Who Goes There?. B. K. Benson
of some, and poorer than that of others; as it is affected by your peculiar periods, it is in some features far stronger than the average memory, and in other features it is weaker; have you not known this?"
"Yes; I can recall any object that I have seen; its image is definite, if it has been formed in a lapse."
"But in respect to other matters than objects?"
"You mean as to thought?"
"Yes--speculation."
"In a lapse I seem to forget any mere opinion, or speculation, that is, anything not an established fact."
"Suppose, for instance, that you should to-day read an article written to show that the moon is inhabited; would you remember it in one of your 'states'?"
"Not at all," said I.
"Suppose you should hear a discussion of the tariff question; would you remember it?"
"No, sir."
"Suppose you should hear a discussion upon the right to coerce a seceded State, and should to-day reach a conclusion as to the truth of the controversy; now, would you to-morrow, in one of your 'states,' remember the discussion?"
"No; certainly not."
"Not even if the discussion had occurred previously to the period affected by your memory?"
"I don't exactly catch, your meaning, Doctor."
"I mean to ask what attitude your mind has, in one of your 'states,' toward unsettled questions."
"No attitude whatever; I know nothing of such, one way or the other."
"How, then, could you ever form an opinion upon a disputed question?"
"I don't know, Doctor; I suppose that if I should ever form an opinion upon anything merely speculative, I should have to do it from new material, or repeated material, of thought."
"But now let us reverse this supposition: suppose that to-morrow you are in one of your 'states,' and you hear a discussion and draw a conclusion; will this conclusion remain with you next week when you have recovered the chain of your memory?"
"Yes."
"And your mind would hold to its former decision?"
"Oh, no; not necessarily. I mean that my memory would retain the fact that I had formerly decided the matter."
"And in your recovered state you might reverse a decision made while in a lapse?"
"Certainly."
"But the undoubted truths, or material facts, as some people call them, would still be undoubted?"
"Yes."
"And objects seen while in a 'state' will be remembered by you when you recover?"
"Vividly; if I could draw, I could draw them as well as if they were present."
"It would not be wrong, then, to say that what you lose in one period you gain in another? that what you lose in things doubtful you gain in intensity of fact?"
"Certainly not wrong, though I cannot say that the loss of one causes the gain of the other."
"That is not important; yet I suspect it is true that your faculty is quickened in one function, by relaxation in another. You know that the hearing of the blind is very acute."
"Yes, but I don't see how all this shows my case to be a good thing."
"You can imagine situations in which, hearing is of greater value than sight?"
"Yes."
"A blind scout might be more valuable on a dark night than one who could see."
"Yes, but I cannot see how this affects me; I am neither blind nor deaf, nor am I a scout."
"But it can be said that a good memory may be of greater value at one time than another."
"Oh, yes; I suppose so."
"Now," said Dr. Khayme, "I do not wish you to believe for a moment that there is at present any occasion for you to turn scout; I have merely instanced a possible case in which hearing is more valuable than sight, and we have agreed that memory is worth, more at times than at other times. I should like to relieve you, moreover, of any fears that you, may have in regard to the continuance of your infirmity--as you insist on thinking it. Cases like yours always recover."
"Dr. Abbott once told me that my case was not entirely unique," said I; "but I thought he said it only to comfort me."
"There is nothing new under the sun," said Dr. Khayme; "we have such cases in the records of more than, one ancient writer. Averroes himself clearly refers to such a case."
"He must have lived a long time ago," said I, "judging from the sound of his name; and I doubt that he would have compared well with, our people."
"But more remarkable things are told by the prophets--even your own prophets. The mental changes undergone by Saul of Tarsus, by John on Patmos, by Nabuchodonosor, and by many others, are not less wonderful than, yours."
"They were miracles," said I.
"What is miracle?" asked the Doctor, but continued without waiting for me to reply; "more wonderful changes have happened and do happen every year to men's minds than this which has happened to yours; men lose their minds utterly for a time, and then recover their faculties entirely; men lose their identity, so to speak; men can be changed in an hour, by the use of a drug, into different creatures, if we are to judge by the record their own consciousness gives them."
"I cannot doubt my own senses," said I; "my changes come upon me without a drug and in a moment."
"If you will read Sir William Hamilton, you will find authentic records which will forever relieve you of the belief that your condition is unparalleled. It may be unique in that phase of it which I hope will prove valuable; but as to its being the one only case of the general--"
"I do not dispute there having been cases as strange as mine," I interrupted; "your word for that is enough; but you ought to tell me why you insist on the possibility of a cure and the usefulness of the condition at the same time. If the condition may prove useful, why change it?"
"There are many things in nature," said the Doctor, seriously, "there are many things in nature which show their greatest worth only at the moment of their extinction. Your seeming imperfection of memory is, I repeat, but a relaxation of one of its functions in order that another function may be strengthened--and all for a purpose."
"What is that purpose?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Why can you not?"
"Because," said he, "the manner in which you will prove the usefulness of your power is yet to be developed. Generally, I might say, in order to encourage you, that it will probably be given to you to serve your country in, a remarkable way; but as to the how and when, you must leave it to the future to show."
"And you think that such a service will be at the end of my trouble?"
"I think so," said he; "the laws of the mental world, in my judgment, require that your recovery should follow the period concerning which your factitious memory is brightest."
"But how can a private soldier serve his country in a remarkable way?" I said, wondering.
"Wait," said he.
The Doctor filled his pipe and became silent. Lydia was not on duty this night. She had listened gravely to what had been said. Now she looked up with a faint smile, which I thought meant that she was willing for me to talk to her and yet reluctant to be the first to speak, not knowing whether I had need of silence. I had begun to have a high opinion of Lydia's character.
"And you went to school in Bombay?"
"Yes, at first."
I was not willing