Madeline's report, next morning. Charles Mathews and Madame
Vestria. How well Madeline held her tongue to keep her
promise. An anticipation of post-story time. How a
Deputation waited on Mrs. Aiken from the Psychomorphic.
Mr. MacAnimus and Mr. Vacaw. Gevartius much more
correct for Miss Jessie to listen to than the Laughing Cavalier.
Of Self-hypnosis and Ghosts, their respective categories.
The mad cat's nose outside the blanket. Singular
Autophrenetic experience of Mr. Aiken. Stenography. A case
in point. Not a Phenomenon at all. How Miss Volumnia's
penetration penetrated, and got at something. Suggestion
traced home. Enough to explain any Phenomenon.
"I'm afraid you _did_ get mixed up, darling, this
time. But I dare say they're all right." This was
Lady Upwell's comment at breakfast next morning,
when her daughter had completed a narrative of
her previous evening's adventure, which had
assumed, between the close of last chapter and the
ensuing midnight, all the character of a reckless
escapade. Indeed, it had been long past that hour
when the young lady, who had wired early in the
evening that she was "dining with Aikens shall be
late," returned home in better spirits than she had
shown for months--so her mother said to sympathetic
friends afterwards--to find her Pupsey getting
uneasy about her, and fidgetting. Because that was
Pupsey's way.
Madeline's parents at this time would probably
have welcomed any diversion or excitement for the
girl; anything to take her mind away from her
troubles. They were not at all sure about these
Aiken people; but there!--they would have
welcomed worse, to see this little daughter of theirs
in such spirits as hers last night. Touching the
cause of which they were a little puzzled, as she had
stuck loyally to her promise to tell nothing of
Mrs. Aiken's dream and the share the Italian picture
had in her reconciliation with her husband. All
she said was that she had persuaded Euphemia to
go back to Reginald; she having, as it were,
borrowed from each the name each called the
other--in a certain sense, quoting it.
"Euphemia, I suppose, is Mrs. Aiken?" said her
ladyship temperately--with a touch of graciousness,
like Queens on the stage to their handmaidens
Cicely or Elspeth.
"Euphemia 's Mrs. Aiken, but he calls her Mrs. Hay
as often as not." Perplexity of both parents
here required a short explanation of middle-class
jocularity turning on neglect or excess of aspirates.
After which Madeline said, "That's all!" and they
said, "We see," but with hesitation. Then she
continued her story. "It was such fun! _I_ knocked
at the door, and Reginald came rushing out because
he heard Euphemia outside, and clasped me in his
arms ... Oh, well--it's quite true! You see, he
was in such a hurry he didn't stop to look, and he
took me for Euphemia." For the Baronet had laid
down his knife and fork and remained transfixed.
But a telegraphic lip-movement of her ladyship
reassured him. "This," it said, "is exaggeration.
Expect more of the same sort." However, his
daughter softened the statement. "It wasn't
exactly negotiated, you know. And I don't think
it would have been any satisfaction either, because
he was so horribly dirty, Reginald was."
The Baronet completed a contract he had on
hand with some kippered salmon, and said, before
accepting a new one, "Well--_you're_ a nice young
woman!" But he added forgivingly, "Go on--gee-up!"
The nice young woman went on. "And do you
know, I don't believe that a more filthy condition
than that house was in--why, Mrs. Aiken had been
away ten months! And there was a drunken cook
singing in the kitchen all the while."
"You are an inconsecutive puss," said the
Baronet, very happy about the puss nevertheless.
"You didn't finish your sentence. 'Filthy
condition that house was in'--go on!"
"Bother my sentence! Finish it yourself,
Pupsey. Well--Reginald and Euphemia made it
up like a shot. Couple of idiots! Then the
question was--dinner. I said come home here, but
they said clothes. There was some truth in what
they had on, so I said hadn't we better all go and
dine where Mr. Aiken had been going. Because
I didn't call him Reginald to his face, you know!"
"And you went, I suppose?"
"I should think so. We dined at Mezzofanti's
in Great Compton Street, Soho--no, it wasn't; it
was Magliabecchi's--no!--Machiavelli's. And I
talked such good Italian to the waiter. It _was_ fun!
And what do you think we did next? ... Give it
up?" Her father nodded. "Why--we went to the
Adelphi Theatre--there! And we saw 'Charley's
Aunt,' and we parted intimate bosom friends. Only
Euphemia is rather fussy and distant, compared to
Us, and I had to stick out to make her kiss me." A
slight illustration served to show how the speaker
had driven a coach-and-six through the
bosom-friend's shyness.
"Well," said the Baronet. "All I can say is--I
wish I had been there with you. If I go to the
play now--there I am, dressed in toggery and
sittin' in the stalls! Lord, I remember when I was
a young fellow, there was Charles Mathews and
Madame Vestris ... you can't remember them...."
"Of course I can't. I was only born nineteen
years ago." The Baronet, however, added more
recent theatrical experiences, but only brought on
himself corrections from his liege lady.
"My dear, you're quite at sea. Fancy the child
recollecting Lord Dundreary and Buckstone! Why,
she wasn't born or thought of!"
But when this Baronet got on the subject of his
early plays and operas, he developed reminiscence
in its most aggravated form. He easily outclassed
Aunt Priscey on the subject of her ancestors. Her
ladyship abandoned him as incorrigible, without an
apology, but his daughter indulged him and sat and
listened.
All things come to an end sooner or later, and
reminiscence did, later. Then poor Madeline ran
down in her spirits, and sat brooding over the war
news. It was only a temporary sprint. Reginald
and Euphemia vanished, and Jack came back.
Madeline kept all this story of the talking photograph
to herself. To talk of it she would have had
to tell her friend's dream, and that she had promised
not to do.
She was so loyal that when a day or two later she
met the formidable Miss Charlotte Bax, she kept a
strict lock on her tongue, even when that lady
plunged into a resumé of the dream-story as she had
received it, and an abstract of her commentary on
it, still waiting delivery at the Psychomorphic.
"I hoped we should meet at Mrs. Ludersdorff
Priestley's," said she, "because I wanted to talk
about it. Their teas are so stupid. Ethel
Ludersdorff Priestley said you were coming."
"Oh yes--that was the Unfulfilled Bun-Worry.
Mrs. Aiken came in to see me, and I stayed." Then,
as an afterthought, "I suppose you know they've
made it up?"
Admission that there was something unknown to
her did not form part of Miss Charlotte's scheme of
life. She left the question open, saying merely,
"In consequence of the advice I gave my cousin, no
doubt!" Madeline said nothing to contradict this--all
the more readily perhaps that she was not prepared
to supply the real reason. She, however,
could and did supply rough particulars of the
reconciliation, giving Miss Charlotte more than her due of
credit as its _vera causa_.
That lady then proceeded to give details of her
scientific conclusions about the phenomenon. A
portion of this may be repeated, as it had a good
deal of effect in confirming her hearer's growing
faith in its genuineness. "What I rest my
argument on," said Miss Charlotte, touching one
forefinger with the other, like Sir Macklin in the "Bab
Ballads," "is the isolated character of this
phenomenon. Let the smallest confirmation of it be
produced by proof of the existence of analogous
phenomena elsewhere, and then, although that
argument may not fall to the ground, it may be
necessary to place it on an entirely new footing. I
would suggest that, in order to sift the matter to
the bottom, a sub-committee should be appointed,
charged with the duty of listening to authentic
portraits to determine, if possible, whether any
other picture possesses this really almost incredible
faculty of speech. The slightest whisper from
another picture, well authenticated by a scientific
authority, would change the whole venue of the
discussion. Pending such a confirmation, we are
forced to the conclusion that the subjectivity of the
phenomenon is indisputable."
At this point, Miss Upwell, who was really getting
anxious about _secondly_--which she was certain the
speaker would forget, while it was impossible for her,
without loss of dignity, to draw one forefinger from
the other--was greatly relieved when the
withdrawal was made compulsory by the offer of a
sally-lunn, and the resumption of it became unnecessary,
and even difficult. For this entertainment was not
merely a bun-worry, but--choosing a name at
random--a sally-lunn sedative, or a tea-cake lullaby.
It only enters for a moment into this story to show
how powerfully Miss Upwell's belief in the picture's
personality had been reinforced before the time came
for Mr. Pelly to read Professor Schrudengesser's
Florentine manuscript.
Perhaps if Miss Volumnia had then been in a
position to lay before her friend the results of a
subsequent interview with her cousin, in which she elicited
some most important facts, this belief might at
least have been suspended, and Miss Upwell's
attitude towards the pardonable scepticisms of her
father and Mr. Pelly might have been less
disrespectful. But as a matter of fact Miss Volumnia
only came to the knowledge of these facts months
later, when she called upon Mrs. Reginald Aiken
with the Secretary, Mr. MacAnimus, and Mr. Vacaw,
the Chairman of the Psychomorphic; the three
constituting a Deputation from the Society, which
was anxious for repetition and confirmation of the
story before appointing a sub-committee to listen
to well-painted pictures. This interview may be
given here, for the sake of those curious in Psychological
study, but its place in the succession of events
should be borne in mind. It is really a piece of
inartistic anticipation.
"We shouldn't come pestering you like this,
Cousin Euphemia," said Miss Volumnia, after introducing
the Deputation, "if it had not been that we
have so much trouble in getting volunteers to
guarantee the amount of listening which we consider
has to be gone through before the negative
conclusion, that pictures cannot talk, is accepted as
practically established. My sister Jessie has
undertaken to listen to any picture at the National
Gallery the sub-committee may select, provided
that either Mr. Duodecimus Groob or Charley
Galsworthy accompanies her, and listens too. I can
see no objection to this, but I prefer that they
should listen to Gevartius. I think it perhaps
better that so young a girl should not hear what
the Laughing Cavalier, Franz Hals, is likely to say.
Or Charley Galsworthy either, for that matter.
Mr. Duodecimus Groob is a graduate of the
University of London...."
Mr. Reginald Aiken, who was present at this
interview, looked up from his easel, at which he was
retouching a sketch of no importance, to say that
he knew this Mr. Groob, who was an awful ass; but
his brother Dolly was quite another pair of shoes,
of whom the World would soon hear more. The
interruption was rude and discourteous, and
Mrs. Aiken was obliged to explain to the Deputation
that it was quite unnecessary to pay any attention
to it. Her husband was always like that. His
manners were atrocious, but his heart was good.
As for Mr. Adolphus Groob, he was insufferable.
"Shall we proceed to business?" said Mr. MacAnimus,
a piercing man, who let nobody off.
"I will, with your permission, run through
Mrs. Reginald Aiken's deposition...."
"I never made any deposition," said that lady.
"My dear Euphemia," said her cousin. "If
you wish to withdraw from the statement you made
to me..."
"Rubbish, Volumnia! I certainly don't
withdraw from anything whatever. Still less have I
any intention of making any depositions. If we
are to be beset with depositions in everyday life, I
think we ought at least to be consulted in the
matter. Depositions, indeed!"
Mr. Vacaw interposed to make peace. "We
need not," he said, "quarrel about terms." He
for his part would be perfectly content that the
particulars so kindly furnished by Mrs. Aiken should
be referred to in whatever way was most
satisfactory to that lady herself. He appeared to
address Mr. MacAnimus with diffidence, almost
amounting to humility, approaching him with
somewhat of the caution which might be shown by
a person who had undertaken to encumber a mad
cat with a blanket so as to neutralise its powers of
tooth and claw. Mr. MacAnimus conceded the
point under protest; and Mrs. Aiken then, who
was not disobliging, consented to repeat her dream
experience, each point being checked off against
the formulated report of her first statement,
transmitted to the Society by Miss Volumnia. It is
creditable to that lady's accuracy that very few
corrections were necessary, especially as the first
narrator seemed in a certain sense handicapped by
doubts as to what the exact words used were,
though always sure of their meaning. Had Mrs. Aiken
understood any Italian, mixed speech on the
picture's part might have accounted for this. As
it was, an undeniable vagueness helped Miss
Volumnia's classification of the incident as a case
of Self-hypnosis. That the Deputation was
unanimous on this point was soon evident.
It was then that an incident came to light that,
at least in the opinion of Miss Volumnia, went far
to establish this classification beyond a shadow of
doubt.
Mr. Reginald, who had been at no pains to conceal
his derision of the whole proceeding, allowed
this spirit of ridicule, so hostile to the prosecution
of Scientific Investigation, to master him so
completely that he quite forgot the respect he owed to
his visitors, and indeed to his wife, for she at least
deserved the credit which is due to sincerity, even
if mistaken. He shouted with laughter, saying
did anyone ever hear such glorious Rot? A
talking picture--only fancy! Why, you might as well
put down anything you heard in your ears to any
picture on the walls. One the same as another.
Of course everyone knew that Euphemia was as
full of fancies as an egg is full of meat. Just you
leave her alone for a few minutes in a dark room,
or a burying-ground, and see if she didn't see a ghost!
"That's _quite_ another thing," said Miss Volumnia
and Mr. MacAnimus simultaneously. And Mr. Vacaw
added, as pacific confirmation, "Surely--surely!
Ghosts belong to an entirely different
category." A feeling that Ghosts could not be
coped with so near lunch may have caused an
impulse towards peroration. It was not, however,
to fructify yet, for Mr. MacAnimus appealed for a
moment's hearing.
"With your leave, sir," said he, addressing
Mr. Vacaw as if he was The Speaker, "I should like to
put a question to this gentleman," meaning
Mr. Aiken. Mr. Vacaw may be considered to have
allowed the mad cat's nose outside the blanket, on
sufferance.
Then Mr. MacAnimus, producing a memorandum-book
to take down the witness's words, asked this
question: "What did Mr. Aiken mean by the
expression, 'anything heard in your ears'?"
But the witness was one of those people who
become diffuse the moment they are expected to
answer a question. His testimony ran as follows,
tumbling down and picking itself up again as it
did so. "Oh, don't you know the sort of thing I
mean; a sort of tickle--nothing you can exactly
lay hold of--not what you think you hear
when it's there--comes out after--p'r'aps
your sort don't--it goes with the party--there's
parties and parties--if you don't make it out
without a description, it's not in your line--you're
not in the swim."
The members of the Deputation looked at each
other inquiringly, and each shook a negative head,
as disclaiming knowledge of this peculiar
phenomenon. They were not in the swim, but could all
say, and did, that this was very interesting.
Mr. MacAnimus struck in with perspicuity and
decision: "Allow me. Will Mr. Aiken favour us
with a case in point? Such a case would enable
the Society to ascertain whether this phenomenon
is known to any of its members." He concentrated
his faculties to shorthand point, holding a
fountain-pen in readiness to pounce on a clean
memorandum page, virgin but for [shorthand characters], or
something like it, which meant, "Singular
autophrenetic experience of Mr. Reginald Aiken
communicated direct to Society at his
residence." Stenography is a wonderful science.
Mr. Aiken complied readily. "Any number of
cases in point! Why, only the other day there
was Stumpy Hughes, sitting on that very chair
you're in now, heard a voice say something in
Italian, or French. What's more, I heard it too,
and thought it was Mrs. Gapp in liquor--in more
liquor than usual. I told you all about that,
Mrs. Hay." Mrs. Gapp, when the mistress of the house
returned, had followed in the footsteps of Sairah
and Mrs. Parples.
Mrs. Euphemia suddenly assumed an air of
mystery. "Oh yes," said she. "You told me all
about _that_. _I_ understood."
"Didn't I tell you?" said her husband, appealing
to the company. "Didn't I tell you females might
be relied on to cook up somethin' out of nothin' at
all?" He had done nothing of the sort, and merely
chose this form of speech to fill out his share in the
conversation.
His wife was indignant. "I don't know," she
said, "what nonsensical imputations you may have
been casting on women, who, at any rate, are
usually every bit as clever as you and your friends.
But I do know this, because you told me, that when
that happened you were both close to the _exact
duplicate_ of the very photograph you are now
accusing me of credulity with, and it's ridiculous--simply
ridiculous. And it's off the selfsame negative.
You know it is."
Mr. Vacaw deprecated impatience. A new avenue
of inquiry might be opened up as a consequence
of this experience of Mr. Aiken's, provided always
that we did not lose our heads, and allow ourselves
to be misled by an _ignis fatuus_ of controversy into
a wilderness of recrimination. Mr. Vacaw's style
drew freely on the vast resources of metaphor in
which the English language abounds.
Mr. Aiken followed his example so far as to say
that he couldn't see any use in flaring up, and that
if hair and teeth were flying all over the shop, a
chap couldn't hear himself speak. As for the
identity of the photographs, he wouldn't have
mentioned Stumpy's little joke about where the
voice came from if he had thought his wife was
going to turn it into a Spirit Manifestation and
Davenport Brothers. He saw no use in such rot.
This was only an idea, and had nothing
supernatural about it.
Mr. Hughes's little joke, whatever it was, did not
reach the ears of the story at the time of writing--you
can turn back and see--but Mr. Aiken heard
and remembered it, and had evidently repeated it
to his wife, who had been comparing notes upon it.
Her indignation increased, and she would certainly
have taken her husband severely to task for his
levity and unreason, if it had not been for the
sudden animation with which Miss Volumnia cried
out, "Aha!" as though illuminated by a new idea.
She also pointed an extended finger at Mr. Aiken,
as it were transfixing him. At the same moment
Mr. MacAnimus exclaimed resolutely:
"Yes--stop it at that! 'Identity of the
photographs.' Now, Miss Bax, if you please!"
Miss Volumnia accepted what may be called the
Office of Chief Catechist, and proceeded on the
assumption usual in Investigation, that she was
examining an unwilling witness with a strong
inherent love of falsehood for its own sake.
"You admit then, cousin Reginald, that on this
occasion a suggestion was made that the voice came
from this photograph?"
Mr. MacAnimus nodded rapidly, and said, "Yes--keep
him to that!" and conferred a moment
apart with Mr. Vacaw, who murmured:
"Yes, yes--I see your point. Quite correct!"
"It was Stumpy's little joke!" said Mr. Aiken.
"Not a Phenomenon at all! You'll make anythin'
out of anythin'. I shall tell Stumpy, and he'll
split his sides laughin' at you."
"Pray do, cousin Reginald. Only let me ask
you this one question--what was the exact date of
this occurrence?" Miss Volumnia had abated the
pointed finger, but not quite suppressed it. Her
colleagues nodded knowingly to each other and each
said, "You'll see we shall see."
Mr. Aiken's answer was vague. "A tidy long
while ago," said he. "Couldn't say how long. After
Stumpy came back from Aunt Jopiska's, anyhow."
"When was that?"
"Three or four months ago. More! No--less!
Stop a bit. I know what'll fix it. That
receipt. Where the dooce is it?" Mr. Aiken had
a paroxysm of turning miscellanea over.
"What is it you are looking for, Reginald?"
paid his wife forbearingly. "If you would tell me
what it is. I could find it for you, without throwing
everything into confusion. Why can you not be
patient and methodical? What is it?"
"Receipt for Rates and Taxes--oh, here it is--seventh
of November--that fixes the time. It was
the day before that." And then Mr. Aiken, in the
pride of his heart at the subtlety of his identification
of this date, dwelt upon the subject more than
was absolutely necessary. It was because he had
talked--didn't you see?--to a feller who had
sketched a plan of the new rooms in Bond Street
on the back of this very identical receipt--didn't
you know?--telling him of Stumpy and the hearing
the voice, the day before--didn't you see?--so
that fixed the date to a nicety. And the feller was
a very sensible clever penetratin' sort of
feller--didn't you see?--and had made some very shrewd
remarks about starts of this sort.
"And who was this intelligent gentleman?"
asked Mrs. Aiken, not entirely without superiority,
but still with forbearance.
"Not a man you know much of. Remarkable
sort of chap, though!"
"Yes--but who _was_ he? That's what _I_ want
to know."
"Don't see that it matters.... Well--Dolly
Groob, then."
"Mis-ter Adolphus Groob...." Mrs. Aiken was
beginning, and was going to follow up what her
intonation made a half-expression of contempt, by
a comment which would have expressed a whole
one. Was it Mr. Adolphus Groob all the fuss was
about?
But she came short of her intention, being
interrupted by Miss Volumnia, whose "Aha!" threw
her previous delivery of the same interjection into
the shade. "_Now_ we are getting at something!"
cried that young lady triumphantly.
"Well, what does that mean?" said Mrs. Euphemia
scornfully. "Getting at something!
Getting at what?"
"My dear Euphemia," said her cousin, with
temperate self-command--she was always irritating,
and meant to be--"I ask you, can you
conscientiously deny that Mr. Adolphus Groob sat next
you at Mr. Entwistle Parkins's lecture, at the
Suburbiton Athenæum, on the Radio-Activity of Space?"
"Well, and what if he did?"
"We will come to that directly, when you have
answered my questions. Can you deny that
Mr. Entwistle Parkins's lecture on the Radio-Activity
of Space was delivered at least a week after your
husband had communicated to Mr. Adolphus
Groob the very curious experience he has just
related?"
"And what if he did....?"
"One moment--excuse me.... Or that your
own very singular--I admit the
singularity--Pseudo-dream or self-induced Hypnotism was
_subsequent_ to this lecture?"
"It was in January. What if it was?"
Miss Volumnia turned with an air of subdued
triumph to the other members of the Deputation.
"I appeal to you, Mr. Vacaw--to you, Mr. MacAnimus.
Is, or is not, the conclusion warranted
that this Pseudo-dream, as I must call it, had its
origin by Suggestion from the analogous experience
of Mr. Aiken, who had by his own showing narrated
it to Mr. Adolphus Groob?"
"But Mr. Adolphus Groob never said a single
word to me about it. So _there_!" Thus Mrs. Aiken
with emphasis so distributed as to make her
speech almost truculent.
Miss Volumnia's reply was cold and firm. "You
admit, cousin Euphemia, that Mr. Adolphus Groob
sat next to you throughout that lecture?"
"Certainly. What of that?"
"Are you prepared to make oath that no part
of your conversation turned on Psychic subjects?"
"He talked a great deal of nonsense, if that's
what you mean, and said we were on the brink of
great discoveries. But I won't talk to you if you
go on about being prepared to make oath, like a
witness-box."
Mr. Aiken, perhaps with a mistaken idea of
averting heated controversy, interposed saying:
"Cert'nly Dolly Groob did say he'd met the missus
at a beastly place that stunk of gas out Coombe
way, and that she conversed very intelligibly--no,
intelligently--on subjects...."
Miss Volumnia interrupted, although the speaker
had to all seeming scarcely finished his sentence.
"That is tantamount," she said, "to an admission
that they had been talking on subjects. What
subjects?"
"Sort of subjects they were talkin' on, I s'pose,"
said he evasively.
"Very well, Reginald," said his wife indignantly.
"If you are going over to their side, I give up, and
I shan't talk at all." And she held to this resolution,
which tended to put an end to the conversation,
until the Deputation took its leave, shaking
its heads and making dubious sounds within its
closed lips. We were on very insecure ground, and
things had very doubtful complexions, and all that
sort of thing.
"What a parcel of fools they were," said the
lady when they had departed, "not to ask about
what the old gentleman dreamed at Madeline's!" That
was first hand from the original picture. "I
really do think one cannot depend on photographs."
"Must make a difference, I should say. Don't
pretend to understand the subject." Thus the
Artist, absorbed again in retouching the sketch of
no importance. And do you know, he seemed
rather to make a parade of his indifference. In
which he was very like people one meets at
Manifestations, only scarcely so bad. For a many of
them, face to face with what they are pretending
to think their own _post mortem_, remain unimpressed,
and cut jokes. Then, of course, we have to remember
that it is usually a paid Medium--that may make
a difference.
We think, however, it is safe to say that had Miss
Volumnia, when she conversed with Miss Upwell at
the second, or fulfilled, Bun-Worry, been in
possession of the facts elicited at this interview, she
might have detailed them so as to induce in that
young lady's mind a more lenient attitude towards
the incredulity of her father and Mr. Pelly about
the picture. As it was--and it is very necessary
to bear this in mind in reading what remains to be
told--this interview had not then taken place, and
did not in fact come about till nearly two months
later, when the compiling of the Society's Quarterly
Report made the adoption of a definite attitude
towards the Picture Story necessary.