“My dear fellow,” I said, “I not only will, but I shall.”
From this conversation dated my connection with Spiritualism, which has
since opened for me a new world.
It would be out of place for me to indicate the particular address
or the particular methods employed by the agency to which my Friend
introduced me. I am anxious to avoid anything approaching a commercial
tinge in what I write. Moreover, their advertisement can be seen
along with many others--all, I am sure, just as honourable and just as
trustworthy--in the columns of any daily newspaper. As everybody knows,
many methods are employed. The tapping of a table, the movement of a
ouija board, or the voice of a trance medium, are only a few among the
many devices by which the spirits now enter into communication with us.
But in my own case the method used was not only simplicity itself, but
was so framed as to carry with it the proof of its own genuineness. One
had merely to speak into the receiver of a telephone, and the voice of
the spirit was heard through the transmitter as in an ordinary telephone
conversation.
It was only natural, after the scoffing remark that I had made, that
I should begin with my great-grandfather. Nor can I ever forget the
peculiar thrill that went through me when I was informed by the head
of the agency that a tracer was being sent out for Great-grandfather to
call him to the phone.
Great-grandfather--let me do him this justice--was prompt. He was
there in three minutes. Whatever his line of business was in the
spirit world--and I was never able to learn it--he must have left it
immediately and hurried to the telephone. Whatever later dissatisfaction
I may have had with Great-grandfather, let me state it fairly and
honestly, he is at least a punctual man. Every time I called he came
right away without delay. Let those who are inclined to cavil at the
methods of the Spiritualists reflect how impossible it would be to
secure such punctuality on anything but a basis of absolute honesty.
In my first conversation with Great-grandfather, I found myself so
absurdly nervous at the thought of the vast gulf of space and time
across which we were speaking that I perhaps framed my questions
somewhat too crudely.
“How are you, great-grandfather?” I asked.
His voice came back to me as distinctly as if he were in the next room:
“I am happy, very happy. Please tell everybody that I am _happy_.”
“Great-grandfather,” I said. “I will. I’ll see that everybody knows it.
Where are you, great-grandfather?”
“Here,” he answered, “beyond.”
“Beyond what?”
“Here on the other side.”
“Side of which?” I asked.
“Of the great vastness,” he answered. “The other end of the
Illimitable.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, “that’s where you are.”
We were silent for some time. It is amazing how difficult it is to find
things to talk about with one’s great-grandfather. For the life of me I
could think of nothing better than:
“What sort of weather have you been having?”
“There is no weather here,” said Great-grandfather. “It’s all bright and
beautiful all the time.”
“You mean bright sunshine?” I said.
“There is no sun here,” said Great-grandfather.
“Then how do you mean--” I began.
But at this moment the head of the agency tapped me on the shoulder to
remind me that the two minutes’ conversation for which I had deposited,
as a nominal fee, five dollars, had expired. The agency was courteous
enough to inform me that for five dollars more Great-grandfather would
talk another two minutes.
But I thought it preferable to stop for the moment.
Now I do not wish to say a word against my own great-grandfather. Yet
in the conversations which followed on successive days I found him--how
shall I put it?--unsatisfactory. He had been, when on this side--to
use the term we Spiritualists prefer--a singularly able man, an English
judge; so at least I have always been given to understand. But somehow
Great-grandfather’s brain, on the other side, seemed to have got badly
damaged. My own theory is that, living always in the bright sunshine, he
had got sunstroke. But I may wrong him. Perhaps it was locomotor ataxy
that he had. That he was very, very happy where he was is beyond
all doubt. He said so at every conversation. But I have noticed that
feeble-minded people are often happy. He said, too, that he was glad to
be where he was; and on the whole I felt glad that he was too. Once or
twice I thought that possibly Great-grandfather felt so happy because he
had been drinking: his voice, even across the great gulf, seemed somehow
to suggest it. But on being questioned he told me that where he was
there was no drink and no thirst, because it was all so bright and
beautiful. I asked him if he meant that it was “bone-dry” like Kansas,
or whether the rich could still get it? But he didn’t answer.
Our intercourse ended in a quarrel. No doubt it was my fault. But
it _did_ seem to me that Great-grandfather, who had been one of the
greatest English lawyers of his day, might have handed out an opinion.
The matter came up thus: I had had an argument--it was in the middle of
last winter--with some men at my club about the legal interpretation of
the Adamson Law. The dispute grew bitter.
“I’m right,” I said, “and I’ll prove it if you give me time to consult
the authorities.”
“Consult your great-grandfather!” sneered one of the men.
“All right,” I said, “I will.”
I walked straight across the room to the telephone and called up the
agency.
“Give me my great-grandfather,” I said. “I want him right away.”
He was there. Good, punctual old soul, I’ll say that for him. He was
there.
“Great-grandfather,” I said, “I’m in a discussion here about the
constitutionality of the Adamson Law, involving the power of Congress
under the Constitution. Now, you remember the Constitution when they
made it. Is the law all right?”
There was silence.
“How does it stand, great-grandfather?” I said. “Will it hold water?”
Then he spoke.
“Over here,” he said, “there are no laws, no members of Congress and no
Adamsons; it’s all bright and beautiful and--”
“Great-grandfather,” I said, as I hung up the receiver in disgust, “you
are a Mutt!”
I never spoke to him again. Yet I feel sorry for him, feeble old soul,
flitting about in the Illimitable, and always so punctual to hurry to
the telephone, so happy, so feeble-witted and courteous; a better man,
perhaps, take it all in all, than he was in life; lonely, too, it may
be, out there in the Vastness. Yet I never called him up again. He is
happy. Let him stay.
Indeed, my acquaintance with the spirit world might have ended at that
point but for the good offices, once more, of my Friend.
“You find your great-grandfather a little slow, a little dull?” he said.
“Well, then, if you want brains, power, energy, why not call up some of
the spirits of the great men, some of the leading men, for instance, of
your great-grandfather’s time?”
“You’ve said it!” I exclaimed. “I’ll call up Napoleon Bonaparte.”