented no evidence
of his perilous disposition when first I beheld him. Though well above the middle stature, and
of somewhat brawny frame, he was given an absurd appearance of harmless stupidity by the pale,
sleepy blueness of his small watery eyes, the scantiness of his neglected and never-shaven growth
of yellow beard, and the listless drooping of his heavy nether lip. His age was unknown, since
among his kind neither family records nor permanent family ties exist; but from the baldness
of his head in front, and from the decayed condition of his teeth, the head surgeon wrote him
down as a man of about forty.
From the medical and court documents we learned all that could be gathered of his case. This man, a vagabond, hunter, and trapper, had always been strange in the eyes of his primitive associates. He had habitually slept at night beyond the ordinary time, and upon waking would often talk of unknown things in a manner so bizarre as to inspire fear even in the hearts of an unimaginative populace. Not that his form of language was at all unusual, for he never spoke save in the debased patois of his environment; but the tone and tenor of his utterances were of such mysterious wildness, that none might listen without apprehension. He himself was generally as terrified and baffled as his auditors, and within an hour after awakening would forget all that he had said, or at least all that had caused him to say what he did; relapsing into a bovine, half-amiable normality like that of the other hill-dwellers.
As Slater grew older, it appeared, his matutinal aberrations had gradually
increased in frequency and violence; till about a month before his arrival at the institution
had occurred the shocking tragedy which caused his arrest by the authorities. One day near noon,
after a profound sleep begun in a whiskey debauch at about five of the previous afternoon, the
man had roused himself most suddenly; with ululations so horrible and unearthly that they brought
several neighbours to his cabin—a filthy sty where he dwelt with a family as indescribable
as himself. Rushing out into the snow, he had flung his arms aloft and commenced a series of
leaps directly upward in the air; the while shouting his determination to reach some ‘big,
big cabin with brightness in the roof and walls and floor, and the loud queer music far away’.
As two men of moderate size sought to restrain him, he had struggled with maniacal force and
fury, screaming of his desire and need to find and kill a certain ‘thing that shines and
shakes and laughs’. At length, after temporarily felling one of his detainers with a sudden
blow, he had flung himself upon the other in a daemoniac ecstasy of bloodthirstiness, shrieking
fiendishly that he would ‘jump high in the air and burn his way through anything that
stopped him’. Family and neighbours had now fled in a panic, and when the more courageous
of them returned, Slater was gone, leaving behind an unrecognisable pulp-like thing that had
been a living man but an hour before. None of the mountaineers had dared to pursue him, and
it is likely that they would have welcomed his death from the cold; but when several mornings
later they heard his screams from a distant ravine, they realised that he had somehow managed
to survive, and that his removal in one way or another would be necessary. Then had followed
an armed searching party, whose purpose (whatever it may have been originally) became that of
a sheriff’s posse after one of the seldom popular state troopers had by accident observed,
then questioned, and finally joined the seekers.
On the third day Slater was found unconscious in the hollow of a tree, and
taken to the nearest gaol; where alienists from Albany examined him as soon as his senses returned.
To them he told a simple story. He had, he said, gone to sleep one afternoon about sundown after
drinking much liquor. He had awaked to find himself standing bloody-handed in the snow before
his cabin, the mangled corpse of his neighbour Peter Slader at his feet. Horrified, he had taken
to the woods in a vague effort to escape from the scene of what must have been his crime. Beyond
these things he seemed to know nothing, nor could the expert questioning of his interrogators
bring out a single additional fact. That night Slater slept quietly, and the next morning he
wakened with no singular feature save a certain alteration of expression. Dr. Barnard, who had
been watching the patient, thought he noticed in the pale blue eyes a certain gleam of peculiar
quality; and in the flaccid lips an all but imperceptible tightening, as if of intelligent determination.
But when questioned, Slater relapsed into the habitual vacancy of the mountaineer, and only
reiterated what he had said on the preceding day.
On the third morning occurred the first of the man’s mental attacks.
After some show of uneasiness in sleep, he burst forth into a frenzy so powerful that the combined
efforts of four men were needed to bind him in a strait-jacket. The alienists listened with
keen attention to his words, since their curiosity had been aroused to a high pitch by the suggestive
yet mostly conflicting and incoherent stories of his family and neighbours. Slater raved for
upward of fifteen minutes, babbling in his backwoods dialect of great edifices of light, oceans
of space, strange music, and shadowy mountains and valleys. But most of all did he dwell upon
some mysterious blazing entity that shook and laughed and mocked at him. This vast, vague personality
seemed to have done him a terrible wrong, and to kill it in triumphant revenge was his paramount
desire. In order to reach it, he said, he would soar through abysses of emptiness, burning
every obstacle that stood in his way. Thus ran his discourse, until with the greatest suddenness
he ceased. The fire of madness died from his eyes, and in dull wonder he looked at his questioners
and asked why he was bound. Dr. Barnard unbuckled the leathern harness and did not restore it
till night, when he succeeded in persuading Slater to don it of his own volition, for his own
good. The man had now admitted that he sometimes talked queerly, though he knew not why.
Within a week two more attacks appeared, but from them the doctors learned
little. On the source of Slater’s visions they speculated at length, for since
he could neither read nor write, and had apparently never heard a legend or fairy tale, his
gorgeous imagery was quite inexplicable. That it could not come from any known myth or romance
was made especially clear by the fact that the unfortunate lunatic expressed himself only in
his own simple manner. He raved of things he did not understand and could not interpret; things
which he claimed to have experienced, but which he could not have learned through any normal
or connected narration. The alienists soon agreed that abnormal dreams were the foundation of
the trouble; dreams whose vividness could for a time completely dominate the waking mind of
this basically inferior man. With due formality Slater was tried for murder, acquitted on the
ground of insanity, and committed to the institution wherein I held so humble a post.
I have said that I am a constant speculator concerning dream life, and from
this you may judge of the eagerness with which I applied myself to the study of the new patient
as soon as I had fully ascertained the facts of his case. He seemed to sense a certain friendliness
in me; born no doubt of the interest I could not conceal, and the gentle manner in which I questioned
him. Not that he ever recognised me during his attacks, when I hung breathlessly upon his chaotic
but cosmic word-pictures; but he knew me in his quiet hours, when he would sit by his barred
window weaving baskets of straw and willow, and perhaps pining for the mountain freedom he could
never enjoy again. His family never called to see him; probably it had found another temporary
head, after the manner of decadent mountain folk.
By degrees I commenced to feel an overwhelming wonder at the mad and fantastic
conceptions of Joe Slater. The man himself was pitiably inferior in mentality and language alike;
but his glowing, titanic visions, though described in a barbarous and disjointed jargon, were
assuredly things which only a superior or even exceptional brain could conceive. How, I often
asked myself, could the stolid imagination of a Catskill degenerate conjure up sights whose
very possession argued a lurking spark of genius? How could any backwoods dullard have gained
so much as an idea of those glittering realms of supernal radiance and space about which Slater
ranted in his furious delirium? More and more I inclined to the belief that in the pitiful personality
who cringed before me lay the disordered nucleus of something beyond my comprehension; something
infinitely beyond the comprehension of my more experienced but less imaginative medical and
scientific colleagues.
And yet I could extract nothing definite from the man. The sum of all my investigation
was, that in a kind of semi-uncorporeal dream life Slater wandered or floated through resplendent
and prodigious valleys, meadows, gardens, cities, and palaces of light; in a region unbounded
and unknown to man. That there he was no peasant or degenerate, but a creature of importance
and vivid life; moving proudly and dominantly, and checked only by a certain deadly enemy, who
seemed to be a being of visible yet ethereal structure, and who did not appear to be of human
shape, since Slater never referred to it as a man, or as aught save a thing. This
thing had done Slater some hideous but unnamed wrong, which the maniac (if maniac he
were) yearned to avenge. From the manner in which Slater alluded to their dealings, I judged
that he and the luminous thing had met on equal terms; that in his dream existence the
man was himself a luminous thing of the same race as his enemy. This impression was sustained
by his frequent references to flying through space and burning all that impeded
his progress. Yet these conceptions were formulated in rustic words wholly inadequate to convey
them, a circumstance which drove me to the conclusion that if a true dream-world indeed existed,
oral language was not its medium for the transmission of thought. Could it be that the dream-soul
inhabiting this inferior body was desperately struggling to speak things which the simple and
halting tongue of dulness could not utter? Could it be that I was face to face with intellectual
emanations which would explain the mystery if I could but learn to discover and read them? I
did not tell the older physicians of these things, for middle age is sceptical, cynical, and
disinclined to accept new ideas. Besides, the head of the institution had but lately warned
me in his paternal way that I was overworking; that my mind needed a rest.
It had long been my belief that human thought consists basically of atomic
or molecular motion, convertible into ether waves of radiant energy like heat, light, and electricity.
This belief had early led me to contemplate the possibility of telepathy or mental communication
by means of suitable apparatus, and I had in my college days prepared a set of transmitting
and receiving instruments somewhat similar to the cumbrous devices employed in wireless telegraphy
at that crude, pre-radio period. These I had tested with a fellow-student; but achieving no
result, had soon packed them away with other scientific odds and ends for possible future use.
Now, in my intense desire to probe into the dream life of Joe Slater, I sought these instruments
again; and spent several days in repairing them for action. When they were complete once more
I missed no opportunity for their trial. At each outburst of Slater’s violence, I would
fit the transmitter to his forehead and the receiver to my own; constantly making delicate adjustments
for various hypothetical wave-lengths of intellectual energy. I had but little notion of how
the thought-impressions would, if successfully conveyed, arouse an intelligent response in my
brain; but I felt certain that I could detect and interpret them. Accordingly I continued my
experiments, though informing no one of their nature.
It was on the twenty-first of February, 1901, that the thing finally occurred. As I look back
across the years I realise how unreal it seems; and sometimes half wonder if old Dr. Fenton
was not right when he charged it all to my excited imagination. I recall that he listened with
great kindness and patience when I told him, but afterward gave me a nerve-powder and arranged
for the half-year’s vacation on which I departed the next week. That fateful night I was
wildly agitated and perturbed, for despite the excellent care he had received, Joe Slater was
unmistakably dying. Perhaps it was his mountain freedom that he missed, or perhaps the turmoil
in his brain had grown too acute for his rather sluggish physique; but at all events the flame
of vitality flickered low in the decadent body. He was drowsy near the end, and as darkness
fell he dropped off into a troubled sleep. I did not strap on the strait-jacket as was customary
when he slept, since I saw that he was too feeble to be dangerous, even if he woke in mental
disorder once more before passing away. But I did place upon his head and mine the two ends
of my cosmic “radio”; hoping against hope for a first and last message from the
dream-world in the brief time remaining. In the cell with us was one nurse, a mediocre fellow
who did not understand the purpose of the apparatus, or think to inquire into my course. As
the hours wore on I saw his head droop awkwardly in sleep, but I did not disturb him. I myself,
lulled by the rhythmical breathing of the healthy and the dying man, must have nodded a little
later.
The sound of weird lyric melody was what aroused me. Chords, vibrations, and harmonic ecstasies echoed passionately on every hand; while on my ravished sight burst the stupendous spectacle of ultimate beauty. Walls, columns, and architraves of living fire blazed effulgently around the spot where I seemed to float in air; extending upward to an infinitely high vaulted dome of indescribable splendour. Blending with this display of palatial magnificence, or rather, supplanting it at times in kaleidoscopic rotation, were glimpses of wide plains and graceful valleys, high mountains and inviting grottoes; covered with every lovely attribute of scenery which my delighted eye could conceive of, yet formed wholly of some glowing, ethereal, plastic entity, which in consistency partook as much of spirit as of matter. As I gazed, I perceived that my own brain held the key to these enchanting metamorphoses; for each vista which appeared to me, was the one my changing mind most wished to behold. Amidst this elysian realm I dwelt not as a stranger, for each sight and sound was familiar to me; just as it had been for uncounted aeons of eternity before, and would be for like eternities to come.
Then the resplendent aura of my brother of light drew near and held colloquy
with me, soul to soul, with silent and perfect interchange of thought. The hour was one of approaching
triumph, for was not my fellow-being escaping at last from a degrading periodic bondage; escaping
forever, and preparing to follow the accursed oppressor even unto the uttermost fields of ether,
that upon it might be wrought a flaming cosmic vengeance which would shake the spheres? We floated
thus for a little time, when I perceived a slight blurring and fading of the objects around
us, as though some force were recalling me to earth—where I least wished to go. The form
near me seemed to feel a change also, for it gradually brought its discourse toward a conclusion,
and itself prepared to quit the scene; fading from my sight at a rate somewhat less rapid than
that of the other objects. A few more thoughts were exchanged, and I knew that the luminous
one and I were being recalled to bondage, though for my brother of light it would be the last
time. The sorry planet-shell being well-nigh spent, in less than an hour my fellow would be
free to pursue the oppressor along the Milky Way and past the hither stars to the very confines
of infinity.
A well-defined shock separates my final impression of the fading scene of light
from my sudden and somewhat shamefaced awakening and straightening up in my chair as I saw the
dying figure on the couch move hesitantly. Joe Slater was indeed awaking, though probably for
the last time. As I looked more closely, I saw that in the sallow cheeks shone spots of colour
which had never before been present. The lips, too, seemed unusual; being tightly compressed,
as if by the force of a stronger character than had been Slater’s. The whole face finally
began to grow tense, and the head turned restlessly with closed eyes. I did not arouse the sleeping
nurse, but readjusted the slightly disarranged head-bands of my telepathic “radio”,
intent to catch any parting message the dreamer might have to deliver. All at once the head
turned sharply in my direction and the eyes fell open, causing me to stare in blank amazement
at what I beheld. The man who had been Joe Slater, the Catskill decadent, was now gazing at
me with a pair of luminous, expanded eyes whose blue seemed subtly to have deepened. Neither
mania nor degeneracy was visible in that gaze, and I felt beyond a doubt that I was viewing
a face behind which lay an active mind of high order.
At this juncture my brain became aware of a steady external influence operating
upon it. I closed my eyes to concentrate my thoughts more profoundly, and was rewarded by the
positive knowledge that my long-sought mental message had come at last. Each transmitted
idea formed rapidly in my mind, and though no actual language was employed, my habitual association
of conception and expression was so great that I seemed to be receiving the message in ordinary
English.
“Joe Slater is dead,” came the soul-petrifying voice or
agency from beyond the wall of sleep. My opened eyes sought the couch of pain in curious horror,
but the blue eyes were still calmly gazing, and the countenance was still intelligently animated.
“He is better dead, for he was unfit to bear the active intellect of cosmic entity. His
gross body could not undergo the needed adjustments between ethereal life and planet life. He
was too much of an animal, too little a man; yet it is through his deficiency that you have
come to discover me, for the cosmic and planet souls rightly should never meet. He has been
my torment and diurnal prison for forty-two of your terrestrial years. I am an entity like that
which you yourself become in the freedom of dreamless sleep. I am your brother of light, and
have floated with you in the effulgent valleys. It is not permitted me to tell your waking earth-self
of your real self, but we are all roamers of vast spaces and travellers in many ages. Next year
I may be dwelling in the dark Egypt which you call ancient, or in the cruel empire of Tsan-Chan
which is to come three thousand years hence. You and I have drifted to the worlds that reel
about the red Arcturus, and dwelt in the bodies of the insect-philosophers that crawl proudly
over the fourth moon of Jupiter. How little does the earth-self know of life and its extent!
How little, indeed, ought it to know for its own tranquillity! Of the oppressor I cannot speak.
You on earth have unwittingly felt its distant presence—you who without knowing idly gave
to its blinking beacon the name of Algol, the Daemon-Star. It is to meet and conquer
the oppressor that I have vainly striven for aeons, held back by bodily encumbrances. Tonight
I go as a Nemesis bearing just and blazingly cataclysmic vengeance. Watch me in the sky close
by the Daemon-Star. I cannot speak longer, for the body of Joe Slater grows cold and rigid,
and the coarse brains are ceasing to vibrate as I wish. You have been my friend in the cosmos;
you have been my only friend on this planet—the only soul to sense and seek for me within
the repellent form which lies on this couch. We shall meet again—perhaps in the shining
mists of Orion’s Sword, perhaps on a bleak plateau in prehistoric Asia. Perhaps in unremembered
dreams tonight; perhaps in some other form an aeon hence, when the solar system shall have been
swept away.”
At this point the thought-waves abruptly ceased, and the pale eyes of the dreamer—or
can I say dead man?—commenced to glaze fishily. In a half-stupor I crossed over to the
couch and felt of his wrist, but found it cold, stiff, and pulseless. The sallow cheeks paled
again, and the thick lips fell open, disclosing the repulsively rotten fangs of the degenerate
Joe Slater. I shivered, pulled a blanket over the hideous face, and awakened the nurse. Then
I left the cell and went silently to my room. I had an insistent and unaccountable craving for
a sleep whose dreams I should not remember.
The climax? What plain tale of science can boast of such a rhetorical effect?
I have merely set down certain things appealing to me as facts, allowing you to construe them
as you will. As I have already admitted, my superior, old Dr. Fenton, denies the reality of
everything I have related. He vows that I was broken down with nervous strain, and badly in
need of the long vacation on full pay which he so generously gave me. He assures me on his professional
honour that Joe Slater was but a low-grade paranoiac, whose fantastic notions must have come
from the crude hereditary folk-tales which circulate in even the most decadent of communities.
All this he tells me—yet I cannot forget what I saw in the sky on the night after Slater
died. Lest you think me a biassed witness, another’s pen must add this final testimony,
which may perhaps supply the climax you expect. I will quote the following account of the star
Nova Persei verbatim from the pages of that eminent astronomical authority, Prof. Garrett
P. Serviss:
“On February 22, 1901, a marvellous new star was discovered by Dr. Anderson, of Edinburgh, not very far from Algol. No star had been visible at that point before. Within twenty-four hours the stranger had become so bright that it outshone Capella. In a week or two it had visibly faded, and in the course of a few months it was hardly discernible with the naked eye.”
