The Gap in the Curtain

He needed several people for his experiment—the more the better, for he wanted a variety of temperaments, and he said something, too, about the advantage of a communal psychical effort … But they must be the right kind of people—people with highly developed nervous systems—not men too deeply sunk in matter. (I thought of Evelyn and the Lamingtons and old Folliot.) He deprecated exuberant physical health or abounding vitality, since such endowments meant that their possessors would be padlocked to the narrower sensory world. He ran over his selection again, dwelling on each, summing each up with what seemed to me astounding shrewdness, considering that he had met them for the first time two days before. He wanted the hungry and the forward-looking. Tavanger and Mayot. 'They will never be content,' he said, 'and their hunger is of the spirit, though maybe an earthy spirit … ' Myself.

He turned his hollow eyes on me, but was too polite to particularise what my kind of hunger might be … Charles Ottery. 'He is unhappy, and that means that his hold on the present is loose … ' Sally Flambard.

'That gracious lady lives always sur la branche—is it not so? She is like a bird, and has no heavy flesh to clog her. Assuredly she must be one.'

Rather to my surprise he added Reggie Daker. Reggie's recent concussion, for some reason which I did not follow, made him a suitable object … Above all, there was Goodeve. He repeated his name with satisfaction, but offered no comment.

I asked him what form his experiment would take.

'A little training. No more. A little ascesis, partly of the body, but mainly of the mind. It must be disciplined to see what it shall see.'

Then, speaking very slowly, and drawing words apparently from as deep a cavern as that from which he drew his breath, he explained his plan.

There must be a certain physical preparation. I am as unlearned in medical science as in philosophy, but I gathered that recently there had been some remarkable advances made in the study of the brain and its subsidiary organs. Very likely I am writing nonsense, for the Professor at this point forgot about tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, and poured forth a flood of technicalities. But I understood him to say that, just as the cortex of the brain was the seat of the intellectual activities, so the subcortical region above the spinal cord was the home of the instinctive faculties. He used a lot of jargon, which, not being an anatomist, I could not follow, but he was obliging enough to draw me a diagram in his pocket-book, the writing-pad being in the lily-pond.

In particular there was a thing which he called an 'intercalated cell,'

and which had a very special importance in his scheme. Just as the faculty of sight, he said, had for its supreme function the creation of an extended world, a world of space perception, so the instinct which had its seat in this cell specialised in time-perception … I had been reading lately about telegnosis, and mentioned that word, but he shook his head impatiently. The faculty he spoke of had nothing to do with telegnosis.

'You have not understood my exposition,' he said. 'But no matter. It is enough if you understand my purpose.'

It was desirable to stimulate the functioning of this cell. That could only be done in a small degree. A certain diet was necessary, for he had discovered that the cell was temporarily atrophied by the wrong foods.

Also there was a drug, which acted upon it directly.

At this I protested, but he was quick to reassure me. 'On my honour,'

he cried, 'it is the mildest drug. Its bodily effect is as innocuous as a glass of tonic water. But I have proved experimentally that it lulls the other faculties, and very slightly stimulates this one of which I speak.'

Then he revealed his main purpose.

'I am still groping at the edge of mysteries,' he said. 'My theory I am assured is true, but in practice I can only go a very little way. Some day, when I am ashes, men will look at the future as easily as today they look out of a window at a garden. At present I must be content to exemplify my doctrine by small trivial things. I cannot enable you to gaze at a segment of life at some future date, and watch human beings going about their business. The most I hope for is to show you some simple matter of sense-perception as it will be at that date. Therefore I need some object which I am assured will be still in existence, and which I am also assured will have changed from what it now is. Name to me such an object.'

I suggested, rather foolishly, the position of the planets in the sky.

'That will not do, for now we can predict that position with perfect certainty.'

'A young tree?'

'The visible evidence of change would be too minute. I cannot promise to open up the future very far ahead. A year—two years maybe—no more.'

'A building which we all know, and which is now going up?'

Again he shook his head. 'You may be familiar with the type of the completed structure, and carry the picture of it in your memory … There is only one familiar object, which continues and likewise changes. You cannot guess? Why, a journal. A daily or weekly paper.'

He leaned towards me and laid a hand on each of my knees.

'Today is the sixth of June. Four days from now, if you and the others consent, I will enable you to see for one instant of time—no longer—a newspaper of the tenth day of June next year.'

He lay back in his chair and had a violent fit of coughing, while I di-gested this startling announcement … He was right on one point—a newspaper was the only thing for his experiment; that at any rate I saw clearly. I own to having been tremendously impressed by his talk, but I was not quite convinced; the thing appeared to be clean out of nature and reason. You see, I had no such stimulus to belief as a scientist would have had who had followed his proofs … Still, it seemed harmless. Probably it would end in nothing—the ritual prepared, and the mystics left gaping at each other … No. That could scarcely happen, I decided; the mystagogue was too impressive.

The Professor had recovered himself, and was watching me under drooped eyelids. All the eagerness had gone out of his face, but that face had the brooding power and the ageless wisdom of the Sphinx. If he were allowed to make the experiment something must happen.

Lady Flambard had promised to abide by my decision … There could be no risk, I told myself. A little carefulness in diet, which would do everybody good. The drug? I would have to watch that. The Professor seemed to read my thoughts, for he broke in:

'You are worrying about the drug? It is of small consequence. If you insist, it can be omitted.'

I asked how he proposed to prepare the subjects of his experiment.

Quite simply, he replied. A newspaper— The Times, for example—would be made to play a large part in our thoughts … I observed that it already played a large part in the thoughts of educated Englishmen, and he smiled—the first time I had seen him smile. There was an air of satisfaction about him, as if he knew what my answer would be.

'I see no objection to what you propose,' I said at last. 'I warn you that I am still a bit of a sceptic. But I am willing, if you can persuade the others.'

He smiled again. 'With the others there will be no difficulty. Our gracious hostess is already an enthusiast. Before luncheon I will speak to Mr Tavanger and Mr Mayot—and to Mr Ottery when he returns. I shall not speak to them as I have spoken to you.'

'Why?' I asked.

'Because they are longing for such a revelation as I propose, whereas you care not at all. But I would beg of you to say a word on my behalf to Sir Robert Goodeve. His co-operation I especially seek.'

He raised with difficulty his huge frame from the wicker chair, blinking his eyes in the hot sun, and leaning on a sundial as if he were giddy.

I offered my arm, which he took, and together we went under the striped awning, which shaded one part of the terrace, into the coolness of the great hall.

You know the kind of banality with which, out of shyness, one often winds up a difficult conversation. I was moved to observe, as I left him, that in four days I hoped to be introduced to a new world. He made no answer. 'To enter, waking, into the world of sleep,' I added fatuously.

Then he said a thing which rather solemnised me.

'Not only the world of sleep,' he said. 'It is the world to which we penetrate after death.'

As I watched his great back slowly mounting the staircase, I had a sudden feeling that into the peace of Flambard something fateful and tremendous had broken.