The Mahatma and the Hare: A Dream Story

THE COMING OF THE RED-FACED MAN THE COMING OF THE RED-FACED MAN “As you like,” said the Hare. “Certainly it was very dreadful. It seemed to last a long time. But I don’t mind it so much now, for I feel that it can never happen to me again. At least I hope it can’t, for I don’t know what I have done to deserve such a fate, any more than I know why it should have happened to me once.” “Something you did in a previous existence, perhaps,” I answered. “You see then you may have hunted other creatures so cruelly that at last your turn came to suffer what you had made them suffer. I often think that because of what we have done before we men are also really being hunted by something we cannot see.” “Ah!” exclaimed the Hare, “I never thought of that. I hope it is true, for it makes things seem juster and less wicked. But I say, friend Mahatma, what am I doing here now, where you tell me poor creatures with four feet never, or hardly ever come?” “I don’t know, Hare. I am not wise, to whom it is only granted to visit the Road occasionally to search for some one.” “I understand, Mahatma, but still you must know a great deal or you would not be allowed in such a place before your time, or at any rate you must be able to guess a great deal. So tell me, why do you think that I am here?” “I can’t say, Hare, I can’t indeed. Perhaps after the Gates are open and your Guardian has given you to drink of the Cup, you will go to sleep and wake up again as something else.” “To drink of the cup, Mahatma? I don’t drink; at least I didn’t, though I can’t tell what may happen here. But what do you mean about waking up as something else? Please be more plain. As what else?” “Oh! who can know? Possibly as you are on the human Road you might even become a man some day, though I should not advise you to build on such a hope as that.” “What do you say, Mahatma? A man! One of those two-legged beasts that hunt hares; a thing like Giles and Tom—yes, Tom? Oh! not that—not that! I’d almost rather go through everything again than become a cruel, torturing man.” As it spoke thus the Hare grew so disturbed that it nearly vanished; literally it seemed to melt away till I could only perceive its outline. With a kind of shock I comprehended all the horror that it must feel at such a prospect as I had suggested to it, and really this grasping of the truth hurt my human pride. It had never come home to me before that the circumstances of their lives—and deaths—must cause some creatures to see us in strange lights. “Oh! I have no doubt I was mistaken,” I said hurriedly, “and that your wishes on the point will be respected. I told you that I know nothing.” At these words the Hare became quite visible again. It sat up and very reflectively began to rub its still shadowy nose with a shadowy paw. I think that it remembered the sting of the salt water in the cut made by the glass of the window through which it had sprung. Believing that its remarkable story was done, and that presently it would altogether melt away and vanish out of my knowledge, I looked about me. First I looked above the towering Gates to see whether the Lights had yet begun to change. Then as they had not I looked down the Great White Road, following it for miles and miles, until even to my spirit sight it lost itself in the Nowhere. Presently coming up this Road towards us I saw a man dressed in a green coat, riding-breeches and boots and a peaked cap, who held in his hand a hunting-whip. He was a fine-looking person of middle age, with a pleasant, open countenance, bright blue eyes, and very red cheeks, on which he wore light-coloured whiskers. In short a jovial-looking individual, with whom things had evidently always gone well, one to whom sorrow and disappointment and mental struggle were utter strangers. He, at least, had never known what it is to “endure hardness” in all his life. Studying his nature as one can do on the Road, I perceived also that in him there was no guile. He was a good-minded, God-fearing man according to his simple lights, who had done many kindnesses and contributed liberally towards the wants of the poor, though as he had been very rich, it had cost him little thus to gratify the natural promptings of his heart. Moreover he was what Jorsen calls a “young soul,” quite young indeed, by which I mean that he had not often walked the Road in previous states of life, as for instance that Eastern woman had done who accosted me before the arrival of the Hare. So to speak his crude nature had scarcely outgrown the primitive human condition in which necessity as well as taste make it customary and pleasant to men to kill; that condition through which almost every boy passes on his way to manhood, I suppose by the working of some secret law of reminiscence. It was this thought that first led me to connect the new-comer with the Red-faced Man of the Hare’s story. It may seem strange that I should have been so dense, but the truth is that it never occurred to me, any more than it had done to the Hare, that such a person would be at all likely to tread the Road for many years to come. I had gathered that he was comparatively young, and although I had argued otherwise with the Hare, had concluded therefore that he would continue to live his happy earth life until old age brought him to a natural end. Hence my obtuseness. The man was drifting towards me thoughtfully, evidently much bewildered by his new surroundings but not in the least afraid. Indeed there none are afraid; when they glide from their death-beds to the Road they leave fear behind them with the other terrors of our mortal lot. Presently he became conscious of the presence of the Hare, and thoughts passed through his mind which of course I could read. “My word!” he said to himself, “things are better than I hoped. There’s a hare, and where there are hares there must be hunting and shooting. Oh! if only I had a gun, or the ghost of a gun!” Then an idea struck him. He lifted his hunting-crop and hurled it at the Hare. As it was only the shadow of a crop of course it could hurt nothing. Still it went through the shadow of the Hare and caused it to twist round like lightning. “That was a good shot anyway,” he reflected, with a satisfied smile. By now the Hare had seen him. “ The Red-faced Man! ” it exclaimed, “Grampus himself!” and it turned to flee away. “Don’t be frightened,” I cried, “he can’t hurt you; nothing can hurt you here.” The Hare halted and sat up. “No,” it said, “I forgot. But you saw, he tried to. Now, Mahatma, you will understand what a bloodthirsty brute he is. Even after I am dead he has tried to kill me again.” “Well, and why not?” interrupted the Man. “What are hares for except to be killed?” “There, Mahatma, you hear him. Look at me, Man, who am I?” So he looked at the Hare and the Hare looked at him. Presently his face grew puzzled. “By Jingo!” he said slowly, “you are uncommonly like—you are that accursed witch of a hare which cost me my life. There are the white marks on your back, and there is the grey splotch on your ear. Oh! if only I had a gun—a real gun!” “You would shoot me, wouldn’t you, or try to?” said the Hare. “Well, you haven’t and you can’t. You say I cost you your life. What do you mean? It was my life that was sacrificed, not yours.” “Indeed,” answered the Man, “I thought you got away. Never saw any more of you after you jumped through the French window. Never had time. The last thing I remember is her Ladyship screaming like a mad cockatoo, yes, and abusing me as though I were a pickpocket, with the drawing-room all on fire. Then something happened, and down I went among the broken china and hit my head against the leg of a table. Next came a kind of whirling blackness and I woke up here.” “A fit or a stroke,” I suggested. “Both, I think, sir. The fit first—I have had ‘em before, and the stroke afterwards—against the leg of the table. Anyway they finished me between them, thanks to that little beast.” Then it was that I saw a very strange thing, a hare in a rage. It seemed to go mad, of course I mean spiritually mad. Its eyes flashed fire; it opened its mouth and shut it after the fashion of a suffocating fish. At last it spoke in its own way—I cannot stop to explain in further detail the exact manner of speech or rather of its equivalent upon the Road. “Man, Man,” it exclaimed, “you say that I finished you. But what did you do to me? You shot me. Look at the marks upon my back. You coursed me with your running dogs. You hunted me with your hounds. You dragged me out of the sea into which I swam to escape you by death, and threw me living to the pack,” and the Hare stopped exhausted by its own fury. “Well,” replied the Man coolly, “and suppose I, or my people, did, what of it? Why shouldn’t I? You were a beast, I was a man with dominion over you. You can read all about that in the Book of Genesis.” “I never heard of the Book of Genesis,” said the Hare, “but what does dominion mean? Does this Book of Genesis say that it means the right to torment that which is weaker than the tormentor?” “All you animals were made for us to eat,” commented the Man, avoiding an answer to the direct question. “Very good,” answered the Hare, “let us suppose that we were given you to eat. Was it in order to eat me that you came out against me with guns, then with dogs that run by sight, and then with dogs that run by smell?” “If you were to be killed and eaten, why should you not be killed in one of these ways, Hare?” “Why should I be killed in those ways, Man, when others more merciful were to your hand? Indeed, why should I be killed at all? Moreover, if you wished to satisfy your hunger with my body, why at the last was I thrown to the dogs to devour?” “I don’t quite know, Hare. Never looked at the matter in that light before. But—ah! I’ve got you now,” he added triumphantly. “If it hadn’t been for me you never would have lived. You see I gave you the gift of life. Therefore, instead of grumbling, you should be very much obliged to me. Don’t you understand? I preserved hares, so that without me you would never have been a hare. Isn’t that right, Mr.— Mr.—I am sorry I have forgotten your name,” he added, turning towards me. “Mahatma,” I said. “Oh! yes, I remember it now—Mr.—ah—Mr. Hatter.” “There is something in the argument,” I replied cautiously, “but let us hear our friend’s answer.” “Answer—my answer! Well, here it is. What are you, Man, who dare to say that you give life or withhold it? You a Lord of life, you! I tell you that I know little, yet I am sure that you or those like you have no more power to create life than the world we have left has to bid the stars to shine. If the life must come, it will come, and if it cannot fulfil itself as a hare, then it will appear as something else. If you say that you create life, I, the poor beast which you tortured, tell you that you are a presumptuous liar.” “You dare to lecture me,” said the Man, “me, the heir of all the ages, as the poet called me. Why, you nasty little animal, do you know that I have killed hundreds like you, and,” he added, with a sudden afflatus of pride, “thousands of other creatures, such as pheasants, to say nothing of deer and larger game? That has been my principal occupation since I was a boy. I may say that I have lived for sport; got very little else to show for my life, so to speak.” “Oh!” said the Hare, “have you? Well, if I were you, I shouldn’t boast about it just now. You see, we are still outside of those Gates. Who knows but that you will find every one of the living things you have amused yourself by slaughtering waiting for you within them, each praying for justice to its Maker and your own?” “My word!” said the Man, “what a horrible notion; it’s like a bad dream.” He reflected a little, then added, “Well, if they do, I’ve got my answer. I killed them for food; man must live. Millions of pheasants are sold to be eaten every year at a much smaller price than they cost to breed. What do you say to that, Mr. Hatter? Finishes him, I think.” “I’m not arguing,” I replied. “Ask the Hare.” “Yes, ask me, Man, and although you are repeating yourself, I’ll answer with another question, knowing that here you must tell the truth. Did you really rear us all for food? Was it for this that you kept your keepers, your running dogs and your hunting dogs, that you might kill poor defenceless beasts and birds to fill men’s stomachs? If this was so, I have nothing more to say. Indeed, if our deaths or sufferings at their hands really help men in any way, I have nothing more to say. I admit that you are higher and stronger than we are, and have a right to use us for your own advantage, or even to destroy us altogether if we harm you.” The Man pondered, then replied sullenly— “You know very well that it was not so. I did not rear up pheasants and hares merely to eat them or that others might eat them. Something forces me to tell you that it was in order that I might enjoy myself by showing my skill in shooting them, or to have the pleasure and exercise of hunting them to death. Still,” he added defiantly, “I who am a Christian man maintain that my religion perfectly justified me in doing all these things, and that no blame attaches to me on this account.” “Very good,” said the Hare, “now we have a clear issue. Friend Mahatma, when those Gates open presently what happens beyond them?” “I don’t know,” I answered, “I have never been there; at least not that I can remember.” “Still, friend Mahatma, is it not said that yonder lives some Power which judges righteously and declares what is true and what is false?” “I have heard so, Hare.” “Very well, Man, I lay my cause before that Power—do you the same. If I am wrong I will go back to earth to be tortured by you and yours again. If, however, I am right, you shall abide the judgment of the Power, and I ask that It will make of you—a hunted hare!” Now when he heard these awful words—for they were awful—no less, the Red-faced Man grew much disturbed. He hummed and he hawed, and shifted his feet about. At last he said— “You must admit that while you lived you had a first-class time under my protection. Lots of turnips to eat and so forth.” “A first-class time!” the Hare answered with withering scorn. “What sort of a time would you have had if some one had shot you all over the back and you must creep away to die of pain and starvation? How would you have enjoyed it if, from day to day, you had been forced to live in terror of cunning monsters, who at any hour might appear to hurt you in some new fashion? Do you suppose that animals cannot feel fear, and is continual fear the kind of friend that gives them a ‘first-class time’?” To this last argument the Man seemed able to find no answer. “Mr. Hare,” he said humbly, “we are all fallible. Although I never thought to find myself in the position of having to do so, I will admit that I may possibly have been mistaken in my views and treatment of you and your kind, and indeed of other creatures. If so, I apologise for any, ah—temporary inconvenience I may have caused you. I can do no more.” “Come, Hare,” I interposed, “that’s handsome; perhaps you might let bygones be bygones.” “Apologise!” exclaimed the Hare. “After all I have suffered I do not think it is enough. At the very least, Mahatma, he should say that he is heartily ashamed and sorry.” “Well, well,” said the Man, “it’s no use making two bites of a cherry. I am sorry, truly sorry for all the pain and terror I have brought on you. If that won’t do let’s go up and settle the matter, and if I’ve been wrong I’ll try to bear the consequences like a gentleman. Only, Mr. Hare, I hope that you will not wish to put your case more strongly against me than you need.” “Not I, Man. I know now that you only erred because the truth had not been revealed to you—because you did not understand. All that I will ask, if I can, is that you may be allowed to tell this truth to other men.” “Well, I am glad to say I can’t do that, Hare.” “Don’t be so sure,” I broke in; “it’s just the kind of thing which might be decreed—a generation or two hence when the world is fit to listen to you.” But he took no heed, or did not comprehend me, and went on— “It is an impossibility, and if I did they would think me a lunatic or a snivelling, sentimental humbug. I believe that lots of my old friends would scarcely speak to me again. Why, putting aside the pleasures of sport, if the views you preach were to be accepted, what would become of keepers and beaters and huntsmen and dog-breeders, and of thousands of others who directly or indirectly get their living out of hunting and shooting? Where would game rents be also?” “I don’t know, I am sure,” replied the Hare wearily. “I suppose that they would earn their living in some other way, as they must in countries where there is no sport, and that you would have to make up for shooting rents by growing more upon the land. You know that after all we hares and the other game eat a great deal which might be saved if there were not so many of us. But I am not wise, and I have never looked at the question from that point of view. It may seem selfish, but I have to consider myself and the creatures whose cause I plead, for something inside me is telling me now—yes, now—that all of them are speaking through my mouth. It says that is why I am allowed to be here and to talk with you both; for their sakes rather than for my own.” “If you have more to say you had better say it quickly,” I interrupted, addressing the Red-faced Man. “I see that the Lights are beginning to change, which means that soon the Road will be closed and the Gates opened.” “I can’t remember anything,” he answered. “Yes, there is one matter,” he added nervously. “I see, Mr. Hare, that you are thinking of my boy Tom, not very kindly I am afraid. As you have been so good as to forgive me I hope that you won’t be hard on Tom. He is not at all a bad sort of a lad if a little thoughtless, like many other young people.” “I don’t like Tom,” said the Hare, with decision. “Tom shot me when you told him not to shoot. Tom shut me up in a filthy place with a yellow rabbit which he forgot to feed, so that it wanted to eat me. Tom tried to cut me off from the wood so that the running dogs might catch me, although you shouted to him that it was not sportsmanlike. Tom dragged me out of the sea and blew down my nostrils to keep me alive. Tom threw me to the hounds, although Giles remonstrated with him and even the huntsman begged him to let me go. I tell you that I don’t like Tom.” “Still, Mr. Hare,” pleaded the Red-faced Man, “I hope that if it should be in your power when we get through those Gates, that you will be merciful to Tom. I can’t think of much to say for him in this hurry, but there, he is my only son and the truth is that I love him. You know he may live—to be different—if you don’t bring some misfortune on him.” “Who am I to bring misfortune or to withhold it?” asked the Hare, softening visibly. “Well, I know what love means, for my mother loved me and I loved her in my way. I tell you that when I saw her dead, turned from a beautiful living thing into a stained lump of flesh and fur, I felt dreadful. I understand now that you love Tom as my mother loved me, and, Man, for the sake of your love—not for his sake, mind—I promise you that I won’t say anything against Tom if I can help it, or do anything either.” “You’re a real good fellow!” exclaimed the Red-faced Man, with evident relief. “Give me your hand. Oh! I forgot, you can’t. Hullo! what’s up now? Everything seems to be altering.” As he spoke, to my eyes the Lights began to change in earnest. All the sky (I call it sky for clearness) above the mighty Gates became as it were alive with burning tongues of every colour that an artist can conceive. By degrees these fiery tongues or swords shaped themselves into a vast circle which drove back the walls of darkness, and through this circle, guided, guarded by the spirits of dead suns, with odours and with chantings, descended that crowned City of the Mansions before whose glory imagination breaks and even Vision veils her eyes. It descended, its banners wavering in the winds of prayer; it hung above the Gates, the flowers of all splendours, Heaven’s very rose, hung like an opal on the boundless breast of night, and there it stayed. The Voice in the North called to the Voice in the South; the Voice in the East called to the Voice in the West, and up the Great White Road sped the Angel of the Road, making report as he came that all his multitude were gathered in and for that while the Road was barred. He passed and in a flash the Gates were burned away. The ashes of them fell upon the heads of those waiting at the Gates, whitening their faces and drying their tears before the Change. They fell upon the Man and the Hare beside me, veiling them as it were and making them silent, but on me they did not fall. Then, from between the Wardens of the Gates, flowed forth the Helpers and the Guardians (save those who already were without comforting the children) seeking their beloved and bearing the Cups of slumber and new birth; then pealed the question— “Who hath suffered most? Let that one first taste of peace.” Now all the dim hosts surged forward since each outworn soul believed that it had suffered most and was in the bitterest need of peace. But the Helpers and the Guardians gently pressed them back, and again there pealed, no question but a command. This was the command:— “Draw near, thou Hare.” Jorsen asked me what happened after this justification of the Hare, which, if I heard aright, appeared to suggest that by the decree of some judge unknown, the woes of such creatures are not unnoted and despised, or left unsolaced. Of course I had to answer him that I could not tell. Perhaps nothing happened at all. Perhaps all the wonders I seemed to see, even the Road by which souls travel from There to Here and from Here to There, and the Gates that were burned away, and the City of the Mansions that descended, were but signs and symbols of mysteries which as yet we cannot grasp or understand. Whatever may be the truth as to this matter of my visions, I need hardly add, however, that no one can be more anxious than I am myself to learn in what way the Red-faced Man, speaking on behalf of our dominant race, and the Hare, speaking as an appointed advocate of the subject animal creation, finished their argument in the light of fuller knowledge. Much also do I wonder which of them was proved to be right, a difficult matter whereon I feel quite incompetent to express any views. But you see at that moment I woke up. The edge of the Road on which I was standing seemed to give way beneath me, and I fell into space as one does in a nightmare. It is a very unpleasant sensation. I remember noticing afterwards that I could not have been long asleep. When I began to dream I had only just blown out the candle, and when I awoke again there was still a smouldering spark upon its wick. But, as I have said, in that spirit-land whither I had journeyed is to be found neither time nor space nor any other familiar thing. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAHATMA AND THE HARE: A DREAM STORY *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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