Soar abroad, scorning earthly control,
On a sort of a spiritual spree."
Timothy Blake
Common sense—hard, practical common sense—is a great and important factor in this world's concerns. I am not a common-sense person myself,—though Geraldine will tell you that I am a man of uncommon sense,—but it is to common-sense people that I address myself; people who say, if they ever so far forget themselves as to read "Rappaccini's Daughter," for instance, or that other story by the gifted son of his gifted father, which hides its weird fascination under the name of "Archibald Malmaison," and you ask them if they like the stories: "Oh, of course not; I never heard of such improbable things. Why, how is it possible for a man?" etc. It is to these people I write.
I live in the enterprising Western city of Kalamalant. As my family and Geraldine's family have lived there many years, we are all well known, and any of my neighbors, among whom are a judge of the District Court, a retired major-general of the army, a United States Senator, and other persons of undoubted veracity, can affirm the truth of the strange incidents of which I am the principal subject. Geraldine will say that this is not the only case in which I am the principal subject, royally assuming for the once—but I digress. Geraldine says I always take too much time in getting at the point of the story, and as Geraldine is the only critic of whom I am afraid, here goes.
I, James Henry Rettew, commonly called Harry, was about twenty-six years old in the year of our Lord 1901. I was a sleepy, and people say a dreamy, abstracted young man. Geraldine thinks me handsome. She is alone in her belief, unless I agree with her in this, as in most things. I was possessed of a little fortune, and was a well-informed young man of studious bent, having read largely in a rather desultory way. My favorite study was the spiritual essence, or soul of man, especially my own.
It is a thing I believe most people have, though Geraldine says you have to take it on faith in the case of a great many people. What was it? Where was it, this pervading vital force within me? How did it exist within my body? What kept it there? Was death the result of a disassociation of the two? Was no man capable of ever separating the one from the other?
These are but a sample of the speculations in which I indulged. And I actually found myself in the way of solving some of these problems at last. Rummaging in the library of a deceased philosopher, I came across a treatise on this very subject by a sage of ancient times, the learned Egyptian Archidechus. No, you will not find his name in the encyclopædias. I have purposely altered it, lest any one should search for the pamphlet and, finding it, become as I was—but I anticipate.
I seized upon the old moth-eaten parchment volume with avidity. This rare—I do not think there was another copy in existence except the one I read—and wonderful book treated of the spirit or essence of life as distinguished from the gross and visible body. The writer held that it was possible to separate the one from the other; in other words, according to Archidechus, the spirit might leave the body and return to it at pleasure; in fact, the writer knew of such a case and cited it; he also gave minute directions for accomplishing this wonderful feat. I shall not reveal them to you nor to Geraldine, though that is the only secret I do not share with her, so beware how you confide in me.
Of course the thing was ridiculous; no such separation was possible, so I reasoned. There were the directions, however; they fascinated me. I was always an imaginative fellow and a great tryer of all sorts of strange experiments; why should I not try this one? I confided my intentions to no one, not even to Geraldine. I locked myself in my room and devoured the old book. Great stress was laid upon the faith necessary and the condition of the mind. It was stated that any violent emotion might be of great assistance at the final moment of—shall I call it dissolution?