Love Perfected, Life Divine: A Novel

CHAPTER ONE

The Heroine Begins Her Story

It is always difficult to speak of circumstances that, although perfectly natural, seem far removed from the normal. People tend to view the unusual with skepticism. And in that cynical attitude there is always the implicit assumption that what they reject is inconsequential and not worthy of their attention. Hence, God—though infinitely above them—is disparaged, and even declared to be nonexistent. What fools cannot understand, they dismiss.

Those who do understand, moreover, soon learn to guard their speech—if only out of respect for everyone’s right to his own ignorance—or, to put it perhaps more graciously, his right to whatever level of understanding he has attained so far in his development.

I will fulfill here a task which has been given me, and will enter upon my story, sharing in fictional form with my readers what it has been my privilege to receive.

It was a time of the year when the languors of a hot summer disinclined most people from the strain of hard work. Those who could, took a holiday from their ordinary activities for the pleasures of a long holiday in cooler climes.

Certain persons I met one day almost by chance urged me to join them for a cruise on their yacht. The owner of the yacht was what today might be called a billionaire, so I knew his yacht must be furnished with every luxury. I felt tempted. My work, albeit enjoyable, had reached an impasse, and I needed a break from it.

The man’s daughter Catherine joined her pleas to his. She was weak and sickly, owing more to a lack of energy than to any actual ailment. She was one of those people who find life tiring because they are tired of themselves.

Please do come, she urged. It will help us to have you with us! You always seem to be so full of energy and so happy. And I think you’d enjoy the cruise.

Her father, Morton Harland, peered at me closely through weak eyes. You need a rest, he declared. From what I’ve been told about you, you work too hard. Then he added, not very graciously: And to what purpose? I don’t believe you earn much money—writing books that very few people read!

I am happy, I replied. And I’m doing something I deeply believe in.

Well, we needn’t go into that! I had a try at one of your books once, but—maybe I was sleepy that afternoon. Still, you seem just the person to cheer us all up. Won’t you please come? He twisted his withered face into a semblance of a smile. And Catherine, he added, has been mopish. I worry about her. Please do come. It will help to raise her spirits.

Well, as I have said, I was in a mood for a break, so I accepted the invitation. Why not? A cruise on a magnificent yacht, with every imaginable comfort—surely this would make a pleasant enough break for me, even with two invalids for company.

We will cruise the cooler seas around Scotland, he said. At this time of year, the northern seas are best, he assured me. "In winter, one goes south. Well, next week, then. Rothesay Bay, and the yacht Diana."

We shook hands and parted. From Catherine I received a short note a day later expressing her pleasure that I had agreed to accompany them on their cruise.

We will be very dull, I’m afraid, she wrote kindly, but not so dull as we should be without you. It was a gracious, conventional remark which had as little or as much meaning as I might choose to give it.

The night before my departure was deeply memorable to me. Nothing happened outwardly to account for it, but in my heart, all of a sudden, I felt a deep elation. I threw open the lattice window overlooking the garden, and stepped out onto the balcony, where I gazed up at the myriad stars above. There was no moon, but the darkness seemed illumined by more than starlight. A deep peace came upon me, and a suggestion of freedom from earthly life with its many cares. It was one of those supreme moments in life when everything for which one has been striving seems almost within reach—when the very glories of heaven seem just beyond the horizon, like a ship at sea whose mast has just appeared on the horizon.

I gave myself, as is my custom, into the hands of God, and asked Him to do with my life as He willed. After that I slept as peacefully as a child.

The next day I set out by train for Scotland. A woman friend traveled with me, one of those amiable persons for whom life is always pleasant because they are happy in themselves. This friend, named Francesca, had taken a house in Inverness-shire for the season, and my arrangement was to come and stay with her there after my trip with the Harlands had ended.

Francesca commented about my hostess Catherine on the yacht, "There’s nothing more trying than the society of a ‘Malade imaginaire’—an invalid whose illness is in her way of thinking. And your friend Harland is so stuffed with money I wonder he finds space within him to insert his food!"

I know you’re right, I replied, smiling. But something urges me to take this trip with them. Let us see if my ‘inner voice’ knows what it’s doing. I must admit that the thought of their company doesn’t exactly thrill me. On the other hand, I may be able to be of some help to them. Perhaps I can raise their spirits a little.

I wonder if self-indulgent people can ever become truly happy, rejoined Francesca. Their thoughts shrink inward upon themselves; they don’t reach outward. Notice how even their chests often look shrunken—as if to admit into their lungs as little air—which is to say, as little of the world—as possible!

Well, she was right of course. I had made my decision, however, and was set on my present course of action.

We looked through the window of our little compartment into the corridor outside, where male creatures patrolled up and down, discussing the latest headlines, and boasting of how many defenseless creatures they would slaughter with the upcoming hunting season.

You were talking to me the other day about reincarnation, Francesca remarked. "Rebirth, you said, is necessary for life to evolve finally to perfection. When I look around me I could swear that I see it also in the very act of devolving: of descending the ladder again!"

Sad, isn’t it? was my only remark, which I gave smiling. (After all, the parade of life needs variety to keep it interesting!)

Look at those human beasts, lashing their tails as they think of their anticipated prey! I can visualize some of them in their next incarnations, snuffling with their fellow pigs at the trough!

And behold that one, I exclaimed, entering into the spirit of the game. Doesn’t his ferocious expression make him look a bit like a tiger?

And that one, cried Francesca. Surely you’d almost take him already for a wolf!

That’s not an altogether happy thought! All right, let’s give up judging anyone. Still, it’s a bit frightening, isn’t it?—to see human beings in the very act of descending their little ladders.

It is, indeed! But isn’t it also a wholesome reminder to ourselves that we should love others, and not love only ourselves? For our own fulfillment, it is important to keep on rising.

I think also, I added, that it’s important to set others a good example.

That, yes, she concurred, and to give love to anyone who will receive it in the right spirit.

Francesca and I had discussed this subject before. And of course, if there is a possibility of climbing up the ladder, there has to be the opposite possibility of climbing down it. Frightening! I think we should all try to inspire the people with whom we come in contact to aspire to rise.

Time passed for us quickly. Meanwhile, the train was rushing northward. By six o’clock on that warm afternoon we were in the grimy city of Glasgow. We went on from the station to the still-grimier neighborhood of Greenock (was ever a place more ineptly named?), and there we put up for the night at an inn. The next morning we awoke early, feeling refreshed and happy, in time to see the sun rise above a warm mist of gold.

There, in Greenock harbor, a stately man-o’-war stood proudly, reminding us—despite its deadly purpose—of a beautiful Turner painting.

It saddens me that mankind is still obliged to produce such instruments of death. And yet, man is so obliged. History teaches the sad lesson that every nation which in the past relied on nonviolence was taken over in time by some other, more aggressive nation. Our world, alas, is not yet a peaceful one. Only the strong survive. The important thing, therefore, is not to wish harm to anybody.

On our own plane of existence, moreover, Relativity is the reigning law. Even if a few people must be killed in a defensive war, the goal of war itself must be peace.

Here, however, arises another question: Have England’s goals always been peaceful? There, I am not so sure, and will leave the question unanswered.

Evil, alas, is always in combat with good. Such is the way of this world, and of this universe. There must be duality for the universe to exist at all, separate from the One Spirit. We must turn our minds inward in introspection, to see what evil we can slay within ourselves.

Well, said Francesca, that is the main task God has given us: to perfect ourselves. I’ll seek perfect peace—at least for a time—in Inverness-shire. I hope you’ll find it on your yacht. But if you are not happy there, you know where you can come for refuge. Please don’t hesitate. She smiled at me invitingly.

Our steamer, the Colombo, steamed into beautiful Rothesay Bay. As soon as we entered it, the first object that attracted attention was the very vessel for which I was bound: the Diana—surely one of the most magnificent yachts ever built to gratify the selfish whims of a millionaire.

Tourists aboard our steamer took up positions eagerly to get a good view of her. Many were the comments we heard regarding her size and elegance as she rode elegantly at anchor in the sunlit bay.

Why, you’ll be in a floating palace! Francesca exclaimed as we approached the pier. There, she bade me a fond au revoir. Now, take care of yourself, and don’t let yourself be transported to higher realms, where we won’t be able to reach you anymore! she cautioned, smiling. And remember, if the company of your ‘friends’ should have a numbing effect on you, come stay with me in Inverness-shire.

With a gay smile I promised to do so, and we parted. Just then a sailor came up, having spied my name on my luggage, and took me in a little boat to the yacht, Diana. In about ten minutes I was climbing the ladder and boarding the yacht, then shaking hands with Morton Harland and his daughter Catherine. Mr. Harland was standing to receive me, and did his best to smile. Catherine made a feeble effort to get up, but soon collapsed back onto her deck chair, wrapping herself in warm shawls to protect herself as if from a severe blizzard.

You look well, was her begrudging comment, offered with a wan smile.

How could I not feel well on such a beautiful day! I replied.

She smiled faintly, and turned with a sigh to her maid, who took my luggage below. Another servant then showed me to the state-room which was to be mine during the cruise.

It was a luxurious double apartment, bed-and-sitting room together, divided into two by the hanging folds of a rich crimson silk curtain, and expensively fitted with white furniture ornamented with silver. The bed bore no resemblance to a ship’s berth, but was an elaborate, full-sized affair, canopied in white silk, and embroidered with roses. The carpet was soft and thick; my feet sank into it as though into moss. At the foot of a standing mirror, framed in silver, had been placed a tall silver and crystal vase, full of gorgeous roses. The mirror made the blossoms appear doubled in number.

The sitting room was provided with easy chairs, a writing table, and a small piano. Here again, masses of roses showed their cheerful faces from every corner. It was all so charming that I gave an exclamation of delight. To the maid unpacking my things I then said, It’s quite like fairyland! But I’m amazed at Miss Harland’s generosity in giving it to me. I should have thought she would have kept this suite for herself.

Oh dear, Miss, she replied, Miss Harland wouldn’t have all this about her forever so. Her room contains no carpets or curtains. She has only a bit of matting on the floor, and an iron bedstead. Anything more than that she considers very unhealthy. And as for roses, she can’t bear the scent of them.

I said nothing. I was too enchanted by my own surroundings to consider how uncomfortable my hostess chose to make herself.

Who arranged these rooms? I asked.

Mr. Harland gave orders to the steward to make everything as pretty as he could, said the maid. John, she said, blushing, has very good taste.

I smiled, seeing at once how things stood between her and John.

Just then there was a sound of thudding and grinding above my head, and I realized we were about to weigh anchor. Quickly I hurried up on deck, and soon stood beside my host, who seemed pleased at my alacrity in joining him so soon.

I watched with feelings of exhilaration as the Diana was loosed from her moorings. Steam was up, and in a very short time the bowsprit swung round and pointed out to sea. Quivering like a race-horse, she sprang forward, and then, in a stately, sweeping curve, glided over the water, cutting it on both sides with her sharp keel and churning the way behind it into opalescent foam.

We were off on our voyage at last—a voyage that destiny had planned for at least one passenger to be an adventure into wonderful, new, and unexplored regions. I was given no sign of that destiny, however. Perhaps it is usual for the person most concerned in a mystic adventure to be the last to know what marvels lie ahead.

CHAPTER TWO

The Fairy Ship

I was introduced that evening at dinner to Mr. Harland’s physician, and also to his private secretary. I found Dr. Brayle interesting, in a solemn way. He was dark, slim, clean-shaven, and of middle age. He had brown eyes and sleek black hair that he brushed carefully and parted down the middle. His manner was quiet and self-contained, yet I got the impression that he was fully alive to the advantages of being the traveling medical adviser to an American millionaire.

I have not mentioned till now that Morton Harland was American. I was always rather in the habit of forgetting the fact, for he had long ago forsworn his nationality and naturalized himself a British subject. But he had made his vast fortune in America, and was still the controlling magnate of many large financial interests in the United States. He was now much more English than American, for he had been educated at Oxford, and as a young man had always associated with English society and English ways. He had married an English wife, who died when their first child, Catherine, was born, and he was wont to set down all of Miss Catherine’s mopish languors to a delicacy inherited from her mother, as well as to the lack of a mother’s care in childhood.

In my opinion, Catherine was not really ailing, but had evidently been given her own way from a very early age, and had become so accustomed to being allowed to exaggerate every little ailment that she had made the most of an opportunity to grow up accepting ill health as the best way of getting attention.

Dr. Brayle, I soon perceived, made the most of her attitude. I was covertly amused by the subtle gleam in his eyes as, during pauses in the conversation, he glanced rapidly from father to daughter. He seemed to me to be watching them as narrowly as a cat might watch a couple of unwary mice!

The secretary, Mr. Swinton, was a pale, precise-looking young man with a somewhat servile demeanor, under which I could see that he concealed an inordinately good opinion of himself. His ideas were centered in, and bounded by, the art of stenography. I supposed that, if all one wanted was a secretary, he was the perfect choice.

I spoke little at the table, trying to feel my surroundings, and to understand where I might insert myself to be a suitable guest. All this time I felt, rather than saw, Dr. Brayle regarding me with a kind of perplexity. My presence there seemed to irritate him, though I was unable to perceive any cause for his annoyance. As for Mr. Swinton, he was comfortably wrapped up in a pachydermatous hide of self-appreciation, so that I believe he thought nothing about me one way or the other except as a guest of his patron, and one to whom he was therefore bound to be civil. But with Dr. Brayle it was otherwise. I puzzled him, and—after a brief study of me—I became, as I said, an irritant. He forced himself to converse with me, however, and at first we interchanged the usual remarks on the weather and on the various beauties of the coast along which we were sailing.

I see that you like fine scenery, he said finally. Have you tried your hand at art?

No, And I smiled. He seemed surprised, so I added, Is imitation important to admiration?

It should be, he answered, with a little bow, considering that so many of the paintings men paint are of your sex.

I made no answer. Mr. Harland looked at me with a somewhat quizzical air.

You don’t believe in compliments? he asked.

Was it a compliment? I asked.

Dr. Brayle’s dark brows drew together in a slight frown. With that expression he looked rather like an Italian poisoner of old time—the kind of man whom Caesar Borgia might have employed to give the happy dispatch to his enemies by some sure and undiscoverable means known only to obscure chemistry.

Presently Mr. Harland spoke again, peeling a pear slowly and delicately with deft movements of his fruit knife that suggested the flaying alive of some poor, sentient creature.

Our little friend is of a rather strange disposition, he observed. She has the indifference of an Old-World philosopher to socially agreeable speeches. Her soul is ardent, but her mind is suspicious! She is aware that pleasant words are often spoken to cover treacherous intentions. If a man is as rude and blunt as myself, for example, she prefers him to be rude and blunt rather than attempt to conceal his roughness by an amiability which it is not his nature to feel. Here he looked up at me from a careful scrutiny of his nearly flayed pear. Isn’t that so?

Why, certainly, I replied. But is that such a ‘strange’ or original attitude?

A corner of his mouth curled upward cynically.

"Pardon me, dear lady, it is strange! The normal and strictly reasonable attitude of the human pygmy is to accept as gospel everything it is told of a nature soothing and agreeable to itself. Man, pygmy that he is, believes among other presumptions that he has a special place in this universe. He is destined to be immortal, and considers that he shares with God even now His divine Intelligence. Upset by the merest trifle, troubled by every little setback, driven to howling by a mere toothache, and generally unable to face the slightest adversity, he imagines himself entitled anyway to some sort of kinship with the Divine! What marvelous presumption! What magnificent arrogance!"

I remained silent, but I could almost hear my heart beating with suppressed emotion. I knew Morton Harland was an atheist, as far as atheism is possible to any creature capable of feeling at all, but I had not expected him to state his opinions so openly, and so rudely, on the very first evening of my stay on board his yacht. He knew I had deep faith in God. It occurred to me that perhaps he had spoken this way for his own amusement, and for that of the other two men present, in the hope of moving me to an answering argument. I was startled by his uncivility, but it is not my nature to argue. I therefore did what was incumbent upon me in such a situation: I held my peace.

Dr. Brayle watched me curiously, and poor Catherine Harland turned her plaintive eyes upon me in alarm. She had learned to dread her father’s fondness for religious argument. But as I did not speak, Mr. Harland was placed in the embarrassing position of someone propounding a theory that no one has any desire to contest. Why, I wondered, after his gracious invitation to me in London, had he decided now to be rude? Was it the influence of Dr. Brayle’s company? Had he so little command of his own behavior? Had his real motive been all along, perhaps, to treat me as a foil for his cynicism? He had seemed to me a nobler person than that. Looking slightly confused now, he went on in a lighter and more casual way—

I had a friend once at Oxford—a good fellow, I now think. He was a little like our friend here—full of odd fancies. I suppose it is she who brought him to my mind this evening. And I was reflecting on the reaction to him that many of us other students had. Forgive me for my sharpness with you. Here he turned to me. "This man was one of those who believed not only in God, but in the Divine in man. Most of us judged him peculiar. His father had lived by choice for forty years in some desert corner of Egypt, and it was in Egypt that this boy had been born. Of his mother he never spoke. His father died suddenly, leaving him a large fortune under trustees till he came of age, with instructions that he was to be taken to England and educated at Oxford.

When he came into possession of his money, he was to be left free to do with it as he liked. I met him when he was almost halfway through his University course. I was only two or three years his senior, but he always looked much younger than I; yet he also seemed more mature. To most us he seemed ‘uncanny’—a little like our little friend here. Here he indicated me by a nod of his head, and smiled in a way that seemed intended to be kindly, though in fact his smile was more like a grin, and only emphasized his sour nature.

"This man—I’m remembering him more clearly now—never practiced or ‘trained’ for anything, and yet everything came to him easily. His faith wasn’t the churchgoing sort; there was something unreal about it. And he would sit in silence for hours on end—an unusual practice that made him seem even more peculiar to the rest of us. He was good at sports, and friendly enough. But there