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(August 1887)
Publications:
- The Path, vol. II, no. 5, August 1887, pp. 144-147
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DATA
Title for references: Baxter S - Theosophical Fiction
Short description:
Signed "S. B.," identified as Sylvester Baxter by the established pattern of his other signed Path contributions. A response to the brief review of A. P. Sinnett's novel United printed in the previous (July 1887) number.
144
Theosophical Fiction.
The brief review of Mr. Sinnett's novel, "United" printed in the last number of The Path, seems to call for some modification, lest in the minds of some readers a misapprehension may arise, and views concerning the purpose and effect of Theosophical fiction, probably not intended by the reviewer, be encouraged. The word "romance" is so elastic in its definition that it can be made to cover meanings which may or may not be condemned when considered from a theosophical standpoint. If, for instance, romance be taken to cover imaginative writings which are the result of pure invention, or fancy, having no parallels in fact, then most assuredly such writings are untrue, and without value as theosophical works. If, however, romance be employed as a term for works of fiction, it should be borne in mind that what is pure fiction may be the purest truth. It is not necessary for a work to be a record of fact—that is, of events which have actually happened—in order to be true. That which may happen, that which is in accord with either physical or spiritual law, is just as much entitled to be considered as truth as is a literal statement of facts which have occurred, or a statement of the laws under which they may occur. This may be seen by considering that a person endowed with psychic perception may behold an event in the future and may relate what he has seen. His story is as absolutely true as if it were a narration of that which has already happened. Truth to nature is the great consideration to be borne in mind; it makes no difference about the manner in which facts are stated, or the mode of their combination in a narrative, so long as it is possible for such things to happen. That which has never yet been may occur at any moment.
Whoever has followed the course of fiction during the past few years will see that the growing interest in theosophical teachings has had a great effect thereupon. There appears to be nothing more certain than that fiction will be one of the most powerful methods of imparting Theosophical truths, and of awakening an interest in the secret doctrine among the multitudes. In fact, correctly written fiction embodying Theosophical truths is of even more value for the purposes of teaching than a mere abstract statement of those truths, for it lends them vitality and brings them into the domain of reality for us by showing them in their relations to human life. And knowledge is only attainable through the experience gained in the physical; through the lessons of sensation. All progress is made only in this way.
No Theosophist would dispute the great value of allegory in conveying a conception of the truth, and allegory is but a form of fiction. Admirable instances are the two beautiful stories printed in The Path, "Papyrus,"
145 and Mr. Hinton's "The Lake and the Pool." Then there is that priceless work, "The Idyll of the White Lotus," which, while it is allegory, may quite possibly be a record of things that have happened. But whether fact or fiction makes no difference in its value.
Again, it should not be forgotten that the characters of the novelist attain an actual existence on another plane, both in the minds of the writers and of the readers. Shakspere's Hamlet, for instance, is a more real character to the world than the historical Prince of Denmark, if he ever existed, and the same may be said of all his other characters. There is a powerful story by an anonymous author, called "A Strange Temptation," published in Macmillan's magazine something like eighteen months ago and reprinted by Littell's in this country. It illustrates this truth; the characters of an author becoming alive on an elemental plane, and though purely a work of the imagination, it nevertheless makes a most impressive use of certain Theosophical teachings and conveys a great lesson. It is worthy of the attention of any Theosophist.
The Theosophical student will also find himself repaid by observing, in various novels having to do with occult subjects, from Bulwer's down to Anstey's, how various writers' minds are impressed by occult facts, and even in the lightest he will be apt to find that the author has, to a great extent, though unintentionally, been true to occult law.
Mr. Sinnett's fiction is of especial value as that of a sincere student of Theosophy, who has endeavored to embody some of the great facts of occultism in a popular form. The writer knows of several instances of persons who, by a reading of "Karma," have been led to take a deep interest in Theosophy. "United" is artistically a decided advance over "Karma." Mr. Sinnett appears to be acquiring a better literary style; the involved sentences, with their tangled qualifications, so painfully characteristic of his first book, "The Occult World," have yielded to a plainer diction, and the generally straightforward simplicity of "United" is commendable.
It is probably a hasty generalization to speak of the main purpose of "United" being to depict the reality of the process of life transference. This is but an episode, important though it be in its bearing upon the story. The leading idea of the work is to represent the important truth of the Higher Self, and it makes this great Theosophical teaching, in its rudimentary aspect, clearer to the mind of the average reader than it has been before. The following eloquent passage gives a glorious picture of the state of higher consciousness, when the soul is released from the conflicting distractions of the physical senses:
"In losing consciousness of her physical surroundings, as Mrs. Malcolm leaned back, her eyes fixed and her whole soul concentrated on
146 the face of the beautiful spirit, she never for a moment seemed to lose consciousness of her; but by degrees—or rather without noticing the degrees, and yet not suddenly—she seemed to float into a state of beatitude in which she and the spirit were together in an intimacy which blended them almost into one being. Side by side with her, in a union closer than the closest earthly embrace, and with thrilling emotion of ecstacy—keener and more intense even than the strong love of her waking consciousness—she seemed to pass away into regions of infinite distance and splendor, and, without putting her ideas into the slow concatenation of words and phrases, to drink in a sense of the larger existence to which she was thus introduced, and of the relative insignificance of the faintly remembered joys and pain of the physical state of life so left behind. As her thoughts turned to one or the other of the stronger interests of her earthly life, these seemed vitalized before her. As she thought of her brother, he was there beside her, and seemed to be welcoming her to the new realm she was exploring, as if he already belonged to it—and as she thought of Marston, she suddenly found herself face to face with him, recognizing him instantly as the friend she had known so long, but as a glorified presentation of himself, with all the old weariness of existence and the stains of sorrow washed out of his nature, and a look of supreme happiness in his wide-open eyes—a glowing consciousness of Edith's presence which, filling his whole existence with rapture as it did, yet left him able none the less joyously to greet her and share with her the sense of love for the object of their double devotion. There was no perception of hurry in the progress of all this; on the contrary, a sense of long, calm durability in their delight, and the panorama of a new nature round them was not neglected, but surveyed as it were by all three with the feeling that they were now in final security as regards their companionship, and in a position to take interest in minor things at leisure. Some impression, too, of her earlier life on earth came back to her, and the corresponding vibrations of emotion were taken up in their turn—always in tune, as it were, to the dominant note of her new condition—her close identity with Edith. She did not measure time as it passed; but the pain that had gnawed at her heart all that morning died quite away, as though it had never been felt, and her soul was refreshed, so that the recollection that there had once been a kind of sadness somehow associated in her emotions with Edith was almost difficult to recover, when the spirit which was Edith, and yet seemed almost a part of herself, came at last to be emphasized again before her sight as a being external to herself. Not losing sight of her but gradually taking in as well the impressions of the scene then around her, she was aware again of the library at Kinsayle Court."
The expansion of the individuality beyond the personal limits, and at the same time the retention of identity that comes upon release from the bonds of the physical personality, is here beautifully depicted. This passage finely accords with that in the closing scene of Browning's "Paracelsus" where the great Adept describes the impressions received as his soul is released from the thrall of the body.
Theosophical students should beware of the feeling that it is a degradation of sacred truths to couple them with a work of fiction. This feeling is a survival of the Puritanical fallacy that pleasure is "sinful." All pleas-
147 ure forms a part of our means of instruction, and we must learn its lesson. We must realize that there is "a joy within pleasure." A true picture of life, either real or potential, which is found in a work of fiction, makes such reading one of the best sources of learning.
But we must also in our reading, beware of making our minds what Mr. Fawcett in a recent article in The Path so aptly terms an "intellectual dust-bin." We must read discriminatingly and test all in the crucible of our reason, rejecting all that does not appeal to us as vitally true, whether it be the array of speculative articles found within the covers of a theosophical magazine, or the lighter literature wherein we may find our amusement.
That which we seek, we shall find. If we look for it, we shall find Theosophy in all things, and at all times, even in the most common facts of daily experience. Let us remember that nothing sacred can be degraded by making it a part of the most humble and seemingly trivial portions of life. On the contrary, the latter thereby become illuminated with meaning and exalted to their true purposes of instructing us in the real significance of life.
S. B.
Footnotes