ILLUSION AND REALITY: by Lydia Ross, M. D.
THE Man was wearied with success. He had sought to win beauty, fame, fortune, and personal power, and he had linked them all with his name. Around him was a wide circle of desirable things; within him was a restless center of discontent.
Far into the night he sat musing over his career. He had been fortunate beyond all expectation. He could name no ambition which had not been gratified; but the thought brought with it no feeling of elation or of satisfaction. Just now his keenest sense was that stinging ache in his breast which so often came of late at quiet times like this.
"It is all illusion and disappointment," he said, at last. "Marriage is a failure; fame is a mockery; happiness is not had at any price, and life is not worth living."
That nameless hunger from which he suffered was so baffling. If it were only possible to find the meaning of that dreary want. With all the new inventions for lighting the world why was there no illumination for the dimness of the inner life? If he could only find the source of that hungry need which devoured all the pleasure in his possessions.
Filled with intense desire for light, he drifted into the Land of Dreams with its countless pictures. There he saw a moving figure which was himself and yet not himself. There were no familiar lines in the form; but the eyes were his own and through them he read the thoughts.
He knew that this Traveler had come from afar. Along dusty highways, in shady bypaths and green meadows, through thickets and unwholesome swamps and across waters he had played a part in many scenes of a changing world. Youth and strength and gaiety were his companions, and together they sought activity and pleasure. Through places all unknown and often full of hidden dangers they made their way with merry jest and idle song and noise, fearing nothing save it were the Silence.
Then came a day when the Traveler grew tired of dust and heat and stains, of noisy mirth and empty songs and poisonous miasma. He wished for solitude and rest. As his companions sped along he turned aside and wandered into the deep forest. Throwing himself upon the ground long he lay beneath the trees with closed eyes and fingers threaded through the soft grass, finding refreshment in the touch. His chest rose with deep draughts of clear air, and as the cool quiet stole into his blood the throbbing pulses sank into a healing stream.
He had found some pleasant places in the old life that seemed so far away now, but this was beyond compare. Filled with a novel sense of awakening, the past appeared but a feverish dream. The sweetness of the place seemed to be taking form somewhere near and to be surrounding him with a delicious perfume.
As he sprang up his wondering eyes rested upon a new-blown Rose growing near. The dainty folded petals had uncurled and opened out until its golden heart was centered in tinted light. Its fragrance filled the air with a subtle tenderness. It was beautiful!
He had not failed to gather flowers, too, in his time—conventional hot-house blooms and gorgeous tropical beauties, and some with cold, odorless petals—how many had drifted through his hands. Never was there one among them all like this. Standing out against the guardian green leaves like a beloved queen, it shed a royal circle of uplifting peacefulness over everything.
Softly he knelt before this symbol of purity and loveliness with its message from the source of light and sweetness. The soul of the Rose was glowing upon him with tender beauty and glad fearlessness. His own soul stirred into life and looked out of eyes all too sadly strange to their indwelling guest. The littleness and folly of the past were but faded pictures of half-forgotten dreams. He knew that this was the awakening; this was the steady, noble, tender glow of real life.
His heart dilated with a sense of all that life might mean: its dignity, its love, its aspiration, its unspeakable destiny. Oh, but he would struggle to keep alive this enlarged and transfigured sense of things! His rapt gaze rested on the Rose until the mystery of color and light and sweetness entered into his very heart. He felt himself a part of the brightness that lives at the center of all things, and his confident soul swept out to the unseen stars to claim its own. Beyond and beyond, throughout distant space, everywhere was a flush of light and beauty and a radiant heart of peace.
Then came a memory—a mere shadow from his dream-life—and a selfish doubt brought him back to earth again. The Rose still smiled upon him in sweet faith. He would never leave it, but together they would live the larger life. As the wind whispered in the leaves the Rose bent and brushed his cheek and a swift wave of tenderness surged over him.
What if someone else should find this flower and should rise upon its power as he had risen? What if he should lose it? A hungry look stole into his eyes and his old self in a misery of longing cried hoarsely, "Never! It shall be mine, mine, only mine!" He leaned forward until the petals quivered beneath his breath. What if it should turn from him? "It is mine, mine," cried the selfish self as with eager, passionate grasp he kissed it and crushed it close, close, until he grew faint and sick with the spent sweetness.
He is stung with pain. Ah, the thorns, the thorns! Impatiently he tries to pick them out, but the sting remains. And oh! the pitiful Rose that he holds—so crushed and weary and broken! Gone is the delicate fire of the higher life that breathed through every curve of its free-born petals. And the fragrance which had radiated waves of tender gladness falls like the faltering breath of some beautiful, wounded, dying thing.
* * * * *
In the dim light which fills the mind in sleep, a mountain scene took form upon the moving screen. Up the steep side a Hunter toiled, burdened with weapons and game. In his strangely familiar eyes was a weary, dissatisfied look. The trail he had followed grew indistinct and was lost; but as he pushed onward he reached a place where the rough mountain side stretched out into a broken level of fertile plateau. How grateful it looked after the steep climb. This was the place to rest, he thought, catching sight of a tiny, sheltered lake and turning his steps toward it. Even now he can see its unruffled surface reflecting the blue sky and a drowsy chorus of encircling pines.
On the lake-shore the Hunter stood spell-bound with the beauty of the scene. The spoils of the chase and the weapons dropped from relaxed fingers as with uncovered head he drank deeply of rest and comfort and inspiration.
As the wind swayed the bordering pine-branches flecks of light came and went through the shadowy circle of scintillating water. Around the shallow border the glint and tint of glossy stone and delicate shell lighted the mosaic curtain of shadows with the fire of a living iris. Deep and dark and clear was the mystical center. A tall, slender fringe of grasses around the edge softened and deepened the whole liquid beauty before him like the lashes of a sentient eye.
A feathery cloud floated by overhead. Its reflection brushed the surface like a breath of fancy, a mere passing thought. The opalescent gold of the sunshine sank down, down, down, until, transmuted into a look of love in unfathomed consciousness its glow was diffused through the limpid depths.
Beyond the beauty of the lake was the infinite calm, the untouched purity and the perfect peace.
The atmosphere was filled with restfulness. From the lighted depths came an answering look to his eager eyes. The soul of the lake speaks to him in lingering softness and silence; and oh, how serene it is! The iridescent picture of a flying bird falls into the clear water, a song in color. He sees his own face bathed in a tender light.
He will seize this mysterious beauty of a living calm and hold it forever. It shall reflect only his face, he thought, jealous of the very sky. "This treasure is for me, for me alone," he said, as his eyes followed the shafts of light that illumined the shadowy depths. "For me," plunging in and stretching out greedy hands.
The first footstep broke the mirror of light into troubled waters. The soil and sand rose beneath the desecrating feet in a sorrowful cloud that hid the glory in advance and around him. "The peace lies deeper yet," he thought, watching the center and pushing on. But ever before him rose the obscuring cloud of his own creation. He can no longer wade, but strikes out boldly, greedily, to plunder the lake of its secret. He finds that no physical force or finesse can touch the delicate beauty he desires; and after vainly striving to grasp the fine lines of soul-sense, he returns to the shore, weary, disappointed, and bitter.
"It is all illusion," he railed. "No other Hunter excels me in strength or skill; yet when this promised happiness is almost within my grasp, it fades and disappears. There is no reality behind the dissolving pictures of a deceitful world."
The Dreamer looked from the fair strength of the Hunter on the bank to the cloudy, restless water. There he saw reflected his own figure—a dusky, broken image with the pessimistic poise. Then the light which he had longed for shone full upon his mind. He was the Traveler whose rude selfishness had despoiled the trusting Rose. He was the Hunter of Happiness. Around him were the rejected trophies of his skill—sweet-voiced birds and creatures fleet of foot and quick of eye. Too well they vouched for his unerring aim with bloody breast and broken limb and dull, unseeing eyes. He had wasted the life that gave these things their joy and beauty. Only the pitiful, unlovely forms were his possessions; from these his wearied senses turned in sick distaste.
The Dreamer's eyes fell before the luminous scene in which the Hunter was the one dark stain. How worse than blind his whole career had been. His life was but a crowded list of failures. How fair were Nature's pictures everywhere before he marred them with greedy, sordid touch. Now he saw that the world was alive with a wondrous reality for those who sought it unselfishly.
"The fault is all my own," he groaned in bitter shame. "That is mine, indeed, all mine. Oh, for a chance to redeem this wretched past!" he cried, pierced with so keen a heartache that he awoke.
Through the open windows the dewy morning air came in, sweet with the breath of flowers and alive with the subdued joy of birds. The great elms brooded over the lesser things with stately tenderness, while with slender, outstretched branches, like waving magnetic fingers, they soothed and awakened the freshened earth. In the east the lavender veil fell down before the sacred flame which daily gives new hope and strength to light dull lamps of clay.