XVII
"THERE IS NO DEATH"

 

"A SUPPLY-TRAIN was blown up to-day by the Allies, and many boys were graduated. Battle, murder, and sudden death! The shock of sudden death in all its forms is so great. That is why peoples of older civilizations, glimpsing the truth, prayed to be spared it. This war is such a foolish waste of consciousness."

 

Thus spelled Stephen the evening following his remarks on evolution and the law of parallels.

 

In the course of Mrs. K.'s visit I ran through my record of the early communications, and by chance the foregoing speech was among the ouija-board spellings I read her.

 

"Did you verify the statement about the blowing up of the supply-train?" she asked, interested in the evidential possibility. She was disappointed when I answered, "No."

 

It occurred to neither Joan nor me in December, 1916, to attach importance to the "supply-train"—not as evidence. Stephen of

the ouija-board had not yet proved that Stephen L—— was other than a mere name; and Joan and I had the vaguest notions of psychical research. If we were not sufficiently interested in evidential tests to seek verification of Stephen's death story, surely we would not think of verifying the "supply-train." It was the face value of Stephen's words that engaged our interest—the thought that the old stereotyped phrase of the prayer-book might have a hidden meaning.

 

"Are all persons frightened when they die?" Joan asked.

 

But for quite awhile no answer came. Finally the tripod spelled:

 

"This is Stephen. I was called away. I have told you my choice of work here the meeting of frightened boys coming from the battle-fields. To-day I have been very busy. Do you remember the legend of the Valkyries, how they visited the battle-fields, revived the slain heroes, and bore them away to Valhalla? We on this side do not bodily carry the new-comers from Europe's modern trenches. Yet some ancient Norse minstrel had a glimpse of the truth when he sang the story of the Valkyries."

 

Joan then repeated her question, whether all persons are frightened when they die.

 

"Those only," answered Stephen, "who know sudden death. Otherwise, the larger consciousness reveals itself before graduation actually occurs, in what you call unconsciousness and death-bed visions. Sudden death is frightful only because a person does not know where he has gone. Sleep precedes natural death always, sometimes just for the space of a heart-beat. That second is long enough for the truth of graduation to be revealed."

 

"But," asked Joan, "does one reach full understanding immediately?"

 

"I have not said so," Stephen replied. "The new-born soul here is delicate, just as newly born earth life is delicate. How quickly the new-comer acquires full knowledge of the life here depends on his degree. With some we have what you might term trouble. The comprehension of such is not quick, as it was not quick in their earth life, and they torment themselves by insisting on going back to their familiar places. They are, of course, distressed because those whom they have left in the flesh fail to see them.

 

"As for the boys from the trenches, we often have trouble with them. They come with all the shock and horror of sudden death. Their first impulse is to go on fighting; more battles have been won by the strength of invisible forces than by flesh-and-blood troops—truly have the angels led on to victory. At other times a soldier-boy, finding himself free, makes straight for home."

 

"How does he travel?" I interrupted.

 

"I cannot explain to you in exact terms," the tripod spelled. "But have you ever boarded a train that was going to carry you to a dear friend whom you had not seen for a long time? Surely your thoughts outran that train. If your friend had been able, through some strange faculty, to have sensed those thoughts of yours, and you had been able to sense his, you would have arrived at your destination long before the train. Well, something of that sort is the case on my plane. As our thoughts shift, so, if we choose, do we ourselves shift, going where we will. You call and I come."

 

Stephen's "supply-train" speech had said, "This war is such a foolish waste of consciousness. I wanted to ask how this could be so if the dead survive. But the tripod seemed intent on finishing its discussion of sudden death. It continued:

 

"The soldier-boy, having reached home, is greatly grieved that his presence goes unnoted by those he loves. You see, he does not yet realize he has graduated. If we can get early control of those who come to us from the battlefield, and can take them to some quiet spot away from the upheaval, we are able to teach them quickly the truth and joy of their immortality."

 

"After all, then, even sudden death is not a tragedy of long duration?, said Joan.

 

"No," said Stephen, "nothing that is negative is of really long duration. Yet truly it is well for the world thoroughly to understand sudden death as a tragic horror.

 

"Let us say the head of a soldier-boy is shot off—an unpleasant thought, though an occurrence many times daily on the battle-fields of Europe. In a trice the boy is free from his body, and so sudden has been his passing that none is there to meet him. He will see what he recognizes as himself, lying mangled; Yet he will feel himself alive. Perhaps he will recognize the dead body of a comrade, also just graduated. They see each other double, as it were. They begin communicating, both utterly bewildered. That is the horror— neither knows what has happened or where he is.

 

"It was truly a great glimpse that found its way into the prayer-book, 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.' The peculiar thing, is that, in the distant day of this prayer's origin, battle was man's highest glory and death in battle a soldier's fitting crown; yet the seers so far glimpsed the truth that they gave to man a prayer contradictory to his practice."

 

Stephen's gruesome recital had caused Joan to wince. "Why so realistic, Stephen?" I asked.

 

"My friends," he spelled, "the world should know for two reasons. First, earth must adopt all safeguards for the prevention of sudden death. Its horror fully realized, men will minimize its occurrence, not only as the result of war, but also as the consequence of industrial greed or plain carelessness. Second, if men are warned and are made to understand, death coming suddenly will be robbed of much of its shock; there are times when true men would die in no other way than suddenly, if—as in the great conflict now being waged against medievalism—positives thereby are advanced, negatives banished, and earth's consciousness brought nearer to recognition of its essential oneness.

 

"The world should recognize sudden death as a great tragedy, yet don't cause people to think that its horror lasts; the glory of ray freedom dawns quickly."

 

There was opportunity now for me to ask my question, "How can the war result in a waste of consciousness if those killed survive, as you assure us?"

 

"Undeveloped quantity," Stephen replied. "You will understand this later."

 

Another long pause—then, "I have a new experience for you."

Perhaps the spelling that came next impressed us so greatly because of the contrast it offered to the realism of what had

gone before.

"A poet is here," Stephen was saying. "He wishes to attempt a sonnet, in the Italian form. The sonnet is written by one poet

to another."

It was the first time any one other than Stephen had come to our ouija-board; the professor was not to appear until three or

four weeks later.

The presence of the stranger was evidenced by a new technic, if I may use the word. The tripod's movements were

deliberate, whereas Stephen's spellings, after our first experience at Mrs. Jevon's, had become brisk. Here is what the

tripod spelled:

"Hail, singing soul that loved so greatly well! Now art thou come, rose-crowned and radiant, To keep that most triumphant sacrament

Of light, more light; while choiring voices swell

In chants of welcome, as glad minster bell Acclaims a princely birth of wide portent. March on, brave poet soldier! Thy extent

Of vict'ry shall earth's visionings excel.

 

"There is no death! Life is but prophecy,

And burneth on through thine own love's desire For love supreme. And as thy youth, impearled

In rhyme, is treasure of time's memory,

So, too, shalt thou, whose beauties did inspire Such fame, sing on in this sublimer world."

 

When the lines were completed—despite the tripod's air of deliberateness they came in an incredibly short time, more quickly, I fancy, than earthly poets are accustomed to turn even doggerel rhymes—Stephen announced his presence and asked if Joan could tell to whom the poem was indited.

 

"To Rupert Brooke, of course," she answered. "Right," said Stephen.

 

"It was a great honor that was paid you, for you must know that the sonnet's author has graduated close toward the supreme. He is far beyond my degree and that of you two not unsympathetic materialists."

 

When Mrs. K. read this sonnet—it was shown her on the occasion of her visit—her first question was, "Did either of you ever write poetry?"

 

Doubtless if we did the performance would be of no evidential worth. It was so pronounced, for Joan has written verse. Who hasn't? But Joan's verse has been born in much travail. The ouija-board sonnet, whatever its value as poetry, sprang into spontaneous being; this at the time impressed Joan and me deeply. And, while we do not wish to insist on the evidential value of the performance, we believe, in view of the later experiment at the piano, that, granted the dead do survive and can or would communicate with the living, communication of verse would be successful only if the receiving station himself had the poetic sense.

 

At all events, the ease with which the sonnet was written remains most astounding. Note how it draws on two of Brooke's poems, "The Great Lover" and "The Hill." In "The Hill" Brooke speaks of going down "with unreluctant tread rose-crowned into the darkness," and finds comfort in the thought that despite death "life burns on through other lovers, other lips"; note how the ouija-board sonnet turns the latter phrase to a new meaning. The tripod's ready adaptation of Brooke's phrases is interesting in itself, familiar though these phrases were to Joan. That the adaptations should have been woven into an original poem, without apparent effort on Joan's part, seemed and still seems an astonishing thing.

 

"Brooke," spelled Stephen, "was given a royal welcome when he came here."

"He was satisfied to die?" asked Joan. "His life promised much."

"A supremely great poet," answered Stephen, "once spoke of our land as the country from which no traveler returns. Those who have traveled hither would not return. We never look backward. The tree goes up toward the light, and the sunflower turns its face toward the glory of the morning. And so we here lift our souls up toward the supreme."

 

"But, Stephen," I said, "do you realize that the thought of talking to the soul of a dead man gets a fellow's goat? Do you understand my slang?"

 

"Perfectly," he replied. "You know it was my slang, too, not so long ago. And in answer to your question let me say I do realize how weird the experience is to you. Had I had a similar experience when I was on the earth-plane, I would have considered it wild-eyed and batty. There is a verse in the Psalms that runs something like this—'He shall give his angels charge over thee lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.' This promise is often quoted for the comforting of men. But the instant it becomes a known reality, hysterics ensue. As for you two, whatever may be your convictions or doubts, you entertain both without hysteria. It is a hopeful sign that others in the unsettled world can be taught the great dignity of living."

 

"What do you mean by the word 'unsettled'?" Joan asked.

 

"Those who in sorrow have no light," Stephen spelled. "You cannot realize the modern tragedy that is the result of the past years of skepticism."

 

"But weren't you skeptical when you were here?" I queried.

 

"Yes," he answered, "and it is my realization of the simplicity and beauty of the truth that makes me want to teach it to you."

 

At this point a leg of the ouija-board's tripod became loosened and went bounding over the floor. I followed it down and set about making hasty repairs. Yet so interested were both Joan and I in the words Stephen had been spelling that, though the mending proceeded, we gave it scarcely a thought. Therefore, we were slow of understanding when our fluent speller, privileged at last to resume his discourse, announced, "Joan, Darby was using it for a rest and holding up the procession."

 

"Using what for a rest?" I asked.

"That silly flatiron thing. Get me?" answered Stephen, again betraying a familiarity with slang quite equal to my own.

"Well, you see, Stephen," I said, "Joan and I discussed you last night until three in the morning."

"Well," spelled Stephen, "I did not ask you to make a circus of yourselves, did I?"

 

Imagine such a remark from out the great beyond!

 

"Stephen," said I, "in addition to instructing Joan and me you amuse us."

And Stephen made me an answer which I think pierces deep. He said, "I laugh yet."

 

Now I had always supposed that, whatever immortality death might hold for thought and serious endeavor, laughter, at least, died here. The earthly trappings of death, black for the mourner's eye and dirges for his ear, have lent their somberness to whatever of victory we have sensed beyond the grave. And yet how victorious is laughter! We are accustomed to deify and call chief attributes of God those characteristics that distinguish man from lower forms of life consecutive thought, moral responsibility. And is not a sense of humor one of the graces accorded man and denied all lesser being? May not it, too, be divine? Somehow I am happy to know that Stephen, if he be Stephen, still laughs.