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LETTER XXX
THE SYLPH AND
THE MAGICIAN
If your eyes could
pierce the veil of matter, and you could see what goes on in the tenuous world
around and above that city of Paris, you would gasp with wonder. I have spent
much time in Paris lately. Shall I tell you some of the strange things I have
seen?
In a street on the left bank of the river, called the rue
de Vaugirard, there lives a man of middle age and sedentary habits who is a
sort of magician. He is constantly attended and served by one of the elemental
spirits known as sylphs. This sylph he calls Meriline. I do not know from what
language he got the name, for he seems to speak several, and to know Hebrew. I
have seen this Merilene coming and going to and from his apartment. No, it would
not be right for me to tell you where it is. The man could be identified, though
the sylph would elude the census-taker.
Merilene does not make his bed or cook
his broth, for which humble service he has a char-woman; but the sylph runs
errands and discovers things for him. He is a collector of old books and
manuscripts, and many of his treasures have been located by Merilene in the
stalls which lie along the banks of the Seine, and also in more pretentious
bookshops.
This man is not a devil-worshipper. He is only a harmless
enthusiast, fond of occult things, and striving to pierce the veil which shuts
the elemental world from his eyes. A little less brandy and wine, and he
might be able to see clearly, for he is a true student. But he is fond of
the flesh, and it preys upon the spirit.
One day I encountered Merilene going upon one of his errands,
and I introduced myself by signalling with my hands and calling my name. This
attracted the attention of the sprite, who came and stood beside me.
“Where are you going?” I asked; and she nodded towards the
other side of the river.
The thought came to me that perhaps I ought not to
question this servant of the good magician as to her master’s business, so I
hesitated. She also hesitated; then she said:
“But he is interested in the spirits of
men.”
This made the matter simpler, and I asked:
“You do his errands?”
“Yes, always.”
“Why do you do his errands?”
“Because I love to serve him.”
“And why do you love to serve him?”
“Because I belong to him.”
“I thought every soul belonged to itself.”
“But I am not a soul.”
“Then what are you?”
“A sylph.”
“Do you ever expect to be a soul?”
“Oh, yes! He has promised that I shall be, if I serve him faithfully.”
“But how can he make you to be a soul?”
“I don’t know; but he will.”
“How do you know that he will?”
“Because I trust him.”
“What makes you trust him?”
“Because he trusts me.”
“And you always tell him the truth?”
“Always.”
“Who taught you what truth is?”
“He did.”
“How?”
This seemed to puzzle the being before me, and I feared
she would go away; so I detained her by saying, quickly:
“I do not want to worry you with questions which you cannot answer. Tell me
how you first came into his service.”
“Ought I?”
“So you have a conscience?”
“Yes, he taught me to have.”
“But you say that he is interested in the spirits of men.”
“Yes, and I also know good spirits from bad ones.”
“Did he teach you that?”
“No.”
“How did you learn?”
“I always knew.”
“Then you have lived a long time?”
“Oh, yes!”
“And when do you expect to have, or to become a soul?”
“When he comes out here, into this world where we are.”
This staggered me by its daring. Had the good magician been deceiving his
sylph, or did he really believe what he promised?
“What did he say about it?” I asked.
“That if I would serve him now, he would serve me
later.”
“And how is he going to do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Suppose you ask him?”
“I never ask questions, I answer them.”
“For instance, what sort of questions?”
“I tell him where such and such a person is, and what he or she is doing.”
“Can you tell him what these people are thinking?”
“Not often—or not always. Sometimes I can.”
“How can you tell?”
“By the feel of them. If I am warm in their presence, I know they are
friendly to him; if I am cold, I know they are his enemies. If I feel nothing at
all, then I know that they are not thinking of him, or are indifferent.”
“And your errand this evening?”
“To see a lady.”
“And you are not jealous?”
“What is ‘jealous’?”
“You are not displeased that he should interest himself in ladies?”
“Why should I be?”
This was a question I could not answer, not knowing the
nature of sylphs. She surprised me a little, for I had supposed that all female
things were jealous. But, fearing again that she might leave me, I hurried to
question her further.
“How did you make his acquaintance?” I asked.
“He called me.”
“How?”
“By the incantation.”
“What incantation?”
“The call of the sylphs.”
“Oh,” I said, “he called the sylphs and you came!”
“Yes, of course. I liked him for his kindness, and I made him see me.”
“How did you manage it?”
“I dazzled his eyes until he closed them, and then he could see me.”
“Can he always see you now?”
“No, but he knows I am there.”
“He can see you sometimes still?”
“Yes, often.”
“And when he saw you first?”
“He was delighted, and called me loving names, and made me promises.”
“The promise of a soul—that first time?”
“Yes.”
“Then you had wanted to have a soul?”
“Oh, yes!”
“But why?”
“Many of us want to be men. We love men—that is, most of us do.”
“Why do you love men?”
“It is our nature.”
“But not the nature of all of you?”
“There are malignant spirits of the air.”
“And what will you do when you have a soul?”
“I will take a body, and live on earth.”
“And leave your friend whom you now serve?”
“Oh, no! It is to be with him that I specially want a body.”
“Then will he come back to the earth with you?”
“He says so.”
This staggered me. I was becoming interested in this magician; he had a
daring imagination.
Could a spirit of the air develop into a human soul? I asked myself. Was the
man self-deceived? Or, again, was he deceiving his lovely messenger?
I thought a little too long this time, for when I
turned again to speak to my strange companion, she had left me. I tried to
follow, but could not find her; and if she returned soon, it must have been by
some other road. Though I looked in all directions, she was invisible to me.
Now, the question will arise in your mind: In what language did I talk with
this aerial servant of a French magician? I seemed to speak in my own tongue,
and she seemed to respond in the same. How is that? I cannot say, unless we
really used the subtle language of thought itself.
You may often, on meeting with a person whose language you do not speak,
feel an interchange of ideas, by the look of the eyes, by the expression of the
face, by gestures. Now imagine that, intensified a hundredfold. Might it not
extend to the simple questions and answers which I exchanged with the sylph? I
do not say that it would, but I think it might; for as I said before, I seemed
to speak and she seemed to reply in my own language.
What strange experiences one has out here! I rather dread to go back into
the world, where it will be so dull for me for a long time. Can I exchange this
freedom and vivid life for a long period of somnolence, afterwards to suck a
bottle and learn the multiplication table and Greek and Latin verbs? I suppose I
must—but not yet.
Good night.
LETTER XXXI
LETTER
XXIX |
