It is only some of the
results--what you would call the symptoms of my disease--that I can
give you, and even these must often appear absurd contradictions and
impossible paradoxes. "I can only tell you, Dr. Silence"--his manner became exceedingly
impressive--"that I reached sometimes a point of view whence all the
great puzzle of the world became plain to me, and I understood what
they call in the Yoga books 'The Great Heresy of Separateness'; why all
great teachers have urged the necessity of man loving his neighbour as
himself; how men are all really _one_; and why the utter loss of self
is necessary to salvation and the discovery of the true life of the
soul." He paused a moment and drew breath. "Your speculations have been my own long ago," the doctor said quietly. "I fully realise the force of your words. Men are doubtless not
separate at all--in the sense they imagine----"

"All this about the very much Higher Space I only dimly, very dimly,
conceived, of course," the other went on, raising his voice again by
jerks; "but what did happen to me was the humbler accident of--the
simpler disaster--oh, dear, how shall I put it----?" He stammered and showed visible signs of distress. "It was simply this," he resumed with a sudden rush of words, "that,
accidentally, as the result of my years of experiment, I one day
slipped bodily into the next world, the world of four dimensions, yet
without knowing precisely how I got there, or how I could get back
again. I discovered, that is, that my ordinary three-dimensional body
was but an expression--a projection--of my higher four-dimensional body! "Now you understand what I meant much earlier in our talk when I spoke
of chance. I cannot control my entrance or exit. Certain people,
certain human atmospheres, certain wandering forces, thoughts, desires
even--the radiations of certain combinations of colour, and above all,
the vibrations of certain kinds of music, will suddenly throw me into
a state of what I can only describe as an intense and terrific inner
vibration--and behold I am off! Off in the direction at right angles to
all our known directions! Off in the direction the cube takes when it
begins to trace the outlines of the new figure! Off into my breathless
and semi-divine Higher Space! Off, _inside myself_, into the world of
four dimensions!" He gasped and dropped back into the depths of the immovable chair. "And there," he whispered, his voice issuing from among the cushions,
"there I have to stay until these vibrations subside, or until they
do something which I cannot find words to describe properly or
intelligibly to you--and then, behold, I am back again. First, that is,
I disappear. Then I reappear." "Just so," exclaimed Dr. Silence, "and that is why a few----"

"Why a few moments ago," interrupted Mr. Mudge, taking the words out
of his mouth, "you found me gone, and then saw me return. The music
of that wretched German band sent me off. Your intense thinking about
me brought me back--when the band had stopped its Wagner. I saw you
approach the peep-hole and I saw Barker's intention of doing so later. For me no interiors are hidden. I see inside. When in that state the
content of your mind, as of your body, is open to me as the day. Oh,
dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" Mr. Mudge stopped and again mopped his brow. A light trembling ran
over the surface of his small body like wind over grass. He still held
tightly to the arms of the chair. "At first," he presently resumed, "my new experiences were so vividly
interesting that I felt no alarm. There was no room for it. The alarm
came a little later." "Then you actually penetrated far enough into that state to experience
yourself as a normal portion of it?" asked the doctor, leaning forward,
deeply interested. Mr. Mudge nodded a perspiring face in reply. "I did," he whispered, "undoubtedly I did. I am coming to all that. It
began first at night, when I realised that sleep brought no loss of
consciousness----"

"The spirit, of course, can never sleep. Only the body becomes
unconscious," interposed John Silence. "Yes, we know that--theoretically. At night, of course, the spirit
is active elsewhere, and we have no memory of where and how, simply
because the brain stays behind and receives no record. But I found
that, while remaining conscious, I also retained memory. I had attained
to the state of continuous consciousness, for at night I regularly,
with the first approaches of drowsiness, entered _nolens volens_ the
four-dimensional world. "For a time this happened regularly, and I could not control it;
though later I found a way to regulate it better. Apparently sleep is
unnecessary in the higher--the four-dimensional--body. Yes, perhaps. But I should infinitely have preferred dull sleep to the knowledge. For, unable to control my movements, I wandered to and fro, attracted,
owing to my partial development and premature arrival, to parts of this
new world that alarmed me more and more. It was the awful waste and
drift of a monstrous world, so utterly different to all we know and see
that I cannot even hint at the nature of the sights and objects and
beings in it. More than that, I cannot even remember them. I cannot now
picture them to myself even, but can recall only the _memory of the
impression_ they made upon me, the horror and devastating terror of it
all. To be in several places at once, for instance----"

"Perfectly," interrupted John Silence, noticing the increase of the
other's excitement, "I understand exactly. But now, please, tell me a
little more of this alarm you experienced, and how it affected you." "It's not the disappearing and reappearing _per se_ that I mind,"
continued Mr. Mudge, "so much as certain other things. It's seeing
people and objects in their weird entirety, in their true and complete
shapes, that is so distressing. It introduces me to a world of
monsters. Horses, dogs, cats, all of which I loved; people, trees,
children; all that I have considered beautiful in life--everything,
from a human face to a cathedral--appear to me in a different shape
and aspect to all I have known before. I cannot perhaps convince you
why this should be terrible, but I assure you that it is so. To hear
the human voice proceeding from this novel appearance which I scarcely
recognise as a human body is ghastly, simply ghastly. To see inside
everything and everybody is a form of insight peculiarly distressing. To be so confused in geography as to find myself one moment at the
North Pole, and the next at Clapham Junction--or possibly at both
places simultaneously--is absurdly terrifying. Your imagination will
readily furnish other details without my multiplying my experiences
now. But you have no idea what it all means, and how I suffer." Mr. Mudge paused in his panting account and lay back in his chair.