The Country of the Blind

  XII.

  UNDER THE KNIFE.

“What if I die under it?” The thought recurred again and again, as I walked home from Haddon’s.  It was a purely personal question.  I was spared the deep anxieties of a married man, and I knew there were few of my intimate friends but would find my death troublesome chiefly on account of their duty of regret.  I was surprised indeed, and perhaps a little humiliated, as I turned the matter over, to think how few could possibly exceed the conventional requirement.  Things came before me stripped of glamour, in a clear dry light, during that walk from Haddon’s house over Primrose Hill.  There were the friends of my youth:  I perceived now that our affection was a tradition, which we foregathered rather laboriously to maintain.  There were the rivals and helpers of my later career:  I suppose I had been cold-blooded or undemonstrative—­one perhaps implies the other.  It may be that even the capacity for friendship is a question of physique.  There had been a time in my own life when I had grieved bitterly enough at the loss of a friend; but as I walked home that afternoon the emotional side of my imagination was dormant.  I could not pity myself, nor feel sorry for my friends, nor conceive of them as grieving for me.

I was interested in this deadness of my emotional nature—­no doubt a concomitant of my stagnating physiology; and my thoughts wandered off along the line it suggested.  Once before, in my hot youth, I had suffered a sudden loss of blood, and had been within an ace of death.  I remembered now that my affections as well as my passions had drained out of me, leaving scarce anything but a tranquil resignation, a dreg of self-pity.  It had been weeks before the old ambitions and tendernesses and all the complex moral interplay of a man had reasserted themselves.  It occurred to me that the real meaning of this numbness might be a gradual slipping away from the pleasure-pain guidance of the animal man.  It has been proven, I take it, as thoroughly as anything can be proven in this world, that the higher emotions, the moral feelings, even the subtle unselfishness of love, are evolved from the elemental desires and fears of the simple animal:  they are the harness in which man’s mental freedom goes.  And it may be that as death overshadows us, as our possibility of acting diminishes, this complex growth of balanced impulse, propensity and aversion, whose interplay inspires our acts, goes with it.  Leaving what?

I was suddenly brought back to reality by an imminent collision with the butcher-boy’s tray.  I found that I was crossing the bridge over the Regent’s Park Canal, which runs parallel with that in the Zoological Gardens.  The boy in blue had been looking over his shoulder at a black barge advancing slowly, towed by a gaunt white horse.  In the Gardens a nurse was leading three happy little children over the bridge.  The trees were bright green; the spring hopefulness was still unstained by the dusts of summer; the sky in the water was bright and clear, but broken by long waves, by quivering bands of black, as the barge drove through.  The breeze was stirring; but it did not stir me as the spring breeze used to do.

Was this dulness of feeling in itself an anticipation?  It was curious that I could reason and follow out a network of suggestion as clearly as ever:  so, at least, it seemed to me.  It was calmness rather than dulness that was coming upon me.  Was there any ground for the relief in the presentiment of death?  Did a man near to death begin instinctively to withdraw himself from the meshes of matter and sense, even before the cold hand was laid upon his?  I felt strangely isolated—­isolated without regret—­from the life and existence about me.  The children playing in the sun and gathering strength and experience for the business of life, the park-keeper gossiping with a nursemaid, the nursing mother, the young couple intent upon each other as they passed me, the trees by the wayside spreading new pleading leaves to the sunlight, the stir in their branches—­I had been part of it all, but I had nearly done with it now.

Some way down the Broad Walk I perceived that I was tired, and that my feet were heavy.  It was hot that afternoon, and I turned aside and sat down on one of the green chairs that line the way.  In a minute I had dozed into a dream, and the tide of my thoughts washed up a vision of the resurrection.  I was still sitting in the chair, but I thought myself actually dead, withered, tattered, dried, one eye (I saw) pecked out by birds.  “Awake!” cried a voice; and incontinently the dust of the path and the mould under the grass became insurgent.  I had never before thought of Regent’s Park as a cemetery, but now, through the trees, stretching as far as eye could see, I beheld a flat plain of writhing graves and heeling tombstones.  There seemed to be some trouble:  the rising dead appeared to stifle as they struggled upward, they bled in their struggles, the red flesh was torn away from the white bones.  “Awake!” cried a voice; but I determined I would not rise to such horrors.  “Awake!” They would not let me alone.  “Wake up!” said an angry voice.  A cockney angel!  The man who sells the tickets was shaking me, demanding my penny.

I paid my penny, pocketed my ticket, yawned, stretched my legs, and, feeling now rather less torpid, got up and walked on towards Langham Place.  I speedily lost myself again in a shifting maze of thoughts about death.  Going across Marylebone Road into that crescent at the end of Langham Place, I had the narrowest escape from the shaft of a cab, and went on my way with a palpitating heart and a bruised shoulder.  It struck me that it would have been curious if my meditations on my death on the morrow had led to my death that day.

But I will not weary you with more of my experiences that day and the next.  I knew more and more certainly that I should die under the operation; at times I think I was inclined to pose to myself.  The doctors were coming at eleven, and I did not get up.  It seemed scarce worth while to trouble about washing and dressing, and though I read my newspapers and the letters that came by the first post, I did not find them very interesting.  There was a friendly note from Addison, my old school-friend, calling my attention to two discrepancies and a printer’s error in my new book, with one from Langridge venting some vexation over Minton.  The rest were business communications.  I breakfasted in bed.  The glow of pain at my side seemed more massive.  I knew it was pain, and yet, if you can understand, I did not find it very painful.  I had been awake and hot and thirsty in the night, but in the morning bed felt comfortable.  In the night-time I had lain thinking of things that were past; in the morning I dozed over the question of immortality.  Haddon came, punctual to the minute, with a neat black bag; and Mowbray soon followed.  Their arrival stirred me up a little.  I began to take a more personal interest in the proceedings.  Haddon moved the little octagonal table close to the bedside, and, with his broad back to me, began taking things out of his bag.  I heard the light click of steel upon steel.  My imagination, I found, was not altogether stagnant.  “Will you hurt me much?” I said in an off-hand tone.

“Not a bit,” Haddon answered over his shoulder.  “We shall chloroform you.  Your heart’s as sound as a bell.”  And as he spoke, I had a whiff of the pungent sweetness of the anaesthetic.

They stretched me out, with a convenient exposure of my side, and, almost before I realised what was happening, the chloroform was being administered.  It stings the nostrils, and there is a suffocating sensation at first.  I knew I should die—­that this was the end of consciousness for me.  And suddenly I felt that I was not prepared for death:  I had a vague sense of a duty overlooked—­I knew not what.  What was it I had not done?  I could think of nothing more to do, nothing desirable left in life; and yet I had the strangest disinclination to death.  And the physical sensation was painfully oppressive.  Of course the doctors did not know they were going to kill me.  Possibly I struggled.  Then I fell motionless, and a great silence, a monstrous silence, and an impenetrable blackness came upon me.

There must have been an interval of absolute unconsciousness, seconds or minutes.  Then with a chilly, unemotional clearness, I perceived that I was not yet dead.  I was still in my body; but all the multitudinous sensations that come sweeping from it to make up the background of consciousness had gone, leaving me free of it all.  No, not free of it all; for as yet something still held me to the poor stark flesh upon the bed—­held me, yet not so closely that I did not feel myself external to it, independent of it, straining away from it.  I do not think I saw, I do not think I heard; but I perceived all that was going on, and it was as if I both heard and saw.  Haddon was bending over me, Mowbray behind me; the scalpel—­it was a large scalpel—­was cutting my flesh at the side under the flying ribs.  It was interesting to see myself cut like cheese, without a pang, without even a qualm.  The interest was much of a quality with that one might feel in a game of chess between strangers.  Haddon’s face was firm and his hand steady; but I was surprised to perceive (how I know not) that he was feeling the gravest doubt as to his own wisdom in the conduct of the operation.

Mowbray’s thoughts, too, I could see.  He was thinking that Haddon’s manner showed too much of the specialist.  New suggestions came up like bubbles through a stream of frothing meditation, and burst one after another in the little bright spot of his consciousness.  He could not help noticing and admiring Haddon’s swift dexterity, in spite of his envious quality and his disposition to detract.  I saw my liver exposed.  I was puzzled at my own condition.  I did not feel that I was dead, but I was different in some way from my living self.  The grey depression, that had weighed on me for a year or more and coloured all my thoughts, was gone.  I perceived and thought without any emotional tint at all.  I wondered if everyone perceived things in this way under chloroform, and forgot it again when he came out of it.  It would be inconvenient to look into some heads, and not forget.

Although I did not think that I was dead, I still perceived quite clearly that I was soon to die.  This brought me back to the consideration of Haddon’s proceedings.  I looked into his mind, and saw that he was afraid of cutting a branch of the portal vein.  My attention was distracted from details by the curious changes going on in his mind.  His consciousness was like the quivering little spot of light which is thrown by the mirror of a galvanometer.  His thoughts ran under it like a stream, some through the focus bright and distinct, some shadowy in the half-light of the edge.  Just now the little glow was steady; but the least movement on Mowbray’s part, the slightest sound from outside, even a faint difference in the slow movement of the living flesh he was cutting, set the light-spot shivering and spinning.  A new sense-impression came rushing up through the flow of thoughts; and lo! the light-spot jerked away towards it, swifter than a frightened fish.  It was wonderful to think that upon that unstable, fitful thing depended all the complex motions of the man; that for the next five minutes, therefore, my life hung upon its movements.  And he was growing more and more nervous in his work.  It was as if a little picture of a cut vein grew brighter, and struggled to oust from his brain another picture of a cut falling short of the mark.  He was afraid:  his dread of cutting too little was battling with his dread of cutting too far.

Then, suddenly, like an escape of water from under a lock-gate, a great uprush of horrible realisation set all his thoughts swirling, and simultaneously I perceived that the vein was cut.  He started back with a hoarse exclamation, and I saw the brown-purple blood gather in a swift bead, and run trickling.  He was horrified.  He pitched the red-stained scalpel on to the octagonal table; and instantly both doctors flung themselves upon me, making hasty and ill-conceived efforts to remedy the disaster.  “Ice!” said Mowbray, gasping.  But I knew that I was killed, though my body still clung to me.

I will not describe their belated endeavours to save me, though I perceived every detail.  My perceptions were sharper and swifter than they had ever been in life; my thoughts rushed through my mind with incredible swiftness, but with perfect definition.  I can only compare their crowded clarity to the effects of a reasonable dose of opium.  In a moment it would all be over, and I should be free.  I knew I was immortal, but what would happen I did not know.  Should I drift off presently, like a puff of smoke from a gun, in some kind of half-material body, an attenuated version of my material self?  Should I find myself suddenly among the innumerable hosts of the dead, and know the world about me for the phantasmagoria it had always seemed?  Should I drift to some spiritualistic séance, and there make foolish, incomprehensible attempts to affect a purblind medium?  It was a state of unemotional curiosity, of colourless expectation.  And then I realised a growing stress upon me, a feeling as though some huge human magnet was drawing me upward out of my body.  The stress grew and grew.  I seemed an atom for which monstrous forces were fighting.  For one brief, terrible moment sensation came back to me.  That feeling of falling headlong which comes in nightmares, that feeling a thousand times intensified, that and a black horror swept across my thoughts in a torrent.  Then the two doctors, the naked body with its cut side, the little room, swept away from under me and vanished, as a speck of foam vanishes down an eddy.

I was in mid-air.  Far below was the West End of London, receding rapidly,—­for I seemed to be flying swiftly upward,—­and as it receded, passing westward like a panorama.  I could see, through the faint haze of smoke, the innumerable roofs chimney-set, the narrow roadways, stippled with people and conveyances, the little specks of squares, and the church steeples like thorns sticking out of the fabric.  But it spun away as the earth rotated on its axis, and in a few seconds (as it seemed) I was over the scattered clumps of town about Ealing, the little Thames a thread of blue to the south, and the Chiltern Hills and the North Downs coming up like the rim of a basin, far away and faint with haze.  Up I rushed.  And at first I had not the faintest conception what this headlong rush upward could mean.

Every moment the circle of scenery beneath me grew wider and wider, and the details of town and field, of hill and valley, got more and more hazy and pale and indistinct, a luminous grey was mingled more and more with the blue of the hills and the green of the open meadows; and a little patch of cloud, low and far to the west, shone ever more dazzlingly white.  Above, as the veil of atmosphere between myself and outer space grew thinner, the sky, which had been a fair springtime blue at first, grew deeper and richer in colour, passing steadily through the intervening shades, until presently it was as dark as the blue sky of midnight, and presently as black as the blackness of a frosty starlight, and at last as black as no blackness I had ever beheld.  And first one star, and then many, and at last an innumerable host broke out upon the sky:  more stars than anyone has ever seen from the face of the earth.  For the blueness of the sky in the light of the sun and stars sifted and spread abroad blindingly:  there is diffused light even in the darkest skies of winter, and we do not see the stars by day only because of the dazzling irradiation of the sun.  But now I saw things—­I know not how; assuredly with no mortal eyes—­and that defect of bedazzlement blinded me no longer.  The sun was incredibly strange and wonderful.  The body of it was a disc of blinding white light:  not yellowish, as it seems to those who live upon the earth, but livid white, all streaked with scarlet streaks and rimmed about with a fringe of writhing tongues of red fire.  And shooting half-way across the heavens from either side of it and brighter than the Milky Way, were two pinions of silver white, making it look more like those winged globes I have seen in Egyptian sculpture than anything else I can remember upon earth.  These I knew for the solar corona, though I had never seen anything of it but a picture during the days of my earthly life.

When my attention came back to the earth again, I saw that it had fallen very far away from me.  Field and town were long since indistinguishable, and all the varied hues of the country were merging into a uniform bright grey, broken only by the brilliant white of the clouds that lay scattered in flocculent masses over Ireland and the west of England.  For now I could see the outlines of the north of France and Ireland, and all this Island of Britain, save where Scotland passed over the horizon to the north, or where the coast was blurred or obliterated by cloud.  The sea was a dull grey, and darker than the land; and the whole panorama was rotating slowly towards the east.

All this had happened so swiftly that until I was some thousand miles or so from the earth I had no thought for myself.  But now I perceived I had neither hands nor feet, neither parts nor organs, and that I felt neither alarm nor pain.  All about me I perceived that the vacancy (for I had already left the air behind) was cold beyond the imagination of man; but it troubled me not.  The sun’s rays shot through the void, powerless to light or heat until they should strike on matter in their course.  I saw things with a serene self-forgetfulness, even as if I were God.  And down below there, rushing away from me,—­countless miles in a second,—­where a little dark spot on the grey marked the position of London, two doctors were struggling to restore life to the poor hacked and outworn shell I had abandoned.  I felt then such release, such serenity as I can compare to no mortal delight I have ever known.

It was only after I had perceived all these things that the meaning of that headlong rush of the earth grew into comprehension.  Yet it was so simple, so obvious, that I was amazed at my never anticipating the thing that was happening to me.  I had suddenly been cut adrift from matter:  all that was material of me was there upon earth, whirling away through space, held to the earth by gravitation, partaking of the earth-inertia, moving in its wreath of epicycles round the sun, and with the sun and the planets on their vast march through space.  But the immaterial has no inertia, feels nothing of the pull of matter for matter:  where it parts from its garment of flesh, there it remains (so far as space concerns it any longer) immovable in space. I was not leaving the earth:  the earth was leaving me, and not only the earth but the whole solar system was streaming past.  And about me in space, invisible to me, scattered in the wake of the earth upon its journey, there must be an innumerable multitude of souls, stripped like myself of the material, stripped like myself of the passions of the individual and the generous emotions of the gregarious brute, naked intelligences, things of new-born wonder and thought, marvelling at the strange release that had suddenly come on them!

As I receded faster and faster from the strange white sun in the black heavens, and from the broad and shining earth upon which my being had begun, I seemed to grow in some incredible manner vast:  vast as regards this world I had left, vast as regards the moments and periods of a human life.  Very soon I saw the full circle of the earth, slightly gibbous, like the moon when she nears her full, but very large; and the silvery shape of America was now in the noonday blaze wherein (as it seemed) little England had been basking but a few minutes ago.  At first the earth was large, and shone in the heavens, filling a great part of them; but every moment she grew smaller and more distant.  As she shrank, the broad moon in its third quarter crept into view over the rim of her disc.  I looked for the constellations.  Only that part of Aries directly behind the sun and the Lion, which the earth covered, were hidden.  I recognised the tortuous, tattered band of the Milky Way with Vega very bright between sun and earth; and Sirius and Orion shone splendid against the unfathomable blackness in the opposite quarter of the heavens.  The Pole Star was overhead, and the Great Bear hung over the circle of the earth.  And away beneath and beyond the shining corona of the sun were strange groupings of stars I had never seen in my life—­notably a dagger-shaped group that I knew for the Southern Cross.  All these were no larger than when they had shone on earth, but the little stars that one scarce sees shone now against the setting of black vacancy as brightly as the first-magnitudes had done, while the larger worlds were points of indescribable glory and colour.  Aldebaran was a spot of blood-red fire, and Sirius condensed to one point the light of innumerable sapphires.  And they shone steadily:  they did not scintillate, they were calmly glorious.  My impressions had an adamantine hardness and brightness:  there was no blurring softness, no atmosphere, nothing but infinite darkness set with the myriads of these acute and brilliant points and specks of light.  Presently, when I looked again, the little earth seemed no bigger than the sun, and it dwindled and turned as I looked, until in a second’s space (as it seemed to me), it was halved; and so it went on swiftly dwindling.  Far away in the opposite direction, a little pinkish pin’s head of light, shining steadily, was the planet Mars.  I swam motionless in vacancy, and, without a trace of terror or astonishment, watched the speck of cosmic dust we call the world fall away from me.

Presently it dawned upon me that my sense of duration had changed; that my mind was moving not faster but infinitely slower, that between each separate impression there was a period of many days.  The moon spun once round the earth as I noted this; and I perceived clearly the motion of Mars in his orbit.  Moreover, it appeared as if the time between thought and thought grew steadily greater, until at last a thousand years was but a moment in my perception.

At first the constellations had shone motionless against the black background of infinite space; but presently it seemed as though the group of stars about Hercules and the Scorpion was contracting, while Orion and Aldebaran and their neighbours were scattering apart.  Flashing suddenly out of the darkness there came a flying multitude of particles of rock, glittering like dust-specks in a sunbeam, and encompassed in a faintly luminous cloud.  They swirled all about me, and vanished again in a twinkling far behind.  And then I saw that a bright spot of light, that shone a little to one side of my path, was growing very rapidly larger, and perceived that it was the planet Saturn rushing towards me.  Larger and larger it grew, swallowing up the heavens behind it, and hiding every moment a fresh multitude, of stars.  I perceived its flattened, whirling body, its disc-like belt, and seven of its little satellites.  It grew and grew, till it towered enormous; and then I plunged amid a streaming multitude of clashing stones and dancing dust-particles and gas-eddies, and saw for a moment the mighty triple belt like three concentric arches of moonlight above me, its shadow black on the boiling tumult below.  These things happened in one-tenth of the time it takes to tell them.  The planet went by like a flash of lightning; for a few seconds it blotted out the sun, and there and then became a mere black, dwindling, winged patch against the light.  The earth, the mother mote of my being, I could no longer see.

So with a stately swiftness, in the profoundest silence, the solar system fell from me as it had been a garment, until the sun was a mere star amid the multitude of stars, with its eddy of planet-specks lost in the confused glittering of the remoter light.  I was no longer a denizen of the solar system:  I had come to the outer Universe, I seemed to grasp and comprehend the whole world of matter.  Ever more swiftly the stars closed in about the spot where Antares and Vega had vanished in a phosphorescent haze, until that part of the sky had the semblance of a whirling mass of nebulae, and ever before me yawned vaster gaps of vacant blackness, and the stars shone fewer and fewer.  It seemed as if I moved towards a point between Orion’s belt and sword; and the void about that region opened vaster and vaster every second, an incredible gulf of nothingness into which I was falling.  Faster and ever faster the universe rushed by, a hurry of whirling motes at last, speeding silently into the void.  Stars glowing brighter and brighter, with their circling planets catching the light in a ghostly fashion as I neared them, shone out and vanished again into inexistence; faint comets, clusters of meteorites, winking specks of matter, eddying light-points, whizzed past, some perhaps a hundred millions of miles or so from me at most, few nearer, travelling with unimaginable rapidity, shooting constellations, momentary darts of fire, through that black, enormous night.  More than anything else it was like a dusty draught, sunbeam-lit.  Broader and wider and deeper grew the starless space, the vacant Beyond, into which I was being drawn.  At last a quarter of the heavens was black and blank, and the whole headlong rush of stellar universe closed in behind me like a veil of light that is gathered together.  It drove away from me like a monstrous jack-o’-lantern driven by the wind.  I had come out into the wilderness of space.  Ever the vacant blackness grew broader, until the hosts of the stars seemed only like a swarm of fiery specks hurrying away from me, inconceivably remote, and the darkness, the nothingness and emptiness, was about me on every side.  Soon the little universe of matter, the cage of points in which I had begun to be, was dwindling, now to a whirling disc of luminous glittering, and now to one minute disc of hazy light.  In a little while it would shrink to a point, and at last would vanish altogether.

Suddenly feeling came back to me—­feeling in the shape of overwhelming terror; such a dread of those dark vastitudes as no words can describe, a passionate resurgence of sympathy and social desire.  Were there other souls, invisible to me as I to them, about me in the blackness? or was I indeed, even as I felt, alone?  Had I passed out of being into something that was neither being nor not-being?  The covering of the body, the covering of matter, had been torn from me, and the hallucinations of companionship and security.  Everything was black and silent.  I had ceased to be.  I was nothing.  There was nothing, save only that infinitesimal dot of light that dwindled in the gulf.  I strained myself to hear and see, and for a while there was naught but infinite silence, intolerable darkness, horror, and despair.

Then I saw that about the spot of light into which the whole world of matter had shrunk there was a faint glow.  And in a band on either side of that the darkness was not absolute.  I watched it for ages, as it seemed to me, and through the long waiting the haze grew imperceptibly more distinct.  And then about the band appeared an irregular cloud of the faintest, palest brown.  I felt a passionate impatience; but the things grew brighter so slowly that they scarce seemed to change.  What was unfolding itself?  What was this strange reddish dawn in the interminable night of space?

The cloud’s shape was grotesque.  It seemed to be looped along its lower side into four projecting masses, and, above, it ended in a straight line.  What phantom was it?  I felt assured I had seen that figure before; but I could not think what, nor where, nor when it was.  Then the realisation rushed upon me. It was a clenched Hand. I was alone in space, alone with this huge, shadowy Hand, upon which the whole Universe of Matter lay like an unconsidered speck of dust.  It seemed as though I watched it through vast periods of time.  On the forefinger glittered a ring; and the universe from which I had come was but a spot of light upon the ring’s curvature.  And the thing that the hand gripped had the likeness of a black rod.  Through a long eternity I watched this Hand, with the ring and the rod, marvelling and fearing and waiting helplessly on what might follow.  It seemed as though nothing could follow:  that I should watch for ever, seeing only the Hand and the thing it held, and understanding nothing of its import.  Was the whole universe but a refracting speck upon some greater Being?  Were our worlds but the atoms of another universe, and those again of another, and so on through an endless progression?  And what was I?  Was I indeed immaterial?  A vague persuasion of a body gathering about me came into my suspense.  The abysmal darkness about the Hand filled with impalpable suggestions, with uncertain, fluctuating shapes.

Then, suddenly, came a sound, like the sound of a tolling bell:  faint, as if infinitely far; muffled, as though heard through thick swathings of darkness:  a deep, vibrating resonance, with vast gulfs of silence between each stroke.  And the Hand appeared to tighten on the rod.  And I saw far above the Hand, towards the apex of the darkness, a circle of dim phosphorescence, a ghostly sphere whence these sounds came throbbing; and at the last stroke the Hand vanished, for the hour had come, and I heard a noise of many waters.  But the black rod remained as a great band across the sky.  And then a voice, which seemed to run to the uttermost parts of space, spoke, saying, “There will be no more pain.”

At that an almost intolerable gladness and radiance rushed in upon me, and I saw the circle shining white and bright, and the rod black and shining, and many things else distinct and clear.  And the circle was the face of the clock, and the rod the rail of my bed.  Haddon was standing at the foot, against the rail, with a small pair of scissors on his fingers; and the hands of my clock on the mantel over his shoulder were clasped together over the hour of twelve.  Mowbray was washing something in a basin at the octagonal table, and at my side I felt a subdued feeling that could scarce be spoken of as pain.

The operation had not killed me.  And I perceived, suddenly, that the dull melancholy of half a year was lifted from my mind.