A Journey in Other Worlds: A Romance of the Future

by John Jacob Astor

  CHAPTER XII.

  SHEOL.

  Failing to find words to convey his thoughts, he threw himselfinto an open grave, praying that the earth might hide his soul,as he had supposed it some day would hide his body. But theground was like crystal, and he saw the white bones in the gravesall around him. Unable to endure these surroundings longer, herushed back to his old haunts, where he knew he should find thefriends of his youth. He did not pause to go by the usual way,but passed, without stopping, through walls and buildings. Soonhe beheld the familiar scene, and heard his own name mentioned.But there was no comfort here, and what he had seen of old wasbut an incident to what he gazed on now. Praying with his wholeheart that he might make himself heard, he stepped upon afoot-stool, and cried:

  "Your bodies are decaying before me. You are burying yourtalents in the ground. We must all stand for final sentence atthe last day, mortals and spirits alike-- there is not a shadowof a shade of doubt. Your every thought will be known, and forevery evil deed and every idle word God will bring us intojudgment. The angel of death is among you and at work in yourvery midst. Are you prepared to receive him? He has alreadykilled my body, and now that I can never die I wish there was agrave for my soul. I was reassured by a vision that told me Iwas safe, but either it was a hallucination, or I have beenbetrayed by some spirit. Last night I still lived, and my bodyobeyed my will. Since then I have experienced death, and withthe resulting increased knowledge comes the loss of all hope,with keener pangs than I supposed could exist. Oh, that I hadnow their opportunities, that I might write a thesis that shouldlive forever, and save millions of souls from the anguish ofmine! Inoculate your mortal bodies with the germs of faith andmutual love, in a stronger degree than they dwelt in me, lest youlose the life above."

  But no one heard him, and he preached in vain.

  He again rushed forth, and, after a half-involuntary effort,found himself in the street before his loved one's home.Scarcely knowing why, except that it had become nature to wish tobe near her, he stood for a long time opposite her dwelling.

  "O house!" he cried, "inanimate object that can yet enthral meso, I stand before your cold front as a suppliant from a verydistant realm; yet in my sadness I am colder than your stones,more alone than in a desolate place. She that dwells within youholds my love. I long for her shadow or the sound of her step.I am more wretchedly in love than ever--I, an impotent, invisiblespirit. Must I bear this sorrow in addition to my others, in myfruitless search for rest? My life will be a waking nightmare,most bitter irony of fate."

  The trees swayed above his head, and the moon, in its lastquarter, looked dreamily at him.

  "Ah," thought Ayrault, "could I but sleep and be happy!Drowsiness and weariness, fatigue's grasp is on me; or maySylvia's nearness soothe, as her voice has brought me calm!Quiet I may some day enjoy, but slumber again, never! I see thatsouls in hades must ever have their misdeeds before them. Happyman in this world, the repentant's sins are forgiven! You loseyour care in sleep. Somnolence and drowsiness--balm of achinghearts, angels of mercy! Mortals, how blessed! until you die,God sends you this rest. When I recall summer evenings withSylvia, while gentle zephyrs fanned our brows, I would changePope's famous line to 'Man never is, but always HAS BEENblessed.'"

  A clock in a church-steeple now struck three, the sound ringingthrough the still night air.

  "It will soon be time for ghosts to go," thought Ayrault. "Imust not haunt her dwelling."

  There was a light in Sylvia's study, and Ayrault remainedmeditatively gazing at it.

  "Happy lamp," he thought, "to shed your light on one so fair!She can see you, and you shine, for her. You are better off thanI. Would that her soul might shine for me, as your light shinesfor her! The light of my life has departed. O that the darknesswere complete! I am dead," his thoughts ran on, and when theprivilege-- bitter word!--that permits me to remain here hasexpired, I must doubtless return to Saturn, and there inpurgatory work out my probation. But what comfort is it that afew centuries hence I may be able to revisit my native earth?--

  The flowers will bloom in the morning light, And the lark salute the sun, The earth will continue to roll through space, And I may be nearer my final grace, But Sylvia's life-thread will be spun.

  "Even Sylvia's house will be a heap of ruins, or its place willbe taken by something else. If I had Sylvia, I should care fornothing; as I have lost her, even this sight, though sweet, mustalways bring regret. I wish, at all events, I might see Sylvia,if only with these spirit-eyes, since, as a mortal, she may nevergladden my sight again."

  To his surprise, he now perceived that he could see,notwithstanding the drawn shades. Sylvia was at herwriting-desk, in a light-coloured wrapper. She sat there restingher head on her hand, looking thoughtful but worried. Though itwas so late, she had not retired. The thrush that Ayrault hadoften in life admired, and that she had for some reason broughtup-stairs, was silent and asleep.

  "Happy bird!" he said, "you obtain rest and forgetfulness oncovering your head; but what wing can cover my soul? I used towish I might flutter towards heaven on natural wings like you,little thrush. Now I can, indeed, outfly you. But whatever I doI'm unhappy, and wherever I go I'm in hell. What is man in hishelpless, first spiritual state? He is but a flower, and witherssoon. Had I, like the bishop, been less blind, and obeyed myconscience clear, I might have returned to my native earth whileSylvia still sojourns here; and coming thus by virtue ofdevelopment, I should be able to commune with her.

  "What is life?" he continued. "In the retrospect, nothing. Itseems to me already as but an infinitesimal point. Things thatengrossed me, and seemed of such moment, that overshadowed theduty of obeying my conscience--what were they, and where? Ah,where? They endured but a moment. Reality and evanescence--evanescence and reality."

  The light in Sylvia's room was out now, and in the east he beheldthe dawn. The ubiquitous grey which he saw at night was invadedby streams of glorious crimson and blue that reached far up intothe sky. He gazed at the spectacle, and then once more at thathouse in which his love was centred.

  "Would I might be her guardian angel, to guide her in the rightand keep her from all harm! Sleep on, Sylvia. Sweet one, sleep.Yon stars fade beside your eyes. Your thoughts and your soul arefairer far than the east in this day's sunrise. I know what Ihave lost. Ah, desolating knowledge! for I have read Sylvia'sheart, and know I was loved as truly as I loved. When Bearwardenand Cortlandt break her the news--ah, God! will she live, and dothey yet know I am dead?"

  Again came that spasm to shed spirit tears, and had he not knownit impossible he would have thought his heart must break.

  The birds twittered, and the light grew, but Ayrault lay with hisface upon the ground. Finally the spirit of unrest drove him on.He passed the barred door of his own house, through which he hadentered so often. It was unchanged, but seemed deserted. Next,he went to the water-front, where he had left his yacht.Invisibly and sadly he stood upon her upper deck, and gazed atthe levers, in response to his touch on which the craft had cleftthe waves, reversed, or turned like a thing of life.

  "'Twas a pretty toy," he mused, "and many hours of joy have I hadas I floated through life on board of her."

  As he moped along he beheld two unkempt Italians having apiano-organ and a violin. The music was not fine, but it toucheda chord in Ayrault's breast, for he had waltzed with Sylvia tothat air, and it made his heart ache.

  "Oh, the acuteness of my distress," he cried, "the utter depth ofmy sorrow! Can I have no peace in death, no oblivion in thegrave? I am reminded of my blighted, hopeless love in all kindsof unexpected ways, by unforeseen trifles. Oh, would I might,indeed, die! May obliteration be my deliverer!"

  "Poor fellows," he continued, glancing at the Italians, for heperceived that neither of the players was happy; the pianist wasavaricious, while the violinist's natural and habitual
jealousydestroyed his peace of mind.

  "Unhappiness seems the common lot," thought Ayrault. "Earthcannot give that joy for which we sigh. Poor fellows! though yourack my ears and distress my heart, I cannot help you now."