Panhandle's residence was situated in a remote part of the country, and
at this moment I have no clear recollection of the complicated journey,
with its many changes at little-known junctions, which I had to make in
order to find my friend.
The residence stood in the midst of elevated woodlands, and was well
hidden by the trees. An immense sky-sign, standing out high above all
other objects and plainly visible to the traveller from whatever side he
made his approach, had been erected on the roof. The sky-sign carried
the legend "No Psychologists!" It turned with the wind, gyrating
continually, and when darkness fell the letters were outlined in
electric lamps. Only a blind man could miss the warning.
This legend was repeated over the main entrance to the grounds, with the
addition of the word "Beware!" I thought of mantraps and ferocious dogs,
and for some minutes I stood before the gates, wondering if it would be
safe for me to enter. At last, remembering how several friends had
assured me that I was "no psychologist," I concluded that little harm
awaited me, plucked up my courage, and boldly advanced.
Beyond the gates I found the warning again repeated with a more emphatic
truculence and a finer particularity. At intervals along the drive I saw
notice-boards projecting from the barberries and the laurels, each with
some new version of the original theme. "_Death to the Psychology of
Religion_" were the words inscribed on one. The next was even more
precise in its application, and ran as follows:--
"_Inquisitive psychologists take notice!
Panhandle has a gun,
And will not hesitate to shoot._"
Somewhat shaken I approached the front door and was startled to see a
long, glittering thing suddenly thrust through an open window in the
upper storey; and the man behind the weapon was unquestionably Panhandle
himself. "Can it be," I said aloud, "that Panhandle has taken me for an
inquisitive psychologist?"
"Advance," cried my host, who had a keen ear for such undertones.
"Advance and fear nothing." A moment later he grasped me warmly by the
hand, "Welcome, dearest of friends," he was saying. "You have arrived at
an opportune moment. The house is full of guests who are longing to meet
you."
"But, Panhandle," I expostulated as we stood on the doorstep, "I
understood we were to be alone. I have come for one purpose only, that
you might explain your familiarity with--with _those people_."
I used this expression, rather than one more explicit, because the
footman was still present, knowing from long experience how dangerous it
is to speak plainly about metaphysical realities in the hearing of the
proletariat.
"Those very people are now awaiting you," said Panhandle, as he drew me
into the library. "I will be quite frank with you at once. _This house
is haunted_; and if on consideration you find your nerves unequal to an
encounter with ghosts, you had better go back at once, for there is no
telling how soon the apparitions will begin."
"I have been longing to see a ghost all my life," I answered; "and now
that the chance has come at last, I am not going to run away from it.
But I confess that with the encounter so near at hand my knees are not
as steady as I could wish."
"A turn in the open air will set that right," said he, "and we will take
it at once; for I perceive an indication that the first ghost has
already entered the room and is only waiting for your nerves to calm
before presenting himself to your vision."
I bolted into the garden, and Panhandle, with an irritating smile at the
corners of his mouth, followed. As we walked among the lawns and
shrubberies we both fell silent: he, for a reason unknown to me; I,
because something in his plan of gardening had absorbed my attention and
filled me with wonder. Presently I said, "Panhandle, I cannot refrain
from asking you a question. I observe that in your style of gardening
you have embodied an idea which I have long cherished but never dared to
carry out lest people should think me morbid. You have planted cypress
at the back of your roses; and the plan is so unusual and yet so
entirely in accord with my own mind on the subject that I suspect
telepathy between you and me."
He looked at me closely for a few seconds, and then said:
"It may be. I too have often suspected that throughout the whole of my
gardening operations I was under the control of an intelligence other
than my own. But I would never have guessed that it was yours. Anyhow,
this particular idea, no matter what its origin may be, is admirable.
No other background will compare with the cypress for bringing out the
colour of the roses. See how gorgeous they look at this moment."
"And the cypress too," I said, "are, thanks to the contrast, full of
majesty. But, though you and I understand one another so completely at
this point, there is another at which I confess you bewilder me." And I
indicated the sky-sign, which at that moment had turned its legend--"No
Psychologists"--full towards us.
"You will not be surprised to learn," he answered, "that this house,
like other haunted houses, has been the scene of a tragedy. The tragedy
is the explanation of the sign, and it is essential you should know the
story, as the ghosts are certain to refer to it. You remember that I
once had a religion?"
"I trust you have one still," I said.
"I prefer to be silent on that point," he answered. "Whatever religion I
may have at the present moment I am resolved to protect from the
disasters which befell the religion I had long ago. A certain
psychologist got wind of it, and I, in my innocence, granted his request
to submit my religious consciousness to a scientific investigation. I
was highly flattered by the result. The man, having completed his
investigation, came to the conclusion that my religion was destined to
be _the religion of the future_, and went up and down the country
announcing his prophecy. But the strange thing was that as soon as we
all knew that this was going to be the religion of the future it ceased
to be the religion of the present. What followed? Why, in a couple of
years I and my followers had no religion at all. Incidentally our minds
had become a mass of self-complacency and conceit, and the public were
coming to regard us as a set of intolerable wind-bags. Such was the
tragedy, and ever since its occurrence I have led a haunted life."
"There may be compensations in that," I suggested.
"There are, and I am resolved to maintain them. This house and these
grounds are kept as a strict preserve for spirits of every denomination;
and you will understand the severity of my measures for their protection
when I tell you that the slightest taint of an earth-born psychology in
the atmosphere, or the footprint of one of its exponents on the
greensward, would instantly cause a general exodus of my ghostly
visitors, and thus deprive me of the company which is at once the solace
and the inspiration of my declining years. On all such intrusions I
decree the penalty of death, being fully determined that no psychology
shall pollute this neighbourhood until such time as the ghosts, having
completed a psychology of their own, are able to protect themselves. I
assure you that my intercourse with the spirits more than makes amends
for all that I lost when my former religion was destroyed."
"Which never became the religion of the future after all?" I asked, more
sarcastically perhaps than was quite decent.
"Of course not. And the same cause, if suffered to operate, will prevent
anything else from becoming the religion of the future. It is one of the
signs of decadence in the present age that livelihoods should be
procurable by the scientific analysis of religion. Had I the power, I
would make it a penal offence to publish the results of such inquiries.
As it is, we must protect ourselves. Arm, therefore, my friend--arm
yourself with the like of this; and whenever you see one of those
marauders, do not hesitate to shoot! The only good psychologist is a
dead one."
As Panhandle said this, he drew from his pocket quite the most
formidable six-shooting pistol I have ever seen.
I was about to protest against the atrocious obscurantism of this
outburst, when my attention was caught by a strange sound of fluttering
in the letters of the sky-sign above the house. Looking up, I saw to my
amazement that the former legend had disappeared and a new one was
gradually forming. "_Change the conversation_," were the words I read
when the swaying letters had settled down into a position of rest.
Immediately afterwards the letters fluttered again and the original
legend reappeared. "Certainly," I said to myself, "this house is
haunted."
Obedient to the mandate of the fluttering letters, I began at once to
cast about for an opening that would change the conversation. I could
find none, and I was embarrassed by the pause. There was nothing for it
but to break out suddenly on a new line. But in the sequel I was
astonished to observe with what ease Panhandle, in spite of the violence
of the transition, turned the conversation back to its original theme.
"My dear Panhandle," I said, "you are doubtless familiar with the remark
of Charles Dickens to the effect that writers of fiction seldom _dream_
of the characters they have created, the reason being that they know
those characters to be unreal."
"I am perfectly familiar with the passage," he replied, "but I am
astonished to hear it quoted by you. Have you not often insisted, in
pursuance, I suppose, of the principles of your philosophy, that
characters created by imaginative genius, such as Hamlet or Faust,
possess a deeper reality than beings of flesh and blood? Did you not
cite instances from Dickens himself and say that Sam Weller and Mr
Micawber were more real to you than Louis XIV or George Washington?"
"I certainly said so, and adhere to the statement."
"Then you will not hesitate to admit that a character who is more real
than George Washington is at least as capable of being interested in the
problem of his own creation as George Washington could have been."
"You are leading me into a trap," I replied.
"I am only requiring you to be in earnest. Like many persons who express
the opinion you have just reiterated, you have never taken the trouble
to realise what it implies. But I will now show you its implications.
Nor could a better means be found of introducing the revelations I am
about to make as to what you may expect in this haunted house. It was
your good genius who led you to this topic. You will learn presently
that the phenomena peculiar to my house are entirely in harmony with
your own philosophy on this point, that philosophy being, as I
understand, some new brand of Idealism."
"I desire you to proceed with the revelations immediately," I said. "We
live in an age which abhors introductions as fiercely as Nature abhors a
vacuum, and I beg you to leave it with me to adjust what you are about
to deliver to the principles of my philosophy."
"Know, then," said Panhandle, with a readiness that marked his approval
of my attitude, "that your opinion as to the reality of these imaginary
characters is entirely sound. Many of them are in the habit of haunting
this very house, and I think it extremely probable that some will put
in an appearance to-night. You have quoted Charles Dickens to the effect
that their creators know them to be unreal--a remarkable error for so
gifted a man. But it may astonish you to learn that they return the
compliment by having no belief in the reality of their reputed creators.
It is more than possible, after what you have said, that Mr Micawber,
who has now become a philosopher, will appear to you during your stay in
the house. Tell him by way of experiment that his creator was a certain
Charles Dickens. You will find that he wholly fails to understand what
you mean. He regards himself as a fortuitous concourse of ideas. Only
this morning I tried the same experiment on Colonel Newcome. I told him
all about Thackeray, who, said I, was the author of his being.[1] He was
utterly amazed, and just as incredulous as it is possible for so perfect
a gentleman to be. He accused me of talking metaphysics."
[Footnote 1: "In the novel of _Pendennis_, written ten years ago, there
is an account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented.... I was
smoking in a tavern-parlour one night, and this Costigan came into the
room alone--the very man: the most remarkable resemblance of the printed
sketches of the man, and of the rude drawings in which I had depicted
him. He had the same little coat, the same battered hat, cocked on one
eye, the same twinkle in that eye. 'Sir,' said I, knowing him to be an
old friend whom I had met in unknown regions, 'sir,' I said, 'may I
offer you a glass of brandy and water?' ... How had I come to know him,
to divine him? Nothing shall convince me that I have not seen that man
in the world of spirits." (Thackeray, _De Finibus_.) See the whole
passage, from which it is evident that Costigan did not recognise his
creator.]
My long acquaintance with Panhandle had schooled me to betray no
astonishment at anything he might say. So, assuming as cool an air as I
could command, I merely asked:
"Would you mind telling me, Panhandle, by what means you have managed to
ascertain the views of these gentlemen concerning their creator?"
"Like yourself," he answered, "I was convinced long ago that the
creations of genius, Hamlet and the rest, are more real than the Johns,
Toms, and Marys who seem to walk the earth. But, unlike you, I have not
been content that so important a truth should remain at the level of a
mere elegant opinion. By a course of spiritual exercises carefully
devised, into which I shall presently initiate you, I have placed myself
in direct communication with these personalities; and so successful has
the discipline proved, that intelligent intercourse has become possible
between them and me. I frequently invite them to haunt the house, and
the response is always favourable. I am on terms of intimacy with the
principal characters of the Classic Drama, of Shakespeare, Goethe, and
many eminent novelists of modern times."
On hearing this all my efforts to keep cool broke down.
"Panhandle," I cried, "you must initiate me into those exercises without
a moment's delay."
"Be patient," he replied, "until you have heard the further results to
which they will lead. I have not yet told you the half, and it may be
that when you have heard the rest you will prefer to have no part in
these Mysteries. The realm to which they will lead you has an immense
population of ghosts; it is vastly more populous than our planet; and
notwithstanding that my exercises have brought me abundant knowledge of
them and their doings, I have not been able to classify more than a
small portion of the inhabitants. The characters created by imaginative
genius are only one among the orders of ghosts to whom you will
presently be introduced. You will be haunted by _Ideas_ in every
variety, all of them living organisms of high complexity, and all more
or less ignorant of whence they come or whose they are. Possibly you
will encounter your own ideas among them; and I must warn you against
claiming to be the author of any of them, even the most original. There
is nothing that offends them more deeply. They have their own notions as
to their origin, which they conceive to lie in something infinitely
superior to the brain of a being like yourself. By many of them their
reputed authors are treated with contempt; some deny the existence of
these 'authors' in any capacity whatsoever; others regard them as mere
phrases, metaphors, or abstractions. A notable instance is that of your
friend Professor Gunn, who wrote the famous treatise to prove the
non-existence of God. The potent ideas projected in the course of that
work had long enjoyed an independent being of their own in the spiritual
world; and it may interest you--and Professor Gunn also, if you will be
kind enough to tell him what I am now saying--to learn that these ideas
of his have formed themselves into a congregation or society whose
principal tenet is that there is no such being as Professor Gunn. They
regard him alternatively as a sun-myth or an exploded fiction."
"How absurd!" I cried.
"In your present darkness," he answered, "the exclamation is to be
excused. But I assure you that after passing one night in this house you
will find that nothing in heaven or earth is less absurd than the
statement you have just heard."
"As to _your own_ Ideas," he continued, "know that their relation to
yourself is, in their eyes, widely different from what you conceive it
to be. Between yourself and them there is the utmost divergence of view
on this matter. Under no circumstances whatsoever will they consent to
regard themselves as your _property_, and no claim of that kind, nor
even the semblance of a claim, must ever be suffered to appear in your
dealings with these ghosts. Remember that your common-sense is their
metaphysic, and their metaphysic your common-sense; what you dream of,
they see; what you see, they dream of; and the consequence is that many
truths, which appear to you as the least certain of your conclusions,
are used by them as the familiar axioms of thought. On the other hand,
what are axioms to you are often problems to them. Your _cogito ergo
sum_, for example, will not go down in the spiritual world. For just as
you, on your side of the theory of knowledge, are busy in trying to
account for your Ideas, so they, on theirs, have much ado in their
efforts to account for _you_; all of them find you the most illusive of
beings, while some, as I have already hinted, deny your existence
altogether, or treat you as a highly questionable hypothesis. With
several of your leading Ideas I hope to make you personally acquainted
this very night. To convince them of your identity will be no easy
matter, and the most vigilant circumspection will be necessary on your
part. I counsel an attitude of uttermost modesty; anything else is
certain to give them the impression that you are an impostor. Betray,
then, not the least surprise on finding yourself treated by your own
Ideas as a being of little importance to their concerns. Above all, you
must not expect them to take more than a passing interest in _your
brain_. Your best course is to avoid all reference to that topic. 'The
brain' is seldom, if ever, mentioned in the best circles of the
spiritual world--to which circles, I assume, your leading Ideas belong.
You must never forget that in the realm of Ideas class distinctions are
rigidly observed; there is an aristocracy and a proletariat, with all
the intermediate grades; and many topics which may be safely mentioned
among the commons are an offence when introduced to the nobility. 'The
brain' is one of these. Its use, among the ghosts, is confined
exclusively to the working class; and you will commit a breach of good
manners by flaunting its functions in the presence of august society.
Were you, for example, in the course of some conversation with a noble
Principle, to offer him the use of your own brain, or to suggest that he
was in need of such an implement, or in the habit of using it, you would
commit an indiscretion of the first magnitude; and it is certain the
offended spirit would strike you off his visiting list and decline to
haunt you any more. Pardon my insistence on this point. Knowing, as I
do, how apt you are to talk about your brain, I am naturally
apprehensive lest, in an unguarded moment, you should thrust that organ
under the nose of some Great Idea. Believe me, it would be a fatal
mistake. Remember, I implore you, what I have already said: that, in the
spiritual world, the brain-habit is strictly confined to the working
class."[2]
[Footnote 2: "Ni pour le jugement, ni pour le raisonnement, ni pour
aucune autre faculte de la pensee proprement dite nous n'avons la
moindre raison de supposer qu'elle soit attachee a tels ou tels
processus cerebraux determines.... Les phenomenes cerebraux sont en
effet a la vie mentale ce que les gestes du chef d'orchestre sont a la
symphonie: ils en dessinent les articulations motrices, ils ne font pas
autre chose. On ne trouverait done rien des operations de l'esprit
proprement dit a l'interieur du cerveau." (Professor Henri Bergson:
Presidential Address to the Society for Psychical Research, 1913.)]
"Before you can persuade me of all this," I said, "you will have to turn
my intelligence clean inside out."
"That is precisely what I intend doing, and the first step shall be
taken this very instant. Begin the exercises by repeating the Formula of
Initiation. It runs as follows:
'_Till another speaks to me I am nothing._'"
"Why, Panhandle," I said laughing, "that is the very formula they taught
me when I first entered a Public School. And they enforced it with
kicks."
"The Universe enforces it in the same manner. But let us keep to the
matter in hand. Repeat the formula at once."
"Wait," I said. "The situation is growing ominous, and I will not embark
upon this enterprise till I know more of what it will lead to."
"Take your own time," said Panhandle. "The rules of my system forbid me
to hurry the neophyte. If what I have told you already is not enough,
you shall hear more. Among the ghosts who haunt this house are beings
far mightier than any I have so far described. For a long time their
identification baffled me, until one night I overheard them in high
debate, and found they were occupied in an attempt to account for their
own existence in the scheme of things. Then I knew who they were."
"These," I said, catching him up, "must assuredly be the ghosts of the
great philosophies, or systems of thought, which in their earthly state
accounted for the existence of everything else, but left the problem of
their own existence untouched."
"A most happy anticipation, and one that augurs well for your future
success as an entertainer of ghosts. Have we not heard on high authority
that no philosophy is complete until it has explained its own presence
in the universe? Having neglected this at the first stage of their
existence, the systems exercise their wits at the second in attempts to
make good the oversight."
"Do many of them succeed?" I asked.
"Most of them fail; and for that reason their ghosts linger for ages in
the neighbourhood of houses which, like my own, are hospitable to their
presence. For it is a rule of the realm to which they now belong that so
soon as any system succeeds in explaining its own origin it vanishes and
passes on to a still higher state of existence."
"Panhandle," I said, "you have identified these ghosts beyond the
possibility of cavil. A more conclusive proof could not be given."
"Beware, then, how you proceed!" said he. "It is possible that you will
be haunted to-night not only by your Ideas in their severalty, but by
your whole system of thought organised as one Synthetic Ghost. It will
certainly question you on the subject of its creator, that being, as I
have said, the central and absorbing interest of all these spirits. But
again let me implore you to be on your guard against claiming to be its
author. To inform such a ghost that it originates in a human
intelligence, and that intelligence your own, would be treated as an
outbreak of impudence deserving the highest resentment, and it is more
than likely that the indignant phantom would put a lasting blight on
your intellect or punish your presumption in ways yet more fearful to
contemplate."
The flow of Panhandle's speech had now become extremely rapid, and my
intelligence was beginning to lag in the rear. "Give me a
breathing-space," I cried; "I need an interval for silent meditation."
Then, in a voice so low that he could not hear me, I repeated to myself
the Formula of Initiation and, after musing for a few minutes, begged
him to proceed. "A light is breaking," I said, "and your warnings are
taking hold."
"In this connection," he resumed, "I could relate many things that would
surprise you. Just as the personalities created by genius are apt to
repudiate their creators, so the great philosophies when translated to
the higher state are apt to disown all connection with the persons to
whom their origin is humanly attributed. The philosophy of Spencer, for
example, believes its author to be absolutely inscrutable; that of von
Hartmann suspects a Professor, but declares him to have been unconscious
of what he was doing. Pessimism, again, ascribes its beginning to a
desire on the part of the Primal Power to give away the secret of its
conspiracies against its own subjects; the doctrine that mind is
mechanism believes itself the outcome of a non-mechanical principle, and
has become in consequence the most superstitious of all the ghosts; and
a group of materialistic systems have concluded, after long debate,
that all philosophies originate from Ink and a Tendency in the Ink to
get itself transferred to Paper."
"It is evident," I interposed, "that even in their higher existence the
systems are by no means free from illusions."
"Be cautious how you judge them," said Panhandle, "for it may be that in
accounting for their origin they are less astray than yourself. None the
less, you are right in declaring them defective. _Fallacies_ perpetrated
in a system at the first stage of its existence become _diseases_ when
translated to the second, and some of the ghosts in consequence live the
life of invalids. The ghost of Evolution, for example, will appear
before you in a deplorable condition. This ghost has recently learnt
that it is suffering from an Undistributed Middle, a disease unamenable
to treatment, being proof even against the Method of Eloquence, which as
you know is a potent specific for most logical defects. You may easily
identify the spirit by remembering what I have told you. If you
encounter an apparition walking about with hands pressed hard on its
Middle, and groaning heavily, know that the spectre of Evolution is
before you."
"Panhandle," I said, "your revelations have awakened my uttermost
curiosity, and every nerve in my body is tense with eagerness to
encounter an apparition. Heaven grant that the ghost of my own
philosophy may appear! And yet, in a sense, I am disappointed. You
promised that you would furnish me with material for my next book. But
the public has no interest in the phantoms you have described, and will
not believe in their existence."
"That remains to be seen," he answered. "Meanwhile, I give you my solemn
pledge that you shall see a ghost before the night is out."
He said this in a tone so ominous that I could not refrain from
starting. What could he mean? A sudden thought flashed upon me, and I
cried aloud:
"My dear friend, you fill me with alarm, and I am on the point of giving
way! I begin to suspect that I shall never see the ghosts until I have
passed to another world. I believe that I am doomed to die in this house
to-night! It was indicated in the tone of your voice."
With a quick motion Panhandle swung round in his chair and looked me
full in the face.
"How do you know," he said, "that you are not dead now, and already
passed to the existence of which you speak?"
The effort to answer his question revived my courage. But in all my life
I have never found a problem half so difficult. To prove that I was not
dead already and become a ghost! Forty or fifty times did I lay down a
new set of premises, only to be reminded by Panhandle that I begged the
question in every one. My ingenuity was taxed to breaking point, my
voice was exhausted, the sweat was pouring from my brows, when, once
again, from the upper airs where the sky-sign was swinging, I heard the
same fluttering and rustling which had arrested my attention at a former
crisis. It was growing dark, and the arc-lamps which outlined the
letters were all aglow. I watched the transformation, and suddenly saw,
flashed out for a moment into the gathering darkness, these words:
"_Give it up._"