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SEEN AND UNSEEN
BY
E. KATHARINE BATES
NEW YORK
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
214-220 EAST 23RD STREET
1908
_First Published July 1907_
_Second Impression October 1907_
_Third Impression March 1908_
----------
_Popular Edition 1908_
To
C. E. B.
IN MEMORY OF
ONE WHO LOVED AND SUFFERED
AND IN THE SURE AND CERTAIN HOPE
OF A JOYFUL MEETING WITH
HIM, AND WITH OTHERS
WHO HAVE CROSSED
THE BAR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
I. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 1
II. INVESTIGATIONS IN AMERICA, 1885-1886 13
III. AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND 49
IV. HONG KONG, ALASKA, AND NEW YORK 71
V. INDIA, 1890-1891 80
VI. SWEDEN AND RUSSIA, 1892 97
AN INTERLUDE 129
VII. LADY CAITHNESS AND THE AVENUE WAGRAM 144
VIII. FROM OXFORD TO WIMBLEDON 161
IX. 1896, HAUNTINGS BY THE LIVING AND THE DEAD 176
X. FURTHER EXPERIENCES IN AMERICA 195
XI. A HAUNTED CASTLE IN IRELAND 218
XII. 1900-1901, ODDS AND ENDS 232
XIII. 1903, A SECOND VISIT TO INDIA 260
XIV. A FAMILY PORTRAIT AND PSYCHIC PHOTOGRAPHY 274
APPENDIX 298
INTRODUCTION
Many years ago, whilst living at Oxford, I was invited by a very old
friend, who had recently taken his degree, to a river picnic; with
Nuneham, I think, as its alleged object.
Unfortunately, the day proved unfavourable, and we returned in open
boats, also with open umbrellas; a generally drenched and bedraggled
appearance, and nothing to cheer us on the physical plane except a
quantity of iced coffee which had been ordered in anticipation of a
tropical day.
Under these rather trying conditions I can remember getting a good
deal of amusement out of the companions in the special boat which
proved to be my fate. Our host, being a clever and interesting man
himself, had collected clever and interesting people round him, on the
"Birds of a Feather" principle, and I happened to sit between two
ladies, one the wife (now, alas! the widow) of a man who was to become
later on one of our most famous bishops; the other--her bosom friend
and deadly rival--the wife of an equally distinguished Oxford don.
The iced coffee combined with the pouring rain may have been partly to
blame, but certainly the conversation that went on between the two
ladies, across my umbrella, was decidedly _Feline_.
To pass the time we were valiantly endeavouring to play "Twenty
Questions" from the bottom of the boat, and the Bishop's widow was
asking the questions. She had triumphantly elicited the fact that we
had thought of a _cinder_--and an historical cinder--and the twentieth
and last permissible question was actually hovering on her lips. "It
was the cinder that Richard Coeur de Lion's horse fell upon," she
said eagerly. Of course, we all realised that this was a most obvious
"slip" in the case of so highly educated a woman; but the Bosom Friend
could not resist putting out the velvet paw: "A little confusion in
the centuries, I think, dear," she said sweetly. The unfortunate
questioner practically "never smiled again" during _that_ expedition.
But a still more crushing blow was in store for her.
The conversation turned later upon questions of style in writing or
speaking, and with perhaps pardonable revenge, she said to her rival:
"I always notice that you say 'one' so often--'_one_ does this or
that,' and so forth."
"Really, dear? That is curious. Now I always notice that _you_ say 'I'
so continually!"
The cut and thrust came with the rapidity of expert fencers.
And this brings me to the real gist of my story.
It is considered the most heinous offence "_to say I_," and every
conceivable device is resorted to, no matter how clumsy, in order to
prevent the catastrophe of a writer being forced to speak of himself in
the first person.
To my mind, there is a good deal of affectation and pose about this, and
in anything of an autobiography it becomes insupportable.
"The writer happened upon one occasion to be present, etc." "He who pens
these unworthy pages was once travelling to Scotland, etc. etc."
Which of us has not groaned under these self-conscious euphemisms? "Why
not say '_I_' and have done with it?" we are wont to exclaim in
desperation after pages of this kind of thing.
Now I propose "to say _I_" and "have done with it," and not waste time
in trying to find ingenious and wearisome equivalents.
That is my first point.
Secondly, in this record of psychic experiences I mean to keep clear of
another intolerable nuisance--I mean the continual introduction of
capital letters and long dashes in order to conceal identity in such
episodes.
The motive is admirable, but the method is detestable.
One can only judge by personal experience. I know that when I read a
rather involved narrative of sufficiently involved psychic doings, and
Mr Q----, Miss B----, Mr C----, and Mr C.'s maternal aunt Mrs G----
figure wildly in it, I am driven desperate in trying to force some idea
of personality into these meaningless letters of the alphabet.
To conceal the identity of Mr Brown, who was once guilty of seeing a
ghost, may be and most frequently is, a point of honour, but why not
call him Mr Smith, and say he lived in Buckinghamshire, and thus rouse
a definite mental conception in your reader's brain, instead of
calling him Mr Z. of W----, and thus setting up mental irritation
before the ghost comes upon the scene?
Having cleared the ground so far, I will now mention my third and last
point.
It is usual when writing reminiscences of any kind to anticipate your
reader's criticisms, and try to increase his interest in your
experiences by a sort of false humility in deprecating their value.
The idea is doubtless founded on a sound knowledge of Human Nature,
but it may easily fall into exaggeration. Nothing is, of course, so
disastrous as to praise beforehand a person, a picture, a voice, a
poem, a book, or anything else in the wide world, in which we wish our
friends to take any special interest. Such a course naturally rouses
unconscious antagonism in poor, fallen Human Nature before we even see
or hear the object of our later bitter aversion. But there is a medium
in all things, and it is scarcely polite to put the intelligence of
our readers sufficiently low to be manipulated by such obvious arts.
Moreover, it has been well said that the history of any one human
being--truthfully told (I would add, intelligently assimilated)--would
be of enthralling interest and value. If this be true on the ordinary
physical, intellectual, and spiritual planes it should not be _less_
true, surely, where a fourth plane of psychic experience is added to the
other three?
Then again, there is no need to apologise for experiences limited in
interest or in amount.
These terms are of necessity comparative. For example, my experiences
are limited compared with those of some people I have known, who have
been either more highly endowed with psychic gifts or who have
considered it advisable to cultivate such gifts to a high point of
efficiency; or lastly, with whom opportunities for experience have been
more numerous. But, on the other hand, my experiences have been great
compared with those of some people at least equally interested in these
subjects.
Geographically speaking, I have been peculiarly fortunate, having had
the opportunity of witnessing phenomena of this kind in many countries,
differing widely in Race, Climate, and other conditions.
I have been told many times that I could develop clairvoyance,
clairaudience, or sit as a materialising medium, but have had no desire
to go further in these matters.
I have seen quite as much as I wish to see, I have heard quite as much
as I wish to hear, and should be very sorry personally to increase
either of these psychic possibilities by the practice that makes more
perfect.
Some consider this lamentable cowardice and want of faith. Each one must
judge for himself in such a matter. Faith in this connection may easily
degenerate into foolhardiness.
"Greater is He that is for you than all those who are against you" has
been quoted to me again and again in deprecation of my attitude in these
things. It has always appeared to me a matter in which individual
judgment must be exercised, and upon which no broad and general lines of
conduct can be laid down.
One man can cycle fifty miles in the day, and dance all night, and be
the better for the experience. Another attempting the same feat, but
not having the same constitution, might do himself lasting injury. It is
exactly the same thing on the psychic plane. Our psychic constitutions
differ at least as much as our physical ones. We may overtax either, and
with similar consequences. We have no right to expect protection or
immunity on either plane, where we neglect the warnings of that inner
monitor who is always our best guide.
As a final word of warning, I would say: "Beware of your motives in
cultivating psychic capacity." It is so easy to mistake love of
notoriety, even in one's own little _milieu_, for love of Truth. There
is always an eager, curious crowd anxious to get "messages" or "hear
raps," or to see any other little psychic parlour tricks which we may be
induced to play for their benefit. At first one feels it is almost a
sacred duty to satisfy, or attempt to satisfy, these psychic cormorants;
but later, wisdom comes with experience.
At one time I felt bound to collect my friends and acquaintances round
me and tell them all I knew upon these subjects, and doubtless it was
right to do so whilst I "_felt that way_," to quote an expressive
Americanism.
But the inevitable day came when I realised that I had spent my strength
and my muffins in vain; for these gatherings generally took the form of
tea-parties, not too large to cope with single-handed--say from ten to
twenty people. They came at 4.30 P.M. and stayed till 8 P.M., when most
of them remembered they ought to have dined at 7.45 P.M., and went away
saying "How immensely they had enjoyed themselves," and "How
interesting it all was."
And so far as any permanent good came of it, there the matter ended.
Believe me, when people are prepared for this development of their finer
senses _they will come to you_. There is no need to go into the highways
and hedges and compel them to come in. If they do come they won't
stay--why should they? _They have not got there yet_, to use a
thoroughly hateful and ungrammatical but absolutely accurate sentence.
If you try to carry them on the back of your own knowledge and
experiences, you can do so for a time, but eventually they will struggle
down, or you will put them down from sheer fatigue, and then they will
run back to the spot where you found them, and thence work out their own
psychic evolution either in this or in some future term of existence.
When their interest is exhausted--to say nothing of your patience--you
will hear that they have called you a crank and lamented your "wasting
your time over such nonsense." That will be _your_ share of the
transaction.
I know this _because I have been there--moi qui vous parle_.
"Let every man be persuaded in his own mind," but don't try to persuade
anyone else. When the right time comes he will ask your help and counsel
without any persuasion.
Of course, I am speaking only of private work. Lectures and congresses
are of the greatest possible value; for no one knows whom he may be
addressing on these occasions, and the seed may be falling into soil
prepared, but often unconsciously prepared, for its reception.
To sum up the whole matter:
1. Be strong in the conviction that eventually good must always conquer
evil, but remember also that you individually may have a very bad time
meanwhile if you go amongst mixed influences and evoke that which at
present you are not strong enough to withstand.
2. Know when to speak and when to be silent.
3. Receive what comes to you spontaneously, but never allow yourself to
be cajoled or persuaded into developing your mediumship to gratify
curiosity; not even on the plea of scientific duty, unless you are fully
conscious in your own mind that this is the special work which is laid
upon you.
And bearing these three simple rules in mind, we may go forward with
brave hearts and level heads on the Quest which has been so plainly
opened out to us in this twentieth century.
E. KATHARINE BATES.
SEEN AND UNSEEN
CHAPTER I
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS
Having set myself to write a personal record of psychic experiences, I
must "begin at the beginning," as the children say.
When only nine years old I lost my father--the Rev. John Ellison Bates
of Christ Church, Dover--and my earliest childish experience of anything
supernormal was connected with him. He had been an invalid all my short
life, and I was quite accustomed to spending days at a time without
seeing him. His last illness, which lasted about a fortnight, had
therefore no special significance for me, and my nurse, elder brother,
and godmother, who were the only three people in the house at the time,
gave strict orders that none of the servants should give me a hint of
his being dangerously ill. These instructions were carefully carried
out, and yet I dreamed three nights running--the three nights preceding
his decease--that he was dead. I was entirely devoted to my father, who
had been father and mother to me in one, and these dreams no doubt broke
the terrible shock of his death to me. How well I remember, that cold,
dreary February morning, being hastily dressed by candle-light by
strange hands, and then my dear old nurse (who had been by his bedside
all night) coming in and telling me the sad news with tears streaming
down her cheeks. It seemed no news at the moment; and yet I had spoken
of my dreams to no one, "for fear they should come true," having some
pathetic, childish notion that silence on my part might avert the
catastrophe. In all his previous and numerous illnesses I had never
dreamt that any special one was fatal.
During the next few years of school life my psychic faculty remained
absolutely in abeyance. In a fashionable school, surrounded by
chattering companions and the usual paraphernalia of school work,
classes, and masters, etc., I can, however, recall many a time when
suddenly everything around me became unreal and I alone seemed to have
any true existence; and even that was for the time merged in a rather
unpleasant dream, from which I hoped soon to wake up. This sensation was
quite distinct from the one--also well known to me in those days and
later--of having "done all this before," and knowing just what somebody
was about to say.
Probably both these sensations are common to most young people. It would
be interesting to note which of the two is the more universal.
I pass on now to the time when I was about eighteen years old, and a
constant visitor, for weeks and months at a time, in the house of my
godfather, the archdeacon of a northern diocese. His grandson, then a
young student at Oxford, of about my own age, must have been what we
should now call a very good sensitive. It was with him that I sat at my
first "table," more as a matter of amusement than anything else, and
certainly young Morton Freer treated the "spirits" in the most cavalier
fashion. They did not seem to resent this, and he could do pretty much
what he liked with them. This may be a good opportunity for explaining
that when I speak in this narrative of "spirits" I do so to save
constant periphrasis, and am quite consciously "begging the question"
very often, as a matter of verbal convenience.
In those days I don't think we troubled ourselves much about theories,
and when we found that Morton and I alone could move a heavy dining-room
table, or any other piece of heavy furniture quite beyond our normal
powers, practically without exerting any strength at all, we looked upon
it as an amusing experience without caring to inquire whether the energy
involved had been generated on this side the veil or on the other side.
We could certainly not have moved such weights under ordinary
circumstances, even by putting forth all our combined strength, and we
could only do so, for some mysterious reason, when we had been "sitting
at the table" beforehand. Ingenious Theories of Human Electricity raised
to a higher power by making a Human Battery, etc. etc., were not so
common then as now, and we accepted facts without trying to solve their
problems.
The dear, hospitable Archdeacon would put his venerable head inside the
door now and then, shake it at us half in fun, and yet a good deal in
earnest, and I think he was more than doubtful whether our parlour
games were quite lawful!
We were very innocent and very ignorant in those days on the subject of
psychic laws; and probably this was our salvation, for I can remember no
terrible or weird experience, such as one reads of nowadays when tyros
take to experiments.
And yet my knowledge and experiences of later days lead me to endorse
most heartily the well-known dictum of Lawrence Oliphant--namely, that
when he saw people sitting down in a casual, irresponsible way to "_get
messages through a table_," it reminded him of an ignorant child going
into a powder magazine with a lighted match in its hand.
Staying in this same house, I can next recall a flying visit from a
brother of mine, who had just spent three months, on leave from India,
in America, where he had taken introductions, and had been the guest of
various hospitable naval and military men, who had shown him round the
Washington Arsenal, West Point Academy, and so forth. My kind old host
had begged him to take us on his way back to London; and I remember well
his look of utter amazement when Morton and I had lured him to "the
table" one afternoon, and he was told correctly the names of two or
three of these American gentlemen.
"I _must_ have mentioned them to my sister in my letters," he said,
turning to the younger man. I knew this was _not_ the case, but it was
difficult to prove a negative.
It was a relief, therefore, when my brother suggested what he
considered a "real test," where previous knowledge on my part must be
excluded.
"Let them tell me the name of a bearer I had once in India--he lived
with me for more than twelve years--always returning to me when I came
back from English furlough, and yet at the end of that time he suddenly
disappeared, without rhyme or reason, and I have neither seen nor heard
of him since. I _know_ my sister has never heard his name. _That_ would
be something like a test, but, of course, it won't come off," he added
cynically.
The wearisome spelling out began.
The table rose up at R, then at A.
"Quite wrong," my brother called out in triumph. "I knew how it would be
when any real test came. Fortunately, too, it is wildly wrong--neither
the letter before nor the letter after the right one, so you cannot
wriggle out of it that way."
"Never mind, Major Bates," said Morton Freer good-naturedly. "Let us go
on all the same, and see what they mean to spell out."
Fortunately, we did so, with a most interesting result; for the right
name was given after all, but spelt in the Hindoostanee and not the
European fashion. The name in true Hindoostanee was Rám Dín--but
Europeans spelt it Rham Deen--and so my brother himself had entirely
forgotten when the A was given that it had any connection with the man's
name. When the whole word was spelt out, of course he remembered, and
then his face was a study!
"Good gracious! it is right enough, and that is the real Hindoostanee
spelling, too. I never thought of that when the A came!"
I think this episode knocked the bottom out of his scepticism for some
years to come.
Even now this case precludes ordinary and conscious telepathy. Mr
Podmore would be reduced to explaining that the Hindoostanee spelling
was latent in my brother's consciousness, though his normal self
repudiated it.
Another curious incident--still more difficult to explain upon the
Thought Transference Theory (unless we stretch it to include a possible
impact of _all_ thoughts, at all times and from all quarters of the
globe, upon everyone else's brain)--occurred under the same hospitable
roof.
One of the Archdeacon's nieces came to stay in the house about this
time. She was considerably my senior, and was very kind to me, with the
thoughtful kindness an older woman can show to a sensitive young girl.
This awakened in me an affection which, I am thankful to say, still
exists between us. This lady was considerably under thirty years old at
the time, but to my young ideas she seemed already in the sear and
yellow leaf from the matrimonial point of view! One must remember how
different the standard of age was more than thirty years ago!
It was also the time when marriage was looked upon not only as the most
desirable, but as almost the only _possible_, career for a woman.
So when Morton and this lady and I were "sitting at the table" in the
gloaming one evening, I said, with trembling eagerness: "Morton, _do_
ask if Carrie will ever be married," for the case seemed to me almost
desperate at the advanced age of twenty-seven or twenty-eight!
I must mention that for some occult reason (which I have entirely
forgotten) I trusted fervently that a Hungarian or Polish name might be
given after the satisfactory "Yes" had been spelt out, but, alas!
nothing of the kind occurred.
"The table" began with a D, and then successively E, H, A, V were given.
No one ever heard of a Polish or Hungarian name of the kind, and I
remember saying petulantly: "Oh, give it up, Morton. It's all nonsense!
Nobody ever heard of a Mr _Dehav_."
Once more Morton rescued a really good bit of evidence by his
imperturbable perseverance.
"Wait a bit! Let us see what is coming," he said.
I took no further personal interest in the experiment. Either Morton
concluded the name was finished, or there was some confusion in getting
the next letters, owing doubtless to my impetuous disgust. Anyway, he
went on to say:
"Let us ask where the fellow lives at the present time." This was
instantly answered by "_Freshwater_," and the further information given
that he was a widower.
None of us knew any man, married or single, who lived at Freshwater, and
the incident was relegated to the limbo of failures.
Several years later, however, my friend _did_ marry a gentleman whose
name (a very pretty one) began with the five despised letters, and he
was a widower, and _had_ been living in his own house at Freshwater at
the time mentioned. She did not meet him until some years after our
curious experience.
About the same time, but in the south of England, my attention was again
drawn to metapsychics by an experience connected with the death of the
famous Marquis of Hastings, of horse-racing repute. As a young girl I
lived close to the Mote Park at Maidstone, where his sister, the present
Lady Romney, was then living as Lady Constance Marsham. The Reverend
David Dale Stewart and his wife (he was Vicar of Maidstone, and I made
my home with them for some years after leaving school) were friends of
hers, and she sometimes came to see them in a friendly way in the
morning. On one of these occasions, when Lady Constance had just
returned from paying her brother a visit in a small shooting-box in the
eastern counties (I think), Mrs Stewart remarked that she was afraid the
change had not done Lady Constance much good, as she was looking far
from well. In those days Lady Romney was an exceptionally strong and
healthy young woman.
She said rather impatiently: "Well, the fact is I did a very stupid
thing the other day--I never did such a thing before--I fainted dead
away for the first time in my life."
Asked for the reason of this, she told us that she and her husband and
Lord and Lady Hastings were dining quietly one evening together, two
guests who had been expected not having arrived by the train specified.
Looking up Bradshaw, and finding no other train that could bring them
until quite late at night, the other four sat down to dinner. Soup and
fish had already been discussed, when a carriage was heard driving up to
the door, and they naturally concluded that their guests had discovered
some means of getting across country by another line. Lord Hastings
said:
"Tell Colonel and Mrs ---- that we began dinner, thinking they could not
arrive till much later, but that we are quite alone, and beg they will
join us as soon as possible."
The servant went to the door, prepared with the message given, flung it
open--but no carriage, no horses were there! Everybody had heard it
driving up, nevertheless.
Remembering the old family legend that a carriage and pair is heard
driving up the avenue before the head of the Hastings family dies, Lady
Romney fainted dead away, very much to her own surprise and
mortification; for she was, and doubtless is still, an uncommonly
sensible woman, "quite above all superstitions."
The episode struck me as curious at the time; but the impression passed,
and a few days later I went to pay a visit to friends of mine in
Buckinghamshire. Soon after my arrival I happened to mention the story,
and was much laughed at as a "superstitious little creature, to think
twice of such nonsense." "Of course, everyone had been mistaken in
supposing they heard wheels or horses' hoofs--nothing could be simpler!"
And yet before I left that house, three weeks later, all the newspapers
were full of long obituary notices of the Marquis of Hastings. These
were so interesting that my friend's husband had reached the second
long column in _The Times_ before any of us remembered my story, which
had been treated with so much contempt. It suddenly flashed across my
mind: "Owen! Remember the carriage and pair and how you laughed at me!"
They were forced to confess "_it was certainly rather odd_," the usual
refuge of the psychically destitute!
A shake of the kaleidoscope, and I see another incident before me of
more personal interest.
At the time of the outbreak of the Afghan War, in the autumn of 1878, I
was living with very old friends in Oxford. My brother of the Rám Dín
incident was once more in India, and had been Military Secretary for
some years at Lahore to Sir Robert Egerton, who was at that time
Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab.
When the war broke out, my brother, of course, went off to join his
regiment for active service; but at the time of my experience it was
impossible that he could have reached the seat of war, and I knew this
well.
I was in excellent spirits about him, for he had been through many
campaigns, and loved active service, as all good soldiers do. Moreover,
I had just read a charming letter which Sir Robert Egerton had sent him
on resigning his appointment as Military Secretary to take up more
active duty to his country.
Yet it was just at this juncture--when, humanly speaking, there was no
cause for any special anxiety--that I woke up one morning with the
gloomiest and most miserable forebodings about this special brother.
Nothing of the kind had ever occurred to me before, though he had been
through many campaigns in India, China, Abyssinia, and elsewhere.
It was an overwhelming conviction of some great and definite disaster
to him, and my friends in vain tried to argue me out of such an
unreasonable terror by pointing out, truly enough, that he could not
possibly be within the zone of danger at that time. I could only
repeat: "I _know_ that something terrible has happened to him,
wherever he is. It may not be death, but it is some terrible
calamity."
I spent the day in tears and in absolute despair, and wrote to tell him
of my conviction. Allowing for difference of time between Quetta and
Oxford, my mental telegram reached me in the same hour that my brother,
whilst on the march, and only thirty miles beyond Quetta, was suddenly
struck down in his tent by the paralysis which kept him confined to his
chair--a helpless sufferer--for twenty-eight years.
Perhaps, now that I know so much more of mental currents, I might have
received a more definite message as regards the true _nature_ of the
calamity. It could not have been more marked, nor more definite as
regards the _fact_ of it.
My condition of hopeless misery obliged me to put off all engagements
that day, and I did nothing but fret and lament over him, with the
exception of writing the one letter mentioned, in which I told him of my
strange and sad experience.
In time, of course, the first sharp impression passed, and soon a cheery
letter arrived from him, written, of course, before the fatal day. My
experience in Oxford occurred on the morning of 4th December 1878. It
was well on in January 1879 before the corroboration arrived, in a
letter written to us by a stranger. Communication was delayed not only
by the war, but also by the fact that my poor brother was lying at the
time deprived of both movement and speech, and could only spell out
later, by the alphabet, the address of his people at home.
CHAPTER II
INVESTIGATIONS IN AMERICA, 1885-1886
An interval of seven years occurs between the events recorded in the
last chapter and my first visit to America, which took place in the
autumn of 1885.
During these years no abnormal experiences came to me, nor had I the
smallest wish for any.
The table turnings with Morton Freer were a thing of the past, and were
looked back upon by me in the light of a childish amusement rather than
anything else. Quite other interests had come into my life, specially as
regards literature and music; and I never gave a thought to spooks or
spiritualism, nor did I really know anything about the latter subject.
It is true that on one occasion a curate at Great Marlow had spoken to
me about Mr S. C. Hall and his researches, and I think he must have
given me an introduction to the dear old man, for I remember going to
see him "with a lady friend" (he made a great point of this, somewhat to
my amusement), and finding a charming old man with silver locks, a fine
head, and a nice white frilly shirt.
He spoke of his dear friend "Mrs Jencken," whom he considered the only
reliable medium, and showed us some sheets full of hieroglyphics, which
he said were messages obtained through her influence from "his dear
wife."
It was all so much Greek to me in those days, and only true sympathy
with the poor old man's evident loneliness and adoration of his wife's
memory prevented my making merry over the extraordinary delusions of the
old gentleman, when my companion and I had left his rooms in Sussex
villas.
Later, I lived during two years with Mrs Lankester and her daughters
whilst looking after an invalid brother in London; and I need scarcely
point out that constant intercourse with Professor Ray Lankester in his
mother's house was not calculated to encourage any psychic proclivities,
even had these latter not been entirely latent with me at that time.
I heard a great deal about the "Slade exposure," both from Professor
Lankester and his friend Dr Donkin, who often came to us with him. When
arranging my American tour in 1885, Mrs Lankester kindly gave me an
introduction to Mrs Edna Hall, an old friend of theirs, who had been
living in their house during the whole period of the Slade trial. This
lady--an American--lived permanently in Boston, and curiously enough (in
view of the preceding facts) it was she who persuaded Miss Greenlow and
me to attend our first _séance_ in Boston. Mrs Edna Hall had honoured
Mrs Lankester's introduction most hospitably; but she was too busy a
woman to do as much for us as her kindness suggested, and she had
therefore introduced us to another friend--Mrs Maria Porter--a most
picturesque, clever, and characteristic figure in Boston society in the
eighties.
Both these ladies accompanied us to the "Sisters Berry." Mrs Edna Hall
had no sort of illusions on the subject. She said quite frankly that she
only took us there because it was a feature of American life which we
ought not to miss, and which would probably amuse us, if only by showing
the gullibility of Human Nature.
One is always apt to read past experiences in the light of present
convictions. Fortunately, I kept a diary at the time, and have a
faithful record of what took place, and, which is still more valuable,
of the impressions formed at the time.
The extracts connected with this _séance_ in Boston, and later
experiences in New York, are taken partly from my record at the time and
partly from the chapter on "Spiritualism in America," published in my
book entitled "A Year in the Great Republic."
Speaking of this first _séance_ in Boston, I see that I have said:
"I went to the 'Sisters Berry' in a very antagonistic frame of mind,
_determined beforehand that the whole thing was a swindle_ (italics are
recent), accompanied by friends who were even more sceptical than
myself, if that were possible." I go on then to describe the usual
cabinet, and pass on to the following extract:--
An old Egyptian now appeared, and a man in the circle, who had been
sitting near my friend Miss Greenlow all the evening, went up and spoke
to him, and then asked "_that the lady who had been sitting near him_"
might come up also, which she did; but she said she could distinguish no
features, and only felt a warm, damp hand passed over hers. Miss
Greenlow was next called up by the spirit of a young man who wished to
embrace her, but who was finally proved to be the departed friend of the
lady who sat next to her. Miss Greenlow returned to her seat, furious,
declaring that it was a horrible, coarse-looking creature, unlike anyone
she had ever seen in her life.
Mrs Porter made valiant attempts to investigate the figures who came
forth at intervals, but was invariably waved back by the master of the
ceremonies.
"Will that lady kindly sit down? This spirit is not for her. It wishes
to communicate with its own friends, and she is disturbing the
conditions, and forcing the spirit back into the cabinet."
There were evidently many old stagers there, who flew up like
lamp-lighters on every possible occasion, with exclamations of: "Oh,
Uncle Charlie, is that you?" "How do you do, Jem?" and so forth.
One old lady, in a mob cap and black gown, was introduced as a certain
Sister Margaret who had taught in St Peter's School, Boston. She came to
speak to a former pupil, who gave her spiritualistic experiences in such
remarkably bad grammar as reflected small credit on Sister Margaret's
teaching of the English language.
This girl told us how anxious she had always been to see her old
teacher, who had appeared to her several times in the _séance_ room, but
never in her old garments--a sort of sister's dress. After wishing very
fervently one night, Sister Margaret appeared dressed in mob cap and
gown, saying: "Don't you see my dress? I came in it at your wish."
"Yes," answered the girl; "and I thank you for gratifying my wish. Since
which time," she added, "I have been a firm believer in spiritualism."
A young French girl, in draggly black garments and a shock of thick
black hair, then came forward and rushed amongst us, trying to find
someone to talk French with her. My friend Mrs Hall went up first, and
then I was told to go up and speak to her. I took hold of her hands, and
grasped them firmly for a moment. They seemed to be ordinary flesh and
blood, but I am bound to confess that they appeared to _lengthen out_ in
a somewhat abnormal fashion when the pressure was removed.
Her face was very cadaverous, and she spoke in a quick, hurried way, _as
if time were an object_. She said she understood a little English, but
could not speak it. Her mother had been French; her father an Indian,
"un brave homme."
It seemed to me that a good deal of kissing and embracing went on. One
old grey-headed gentleman was constantly walking up to the cabinet and
being embraced by a white figure, whose arms we could just see, thrown
round his neck, in the dim light. (I note that the light here was much
less than with Mrs Stoddart Gray in New York.)
The only excitement was the chance of some disturbance before we left;
for Mrs Porter became more and more indignant with the "gross
imposture," which culminated when at length she was called up and told
that "a young man wished to speak with her." She asserted that it was
"the most horrible, grinning, painted creature who hissed into her
ears."
The master of the house begged her to be patient, and try to hear what
the spirit wished to say, but with a very emphatic "NO, NO, NO" she
resumed her seat, amidst a general titter of laughter.
At the last we were told that three little girls, whose mother sat near
the cabinet, wished to materialise, but found it difficult to do so,
owing to the absence of children in the audience.
The mother seemed very anxious to see them; but suddenly the gas was
turned up, and the _séance_ declared over--a very abrupt finale to a
piece of unmitigated humbug, I should say.
These extracts sufficiently show the spirit in which I entered upon my
investigations and the result of that spirit. I think even Mr Podmore
would have considered me _thoroughly sound_ on that first evening. I
have no doubt that the violence of Mrs Porter's antagonism, and the
smiling cynicism of Mrs Hall in face of the "American experience" she
had proposed for us, added to my own preconceived prejudices.
I am aware that the Berry Sisters have been "exposed," thus sharing the
fate of all other public mediums. In the light of later experiences,
however, I feel sure that I might have received something personally
evidential on this occasion had my attitude of mind given hospitality to
any possible visitors from the Unseen.
The next extracts from my diary refer to a _séance_ which we attended in
New York a few days after our arrival there, and some two or three
weeks later than the Boston sitting already described.
Our stay in Boston had extended to three months from the original
fortnight we had planned for the visit. I had taken a few very good
introductions there: to Dr Oliver Wendell Holmes, Colonel Wentworth
Higginson, and others of the Boston _alumni_, and as several receptions
had been kindly arranged for us, and my name had appeared many times
during the winter in various local papers, it would have been easy for
the Sisters Berry to find out something about me and my companion, and
utilise the knowledge by faking up a convenient spirit, who could have
talked glibly of my literary tastes, and so forth. Nothing of the sort
occurred, however, although our first _séance_ only took place a week or
two before we left Boston, after my three months' stay there.
This fact should certainly be "counted as righteousness" to the much
abused Sisters!
It was the more curious, that our first _séance_ in New York, within a
few days of our arrival, and in a metropolis where at the time we were
_absolute strangers_, should have been so much more successful as
regards evidential experiences.
I will again quote from my diary of 1886. The medium visited on this
occasion was Mrs Cadwell, who has since died.
* * * * *
We knew nothing beforehand of the medium, who lived in a small flat in
an unfashionable quarter. Some eight people only were assembled in the
extremely small room. All were perfect strangers to Miss Greenlow and
me, but a fancied likeness in one lady present to a picture I had seen
of Mrs Beecher Stowe led me to ask if it were she, and I was told that
my surmise was correct.
There was no room for a cabinet, so a curtain was hung across a tiny
alcove, just the ordinary "arch" found in most rooms of the kind.
When I went behind the curtain with the female medium, before the
sitting began, there was barely space for us both to turn round in. The
carpet on either side the curtain was one piece. There was absolutely no
room for any trap-door machinery, even could such have been worked
successfully in the perfect silence in which we sat, within two feet of
the alcove. The room was about the size of the small back dining-room in
an ordinary London lodging--say in Oxford or Cambridge Terrace, for
example.
The medium sat amongst us at first, only going behind the curtain after
a few moments, when she was "under control" as it is called.
A little child of hers, who died some years ago at the age of four, is
supposed to help in the materialisations, but is never seen outside the
curtains. If she came out herself she would not be able to help the
others to do so. I mention these things in the words in which they were
told to me, offering no comment, but putting the case for the moment as
spiritualists would put it. To do this, and then to give a faithful and
unprejudiced account of what took place, seems to me the only fair way
of treating such a subject.
I was told again and again that too much concentration of thought on
the part of the audience was deterrent. This accounts for music as an
invariable accompaniment of all such sittings. It seems to harmonise the
circle, to break up over-concentration, and may also, unfortunately,
serve to cover the doings of dishonest mediums.
It must not, however, be supposed that in this case the materialisations
went on only whilst we were singing. This might point to a possible
"trap-door theory," although in a city where flats abound (rooms, not
human beings!) there would still be the difficulty of getting your
downstairs neighbours to look kindly upon such proceedings. As a matter
of fact, we were often sitting in absolute silence when fresh "spirits"
appeared.
I can corroborate the assertion that too much concentration of thought
upon them proves deterrent to the spirits, for on more than one occasion
I heard a voice from the curtain or cabinet saying: "Do get the people's
minds off us; we can do nothing whilst they are fixed upon us so
intensely," as though _thought_ in spirit life corresponded to some
physical obstacle on the earth plane.
The first spirit who came (the daughter of an old gentleman sitting near
me) intimated through him that she would like me to go up and help her
to materialise the white veil which all in turn wore, and which, though
perfectly transparent, is considered a necessary shield between them and
the earth's influences; on the same principle, I suppose, that we put on
blue spectacles to protect us from the blinding rays of the sun.
She came out from the alcove, held both her hands in front of her,
turning them backward and forward that I might be satisfied that nothing
was concealed in them. The soft, clinging material of her gown ended
high up on the shoulders, so there were no sleeves to be reckoned with.
I stood close over her, holding out my own dress, and as she rubbed her
hands to and fro a sort of white lace or net came from them, like a
foam, and lay upon my gown which I was holding up towards her.
I touched this material, and held it in my hands. It had substance, but
was light as gossamer, and quite unlike any stuff I ever saw in a shop.
The very softest gossamer tulle that old ladies sometimes produce as
having belonged to their grandmothers is perhaps the nearest approach to
what I then lifted in my hands, but even this does not accurately
describe it.
When long enough she took up the veil, unfolded it, covering her head
with it, and saying very graciously "Thank you" to me.
Other spirits now appeared for the other people in the room, who
conversed with them in low tones.
All these had evidently materialised before and could consequently speak
with comparative ease. One, called the "Angel Mother" (the mother of the
medium), answered questions on the spirit life in a loud American voice,
prefacing every remark, whether to man or woman, by an affectionate
"Well, de-ar!" Her answers showed considerable shrewdness, but not much
depth, and were often rather wide of the mark.
"Nels Seymour" (who appears to have belonged to a sort of Christy
Minstrel Company over here) cracked jokes all the time with a gentleman
amongst the audience in a good-natured but flippant and very unspiritual
manner, and even the ladies joined in the undignified punning and "play
upon words" that went on all the time.
The little child's voice came in as a relief every now and then. She
spoke broken, childish English, but used the expressions of a grown-up
person. She described several spirits as "chying" (trying) to come, but
not being strong enough.
I was becoming drowsy, and rather tired of the performance, when my
attention was once more aroused by hearing that a very beautiful female
spirit, with a diamond star in her forehead, had appeared and asked for
me, saying she had been a friend of mine on earth, and wished to
communicate with me.
This was conveyed to me by the little child's voice, the spirit herself
not having yet emerged from the curtain; but the medium's husband looked
behind it, and told me of the diamond star, which he said was some
"order" in spirit life.
Having no idea who the friend might be, I begged for some further
particulars before going up to speak to her.
"She passed from earth life about five years ago, and in Germany,"
answered the medium's husband, who had conducted the conversation behind
the curtain.
This was less vague, and now for the first time a suspicion of the
spirit's identity crossed my mind; but I would not go up until a name
had been given, and I asked for this before leaving my seat.
My travelling companion--a recent acquaintance--had never heard me
mention the lady in question, who _had_ died in Germany at the time
specified. The little child said the spirit would give the name through
her, and the process was a curious one. Instead of mentioning the whole
name or each letter of it to her father, the child _described_ each
letter to him as you might describe the lines of the large capitals in a
child's reading-book. The father guessed the letter from the child's
description, and asked me if the first one were correct? It was; but I
did not tell him so, merely saying I should like to have the Christian
name in full before giving any opinion.
In due time the six letters (Muriel, we will call it) were correctly
given, and I had then no further excuse for refusing to speak to the
spirit.
I went up to the curtain, and she appeared in front of it. I have been
frequently asked: "Should you have recognised her as your friend had no
name been given?" With every wish to be perfectly truthful, I find it
difficult to answer this question, for the following reason:--None of
the "materialisations" I saw were exactly human in face. There was no
idea of a mask or clever "get up," but if one could accept the theory of
a body hastily put together and assumed for a time, the result is
exactly what might have been expected under the circumstances.
My friend in real life was very pale, and had exquisitely chiselled
features, and the ones I now looked upon were of the same _cast_. The
height was also similar, and an indescribable atmosphere of refinement,
purity, and quiet dignity, for which she had been remarkable; all this
was present with this materialisation. More than this I cannot say, for
no materialisation I have ever seen could be truthfully considered
_identical_ with the human original.
I did not feel frightened, but I did feel embarrassed, and naturally so,
considering how unwilling and grudging my recognition of her
individuality must have appeared. She seemed conscious of this, for
almost immediately she mentioned her hands, holding them out for
inspection, and saying:
"Don't you remember my hands? I was so proud of my hands!"
Now, as a matter of fact, my friend was noted for her beautiful hands,
but she was too sensible and clever a woman to have been conceited about
them, and had too much good taste ever to have made their beauty a
subject of remark, even to an intimate friend.
Moreover, the hands now _en évidence_, although well shaped and with
tapering fingers, were as little identical with a human hand as the face
was identical with a human face.
Casting about for something to say to her, my first thought was for an
only and dearly loved married sister of hers, also a friend of mine, and
I mentioned the latter in a guarded way, saying: "If you are in reality
my friend, have you no message for _your sister_?"
In a moment, and without the slightest hesitation, she said: "_Tell poor
Jessie_," going on with a message peculiarly appropriate to the facts of
the case, but of much too private a nature for publication.
Almost immediately afterwards, and _with no shadow of suggestion from
me_, she added:
"_Poor Jessie! She suffered terribly when I passed away so suddenly._"
My friend had died in a foreign country, under peculiarly sad
circumstances. She was young, beautiful, and accomplished; a prominent
local figure in the well-known capital where she had spent several
winters. Her death was so sudden that there was not even time to put off
a large afternoon "At Home" arranged for that day. Moreover, this
sister, by a most merciful chance, happened to be spending a few months
with her, out of England, at the time. These were all special facts,
spontaneously referred to by her, but which would _not_ have applied
equally well to the death of any other friend, even supposing such a
death to have occurred abroad.
The spirit spoke feebly and with difficulty, "not having much strength,"
she told me.
I asked if her father (who had died a few months previously) were with
her.
"Not yet," she said gently; "but I know that he has passed over." She
then kissed my hand, and faded away before my eyes, not apparently
returning to the curtain (close to which I stood), but vanishing into
thin air.
Some ten days later my friend and I went again to an evening _séance_ at
the same house, different people being present on this occasion. A
stupid, "_unintelligent_ sceptic" woman put us all out of harmony by
making inane suggestions, always declaring that "_she would not for the
world interfere with the conditions_," but doing so all the same. The
"Angel Mother" came again, and rather lost her temper, I thought, with
an aggravating, illogical man in the circle, who hammered away about
Faraday's opinions on the spirit world without much idea of what he was
talking about. "Nels Seymour" _appeared_, as well as spoke, this time.
He took my hand and kissed it; but he does not leave the cabinet, as he
is the "control." It was eleven years on this day since he had "passed
over," so he called it his "birthday."
A very beautiful female spirit materialised and offered to sit on my
lap; an offer I closed with at once.
She was some five feet eight inches in height, and a large,
well-developed woman. Anticipating the possibility of her resting her
feet on the ground, and so concealing her real weight, I moved my own
feet from the ground the moment she sat down, which was easily done, as
my chair was a high one.
She remained for several minutes in this position, resting, of
necessity, her whole weight upon me, which was about equal to that of a
small kitten or a lady's muff, in the days when small muffs were in
fashion. There was an _appreciable_ weight, but I have never nursed any
baby that was not far heavier.
The veil this time was materialised in the usual way, my friend going up
to watch the process.
My spirit friend appeared again, and more strongly this time. At a
public _séance_, where so many are eager to communicate with their
friends, it is impossible to monopolise more than a few minutes of the
public time, and consequently any communications are as hurried and
unsatisfactory as a conversation with an intimate friend in the public
reading-room of a hotel would be.
* * * * *
I pass over another most excellent and evidential incident as a
concession to family prejudice. It has already appeared in my book on
America entitled "A Year in the Great Republic," and may be found there.
* * * * *
At a third materialising _séance_ at the same house an excitable Italian
friend of mine, who had never seen anything of the kind before, came
with much the same prejudices as I had felt at the Boston _séance_, and
disturbed the conditions very much by his attitude of determined
antagonism; whilst his comparative ignorance of English, and my feeble
Italian, made explanations, under the circumstances, rather hopeless.
The whole circle was put out of harmony, and a dead weight lay upon us
all. The materialisations continued, it is true; but personally it was a
great relief to me when my excitable friend left, declaring that
everything he had seen was "_physiquement impossible mon ange_."
He departed so abruptly as to bring down much abuse upon his absent head
for having "broken the battery" and almost "killed the medium" by his
sudden disappearance from the circle.
This awful threat had so much power over the rest of the party that we
sat out to the bitter end, leaving the medium at last still in her
trance, with husband and son hovering over her in an anxiety which, if
acted, showed first-class dramatic power.
Meanwhile I had made the acquaintance of a very beautiful and charming
woman in New York, to whom I had brought a letter of introduction.
She has had a tragic and remarkable history; is a woman of great mental
powers, in addition to very remarkable beauty; and is of the highest
rank, being an Austrian princess, I believe, in her own right, and
having spent her youth in foreign courts.
Apart from these facts, which had been told me by a mutual friend before
we met, I knew nothing whatever of her family history, nor whether she
had brothers or sisters, alive or dead.
I had spoken to her of my curious experiences, and she had discussed the
matter with me from the standpoint of a thorough woman of the world, of
strong mental power, who had seen too much of life to be dogmatic or
narrow in her views, but too much also to believe in what is called the
"supernatural," before every possible _natural_ hypothesis had been
admitted and dismissed as untenable.
Sitting in her pretty room the day before I left New York, we had talked
for some two hours on various subjects connected with life and
literature, and before the final "adieux" she said laughingly: "Well,
have you been to any more _séances_?"
I said "No," and that we did not intend to do so, as our time was now so
short. A few moments of careless talk on the subject ensued, and picking
up a newspaper, I cast my eye over the usual list of mediums,
clairvoyants, etc. A half-defined wish to see whether any spirit friend
would come to me under totally different conditions and surroundings,
and in an entirely different quarter of the city, led to my copying out
one of the addresses at haphazard.
I could not prevail upon my hostess to accompany me (she is delicate,
and dreads night air), but I took the slip of paper to my hotel,
thinking that my friend there might care to take the cars after dinner
to this distant end of the city.
My English companion proved rather indifferent and disinclined towards
the expedition.
This was very natural. She was not magnetic in temperament, and had no
expectation of seeing any of her own friends, although, of course, she
had both seen and spoken to those who came for me.
However, a good dinner at the excellent Windsor Hotel fortified us so
much after our fatigues that at the last moment we agreed to make one
more attempt, no one, ourselves included, having known five minutes
previously that we should leave the house.
On this occasion we were ushered into a much more imposing drawing-room,
and the lady herself was evidently some degrees higher in the social
scale than our first mediumistic friend.
The arrangements also were quite different. As we sat waiting for a few
minutes (having arrived very punctually), Mrs Gray looked at my friend,
and then described an elderly lady with grey hair who was standing over
her, but, of course, invisible to our eyes. Almost immediately Mrs Gray
began rubbing her knees, and complained of pain in them, adding: "The
impression of dropsy is being conveyed to me. This spirit seems to have
suffered from disease of that nature."
My friend--who was very self-contained and unemotional--gave no clue to
the fact that she recognised anyone by this description, but as we were
returning home in the cars she said quietly: "It is curious Mrs Gray
should have described that old lady with grey hair--I suppose she meant
my mother. _She_ had grey hair, and died of dropsy."
On my expostulating with this lady for having given the impression that
she did not recognise the description at the time she said, with
conscious pride: "You don't suppose I was going to let the woman know
that she had described my mother?"
To give a false impression in so good a cause as determined incredulity,
seems not only justifiable, but actually praiseworthy to many minds.
Later in the evening, the _séance_ being in full swing, a spirit dressed
in some kind of white "sister's" dress appeared at the door of the
cabinet; and Mrs Stoddart Gray asked if anyone in the circle could speak
German, as this spirit did not seem to understand French, Italian, or
English, and she herself only recognised German by the sound.
A gentleman volunteered his assistance, but apparently without much
effect, and being a German scholar, I then offered to come to the
rescue. The moment I went up to the figure she seemed to gain strength,
and came quite out of the cabinet, and said to me in the most refined
German (any readers who have studied the language know that there is as
wide a difference between the highest and lowest type of German accent
as between an educated Irish "accent" and an Irish brogue):
"_Ich bin die schwester von Madame Schewitsch_," mentioning the name of
the foreign friend with whom I had been spending that afternoon: "_Ich
weisz das Sie Heute Nach mittag bei meiner schwester waren._"[1]
[1] Translation: "I am the sister of Madame Schewitsch--I know that you
spent this afternoon with my sister."
She had evidently a strong, almost overwhelming desire to make some
communication to me for her sister, but the difficulty in doing so
seemed equally strong.
It lay beyond the question of language. She spoke with sufficient
strength, and I could understand perfectly her well-chosen and
well-pronounced words. But some insuperable obstacle seemed to prevent
her telling me what she wished to convey, and the despairing attempt to
surmount this was painful in the extreme.
I assured her of my willingness to help in any way possible, and made a
few suggestions, but all in vain.
"Is it that you are not happy?"
"No--no! That is not it."
It seemed to me some sort of warning which she wished to convey, and had
some connection with illness, for the words _achtung_ and _krankheit_
(warning and illness) were repeated more than once, but no definite
message came.
I then asked if she could _write_ it, and she caught eagerly at the
idea. So I borrowed a pencil and some paper, and placed them on a small
table in the middle of the room, with a chair in front of it. She came
quite close to the table (five gas burners were more than half turned
on, so there was plenty of light), sat down, and took up the pencil, but
almost immediately threw it down again, saying in a most unhappy and
despairing voice: "_Nein! nein! Ich kann es selbst nicht schreiben!_"[2]
and vanished before my very eyes as she rose from the table. Now had
this been a case of fraud, and supposing that some woman had means of
discovering the name of my New York friend and the fact of my having
spent that very afternoon with her, what would have been easier than to
write or give some commonplace message in a language of which she had
already proved herself mistress?
[2] Translation: "No! no! I cannot even write it!"
The episode was so painful that I decided _not_ to write to Madame
Schewitsch about it. I have therefore no absolute corroboration of the
fact that the lady mentioned had a sister who became a nun, or who was
connected with some such establishment, and had passed over. This,
however, is much more probable than not, because in every high-born
Catholic family in Austria, one member in a large family almost
invariably takes the veil. I have given the real name in this case,
hoping Madame Schewitsch may perchance come across my book, and supply
the information needed. I may remark, finally, that three or four months
later, whilst travelling in California, I heard from my excitable and
sceptical Italian friend (who had given me the introduction to Madame
Schewitsch) that this lady had had a long and most serious illness
during my absence in the West, and that her husband and he had both
feared she would never recover from it. This fear, fortunately, proved
to be groundless.
To return to the sitting.
About twenty minutes after the "sister" had disappeared, a figure in
white came forward very swiftly, and without a moment's hesitation
pointed towards me, saying quickly: "_For you._"
I went up at once, recognising who it was, but determined to give no
sign of this fact.
The "spirit" looked at me for a moment with surprise, as one might look
at any well-known friend who passed us in the street without a greeting.
As I remained silent she whispered: "Don't you know me?" I am afraid _I_
gave the false impression this time, and asked her for her name.
"_Why, I am Muriel!_" came the instant answer, mentioning the name of
the first friend who had appeared to me, after spelling out her name, at
the previous _séances_ held in another part of New York.
On this third appearance my spirit friend asked me to kiss her. I must
confess that I complied with some amount of trepidation, which proved to
be quite unnecessary.
There was nothing the least repulsive to the touch, although it was not
exactly like kissing anyone on earth; but an indescribable atmosphere of
freshness and purity, which seemed always to surround this friend whilst
living, was very apparent under these changed conditions. Another
curious little point is that I had entirely forgotten my friend's love
of violets (she always wore them when possible, and used violet scent)
until I smelt them distinctly whilst speaking to her.
It must be remembered that until the day of the sitting, we had never
dreamed of going to Mrs Gray's house, nor had we even heard her name. I
picked it out of a newspaper by chance--amongst at least thirty others.
Until past seven o'clock that evening we had not decided to visit her,
and the _séance_ began at eight P.M., no single person in the room being
present who had been at the house of the other medium some weeks
previously. Under these circumstances it would be difficult to account
for the fact of my friend's reappearance on the ground of collusion
between the two mediums. Moreover, such collusion would not account for
the appearance earlier in the evening of a spirit claiming to be the
sister of Madame Schewitsch.
No one hitherto has been able to suggest any _intelligent_ explanation
of my personal experiences on these occasions. Conjuring tricks and trap
doors are, of course, "trotted out" by the _unintelligent_ sceptic, but
these do not meet the difficulty of an _accurate knowledge of names and
of family matters of comparatively small importance_.
As I am just now chiefly concerned with presenting incidents in my life
rather than in prosing over them, I resist the temptation to go further
into the question of _Materialisations_ either from the historical or
ethical point of view, and pass on to the subject of clairvoyance.
CHAPTER II--_continued_
INVESTIGATIONS IN AMERICA, 1885-1886
In speaking of clairvoyance I shall again have recourse to my notes
taken at the time of my American visit and on the spot.
I am quite convinced that where a life has been in any way eventful or
at all marked, any fairly developed clairvoyant can in some way "sense"
your mental and moral atmosphere.
In some three or four personal cases, the notes taken at the time of
such visits, paid several thousands of miles apart, might almost be read
as descriptive of the same interview, with different witnesses.
My travelling companion, who had led a very uneventful life, seemed to
puzzle them much more. There was apparently nothing to lay hold of, and
only a very shadowy, indistinct picture was given in consequence.
In my own case the colours were put on freely, firmly, and without the
least hesitation, and in every single instance the sketch was remarkably
truthful, and yet would not have described the life of one other woman
in three or four hundred.
That there is a good deal of guesswork done even under the supposed
influence of "trance" is quite evident to me. I am not prepared to say
that such trances were in no case genuine, but the remarks made during
them were frequently of a tentative nature, and the slightest good "hit"
was followed up with as much ingenuity as Sir Richard Owen displayed in
putting together his skeleton from a single bone.
I was told some six or seven times that my mother (who died during my
infancy) was my guardian spirit, and six times her name was given to me,
with some difficulty in one or two cases, but invariably without the
smallest guessing on the part of the clairvoyant or any hint from me.
One of my most successful interviews in New York was with a Mrs Parks of
Philadelphia--a very pleasant, good-looking, healthy woman, quite unlike
the usual cadaverous medium with whom one is more familiar.
Her terms being rather higher than those usually asked in America (where
competition has made mediums a cheap luxury), I demurred at first; upon
which she said brightly: "Well, don't come if you don't feel like paying
that; but I never alter my prices. But I won't take your money if I
don't give you satisfaction. Some get satisfaction from one person and
some from another--you will soon see if I am telling you the truth about
your friends, and I won't take a penny from you if you are
dissatisfied."
I left the house saying I would think it over, and Mrs Parks did not at
all press me to come, and from my manner could hardly have expected to
see me.
I had a most satisfactory interview with her next day.
After referring to my mother's presence, and giving her name without any
hesitation, she gave me several messages with regard to character which
were singularly appropriate, and finished up by saying: "Your mother
does not wish you to go to mediums or mix yourself too much up with such
persons. It is not necessary for you to do so; she says you have enough
mediumistic power for her to be able to communicate with you directly."
I could not help saying: "Well, Mrs Parks, you are going very much
against your own interests in giving me this message. I am a perfect
stranger to you in this city. I have told you that I am making some
little stay here, and as you have given me so much satisfaction I might
have been induced to come and see you several times again before
leaving."
She laughed, and answered: "That is quite true; but I am an honest
woman, and I am bound to give you the message that is given to me for
you, even when it goes against my interest."
Seeing her bright, pleasant home, with every trace of comfort about it,
and having received personal proof that money alone was not her
consideration, I could not help asking why she continued such an arduous
life.
"Well," she answered, "the truth is that I do it now against my own
wish. My husband has always objected to it more or less. He was afraid
it might injure my health, and for two years I gave it up entirely.
But," she added, "the spirits would not leave me alone. It seemed as if
I _had_ to come back to it, as if I were refusing to use the powers
that had been given to me for the help and comfort of my
fellow-creatures. I name a higher price than others, to limit my work
and to keep away those who would only come from idle curiosity." She
also told me that sometimes she had to give orders beforehand that
certain people should not be admitted on any pretext whatever. "I can
see their spirits round them before they reach the door very often, and
I would not have such people, bringing such an atmosphere into my
house--no, not if they gave me a hundred dollars for each sitting."
I must mention one more incident connected with this period of my
investigations, because it throws a strong light on some obscure
problems.
Whilst consulting these clairvoyants, in widely different parts of
America, two very near relatives of mine were almost invariably
described, and the names--one male and one female--were generally given.
The mediums invariably went on to say that the female spirit was further
on in development than the male spirit. Now there were circumstances
which made this statement, viewed from this world's standpoint, not only
absolutely mistaken, but almost ludicrously so. The woman's nature had
been a far more faulty one--more impetuous, less balanced, and so forth.
The male spirit described had been a man of very exceptional character
and spirituality, whilst on earth.
In spite of these facts the same "mistake," as I considered it, had
consistently been made by every clairvoyant who described them; which,
by-the-by, rules out telepathy as an explanation of these special
experiences. It certainly seemed strange that after giving accurate
descriptions of the two relatives referred to--names included--each
clairvoyant should make exactly the same mistake upon so obvious a
matter as the question involved.
Some months later, in the course of my travels, I found myself at Denver
in Colorado. We stayed here, at first, one day only, to break our
journey farther up into the Rocky Mountains. The previous day, when
wandering about Colorado Springs, my friend and I had come across a lady
doctor by chance; and having asked some trivial question, we were
invited into her pretty little house, where we chatted for half-an-hour
on various subjects--including spiritualism. We gave no account of our
experiences, but simply mentioned the fact that we had some interest in
the investigation.
Hearing this, and that we were going on to Denver next day, this lady
gave me the address of a young married friend who lived in that city,
and who had during the previous two years suddenly developed strong
mediumistic power, but was in no way a professional. She begged us to
call if possible, and I took down the address, but said it was very
doubtful if we could do so in the short time we should have at our
disposal.
At the end of a long afternoon's drive to the most interesting points of
view in Denver, we found ourselves close to the quarter where this young
woman lived, and called at the house mentioned. The lady was not at
home, and a friend who received us explained that it would be impossible
for her to come down in the evening to see us, as she was delicate, and
not allowed to go out at night.
As we were leaving Denver early next morning, this made a meeting
impossible, so we left our cards, and a note to explain our visit. Going
into the hotel office after dinner that evening, I heard a gentleman
inquiring for me by name, saying he had brought his wife to see me. I
explained that I was the lady he asked for, and he then said, with the
stoical resignation of the typical American husband: "I did not like her
to come out, but she was bound to have her own way."
The lady in question came into my bedroom upstairs after dismissing her
husband, and said she "preferred a room already permeated by my
influence." She then continued very simply: "I do not know whether I
shall be able to help you at all, but it seems there is something I have
to tell you or explain. When I read your note I felt bound to come,
although my husband tried to dissuade me. It seemed to me as if the
spirits came all the way with me in the cars."
She then gave me quite a good sitting, but on the ordinary lines, ending
up by the description of the relatives mentioned, and by making the
usual "mistake" about their relative spiritual positions.
This was all said in trance. When she returned to consciousness I said:
"Now, Mrs Brown (her real name), I must tell you honestly that you have
made one cardinal mistake, but I am also bound to say that five or six
professional mediums have done just the same as regards the same
matter." I then explained, and asked if she could account for such a
persistent and obvious misconception.
"Wait a moment," she answered; "perhaps the spirits will tell me."
She looked up with a very intent expression for a minute, as though
listening to some explanation which did not cover the ground of her own
experience, and then said very quickly and in a monotonous voice, as
though repeating a verbal message:
"It has nothing exactly to do with our earthly idea of 'goodness.'
Spiritual life can only come to those prepared for it, within the limits
of their capacity. The male spirit you mention was a clergyman of the
Church of England. He was a very holy man, but he was in some way creed
bound. He was a man of strong creed; he clung to his creed here, and
cannot quite free himself from it even now, although he has advanced
very much in spiritual perception. Now his wife had a very sympathetic,
_apprehending_ nature. She can therefore receive spiritual light more
fully and freely. That is why she has risen to a higher plane. This is
not a question of character so much as of _spiritual capacity_, and in
this she is the more highly gifted of the two. She is on a different
plane, but she is able to help her husband very much, and in time he
will join her, and they will progress together."
All this was said in a quick, decided way, and without the smallest
hesitation.
One would hardly have expected a young woman in the midst of the Rocky
Mountains to know the exact meaning of the term "_clergyman of the
Church of England_," for the word is almost unknown in America, where
they speak invariably of a _minister_. Yet the words were given with
quick, firm precision, exactly as written down.
Later, in San Francisco, a clairvoyant at once referred to my friend
"Muriel," and described her, but in rather vague terms. When I pointed
this fact out she said a little impatiently, as though we were wasting
time in quibbling: "_Oh, well, it does not matter. The spirit tells me
you know perfectly well who it is. She has already appeared to you in
New York._"
I had gone to this particular medium with several young friends, who
were all in a very sceptical and rather frivolous state of mind. She
described "an uncle," apparently over the heads of two of my friends,
and gave the further information that he was surrounded by water, and
appeared to have been drowned; also that he was extremely musical.
This was declared to be perfectly untrue and without a grain of
foundation, in fact.
The woman looked puzzled and a little mortified, but turned to others in
the circle, with better success, let us hope!
On our return home, when the young people were telling their mother of
the "awful humbug" amid shouts of laughter, the mother said quietly:
"But surely you remember, my dear children, hearing of your Uncle
Robert, who was drowned years ago, before any of you were born? He _was_
a great musician. He wanted to give up his life to art, but he was
persuaded to take up another profession."
I give this as an instance of the carelessness with which, when we are
_determined_ to find fraud, we may do so sometimes at the expense of
truth. These young girls had doubtless heard of their uncle, but the
fact had possibly escaped their memories for the moment, and probably
they had no wish to recall anything which could cast a doubt on their
preconceived notion that "the whole thing was a swindle!"
Before closing the chapter of my American experiences in the years 1885
and 1886, I must give one more personal detail.
When investigating various clairvoyants in the Eastern States in March
and April of the year 1886, I had been told more than once that a
guardian band of six spirits was forming round me, and would be later
supplemented by another band of six protectors. Whether this had any
bearing upon the following incident, I must leave my readers to decide.
* * * * *
About three months after this pronouncement I found myself at Victoria,
Vancouver's Island. Miss Greenlow and I had gone there from San
Francisco for a week or two, not being able at that time to make the
further trip to Alaska. After a very stormy voyage of two or three days
we reached Victoria one morning about six A.M. There was only one large
double-bedded room available at the hotel, and we took this on the
understanding that two separate rooms should be found for us before the
evening.
As we lay on our beds for a few hours of much needed rest, quite
suddenly I realised that I saw something abnormal in the air--just above
and in front of my head. I mentioned this with much surprise to my
companion, who at once suggested the effects of liver after a sea
voyage so tempestuous as ours had been. For the first few moments I was
inclined to agree with her, and said so; but very shortly my opinion was
altered by the fact that what I saw first as an indistinct blur
gradually assumed a definite shape, and I then found there were six
little swallows in front of me, apparently connected with each other by
a waving ribbon, or so it appeared to me.
Opening and shutting one's eyes did not affect the vision. There they
remained, both at the moment and for several succeeding years, during
which time I was constantly in the habit of seeing "_my birds_," as we
used to call them. About six months after their first appearance in the
pure, clear atmosphere of Victoria (Vancouver), I was driving across the
Blackheath Common on a very bright, frosty day, and looking out of the
open window of my carriage, I saw my six birds as usual; but for the
first time, parallel with them and lower down, were six new birds of
just the same size and appearance (about half-an-inch between the tips
of the wings).
A few days later the new birds and the old ones had amalgamated, and
twelve little swallows floated in the air before my eyes. I could not
see them in the house. It needed the background of uninterrupted sky
apparently to throw them into sufficient relief to be recognised. After
some years, this special sign was withdrawn, and others have taken its
place. For example, I have seen in the same way, during the last
fourteen years, an anchor, with the chain attached to it, and caught
through one end of the former, a short reaping hook. This, doubtless,
has some symbolical meaning. Near the anchor I see a sacrificial altar,
with flames rising up from it; then a triangle, with loops at the
corners, which I was once told was the sign of Nostradamus. Then an
old-fashioned mirror in a quaintly-shaped frame, and finally a long
staff, with the sign of Aries at one end. I have since realised that
this is very much like the "Staff of Faith" found on the top of many of
the tombs in the Roman catacombs. All these latter emblems come together
as a rule, with a connecting thread binding them to each other. I cannot
see them at will, but when the atmosphere is at all clear they are
rarely absent, when I have time to look for them. I was much amused once
by an earnest Christian scientist, with whom I happened to be spending a
few days on the coast of the eastern counties. She had warned me
repeatedly against "phenomena" of every kind, spontaneous or induced. On
a specially bright morning we were sitting together in a beautiful park,
which is thrown open to strangers on special days, and, forgetting my
companion's prejudices, I exclaimed involuntarily:
"I never saw my signs more clearly than just now!--there must be
something very pure about the atmosphere."
This was too much for my friend, who bent forward eagerly, saying:--"_Do
let me try if I cannot see them too!_"
Well, she "tried" for the greater part of two hours, but absolutely in
vain, and then got up, and suggested going home to luncheon. She added
naïvely: "I _thought_ they must have something wrong about them, and I
am quite sure of it now, _or I should have seen them_."
But it had taken her two hours of failure to be absolutely convinced
that they came straight from the devil!
One sign--also birds--appeared to me on one occasion only. We had
returned to Denver, where Miss Greenlow and I were to separate after a
year's constant travel together. She was going back to San Francisco to
take steamer for the Sandwich Islands, and thence on to Australia;
whilst I was returning to England for family reasons.
I had arranged to dine with the hospitable Dean of Denver the evening of
the day of her departure, and I had not realised how much less lonely
one would have felt had my journey East corresponded more closely with
her journey West, especially as she was obliged to leave the hotel about
nine o'clock in the morning.
Waking early, and lying in bed, feeling very melancholy at the idea of
being left behind and alone in the very centre of America, I looked up,
and, to my delight, saw a new sign.
Not my little birds this time, but two big, plump father and mother
birds, with a short string attached, not horizontally as before, but
perpendicularly. At the end of this little string was a tiny bird, even
smaller than the swallows, being evidently guided by the two big birds,
and quite safe in their charge.
My room communicated with that of my companion, whose door was open,
and I told her of this new "sign in the heavens," adding that I hoped it
had come to stay. Fortunately, I found a pencil, and made a rough sketch
at the time, or I might have been tempted to imagine that I had never
seen it at all, for the trio never appeared again, though I have longed
to see them, and have certainly required the consolation quite as much,
many times, since that far-away summer morning in Denver, Colorado.
* * * * *
On reaching home after this long American trip, I found a budget of
letters awaiting me--amongst them a little registered box containing a
kind birthday present from the brother who has been mentioned in the
Introduction to this book. Was it another case of mental affinity which
had induced him unconsciously to choose a gold brooch with two swallows
in gold and pearls? Not an uncommon design; but _the birds were exactly
the same size as those I was in the habit of seeing just at that time_.
I never told him how extraordinarily _à propos_ his present had proved,
but I have always looked upon that brooch as a mascot, and have
certainly worn it every day since it came into my possession.
CHAPTER III
AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND
Shortly after the Jubilee of 1887 had taken place, I sailed for
Australia and New Zealand.
My first psychic experience in the Colonies took place in Melbourne,
some months after my landing in Tasmania.
The wife of one of the "prominent citizens" in Melbourne had been
specially invited to meet me at an afternoon reception in the house of
friends to whom I had carried letters of introduction, as she was said
to be so deeply interested in everything psychic, and would greatly
enjoy hearing my American experiences. Fortunately, the lady arrived
late, and we had already enjoyed some interesting conversation before
she came. A wetter "wet blanket" it has never been my fortune to
encounter. She was a very handsome woman, and therefore good to look at,
but in the _rôle_ of sympathetic audience she was a miserable failure.
She sat with a cold, glassy eye fixed upon me, whilst I endeavoured to
continue the conversation which had been interrupted by her arrival.
She might just as well have _said_ as have looked the words: "Now go on
making a fool of yourself!--that is just what I have come to see."
The position was hopeless. So I began to talk about the weather, which
is disagreeable enough from sirocco in the hot spring months (it was the
end of October) to be useful.
Presently the daughter of the house came up to me, and said:
"Do, please, go on telling us your interesting experiences, Miss Bates;
we can talk about other things at any time, and we asked Mrs Burroughes
on purpose to meet you."
The lady in question had joined another group by this time, so I was
able to whisper in reply: "I am so very sorry, but I cannot possibly
talk of these things before your friend--she paralyses me absolutely
from any psychic point of view. She is very handsome, and I like looking
at her, but I cannot talk to her except about the weather."
"How very odd!" was the unexpected reply. "That is just what Lizzie
Maynard says. And I did very much want Lizzie to hear about America too,
but she has gone off to the other end of the room, saying she knows you
won't be able to talk whilst Mrs Burroughes is here."
This was interesting, for I had not noticed the young girl mentioned,
who had not been introduced to me. So when my young hostess asked "if
she might bring Lizzie to see me at my hotel next day," I gladly
acquiesced, in spite of feeling very far from well at the moment.
This feeling of _malaise_ increased in the night, and was, in fact, the
precursor of a short but sharp attack of a form of typhoid which was
running through the hotel at the time. Being in bed next afternoon about
four o'clock, I was dismayed to hear that Miss Maynard had arrived to
see me, and, moreover, had arrived _alone_. I had never spoken to the
girl nor even consciously set eyes on her before, but I knew she must
have come at least three miles from the suburb where she lived, and
would probably refuse to have a cup of tea downstairs during my absence.
There was nothing for it, therefore, but to make an effort, order tea to
be brought for her to my room, and send a message hoping she would not
mind seeing me in my bedroom.
She came up--a modest, charming-looking girl of about twenty. I
explained the circumstances, and apologised for being unable to join in
the tea-party, but felt rather desperate when I realised that even the
effort of taking any share in the conversation was beyond me.
Suddenly a brilliant idea passed through my throbbing head. The day
before, in planning the visit, which Miss Boyle had been unable to carry
out herself, she had mentioned that her friend Lizzie Maynard was a very
good automatic writer, and this seemed a solution of the difficulty.
So when my little friend had finished her tea, but was still looking
tired from the long walk, I said to her: "I am so sorry to be so stupid
to-day, Miss Maynard. I cannot talk, but I can listen; or do you think
possibly you could get a little writing for me? Miss Boyle told me you
wrote automatically sometimes?"
"I will try, certainly," was the ready response. "I never know, of
course, what may come, and as this is our first meeting, it may be a
little more difficult, but I should like to try."
She found paper and pencil, and sat by my bedside, holding the pencil
very loosely between the second and third fingers, instead of between
the thumb and first two fingers in the usual way.
She continued talking to me during the whole time, and not being well
versed in automatic writing then, I could not believe that any writing
could really be going on in this very casual sort of way.
"Is any writing really coming?" I questioned at last.
"Oh yes; but I can't make out the last long word," she said, turning the
paper round, so that she could see it, for the first time. "Kindly give
me that word again," she remarked casually, and continued her
conversation with me.
Finally the three or four sheets of rather large but not always very
distinct caligraphy were submitted to me, and I saw that "Miscellaneous"
had been the long word at the beginning which Lizzie had asked to have
repeated.
The whole message was intensely interesting to me, for it began: "_I who
on earth was known as George Eliot._"
Now I had more than once seen, but had never spoken to, George Eliot in
earth life, and although admiring her genius, as all who read her books
are bound to do, there seemed no very obvious reason why she should come
to me. Moreover, Lizzie Maynard, a charming but not highly educated girl
(as I discovered later), seemed to know little about the famous author
beyond her name. Another, and infinitely inferior, lady writer had been
discussed with bated breath the day before in Lizzie's presence. Her
books--just then in the zenith of their popularity--had newly penetrated
to the Colonies, and were being talked of there as though Minerva
herself, helmet and all complete, had suddenly arrived in Melbourne. I
had personally been greatly interested by one of this lady's earlier
books, and had a much less definite opinion of the author then, than I
have at the present moment.
Threshing my brains for any sort of tie with George Eliot, I remembered
having often stayed at Oxford as a young woman, when Jowett of Balliol
was entertaining her and Mr Lewes, in his own home.
Of course, there was no question in those far-away days of my being
asked to meet such a brilliant star; but it amused me often to hear the
dull and uninteresting people of some standing in the University, whom
Jowett had _not_ favoured with an invitation, declaring that nothing
would have induced them to accept it!
This was, however, but a feeble link, even when added to the righteous
indignation one had so often experienced on hearing similar remarks
made, about a woman too far above her critics both in genius and morals,
for them to be able to catch the faintest glimpse of her personality.
Apparently it only now lay with me to cease asking _why_, and accept the
goods provided by the gods, making the most of such an opportunity. On
these occasions so many possible questions tumble over each other in
the brain that it is difficult to select any one to start with.
At length I asked the following question:--
"What did George Eliot think of the author who had been so much
discussed and so highly applauded on the previous afternoon?"
Very quickly came the answer: "_I have no sympathy there--a mere
puppet._"
Certainly this was not thought reading; for my own opinion then was very
indefinite, and Lizzie's views, as it turned out, were as enthusiastic
as those of most people in the Colony. It was not until several years
later that I realised that an extraordinarily _apt_ criticism had been
made; for a puppet is made to dance by other entities.
I was longing to ask another question, but had some natural hesitation
in doing so before such a young girl. Moreover, I feared the answer must
almost of necessity be coloured by the traditions of the latter, and
therefore would be of no great value either way. But taking my courage
"in both hands," I put the question:
"Please ask George Eliot if she _now_ thinks that she was justified in
the position she took up with regard to George Lewes?"
The answer came in a flash: "CERTAINLY. _We are one here, as we were on
earth._"
Anything less likely to emanate from the brain of an orthodox young girl
can hardly be conceived!
Amongst other details, George Eliot said finally that she had come to
know my mother in spirit life, where she was called STELLA. Now my
mother's name in earth life was Ellen, which has the same root for its
origin. Of course, Miss Maynard did not then know whether my mother were
alive or dead, and nothing naturally concerning her Christian name.
The last statement made by George Eliot on this occasion was that
"_before another year had rolled by, a great gift would come to me, and
I must be very careful to use without abusing it_." I was too tired at
the moment to ask whether "another year rolling by" meant a whole year
from 28th October 1887 (the date of the message), or the end of the
current year--namely, 31st December 1887.
When the message had come to an end, Miss Maynard gathered up the
scattered sheets, and promising to copy them out for me, took her
departure, and left me to muse--so far as a racking brain would
allow--on the curious and interesting result of her visit. No cup of tea
to thirsty wayfarer was ever surely so grandly rewarded!
My next adventure had a distant connection with these Australian
experiences.
I had come out to join the friend (Miss Greenlow) who had been my
companion in America, and who had thence sailed for Sydney when I
returned for a year to England. She had been anxious for me to rejoin
her in Australia, and from thence visit Japan and China; but my arrival
having been delayed by literary matters, this lady had finally lost
patience, and, without my knowledge, had gone on to New Zealand, and
thence, as it turned out, to Samoa. When I heard of the New Zealand
episode there was nothing for it but to follow her there, on a
will-o'-the-wisp expedition, as it turned out, but, fortunately, I was
unaware of this at the time. I say fortunately, because had I known that
she had already left Australia for Samoa, I should certainly have
returned to England, in despair of tracing her any further, and thereby
one of my most interesting experiences would have been lost.
The illness in Melbourne, already referred to, detained me for over a
fortnight, so it was necessary to transfer my New Zealand ticket from
one boat to another. So the illness also must have been one of the
factors that was involved in the adventure, as I have called it. For the
delay led to my meeting--in a friend's house--Mr Arthur Kitchener (a
younger brother of Lord Kitchener), who was introduced to me on the
special ground that we were to be fellow-travellers to New Zealand a day
or two later. As a matter of fact, Mr Kitchener was on his way from
England to New Zealand, where he was superintending a sheep-run for his
father in those days. He had come out by P. & O., and transhipped at
Melbourne after two or three days' delay there.
Several other passengers from the _Massilia_ were also going on to New
Zealand, and naturally they felt like old friends after the five or six
weeks already spent together. They thought _I_ wanted to be alone, and I
thought _they_ wanted to be alone, and so I kept severely to the upper
deck, feeling often lonely, and they all remained on the lower deck,
wishing I would come down and talk to them sometimes. In spite of these
misconceptions on either side, Mr Kitchener and I became sufficiently
friendly for him to give me a very kind and hospitable invitation to
spend the last few days of the year at his "station," about nine miles
from Dunback, in the Dunedin district. I think I must have told him of
my disappointment in missing my companion in Sydney, after travelling so
many thousand miles to join her, and doubtless he felt some interest in
this Stanley and Livingstone sort of chase, with two women taking the
principal characters!
Anyway, the invitation was given and accepted, and he kindly promised to
ask one or two people to meet me in his house.
All this came to pass some weeks later, on my return from the New
Zealand lakes, and just before an expedition to the "Sounds," generally
known as the "Sounds Trip."
This is a pleasure trip, organised for early January, which is, of
course, midsummer there. It lasts for ten days, and gives one the
opportunity of seeing to the best advantage these glorious inlets of the
sea.
My week at the sheep station was to precede this, as I have explained;
in fact, as the steamer sailed late in the afternoon, it was possible to
go on board without stopping for the night at Dunedin, whence we were to
sail. But at the last moment a slight contretemps took place. Owing to
some delay the steamer would not be able to leave till Monday, instead
of the Saturday morning as arranged, and our kind host insisted on
extending his hospitality for the two extra days.
Now each day there had been some talk about having an impromptu
_séance_, and each day I had successfully evaded the arrangement. I have
a great dislike to sitting in casual circles with strangers, and it
seemed to me that no good purpose would be served by doing so. It is
impossible on these occasions to convince anyone else that you are not
pushing or "muscle moving," or generally playing tricks, and it has
always seemed to me that the time wasted over mutual recriminations on
these points, or the silly jokes that appear inevitable, when two or
three human beings at a table get together in a private house; might be
much more profitably spent.
Table turning as a parlour game is about as stupid and aimless an
amusement as I know. I represented all this to Mr Kitchener, but in
vain. He had attended some psychic meetings in Dunback or Dunedin, and
evidently wished me to reconsider the matter. Also it happened to be the
last day of the year, when people are always more inclined to be
obliging, I suppose; anyway that Saturday night, 31st December 1887,
found me sitting down to a table in the little drawing-room of that
far-away sheep station.
As some reward for any virtue there may have been in yielding my point,
I remembered suddenly that George Eliot's message on 28th October--two
months previously--had been rather vague, and that it might be
interesting, if the chance came, to find out whether "_before another
year has rolled away_" meant a year from 28th October, or the year of
which so few hours still remained to us.
After the usual inanities--"_I am sure you are pushing._" "No; _you_
are! _I saw your fingers pressing heavily._" "_Why, how extraordinary!
that is exactly what I thought about you_," etc. etc., it was intimated
that a spirit was there giving the name of George Eliot, so I put my
question at once.
"I did not mean another year from October last--I referred to this
year," was the answer.
"Shall I be able to write automatically?" was my next query.
"No; leave that alone--it would be very dangerous for you at present."
"Shall I be able to hear? Shall I become clair-audient?"
"No," came for the second time.
My next question naturally was: "Then shall I be able to _see_ very
soon?"
"Yes; for you will become clairvoyant for the first time. Remember my
warning to use but not abuse the gift."
Now I must explain that all this time a good deal of the usual kind of
joking had been going on. Moreover, I felt intuitively that Mr Kitchener
thought I was deceiving myself into the idea that human muscles could
not account for the movements, and, in fact, the very worst possible
conditions for getting anything of value were present.
So much so that I did not for one moment suppose that it was really
George Eliot, or that she would countenance that particular sort of
buffoonery, and the incident made no impression upon me at all. I had
already taken my hands off the table, when someone--Mr Kitchener, I
think--banged it down four times, and then triumphantly observed: "_Yes,
of course, you will see somebody during the night, or rather at four
o'clock in the morning, you see!_" The whole thing was the kind of
fiasco I had expected, "degenerating into a romp," as poor Corney Grain
used to remark about the "Lancers" and the stern old lady in the
suburban villa.
The bathos of table turning had surely been reached when it came to
banging the leg of the table down four times, and calmly announcing four
o'clock as the time for my first vision!
But the remarkable point is that I _did_ have my first vision that
night, though it had come and gone long before four A.M.
It is necessary to remember that the sun rises about three-thirty A.M.
during the end of December or first week in January out there, so it
would have been fairly light before four A.M.; whereas when I woke out
of my first sleep that night, it was pitch dark.
My room was the usual whitewashed apartment to be found in the ordinary
colonial "station," with a wooden bed standing about two or three feet
from the wall, and parallel with the only window in the room; which
faced the door (at the foot of my bed), and was fitted with a very dark
green blind, on account of the hot summer sunshine.
But it was now pitch dark in the room. I woke facing the window, but
turned on my side, as one generally does on such occasions, and this
brought me face to face with the wall. To my infinite amazement there
stood between the wall and my bed, a diaphanous figure of a woman, quite
life size or rather more, with one arm held out in a protecting fashion
towards me, and some drapery about the head. The features were,
moreover, quite distinct, and, as I afterwards realised, the counterpart
of George Eliot's curious and Savonarola-like countenance. But at the
moment, oddly enough, I only thought of two things--first, how
extraordinary that what had appeared to me such a silly waste of time
overnight should have had any element of reality about it! Then swiftly
came the second idea: "And how in the world does it happen that I don't
feel a bit frightened?"
I lay there absolutely content and peaceful, with a feeling of blissful
satisfaction which I have never exactly realised either before or since
that one occasion.
"_Everything is all right--nothing can really ever go wrong--nothing at
least that matters at all. All the real things are all right. I can
never doubt the truth of these things after this experience. It was
promised, and the promise has been redeemed._" These were the thoughts
that passed idly through my brain as I lay--fully awake--and looked up
at the comforting woman's figure. For it seemed more--much more--than a
mere vision. I have spoken of the figure as diaphanous because it was
not as solid as an ordinary human being, but, on the other hand, I could
not see the wall through it: it was too solid for that. Then I
remembered a story told in _The Athenæum_--of all papers--and written by
a Dr Jephson, of his experience whilst paying a visit to Lord Offord,
and making notes--late at night--in the library of the house for some
literary work on hand. He had finished his notes, put away the book of
reference, looked at his watch, found the hands marking two A.M. (so
far as I remember), and had just said to himself: "Well, I shall be in
bed by two-thirty after all," when, turning round, he found a large
leather chair close to his own, tenanted by a Spanish priest in some
ancient dress!
Thinking it might be an hallucination, he deliberately turned
round--_away_ from the priest--rubbed his eyes, and then slowly looked
back again. Still the priest was there, and Dr Jephson then realised for
the first time that, although not _consciously frightened_ or alarmed in
any way, he was quite unable to _speak_ to the intruder. So he quietly
chose a pencil, sat down, and calmly took his portrait. The priest
politely remained until the sketch was completed, and then vanished.
This story, read some years previously, flashed through my brain, and I
thought: "_I_ will try turning round, and then seeing if she is still
there." I turned deliberately, facing the window, and then realised that
it was pitch dark in my room--not the faintest glimmer of light came
through the heavily shrouded window. "_Then it can't be four o'clock_,"
was my triumphant comment.
It would have been too disappointing had my distinguished visitor
condoned the unblushing banging down four times of the table leg, by
choosing that hour for her arrival in my room! But then again, how could
I _see_ her, since the room was quite dark? It was only necessary to
turn round once more to the wall to realise that I _did_ see her in
fact, although I ought not to have done so in theory! I saw her as
distinctly as I ever saw a marble statue in the Vatican Gallery by the
light of noon. Although I had recalled the Jephson story so
circumstantially, it never struck me that it might be interesting to
attempt any conversation, and see whether I also were tongue-tied. I did
not _want_ to speak--there seemed no special reason for speaking. It was
quite enough to lie there with this blissful feeling of protection and
love folding me round like a cloud with golden lining. And as this
consciousness held me in its loving grasp, to my infinite sorrow the
kind, protecting figure disappeared, gently and very slowly, sinking
into the ground on the spot where I had first seen her; and once more
all was dark in the room.
I lay, too happy and peaceful for movement or even speculation for some
ten minutes, and then it struck me that I had better light the candle by
my side, and find out what o'clock it might be.
Now I have a rather accurate idea of time, and can generally tell within
a minute or two how long any special work may have taken me. Looking at
my watch, I saw it was just two-twenty-five A.M., so I settled in my own
mind that I must have seen the figure at two-fifteen A.M., or possibly
at two-ten A.M., for I think the experience lasted nearly five minutes
altogether. Anyway, I felt sure that ten minutes, as nearly as possible,
had elapsed between the sinking of the figure out of sight and my
lighting the match in order to consult my watch. It may have been nine
minutes, or possibly eleven, but I feel confident the time mentioned
would be within these limits.
Therefore next morning, when our host appeared, and I was chaffed about
"the vision," I said boldly: "You think it all nonsense, and I confess
I did not believe anything that came last night when so much joking was
going on, but I was mistaken. I _did_ see, for the first time in my
life, anything abnormal." And I repeated my experience, just as I have
now written it down.
Incredulous looks greeted me, and then Mr Kitchener said quietly:
"Oh yes, you saw something at four A.M. I am not at all surprised to
hear that."
"Not at four A.M.," I answered, "but at two-fifteen A.M. I made a
special note of the time. I was asleep again long before four A.M., and
never slept better in my life."
He looked puzzled, and then suggested that my watch must have gone
wrong; but we compared notes, and our watches were registering exactly
the same hour within a minute or two.
I found out later that, having learnt something of the Thought
Transference Theory at the Dunedin Circle or Metaphysical Club which he
had attended, Mr Kitchener had attempted to _make me see_ a vision at
four A.M., but as he confessed he had been fast asleep _when_ I _did_
see (_an hour and three quarters before his efforts started_), it would
take a very ingenious person to prove that the latter had anything to do
with the occurrence.
A deeply interesting corroboration reached me, however, a few weeks
later, by which time I had visited the "Sounds," and many other places
of interest, and had arrived safely at Auckland, in the North Island.
On the morning of my vision, I must not forget to mention, that I had
spoken of it to Mr Kitchener's faithful Irish housekeeper, whose
nationality I knew would prevent her thinking me a mere lunatic. By this
time scepticism had the upper hand, and I was beginning to try to
explain away everything in the true Podmorian spirit.
Could Mr Kitchener or any other person present have had to do with the
matter? In this case my blissful feelings would naturally be merely the
result of imagination, and easily disposed of on this ground. So I
questioned the little housekeeper when she brought my hot water as to
whether it could have been possible for Mr Kitchener or anyone else in
the house to have access to a clean sheet or tablecloth, and to have
masqueraded in the garden outside my room. She indignantly denied the
possibility. "The linen is all locked up by me; besides, no one would
have been so wicked. It might have frightened you out of your senses,
ma'am! Do you suppose the master would have done such a thing?"
No; I did not really accuse anyone of such a cruel and stupid joke.
Moreover, it was a little difficult, even for Podmorian ingenuity, to
explain how man or woman, masquerading in a white sheet in the garden
outside, could convey the fairly solid figure of a faked "George Eliot,"
who stood well out between the wall and my bed; and this through a thick
green blind and curtains, when garden and room alike were shrouded in
_absolute_ darkness!
Foiled in all my attempts to find a "sensible solution" to the mystery,
I determined to write and ask Lizzie Maynard of Melbourne if _she_ could
throw any light upon matters, my decision in taking this step being
strengthened by the curious coincidence which I had just
discovered--_i.e._ that Mr Kitchener's housekeeper had lived with the
Maynards when they had had a house in Dunedin, which was later burnt
down, as so often happens in the Colonies. "Jane" had lost sight of the
Maynard family for years, and was much excited by my promising to write
and tell them of my meeting with her.
Of course, I mentioned my strange experience and all the details
connected with it--_except_ the exact hour of the occurrence. It was by
a pure oversight (as I supposed) that this fact was omitted. I have had
reason since to believe that I was unconsciously impressed to leave out
this special detail, in order that I might receive far better evidence
than would have been possible under other circumstances. Had I mentioned
the hour of the vision, the imagination of my young friends in Melbourne
might have been at work as regards the hour of _their_ experience, which
was as follows:--
Several weeks after leaving Dunback I reached Auckland, and received
amongst other letters one from Lizzie Maynard in answer to mine. Mr
Kitchener had also written, saying what nice girls my friends the
Maynards must be, and how kindly they had written to his excellent
little housekeeper, sending her welcome gifts, and saying that her
place had never been filled in their hearts, and so forth. Lizzie's
letter to me began also about the excellences of "Jane," and the
curious coincidence through which she had been once more put in touch
with her; then she went on to say:
"It is indeed very remarkable about your experience, dear Miss Bates,
but I think you will consider it much more remarkable when I tell you
what _we_ were doing that night. I was spending the week-end with our
mutual friends Captain and Mrs Boyle" (in whose house she and I had
encountered Mrs Burroughes), "and Lily Boyle and I were sleeping in
the same room, as the house was full.
"On the evening of 31st December there was a little dance arranged, to
'dance the old year out and the new year in,' and at midnight we
dispersed, the visitors going home, and those in the house retiring to
bed. Lily and I were too much excited to get into bed at once, so I
suggested that we should try to compose a letter to Miss Pearl" (this
being the lady whose writings they greatly admired. I had allowed them
to use my name as an introduction, should they wish to communicate with
her at any time).
Lizzie went on to say how nervous they were about writing the letter,
fearing that so popular an author might not take any notice of the badly
expressed letter of two young colonial girls. However, she did her best,
and Lily Boyle did _her_ best, and the result was a hopeless failure!
"Then," continued Lizzie, "a happy thought struck me--George Eliot had
used my hand to convey her message to you last October; might we not,
remembering this, appeal to her to help us in our difficulty? So we gave
up trying to write the letter ourselves, took down planchette from its
shelf, and started again. In a few moments an excellent letter was
written, giving your name as an introduction, with all the little
points you had specially begged us to remember in connection with Miss
Pearl's probable prejudices. It was so splendidly written, and so
quickly, that you can imagine our delight! We could not bear to give up
planchette even after both our names had been signed, and I said
pleadingly: '_Oh, don't go away! Do stop and tell us something more._'
"In large letters, as you see" (Lizzie enclosed the script), "was
written very decidedly:
"NO, I CANNOT STAY WITH YOU NOW--I HAVE PROMISED TO GO AND SEE
STELLA'S DAUGHTER.
"I remembered, dear Miss Bates, that G. Eliot had said your mother's
name in spirit life was _Stella_, so, of course, we knew that she meant
us to understand that she was going to see _you_.
"Unfortunately, you did not mention the hour of her visit, but we took
the time when enclosed message was written--very accurately--in order to
tell you about it, and the hour was just twelve-thirty A.M. Do write and
tell us that was the time when she appeared to you--we feel sure it must
have been--but are longing to have our idea confirmed, etc. etc."
Now my young friends had evidently entirely forgotten the difference
in time between Dunedin and Melbourne, and I must confess to my own
amazement when I found that it was considerably over the sixty
minutes, which I should have vaguely supposed it to be.
In fact, I was rather disappointed to think there was so wide a margin
between the two occurrences, until I casually asked a gentleman, who was
staying in my hotel, if he could tell me the difference in time between
the two cities.
"Not exactly, I'm afraid, but it is considerably over an hour. Ah,
there is a good atlas! I can easily calculate it for you." He remained
silent for a moment, and then raising his head, said: "As nearly an
hour and three quarters as possible." This was pretty good evidence of
the practically simultaneous experience of my friends in Melbourne at
twelve-thirty A.M., with my own at two-fifteen A.M. in the
neighbourhood of Dunedin.
When I first became acquainted with Mr Myers, shortly after my return
from Australia and New Zealand, I told him this story. He was greatly
interested, but pointed out that it was useless from the evidential
point of view unless I would take the trouble to write one or two
letters to the Colonies.
So I wrote to Mr Kitchener for confirmation of the fact that I was
staying in his house on the night of 31st December 1887, and had told
him of my experience next morning, exactly as here related. Then I had
to get Miss Lizzie Maynard's testimony with regard to her letter to
me, and finally, I think, the testimony of Lily Boyle and her father
that Miss Maynard was their guest in Melbourne on the occasion of the
New Year's Eve dance. These letters are presumably still amongst the
archives of the Society of Psychical Research, and the story was
printed by them in their Proceedings some years ago.
I may add a last evidential touch by saying that when I met Miss Pearl
for the first time after my travels, she referred to the letter she had
received--under favour of my introduction--and quite spontaneously
remarked upon its excellence, adding:
"I could scarcely believe that two young Australian girls, as they
described themselves to me, could have written such an admirable
letter."
I did not disclose the real source of the composition, as the popular
author thinks that she has no belief in spiritualism.
CHAPTER IV
HONG KONG, ALASKA, AND NEW YORK
The spring months of 1888 found me at Brisbane, _en route_ for China,
after spending a pleasant month with old friends on a well-known
station belonging to the late Sir Arthur Hodgson, named Eton Vale, and
situated on the beautiful and healthy Darling Downs of Queensland.
Before returning to Sydney from New Zealand, my female "Dr
Livingstone" had reappeared upon the scene in the most unexpected
manner. Our "historical meeting" took place in an Auckland hotel,
where she suddenly turned up one day, driven back from Samoa by the
intense heat. So after some gentle recriminations, she "having
supposed the delay on my part might mean an entire change of plan,"
and I having supposed--from her letters--that Sydney was such a
Paradise that she could hardly be dragged from it even by a flaming
sword, we agreed to cry "quits," and continue our travels together. So
Miss Greenlow spent the month of March in Sydney, whilst I paid my
visit to Queensland, and we met once more at Brisbane to take steamer
for Thursday Island, Cape Darwin, and eventually Hong Kong. Only one
small matter of psychic interest occurred during this voyage.
I have mentioned in a previous chapter the little "swallows," which I
first saw in San Francisco in the year 1886. I had been accustomed to
seeing them ever since that date, and had been frequently commiserated
for incipient eye trouble in consequence, by more than one sceptical
friend.
On the very day we went on board the Hong Kong steamer at Brisbane, a
new sign appeared: a single bird, holding in its beak a ring with half
hoop of five stones, presumably diamonds. I told my friend about this,
but neither she nor I could imagine any significance in it. At that time
we had not even met any of our fellow-passengers to speak to, for we
were all taken up with settling into our cabins and trying to make
ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit.
For a whole week the same little bird and the same ring were
persistently held up before me. Then an inkling of the possible meaning
broke upon me suddenly. Within a fortnight of our sailing this suspicion
was confirmed, and the little bird's warning or suggestion amply
justified. But "that is another story!" Curiously enough, the new "sign
in the heavens" was withdrawn as soon as I had grasped its meaning.
I must hasten over our delightful stay in Japan, because amongst much of
extreme interest from artistic, social, and various other points of
view, nothing occurred which has any special bearing on my present
subject.
Leaving Japan eventually by sailing from Yokohama to Vancouver
(Washington territory), the old threads were once more put into my
hands.
We made the acquaintance on board the old P. & O. _Abyssinia_ of the
late Captain MacArthur, a kindly and genial naval man. He was an
Australian by birth, but belonged to our English navy, and was just
returning home on his promotion as commander.
He became rather interested in my "queer ideas," and ended by suggesting
some experiments with "the table," so he persuaded the ship's carpenter
to put together a small rough wooden table. The sittings were held,
generally after dinner, in either my cabin or that of my "stable
companion" Miss Greenlow. So far as I remember, we three were the only
sitters, and I am bound to confess the sittings were sometimes very
monotonous, even viewed from the indulgent perspective of a sea voyage.
In fact, I can now recall only one incident of any real value.
The dear old nurse, spoken of in my opening chapter, had now been for
three or four years on the other side of the veil, but had never given
me the slightest sign of her presence. But she came several times during
this voyage, and always with the same object--namely, to entreat, and
finally _implore me_, to give up a projected tour in Alaska.
Miss Greenlow and I had been prevented from undertaking this, two years
earlier, when visiting Victoria (Vancouver), and she was very keen to go
there from Washington territory on this occasion. I was _not_ keen for
the expedition, but had made no strong objection to it, and it was
understood that we should go together.
This was the tour which my old nurse now pleaded so anxiously should be
given up, so far as _I_ was concerned.
"_It will ruin your health, my darling_," she said more than once.
"_Don't go there; take my advice._" And on one occasion, just before
landing, she added: "_You will find letters awaiting you which will
enable you to make other plans._"
This proved true--in a certain way. The first letter opened in the
budget which fell to my share, told me of the sudden death of our family
solicitor, which would have been a good excuse for a hasty return to
England had any such pretext been necessary.
But this was not the case, for my companion, although quite determined
to go to Alaska herself, was not in the least inclined to over-persuade
me to accompany her. She was a very independent woman, quite accustomed
to travelling alone, and I knew that neither her enjoyment nor her
convenience would be affected by my decision one way or the other. I had
no wish to go myself, and, moreover, thought it quite probable that my
dear old nurse's warnings might be amply justified. But there were other
grave considerations to be taken into account, and I still feel that I
adopted the right, although not the pleasanter course, when I allowed my
fellow-passengers to depart East, joking me on my want of faith in the
warnings from the spirits, and accompanied my friend, very unwillingly,
to Alaska.
My nurse's earnest entreaties were only too fully justified on the
physical plane, to say nothing of the miserable discomfort of the trip
(which in those days had to be made in an overcrowded cargo boat.) I
took a chill in those Arctic regions, which later developed into the
longest and most serious illness of my life. It took months to make even
a partial recovery, and the effects will remain during my life. Yet I
have never regretted my decision.
This little episode seems to throw some light upon the way such warnings
should be treated. To give no heed to them on the one hand, or to follow
them blindly, _in spite of every other consideration_, on the other;
these seem to me the Scylla and Charybdis of our lives. It shows that we
_must_ judge for ourselves; we cannot shift the burden of responsibility
on any other shoulders. How could we gain the real education of life
were it otherwise?
Had I turned my back on Alaska I should have gained enormously,
physically speaking, and yet failed in a moral test. But my dear old
nurse, who considered only--probably _saw_ only--the physical evils to
be avoided, was entirely in the right, _from her standpoint_. The
faithful soul was doing her best to shield her nursling from danger.
A severe illness was entailed by my Alaska experiences. "Livingstone and
Stanley" were once more separated. In other words, Miss Greenlow was
obliged to return to England alone, leaving me to be nursed through a
long and painful illness by kind friends and connections in Toronto. One
of my doctors--the brother of my hostess--kindly made time to take me
and my nurse to New York, in order that he might put me under the
special care of the ship's doctor, and also be able to certify, as
required, that I was in a fit condition to undertake the voyage.
It was during the day or two spent in New York before sailing, that I
induced this gentleman to accompany me one evening to a _séance_ held by
Mrs Stoddart Gray, who has been previously mentioned in this narrative.
Dr Theodore Covernton had all the ordinary doctor's prejudices against
anything unseen or unknown. He had read my book on America, and
considered the chapter on "Spiritualism" a lamentable lapse "from the
good sense shown in the rest of the book!" I represented to him that for
a physician to deny all possibilities of Hypnotism or Mesmerism, Thought
Transmission, etc., meant losing some very valuable aids in his
profession, and would probably soon mean being left pretty badly behind
in the race.
Knowing of no specially good hypnotist in New York, and as there was no
time to find one out, I boldly suggested that he should plunge into
still deeper depths of "folly," and accompany me to the house of Mrs
Stoddart Gray.
The usual performances went on, but whether owing to Dr Covernton's
attitude of mind or other causes, nothing of any special interest to him
or to me occurred.
One incident impressed him, I think; certainly he could suggest no
possible explanation of it, for it happened in a very fair amount of
light and close to our feet. A gentleman and lady were sitting in the
circle who had brought with them their little boy, a child of seven
years old. I had asked the lady if she considered it wise to bring so
young a child into such a _milieu_, several hours after an English child
would have been put to bed, and her answer was cheery and
characteristic:
"Well, I guess we shouldn't have much peace at home if we didn't bring
Charlie along with us to see his Granny. We took him once, and since
then he always insists upon coming. He loves talking to his Granny, and
he is not a bit afraid of her."
At this moment a small frail woman stepped out from the cabinet, and
came right up towards us, motioning to the little grandson that she
wished him to go into the cabinet with her. This he did without a
moment's hesitation, and the curtain fell, and concealed them both from
view. The interview lasted for some minutes, and when the little boy
reappeared, he was holding his Granny by the hand, and was evidently on
the best of terms with her. I do not expect my readers to believe me,
but this is exactly what happened next:
The child had brought some toys--a little train and some building
blocks--"to get Granny to play with him as usual," and the fragile old
lady knelt down on the floor, and played with him just as any ordinary
Granny might have done, only with far more agility.
In the very midst of their brick building and train starting, a terrible
catastrophe occurred, which spoilt the rest of the evening for the poor
child. Granny had evidently forgotten that her time was limited, by
conditions of which we are still profoundly ignorant.
Quite suddenly, and without a word of warning, she disappeared, not into
the cabinet at her back, but right through the carpet under our feet,
and well within a yard of the said feet, and this with two or three
gas-jets burning over our heads!
There was no mistake about it. Dr Covernton and I were sitting next to
the father and mother, whilst the child and his grandmother played at
our feet. One moment she was there; the next she had disappeared like a
flash into a mere cloud of mist, and even this was quickly withdrawn,
apparently through the floor. No trap-door theory could account for
this, because the _woman_ had disappeared, and only the wisp of ethereal
garments remained, before the latter were also dissipated. We must,
moreover, note the difficulty of working a trap door immediately under
the feet of a sceptical young physician, who at once investigated the
carpet, hoping in vain to find in it some solution of the mystery!
I have already mentioned that the whole incident took place, in light
sufficiently good to read a book without straining the eyes.
The poor little boy was terribly upset, and sobbed bitterly. His parents
said they had brought him many times before, and such a _fiasco_ had
never before taken place. Mrs Stoddart Gray was very indignant about it.
"Too bad! She ought to have _known_ she was staying too long, and
risking a fright for the child. If she had only gone back into the
cabinet he would not have been frightened. But she stayed too long and
had not enough strength to get back."
The child was too thoroughly frightened and upset to admit of any
consolation, and the parents were obliged to take him away, still
sobbing, and asking _why_ Granny had gone away like that and given him
such a fright.
A year later, in London, I took Dr Covernton--by appointment--to see Dr
Carl Hansen, who was then giving hypnotic treatment, and also doing some
work in demonstrations for the Society for Psychical Research. Dr Hansen
tried in vain to put either Dr Theodore Covernton or myself under the
influence, so was obliged to have recourse to his wife. Naturally this
was considered a "_most suspicious circumstance_" by my companion; but I
noticed that he was very much interested in his conversation with
her--from the medical point of view--and he was sufficiently honest to
admit that he could not explain what happened in his presence, upon any
normal hypothesis.
CHAPTER V
INDIA, 1890-1891
In the month of November 1890 I started with a young friend for my first
visit to India.
My companion was still at the age when social India was naturally more
interesting to her than either the historical or mystical aspects of the
country. And, for myself, I went there in those days rather to see the
glorious buildings of a magnificent Past, than with any view of wresting
occult secrets from the Fakirs and Yogis of the Present.
It was well perhaps that one's ambitions were so limited by the
Possible, for I am very much inclined to think that Mystic India is
and must remain a sealed book for the English.
We must always remember the natural prejudices of a conquered race
towards the conqueror. In addition to this, the Hindoostanees consider
(and who shall say without ample cause?) that Englishmen are
hopelessly "_borné_" and sunk in materialism, incapable of exercising
an imagination which they don't possess; with a top dressing of
conventional orthodoxy, so far as their own special religion is
concerned, but with nothing but ridicule or thinly veiled contempt for
the religious channels through which other races may be taking their
spiritual food. We have given them only too much reason for these
conclusions.
As a consequence of this state of things, Englishmen and women are
looked upon as "quite impossible" from the Indian point of view, and a
devout and educated Hindoo would no more think of discussing his
transcendental ideas with such people than we should think of discussing
delicate questions of Art--in its various branches--with the first
village yokel we happened to meet in the road. I was confirmed in these
ideas by noticing the difference in the welcome accorded to a charming
young Swedish lady, whom we met at Benares on her wedding tour. She had
brought excellent native introductions from her own country, where
certain Rajahs and Maharajahs had been entertained by her King, and
thanks to these, and, as she said, "_to the fact of my not being
English_," she had access to many interesting places, and took part in
interesting functions, from which the rest of us were debarred.
I am hoping to pay a third visit to India some day, with the special
object in view of occult investigation. It remains to be seen whether,
by any fortunate accident, I may then be more successful in encountering
anything more interesting than the ordinary clever conjurers, who
sometimes pose as Fakirs, and may be found by the tourist on every hotel
veranda in India.
Meanwhile I am limited by the title of my book to personal incidents, as
to which I find one or two notes in my Indian diary.
Making the usual tour, but including Lahore--where my brother had lived
at Government House for several years as Military Secretary to Sir
Robert Egerton (who was in _his_ day), Lieutenant-Governor of the
Punjab--we came in due course to Delhi.
Our first day there was devoted to tracing Mutiny relics of all kinds,
and about four P.M. in the afternoon we drove out to the famous Ridge to
see the Mutiny Memorial. This, as most people nowadays know, is a red
standstone tower, with staircase of rough stone inside, and small
windows pierced through at varying intervals. It stands upon an
extensive marble flooring, which is inscribed with the names of the
various regiments--officers and men--who took part in the renowned
siege, and died for their country in consequence.
As we drove towards the Memorial, the whole place seemed to be in a
flutter of excitement. Hundreds of coolies were flocking round, and we
both remarked how much more interested they appeared to be in these
monuments of past events than the corresponding class of English
labourers would have been. But on arrival we found there was no question
of intelligent historical interest. The fact was that a poor coolie--who
had just climbed up the Memorial Tower by the inner staircase--had
fallen out of one of the windows described, and was lying on the marble
floor below, at the far side from us, crushed and dying. We were told
that an Englishman had, fortunately, been present, and had driven off at
once for a doctor. So nothing could be done for the poor man until the
latter arrived.
Meanwhile our native servant--Bobajee--had, of course, rushed off to
see what was to be seen of the tragedy, and, rather to my horror, my
girl friend seemed about to follow his example! It was terrible to think
of the poor man lying there in his death agony; but he was already
surrounded by natives, and no real help could be given without fear of
doing more harm than good before the doctor was brought to the spot.
Therefore merely to go and look on, without being able to succour,
seemed to me an added horror to the tragedy, and I turned round rather
sharply on my young friend, and expostulated with her. As a matter of
fact, she did _not_ go; but I am obliged to mention the incident as
accounting for a certain momentary excitement and annoyance on my part,
which proved to be factors in the story about to be related.
Allowing for difference of time between Delhi and London, a very old
friend of mine, Lady Wincote (who was then living in London, where I was
in the habit of visiting her constantly when in town), was lying in bed,
resting after a disturbed night, at the very hour of our visit to the
Mutiny Memorial.
It was about noon in England; she was fully awake, and had been reading.
Looking at her watch she realised it was time to make a move if she
meant to come down for luncheon. Suddenly the door opened, and _I_
walked into her bedroom, and right round the bed, until I stood between
her and the window, which was to her left as she lay in bed.
I was dressed in ordinary outdoor attire, and seemed much excited and
annoyed about something. I was talking continuously, as it seemed to
her; but she could not make out any connected sentences, and "wondered
what had upset me" so much. She spoke to me, asking what had happened;
but I took no notice of her questions, standing with my face to the
window and my back to her for a few moments. Then I turned round, and
deliberately retraced my steps, past the ottoman, skirting round the
bed, and was just disappearing through the door, when she made a final
effort to attract my attention, asking a very practical question:
"Emmie! Do tell me before you go, what number you are staying at in
Oxford Terrace" (the part of town where I always stayed at that time).
Lady Wincote said: "You made no answer at all, but whisked out of the
door in a great hurry, and then for the first time I remembered _that
you were in India_. It had all seemed so natural, as you had often been
in my bedroom, that I only thought at the moment that you must have
returned unexpectedly to London from the country. My one anxiety was to
know which number on the Terrace would find you, in case you had changed
your address there."
Now all this was, fortunately, written out to me by my friend on the
very day that it happened--_i.e._ 8th January 1891--and _crossed my
letter to her telling her of the incident_. My letter was written a day
or two later I think; but I was keeping a strict diary at the time, and
under date of 8th January have the record of the event, corresponding
with the date of Lady Wincote's letter to me.[3]
[3] Both my diary and Lady Wincote's letter were shown to Mr Myers on
my return to England, also my letter which crossed the one from Lady
Wincote to me. He was greatly interested in the account.
Probably in any case I should have written to tell this friend of the
incident, on account of a conversation I had with Bobajee when he
returned from his ghastly entertainment. I had looked inside the
Memorial, and had seen that the stone steps were crumbling away and
looked very unsafe, so when he came back and said: "_Something bad
inside there, Lady Sahib_," I concluded naturally that he was referring
to the state of the staircase, and attributing the poor coolie's fall to
some such cause.
But he denied this strenuously: "_No! no! Lady Sahib--some bad debil
inside there. He threw coolie over!_" Then he went on to tell us that on
one special night in the year no native man, woman, or child in the
whole city could be induced to pass the Mutiny Memorial at midnight. The
few daring souls who _had_ passed there, had found the tower all lighted
up inside, and the Sepoys and the British soldiers had come back, and
were fighting their battles over again! The man spoke in simple good
faith, and assured me that all Delhi people knew this to be a fact, and
gave the place a wide berth on that anniversary.
The idea of the "bad debil" throwing the poor coolie down from the top
of the tower, followed by this curious legend, interested me as a bit of
folk-lore, but my companion was drastic in her remarks. "Silly nonsense,
Bobajee!" was her reception of the story; and this made me feel
intensely sorry for the moment, that Lady Wincote, who would have been
as much interested as myself, should not have been present. Did this
moment of intense desire for her, project itself into the appearance she
saw in her room? Who can say? Certainly it was a curious coincidence
that she should see me in an annoyed and excited state just when I was
feeling annoyed and excited--so many thousand miles away.
Delhi seems to have been specially favourable to psychic experiences,
for I find another one recorded on the very day succeeding the last
event.
My friend, having some slight ailment, I had driven out alone with our
native servant, and we made a long tour, returning about six P.M. past
Ludlow Castle, of famous Mutiny memory, and still--in the year 1891--a
Government bungalow.
The present Czar of Russia was travelling through India at the time as
Czarewitch, with his cousin, Prince George of Greece, and they were
expected to arrive in Delhi that same evening. The Royal party and suite
were to be lodged at Ludlow Castle, and were expected within an hour.
Bobajee jumped off the box of my carriage, and urged me to "go look,
see!"
"No, Bobajee! Drive on--can't go look see--they no let me in."
"Yes, yes, Lady Sahib," he said eagerly--"everything ready--all gone
away--nobody in there yet."
With our English notions this seems inconceivable, but it proved to be
absolutely true. I went in, expecting to be turned back ignominiously
before I had crossed the hall, but there was positively no one there!
The place was like a City of the Dead. Yet within an hour, a banquet
arranged for about seventy people was to take place! I made the best of
my opportunity, ranged through the numerous bedrooms--with hanging
Japanese blinds shutting them off and each one inscribed with the card
of the special Russian or Greek general who formed part of the suite. At
length I strolled into the dining-room--a long, narrow room--arranged
for the coming festivity (at least sixty to seventy covers were laid),
the flowers arranged on the tablecloth in the pretty, artistic Indian
fashion, all the beautiful glass and silver placed in readiness.
Nothing was wanting but the presence of the guests for whom all this
preparation had been made.
The short Indian twilight was already upon us as I stood there for a
moment, contrasting the dead and almost eerie silence, with the lights
and laughter that would so quickly replace it.
A fireplace was close to me as I stood at the far end of the room,
looking down the whole length of the table. Glancing up, I realised that
the only picture in the room was hung over this fireplace. The picture
in question had no artistic value--the painting was flat and poor; even
the subject did not strike me for the first moment as anything very
remarkable. It was the portrait of a man in the prime of life--about
thirty-five, I should have supposed--with the long whiskers and rather
prim pose of a portrait made by an evidently poor artist, probably
thirty or forty years previous to my visit.
But as I looked again, a curious sensation came over me. In spite of the
painter's failure to convey anything more like a living man than a dead
pressed rose is like a living rose, there was something in the eyes of
the portrait that held me, something that rose triumphant above the
artist's limitations. At the same moment I was conscious of a Presence
behind my back; of _somebody who was looking at the picture with me_; of
somebody who was saying to me (not with the outer, but an inner voice):
"_That is a picture of me, but I am not there--I am here, close to you;
behind your shoulder--I am looking at it with you._"
The impression was so strong that it seemed almost as if a hand were
pressing on my shoulder. I turned round involuntarily, but no one was
there. Then I looked at the picture again, and always with the same
weird sensation that the man whom the picture represented had been
strong enough to make me feel his actual presence in the room, although
I could see nothing. There was no name on the picture of either subject
or artist, no possible clue to identity, and looked at as a picture
alone, there was nothing in the flat, conventional presentment of the
features to account for my experience. This made it the more remarkable.
I could scarcely tear myself away from the almost overwhelming sense of
the presence of some strong and strangely magnetic personality, but the
fast fading twilight warned me not to risk an ignominious retreat. So I
went hurriedly through the large and handsome drawing-room, which was
filled with portraits, chiefly of deceased governors and generals, many
of them admirably painted, and a striking contrast to the one poor and
commonplace picture already seen.
The absolute incongruity between the impression received and the object
which roused it, led me to make inquiries, in spite of my friend's jokes
over my powers of imagination.
"Anyway, I am going to clear this up," I said with determination; and in
a few days my perseverance was rewarded, and my impression amply
justified, by finding that I had been looking at the portrait--feeble
and poor as it was--of _Brigadier-General Nicholson_.
None of my readers need to be told that if any dead man could impress
himself upon the living, this would be the man capable of such a feat.
Even to this day there is a small religious sect in India called the
_Nicholasain_, who have handed down the memory of this "god rather than
man," who had to dismount from his horse occasionally, to thrash his
would-be worshippers, and put a stop to their inconvenient adoration!
Nicholson's brilliant achievements in the Mutiny; his absolute control
over men of the most diverse character; the devotion with which he
inspired his soldiers, and his own glorious death in the very moment of
victory--all these are matters of history.
I feel glad and grateful to have known, even for a few passing moments,
what that influence had been; and when I found out Brigadier-General
Nicholson's grave at Delhi, after my Ludlow Castle experience, I left my
flowers on the grave of an honoured acquaintance, rather than of a man
known to me only through historical records.
One more incident, or rather coincidence, and I must close my Indian
chapter.
This also is connected with the Mutiny and with Delhi, but the special
coincidence, to which I refer, took place at Agra, when my friend and I
were staying at the hotel there in the early spring of 1891.
One of my oldest and most valued friends is Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred S.
Jones, V.C., formerly of the 9th Lancers, and one of our Mutiny heroes.
As everything connected with that historical tragedy seems to have
perennial interest for every Englishman--no matter what his creed or
politics--I make no excuse for furnishing some details connected with my
friend's career. His record from Hart's Army List is as follows:--
"Lieutenant-Colonel Jones was present at the battle of Budlekee Serai,
and at Delhi throughout the siege operations, including the assault and
capture of the city, having been D.A.Q.M.G. from 8th August to 23rd
September 1857. Served with the 9th Lancers in Greathead's pursuing
column, and was present in the actions of Bolimshuhur and Alighur and
battle of Agra--where he was dangerously wounded, having received a
musket-shot wound and twenty-two sabre cuts. He was mentioned in the
despatches of Sir Hope Grant on three different occasions, and has
received the Victoria Cross for taking a nine-pounder gun, with the
assistance of some men from his squadron, in the action of Budlekee
Serai (medal with clasp and Brevet of Major)."
Although, as a child, I had heard of the bravery and the terrible wounds
of one who was to become later in life one of my greatest friends, the
actual details of the Agra catastrophe were hazy in my memory. Two
things, however, had remained firmly imbedded in my mind--first, that a
brother officer had told me that he was standing close by Colonel Jones
when, as a young officer, the latter attended the Levée to receive his
Victoria Cross, and that the Queen was so much agitated by his
appearance that she could hardly pin it on. Also, that this brother
officer heard her whisper to her husband: "My God, Albert! look at that
poor boy! He has been cut to pieces!"
The other childish memory is that the Taj had been turned into a
hospital at the time of the Mutiny, and that my friend, amongst others,
had been nursed there. This latter proved to have been a mistake on the
part of my informants. It was the Moti Musjid (the Pearl Mosque) which
was turned to this account, and in which my friend was nursed back to
life, to the surprise of all who knew the extent of his disaster.
It is specially important for people blessed, or cursed, with psychic
gifts "to give no occasion to the enemy" by exaggeration or inexact
memory of details. So, with the wholesome dread of a well-read reviewer
before my eyes, I determined to go to the fountain-head, and ask Colonel
Jones himself to supply me with the true incidents which make the Agra
episode a moving picture before our eyes. He has kindly consented to do
this, and I give the narrative in his own words:--
After the fall of Delhi, a column, under General Greathead, was sent
down to Lucknow, and as three squadrons of the 9th Lancers were told off
to go, I resigned my staff appointment, and went with my troop.
After two fights--Bolimshuhur and Alighur--we were hurried off to Agra,
sixty-six miles in thirty-six hours. But on arrival we found that the
Agra people had recovered from their fright and Greathead was fool
enough to believe their story that the enemy was twelve miles away, and
therefore took up ground for our camp, just by the graveyard and
parade-ground, which you will remember. There was a high crop of
sugar-cane, concealing everything beyond the parade-ground, and after
most of the officers of the whole force had gone off to Agra Fort to
breakfast with friends, cannon-shot began to fall amongst us; and
everyone had time to fall in, as the horses had not been unsaddled.
My squadron, consisting of French's and my troops, was told off as an
escort to Blunt's Battery, F.A., which formed the left of the line,
consisting of our other two squadrons, more F. Artillery, 8th and 75th
Regiments, etc., all moving to the front through high crops.
Then we saw the enemy--700 or 800 yards off--and Blunt unlimbered his
guns, and began to fire, when we soon saw a body of cavalry moving off
across our front, to turn our left flank, and Blunt said we must go back
to defend our camp. So he limbered up, and we all (_i.e._ our squadron
and Blunt's guns) began to straggle back through the high crops. But
Blunt said he must leave one troop with two of his guns, and French's
troop was stopped for the purpose. Instead of staying with it, he felt
so sure we should have a chance at the cavalry we had seen (Mutineers)
that he came on with me, and together we formed up my troop on the
parade-ground, close to Blunt's guns, which we saw already unlimbered.
A squadron of Irregular (mutinied) cavalry was coming in our direction
over the parade-ground, with a blue squadron of (mutinied) regular
cavalry in support, both trotting; so, of course, we went for the Red
(head of the echellon they formed).
Then I saw French shot, and the hind quarters of his grey horse pass
round the left flank of my little troop; then I gave the word GALLOP,
and the Red squadron, to my surprise, _halted_.
Observing its leader taking aim at me with his carbine, I inclined a
little to my left, in order to stick him, never dreaming that I should
be hit before I could do so, and I was almost within reach before he
fired, and his bullet went through my bridle arm, so I had to take my
reins on my sword hand and jam my horse into the ranks, just behind the
squadron leader who had shot me.
Now to clear up your mystery about my being left to my fate (I had
specially asked Colonel Jones how he happened to be left alone amongst
the Sepoys, whose numbers were registered by his sabre cuts in so
ghastly a fashion), I was not left to my fate; on the contrary, the man
on the left of my troop, who alone could see, put his lance through the
squadron leader, and stayed about--outside the ring--trying to get to me
to the last, and got the V.C. on my report to that effect.
My troop, occupying, in double rank, about twenty yards, went straight
on after the twenty yards or so front of the enemy's probable front of
perhaps fifty yards. So there were plenty of Sowars left to mob round
me and to keep off the man who tried to save me. Of course, my men were
quite right in pursuing the broken force as they did, right off the
field.
This account has the immense advantage of being taken verbatim from
Colonel Jones' letter just received by me. It has the _disadvantage_
that such a letter, from a brave man, would naturally possess--_i.e._
that of minimising his share in the episode to the point of making it
difficult for the lay mind to realise where the heroism came in--which
heroism is a vital point in my "coincidence." Fortunately, I have the
best authority for saying that the "Blunt" mentioned in this record
always maintained that Colonel Alfred Jones had "saved his guns." It
appears that at the time of the unexpected attack from the enemy,
Colonel Jones and two or three friends (who had not gone to the fort)
were breakfasting under the shade of the cemetery wall when the alarm
was given. My friend, wishing to rest his charger after the long forced
march from Agra, had taken a spare troop horse, saddled with a _hunting
saddle_.
When the round shot began to fall, there was no time to get his charger.
There was nothing for it but to put on sword and pistol and ride
straight in to the enemy's ranks. No wonder the poor people shut up in
Agra were enthusiastic over this "charge of cavalry in their shirt
sleeves," as they called it.
In 1891 I was staying in Agra, at the hotel, with my friend of the Delhi
incident. A certain Major Pulford, who had come to Agra to race some
ponies, divided us at the _table d'hôte_. He and I had been neighbours
for two or three days, when he asked me carelessly one evening what _I_
had been doing that afternoon, as my friend confessed to having taken a
"day off."
Now I had spent the afternoon at the Taj, and had made many inquiries
about the tradition that this building had once been turned into a
hospital. No one knew anything about it. One old Hindoo, evidently
thinking I wished him to say "_Yes_," remembered hearing that this _had_
been the case "_about eighty years ago_." This last artistic touch of
accuracy was fatal to his _bonâ fides_, and I turned away in disgust.
So I told Major Pulford my story, and we laughed over the well-known
fact that a Hindoo of that class always tries to find out what you wish
him to say, and _then says it!_
Major Pulford asked why I was so keen on the subject.
"Because a very old friend of mine was badly wounded at Agra during the
Mutiny, and from a child I have had the impression that he was nursed in
the Taj."
"No," he answered. "I am sure the Taj was never used as a hospital, but
I think the Pearl Mosque may have been. This would account for the
mistake, probably."
Now the point in this incident is the fact that I _had not mentioned my
friend's name to Major Pulford_.
Had the name been a more distinctive one, I might have mentioned it,
although realising that Major Pulford was too young a man to have known
anything about the Mutiny at first hand.
We talked casually on the subject for a few minutes, and then he said:
"Of course, I was a baby at the time, but I have read and heard any
amount about it, naturally. _My_ boyish hero was a fellow named Jones of
the 9th Lancers, who was so awfully plucky in their celebrated charge,
when surprised by the enemy on the Agra parade-ground. I know nothing
about the fellow except what I have read. I believe he is alive still,
but they say he was almost cut to pieces then."
"_That is the friend whom I thought had been nursed in the Taj_," was my
astonished answer.
Major Pulford's delight was unbounded to have come by so strange a
coincidence even thus near to the hero of his youth. For myself, I
recognised that I had sat next to the only man, probably then in India,
who could have given me the accurate and precise details of the whole
affair!
"I know every inch of the ground, and just where it all happened," he
said eagerly. "Do let me drive you and your friend over there to-morrow
in my buggy, and I will point out every detail."
He did so next day, leaving me with the most vivid impression of the
scene of my friend's gallant fight for life, against such overwhelming
odds.
That he should still be alive and active--nearly fifty years
later--seems little short of a miracle!
CHAPTER VI
SWEDEN AND RUSSIA, 1892
Travelling in Sweden in the spring of 1892, I carried with me from
England an introduction to the Swedish Consul at Gottenburg. One of
the sisters of this gentleman was married to an Englishman--a Mr
Romilly--and he and his wife chanced to come over for a visit during
my stay.
Speaking of psychic matters one day, Mr Romilly told me the story of his
first cousin (a well-known woman of title) and her Egyptian necklace. A
present had been made to her (I think on her marriage) of a very
beautiful Egyptian necklace with stones of the exquisite blue shade so
well known by travellers in Egypt.
These special stones, alas! must evidently have been genuine, and rifled
from some old tomb, for the owner of the necklace appeared one night by
the lady's bedside, and warned her that she would have no peace so long
as she persisted in wearing his property.
So the lady very wisely locked up the necklace in her dressing-case, and
fondly trusted the Egyptian ghost would be satisfied.
Not a bit of it! In a short time he appeared again, and told her that
she would be haunted by his unwelcome presence so long as the necklace
_remained in her possession_. She then drove off with it, and deposited
it with her lawyer, who locked it up in a tin case, doubtless with a
secret smile at his noble client's superstitions. But Nemesis lay in
wait for him, and the last thing Mr Romilly had heard upon the subject
was that the lawyer himself was made so exceedingly uncomfortable by the
attentions of the Egyptian gentleman that he was obliged to have
necklace and tin case buried together in his back garden! To have forced
a lawyer into such extreme measures was certainly a "score" for the
ghost!
A few months later, I met the heroine of the story at a friend's house
at tea, and speaking of her relation, who had married a Swedish wife,
and whom I had met in Gottenburg, I alluded discreetly to the story of
the blue necklace.
My companion at once endorsed it _in toto_, and did not seem at all
annoyed by the fact that her cousin had mentioned it to me. I remember
that Mrs Romilly "laid the cards" for me, with astonishing success, and
told me she had learnt the mystic lore from an old Finnish nurse, who
had been brought over from Finland by her own Swedish grandfather when
quite a young girl, and had lived in the family until her death. She
assured me that the Finns were specially gifted in all kinds of gipsy
lore.
From Stockholm we paid a visit to Russia, and in St Petersburg I had my
first personal experience since leaving home.
We had engaged, as courier during our stay in the city, a German who had
lived there for forty years, named Küntze, I think.
We were staying at the Hotel de France, and this man told me one day
that a celebrated French _modiste_ had rooms in our hotel, having come
there to show her beautiful Parisian costumes, and to take orders as
usual from the Russian Royal Family and Ladies of the Court. He also
mentioned the Frenchwoman's recent misfortune in hearing--since her
arrival in Russia--that her trusted manager in Paris had disappeared
suddenly, carrying away with him 100,000 francs.
Two nights later I had gone to bed as usual about ten-thirty P.M., and
must have slept for nearly four hours, when I awoke feeling the heat
very oppressive. It was almost the end of June at the time. Getting out
of bed to open my window still farther, I gazed down upon the courtyard
which it overlooked, noting the absolute stillness of the house and the
hot, oppressive air outside.
Suddenly this stillness was rent by the most horrible and appalling
shrieks! Peal after peal rang out. I have never heard anything so
ghastly nor so blood-curdling either before or since. For a moment it
seemed that one _must_ be dreaming. What horrors, to justify such awful
shrieks, could be taking place at this quiet hour and in this quiet,
respectable hotel?
Nothing less than murder suggested itself to me, and I quickly crossed
the room, and turned the key in the lock. My next thought was for my
companion--the Miss Greenlow of American days. She was sleeping next
door to me, with an intervening door between us.
I hammered loudly upon this, and finally opened it. I knew she always
locked her outer door, but feared she might go into the passage, not
realising the danger in the moment of waking, and might fall into the
murderer's hands. So I called out: "Wake up--wake up, Miss
Greenlow!--_but don't open your door_. Someone is being murdered out
there."
I had heard every other door in the passage opening, and the scared
inmates rushing to and fro, so there was no question of feeling bound to
give the alarm.
Miss Greenlow, being an extremely lymphatic person, was still sleeping
the sleep of the just. I gave her a good shake at last, finding knocks
and calls of no avail; but she only turned over sleepily, murmuring:
"Oh, it's all right! I don't suppose there is anything much the
matter--do go to bed again!"
So I returned to my own room, and as the horrible screams had now
ceased, I opened my door very gently, and looked down the dimly lighted
passage. My room was a corner one, exactly at the head of the wide
staircase; to the left-hand side, for anyone mounting the stairs.
Exactly opposite my door, with a wide passage between, was the room
which had been pointed out to me as belonging to the famous French
_modiste_.
Miss Greenlow was evidently the only person in the hotel who had slept
through the horrors of that night, for small groups were gathered
together at various points along the corridor, and at every door some
scared man or woman was looking out, anxious, like myself, to solve the
dreadful mystery.
At that moment my eyes lighted on my special German waiter talking in a
hushed whisper to a musjig--in the usual red coat. So I beckoned to him,
and very reluctantly he came to my door.
Being asked in German what was the meaning of the shrieks we had heard,
he said at once that a lady had been taken ill suddenly.
The man was a bad liar, and a child would have seen that he was
repeating a made-up story. But nothing more could be got out of him, so
I dismissed him impatiently, saying: "What is the good of telling me
such nonsense? I shall find out for myself to-morrow."
Once more I shut and locked the door, and lay for an hour or two
thinking over the ghastly disturbance, and wondering who could have been
the hapless victim. It was now about five A.M., and full dawn. As so
often happens, even after the most sleepless night, I dozed off then,
and slept for more than an hour, and during my sleep I dreamed--and this
was my dream. It must first be noted that the wide staircase I have
described as passing close to my room was thence continued upward to the
next floor. In my dream or vision I saw distinctly a woman in a white
nightgown, with dark hair streaming down her back, rushing up this
second flight of stairs in the most distraught and reckless fashion. In
one hand she held a knife, and was trying to stab herself with it, as a
musjig--in crimson coat--rushed after her, and endeavoured to wrench it
out of her hand. Two or three other people ran up the stairs behind her,
but only this peasant seemed to have the courage or presence of mind to
grapple with her. In a few moments, as it seemed to me, the vision, so
startling and clear cut, faded away, and I sank into a dreamless sleep,
I suppose, for it was past six A.M. when I woke finally.
When the German waiter appeared with my breakfast I said rather curtly
to him: "You need not have troubled to make up that foolish story last
night; I know what happened--_I have seen it_."
He looked very incredulous, so I went on: "The lady was trying to kill
herself, and rushed up to the next floor with a knife in her hand. I saw
the musjig run after her and force it from her."
The man was absolutely speechless. He said not one syllable, either of
corroboration or denial, but left the room as quickly as possible,
looking scared, and certainly left the impression upon my mind that my
vision represented what had actually taken place an hour or two
previously.
To my great surprise, however, our respectable and dependable courier,
Küntze, gave quite a different version of the affair.
He came as usual to my room to take his orders for the day--Miss
Greenlow being present--and at once referred to the terrible tragedy.
"Ah, poor lady! you remember my telling you about her the other day, and
how her manager had run away with all that money? Now _this_ frightful
misfortune has happened to her, and no one knows if she will survive it.
She is still alive, however, and is to be taken to the hospital at one
P.M."
"But what has happened, Küntze?" I said impatiently, rather irritated,
if the truth must be told, by his mysterious allusions and Miss
Greenlow's assumption of profound indifference. Of course, no
self-respecting person, having calmly slept through such a tragedy,
could be otherwise than indifferent next morning! Küntze's story was far
more artistic than that of the waiter, and was skilfully interwoven with
shreds of truth, as I discovered later.
He said that "the poor lady" was in the habit of making herself a cup of
tea in the middle of the night when wakeful; also that she wore wide,
hanging muslin sleeves with her night attire. She had risen as usual
from a sleepless bed to make tea with her little Etna. Unfortunately,
she had set fire to a sleeve, which at once burned up, and in a few
moments she was enveloped in flames, owing to the flimsy material she
wore. Then the shrieks began which had so thrilled our nerves. A Russian
gentleman, sleeping near her, was awakened by the noise, and knowing
that she was a rich woman, and had brought many valuables with her, he
concluded she was being murdered; so he rushed to the rescue with a
revolver, found the burning woman, and he and the musjig at length
succeeded in putting out the flames.
The story was well told, and perfectly credible. Miss Greenlow could not
resist pointing out how entirely it annihilated my vision. No
suicide!--no knife!--no rush up the staircase!--nothing, in fact, that
might not have been, and, of course, _must have been_ a mere freak of
imagination during my troubled sleep. In the face of Küntze's quiet and
detailed statement I could only agree with her, and so the matter rested
for some months. The poor woman meanwhile remained in the hospital, and
her son and daughter were telegraphed for from Paris. We found them at
the hotel on our return there, three weeks later, from Moscow. There was
then some slight hope of ultimate recovery, but within six or seven
weeks from the "accident" the unfortunate woman died from shock and
exhaustion.
From Russia we returned to Stockholm and Christiania, where Miss
Greenlow took the steamer for Hull, and I went up into the Dovre Feld
Mountains to join a Swedish friend, already mentioned in my chapter on
India.
I told her my story of the poor French _modiste_ and her sad and painful
accident, also about my curiously vivid and yet inaccurate vision, and
we discussed the latter in quite an S.P.R. spirit! We were then in a
very remote part of the Dovre Feld, where foreign papers were
practically inaccessible.
I had left my friend in Norway, and returned to England a week or two
before receiving a very interesting letter from her.
In it she said: "I have just got hold of some French papers, and I see
that poor woman you told me about, has just died in Petersburg, and the
real story has now come out.
"It seems that it _was_ suicide after all, so your vision was quite
true!
"She had received large sums in advance for commissions from some of the
Russian nobility, and had either spent or speculated with them. That was
why she had to invent the story of an embezzling manager, to cover her
own shortcomings. But the truth was leaking out in spite of her
endeavours, and she made up her mind to commit suicide rather than face
the horrors of a Russian prison. The paper goes on to say that she chose
a most terrible death, little realising what the torture would be. It
seems that she waited till the middle of the night you described, and
then covered her whole body with oil, and set fire to it! This accounts,
of course, for the horrible shrieks you heard. In her awful agony she
seized a knife--that she had either secreted or found in her
room--rushed out into the passage in a blaze, and when the musjig tried
to stop her, she ran from him, and attempted to stab herself as she made
her way up the stairs. All this you seem to have seen accurately; also
the fact that the musjig pursued her and succeeded in wrenching the
knife from her hands before she had injured herself with it. The paper
mentions that a Russian gentleman had gone to the rescue when he heard
the shrieks, but this was before she had got hold of the knife, and it
was the musjig alone who saved her, in the end, from immediate death."
During this Russian visit we had gone down to Moscow from Petersburg,
and here again a curious adventure befell me.
It was, as I have said, in the height of the summer, and one was
thankful to have a large, handsome room, with three windows looking over
the square, and the famous Kremlin Palace in the distance. My room was
divided into two unequal parts, separated from each other by a door
which was, during the hot season, thrown wide open and _fastened back
securely_. Between this door and the one opening into the outer corridor
the washing apparatus stood, and also a wardrobe of white painted deal,
with a very poor lock to it, as I discovered later.
On retiring to rest the first night, I locked the outer door, undressed
in this ante-room, and finally hung up my gown in the wardrobe I have
mentioned. Then, after looking out of the windows on the fast
diminishing crowd below in the square, I went to bed, feeling quite
cheerful, and looking forward to a long night's rest after a journey
which had been hot and tiring.
As so often happens, one was probably over-tired, and sleep was not to
be wooed by any of the usual methods. In vain I counted sheep getting
over a hedge, added a hundred up backward and forward, tried deep
breathing, and other little "parlour games." It was absolutely useless.
Twelve o'clock struck, then the half hour, and I gathered from the
stillness below that the good Moscow citizens had retired to their
respective homes. This seemed an added insult! Then one o'clock struck,
and after that I lay for a seeming eternity, before two strokes from the
clock outside indicated the half hour. Scarcely had the reverberation
ceased when I heard cautious sounds in the corridor, which gave me a
good fright, and made me regret the silence I had found so irksome. The
outer door of my room was quietly being opened, creaking on its hinges
in the most ordinary and commonplace way, but evidently opening under a
very wary hand. "Then I could not have locked it after all!" And yet I
felt so convinced that I had done so! Certainly I had _intended_ to do
so on my first night in a strange hotel! The best I could hope was that
some other new arrival had mistaken his room, and was returning late,
and consequently trying to be as quiet as possible. This flashed through
my mind, and brought a moment's comfort. I expected to see a man's head
round the open door at the foot of my bed, and to hear a hurried apology
and still more hurried retreat. I say a _man's_ head, for the footsteps,
though so quiet and cautious, were without doubt a man's footsteps. But
several moments passed in horrible suspense. The outer door had creaked
on its hinges and opened without a shadow of doubt. _Where was the man?_
The door had not closed again, so far as I could hear. From my bed I
could not command a view of the smaller portion of the room, where,
presumably, he must be hidden. There was nothing but the wash-hand stand
and the wardrobe there. What could he be doing or _waiting for_? My
comforting supposition of a mistake in the number of his room, made by
an innocent guest, could not be stretched wide enough to account for the
long pause. Perhaps it was some robber lurking about the passages! He
had tried my door gently, and found it open. I had heard the door creak
on its hinges in spite of all his care. Now he was doubtless waiting to
make sure that this noise had not awakened me before beginning his
operations!
This was the only reasonable supposition, and I lay in absolute terror
for some minutes, fearing to stir or almost to breathe at such close
quarters, and quite incapable of rising and putting an end to my
terrible suspense. I longed to hear the next "quarter" strike, but
nothing relieved the dead silence in my room and in the streets outside.
At long last the _quarter to two_ struck, and something in the friendly
tones of the massive clock relieved the tension and gave me courage--the
courage of desperation--to strike a match and light my candle before
starting on a tour of discovery. The middle door was fastened back, as I
had found it when taking possession of the room. In any case, that was
not the door which had been opened--the sound came from the _outer_
door. I _must_ find out if anyone were hiding in the little
dressing-room; and in any case, I must lock the outer door, which I had
felt so certain I had locked on coming up to my room. I passed through
the open _inner door_ with fear and trembling. To my relief, the small
apartment was apparently empty. The wardrobe stood partly open, but
nothing more terrible than my own gown was inside it. Then I made my way
to the outer door, which gave on to the corridor, determined to make
sure of locking it firmly _this_ time. After all, it must have been a
wandering guest, who had discovered his mistake at once, and retreated
noiselessly!
I have seldom been more absolutely dumfounded than when I turned the
handle of that door, preparatory to locking it, and found _that it was
securely locked already_, just as I had supposed! How could the hinges
have creaked then, and whose cautious footsteps had I heard?
Once more my eyes fell upon the wardrobe, with its cheap varnish and
lock. I had certainly not locked _this_ overnight. Could it have creaked
itself farther open? It did not for the moment strike me that the noise
came from another quarter, and that the footsteps were still to be
explained. I was only too thankful to find the barest apology of an
explanation. So I locked the wardrobe as carefully as possible, noticing
that the lock was not one of the first quality, and once more retired to
bed, and put out my candle, greatly relieved.
Scarcely ten minutes had passed (as I afterwards ascertained) when the
whole scene was enacted once more! The same cautious tread, the same
sound of the _outer door_ creaking slowly on its hinges--there was
nothing in the least uncanny about it _per se_. It was just the normal
noise that any late comer would make who was thoughtful enough not to
disturb a sleeping house.
But my impatience got the better of my fears this time. I was not going
to be decoyed out of bed a second time on a wild-goose chase. "It must
have been that wardrobe door after all! As to the footsteps, I don't
know and I don't care! The cheap lock must have given way, and I shall
find the wardrobe door has swung open, I am sure."
With this comforting assurance I turned round, and in a few minutes fell
into a deep sleep, after the varied excitements of the night.
Next morning I stepped gaily into the smaller division of the room to
begin my toilet, and triumphantly turned round to convince myself of the
truth of my theory about the wardrobe door. To my infinite astonishment
and perplexity _the wardrobe was securely locked_, just as I had left it
in the middle of the night.
I have never had any explanation of this mystery; but I changed my fine
big room for a much less desirable one that morning, and made some
excuse about wishing for a quieter room at the back of the house.
The next evening, sitting in my new abode with my travelling companion,
she showed far more interest in my adventure than in the Petersburg
tragedy and subsequent vision of mine.
So much so that I invited her to take a pencil and see if she could get
any sort of explanation of the mystery; for although not at all
_intuitive_, she knew something of what is called automatic writing.
I give her narrative, not as being in the slightest degree evidential,
but for its intrinsic interest, and because I am personally convinced
that she had not sufficient imagination to have made it up on the spur
of the moment.
Miss Greenlow's "message" was to the following effect:--
About fifty years previously, a Russian gentleman (an officer, I
_think_, but am not certain of this) and his mistress had occupied this
large front room. The man had spent all day at a rifle competition,
combined with some sort of merry-making, and had returned home very
late--at one-thirty A.M., in fact--very much the worse for drink. He had
opened the door very carefully, trusting he should find the lady asleep;
but, unfortunately, she was not only wide awake, but extremely annoyed
by his late return and the state in which he had come back to her. A
desperate quarrel had ensued, and getting frightened by his violence,
she seized his rifle, giving him a blow on the head with the butt end of
it, hoping to stun him, but with no idea of murder in her mind. Whether
she gave a more severe blow, in her nervousness, than she had intended,
or whether the rifle fell on some specially vital spot, was not
explained in the writing. Anyway, the blow proved fatal--to her extreme
regret and remorse.
Under these circumstances one would have supposed that it would be more
reasonable for the lady to haunt the room, and not the gentleman; but I
"tell the tale as 'twas told to us."
It is, however, remarkable that in most of these stories it is the
victim who appears--determined to enact the scene of his or her
death--and not the murderer.
I think we were also told, by-the-by, that I had slept in the room on
the anniversary of the occurrence.
It was obviously impossible to get any corroboration of such a story.
Two small points in it, however, were proved to be true.
The Moscow hotels, as a rule, were comparatively modern at the time of
our visit, and therefore the "fifty years ago" seemed highly improbable.
We learned, however, through a few discreet questions later, that this
particular hotel _had_ been in existence so far back as fifty years, and
also that rifle competitions had taken place on certain occasions in
those far-off days.
For the rest I claim nothing. I have truthfully recounted my experience
without a word of exaggeration, and have never been able to account for
it normally.
The explanation given to us is, of course, just worth the paper it was
written upon from any _evidential_ point of view.
CHAPTER VI--_continued_
SWEDEN AND RUSSIA, 1892
Taking my experiences chronologically, I must now carry my readers back
to England, where the autumn of this year found me in London.
I had been asked to recommend a house for paying guests, well situated,
in the West End of London, and newly started by a lady who had been left
a widow with very slender provision. Several kind women had interested
themselves in the case, and had wisely suggested thinking out a means of
livelihood in the future rather than merely supplying present wants.
It would be difficult to imagine a person _less_ suited for the sort of
employment chosen; but that is "another story."
I never care to recommend anything or anybody of which or of whom I have
no personal knowledge; at the same time, I was anxious to help my kindly
acquaintance in her philanthropy, and as I had arranged to spend some
weeks in London that autumn--to be near an invalid brother--it struck me
that I might stay at the house so strongly recommended, instead of
taking private rooms as usual.
So I journeyed to Sussex Gardens, found a charming house, newly
furnished and decorated, and as clean as the proverbial "new pin," and,
moreover, a very good-looking mistress of the house, still a youngish
woman of five or six and thirty.
She spoke most warmly of the kindness she had received from the lady who
had given me her address, showed me some pleasant rooms, and the
arrangement was quickly completed.
I chose a small sitting-room in addition to my bedroom, although, as a
matter of fact, this was scarcely necessary, as I was the first guest
received. Only one deaf old lady appeared upon the scene during the six
weeks I spent there.
I had not been forty-eight hours in the house before I discovered that
my hostess was a convinced and very remarkable psychic. Naturally she
was delighted to find someone to whom she could speak of her various
experiences without being laughed at or put down as a lunatic. At the
same time I am bound to confess that Mrs Peters, although extremely
interesting, was also rather agitating, and certainly much too erratic
to make an entirely satisfactory _Chatelaine_. She was given to reading
"Aurora Leigh," instead of ordering dinner, and had to be sent for
occasionally to sit at the head of the table, with a volume of
_Browning_ or _Tennyson_ firmly clutched in her reluctant hand. Even
when duly "found and delivered," curious things happened during the
meals--especially at dinner in the evening, when she often put down
knife and fork and directed my attention to the far end of the handsome
dining-room, where she was wont to see the ghost of her late husband.
"Look, dear Miss Bates! Surely you _must_ see him--dear Henry, I mean.
There he stands, beard and all, just between the sofa and the wall. I
can see him as clearly as I see you!"
I am bound to say I never _did_ see "dear Henry"; but the fine tabby cat
certainly saw something in that corner, for it would rush most
frantically to the sofa, jump on to one end, and sit staring at Henry
(presumably), with its tail stuck out and its fur rising up, glaring
into the corner with a look of combined fear and fascination.
My little sitting-room was invaded at all hours by my too interesting
landlady, who would suddenly remember some thrilling experience, which
she wished to share with me. At length I took to my bed for three days,
not in the least ill, but simply for a much-needed rest in the midst of
all these excitements.
A day or two after emerging from this haven of peace, I received a visit
from a young lady, whose parents were well known to me in Yorkshire, and
who had recently become engaged to a very rich man, many years her
senior; in fact, considerably older than her own father, who had lately
passed away. The daughters of this family were all devoted to their
father, and most of the visit was occupied in giving me details of his
last illness, and in my sympathising with her upon his loss. It was, in
fact, far more a visit of condolence than of congratulation upon her
future prospects of happiness. As to the latter, I found it difficult to
be quite truthful and yet conventionally ecstatic.
To marry a man nearly old enough to be your grandfather struck me as
risky, to say the least of it, even with all the emollients which
riches and position undoubtedly add to domestic life.
The young woman in question did not at all resent my frankness on the
subject, but assured me that her greatest consolation in thinking of her
late father was the fact that she was about to make a marriage which he
had always wished, and of which he had emphatically given his approval
on his death-bed. "I told him I had decided upon it, just before he
died, and he was so relieved and happy about it," she said simply as she
turned to leave the room. Having mentioned that a younger sister was
also in town, I sent a message to the latter, asking her to take early
dinner with me on the following Sunday, which happened to be my only
spare day just then.
On the evening of this visit from the coming bride, I had accepted an
invitation to a large musical party in the house of the lady who had
begged me to interest myself in Mrs Peters. It was within a
stone's-throw of Sussex Gardens, and I came down to dinner at
seven-thirty P.M., intending to dress later, and go round there about
nine P.M.
For an hour or so before dinner I had been conscious of a growing
despondency, to which I could attribute no cause, and this increased so
much during the meal that Mrs Peters noticed it at last, and asked me if
I were feeling unwell.
"No--not unwell--but I am absolutely miserable, and cannot imagine why."
"Then you have not had bad news?" was the next remark. "I feared you
must have had, seeing you so silent and not able to eat anything."
In answer to this I said that I had not even the excuse of hearing of
other people's misfortunes, for a young lady had been calling upon me
that afternoon, who was about to make what the world calls a very
successful marriage. I did not, however, mention her name, as Mrs Peters
knew none of my friends.
Dinner over, I felt still so unaccountably wretched that I determined to
give up the evening party, and write my excuses. Mrs Peters did her best
to combat this decision, fearing that her kind benefactress might be
disappointed, and also urging that the evening's enjoyment would cheer
me up. But finding me inexorable, she then said: "Well, if you have
quite determined not to go, shall I come into your sitting-room and see
if we can get any explanation of your curious feeling of depression?"
I closed with this suggestion, knowing Mrs Peters to be a really
remarkable sensitive.
So we sat in the dark for a few minutes; and then I heard a soft
_frou-frou_ on Mrs Peters' silk gown, and knew she was tracing out words
with her hand in a fashion of her own.
"It is a spirit that young lady brought with her," she announced at
length. "The spirit has remained here with _you_, and is worried about
this marriage you spoke of. She wants you to try and break it off. She
seems to have been nearly related to the lady, or perhaps a godmother;
anyway, she takes great interest in her."
"Will she give a name?" I asked.
"ELIZA is all I get," Mrs Peters replied.
It then occurred to me that my young friend's name _was_ Eliza, and
that she had been so named after a great-aunt, to the best of my
recollection; but as she was invariably called Elsa, by friends and
relations alike, it was only by chance that I remembered hearing her
teased about her far less romantic baptismal name.
I asked if no surname could be given, thinking at the moment that it
would be Waverly--the family name; but my thought was evidently not
transferred to Mrs Peters, who said she could not get the name
accurately, but that it was certainly _not_ Waverly. I found later that
the Great-Aunt Eliza had a name entirely different from that of her
descendants.
Nothing further happened on this occasion, except that I sent a message
to "Great-Aunt Eliza" to say that nothing would induce me to take the
responsibility of trying to break off any marriage, either by the advice
of people in this sphere or in any other sphere. In this case I should
have had neither the authority nor the influence to make any such unwise
attempt.
Sunday came round in due course, and brought the bride's younger sister,
then a girl of twenty-four or twenty-five. We discussed the usual midday
Sunday dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Mrs Peters sitting at
the head of the table, I on her right hand, and Carrie Waverly next to
me.
Suddenly realising that my remarks to the latter were receiving very
scant attention, I looked up, and found the girl's black eyes fixed in a
basilisk stare upon our unfortunate hostess, whose own eyes were cast
down, but who appeared uneasy and troubled by the determined gaze of my
guest. At length the poor woman threw down her knife and fork, rose
hastily from the dining-table, and made her way eagerly to the sofa at
the other end of the room, where she lay down at full length, murmuring:
"_I can't stand it any longer!_"
Carrie Waverly was at length induced to come away to my sitting-room and
leave the poor woman in peace, which she did, asserting her complete
innocence, and assuring me she "_only wanted to see if she could make
Mrs Peters look up at her!_"
I explained to her that "sensitives" may be as much upset by this sort
of thing as another person would be by a blow on the back. She looked
incredulous, and then said cheerfully: "Well, if it is as bad as that,
don't you think you ought to go and see how she is?"
"Two for yourself and your own curiosity and one for her!" I thought;
but I took the hint, and found Mrs Peters still prostrate on the sofa,
but full of apologies for her sudden collapse:
"You must have thought me so very rude," etc., etc.
I reassured her on this point, and expressed regret that my visitor
should have upset her so much by looking so fixedly at her.
"It was not her fault," said Mrs Peters eagerly. "_It was the man
standing over her._ He had his hands upon her shoulders, and was trying
so hard to influence her, and she was resisting it all the time, and the
whole conflict of their wills was thrown upon _me_, and I could not
stand it at last--that was why I left the table," she gasped out.
"Could you describe the man at all?"
"Quite clearly," she said. "I shall never forget his face--I saw him so
distinctly." She then proceeded to describe in detail the very clear-cut
features and bushy eyebrows of Carrie Waverly's father, giving also his
colouring, which was very distinctive. I suggested trying to find out
what he wanted to say to his daughter, but this distressed Mrs Peters so
much that I was sorry to have made the suggestion.
"No! no! dear Miss Bates!--don't ask me to do that--dear Henry never
likes my taking messages from strangers--I have promised him that I
would never do it without his permission. It upsets me so much, and I
feel so weak already."
So I came away, promising to look in later and see if I could do
anything for her.
Carrie was naturally greatly interested by the accurate description
given of her father, and was very impatient for me to pay Mrs Peters a
second visit.
I went in presently, and found the latter standing up, and in a state of
great excitement. She had, in fact, been on the point of coming to us
when I entered.
"Dear Henry told me to take that message after all," were the words with
which she greeted me. "There was some misunderstanding between the
father and this daughter, and he wants her to know that it is all right
now." (This seemed to me most improbable, as the devoted daughters and
father were always on terms of the greatest harmony and mutual
understanding. _Yet it proved to be quite true._)
Mrs Peters continued: "He is very much upset about this marriage. He
tells me he was so anxious for it when on this side, but now he sees all
the difficulties and possible dangers. But he says it is too late to
reconsider the step now; only he is so very anxious to secure the
interests of his daughter before she marries. He wishes to know whether
her settlement is signed. _It is not one of which he would have
approved._ And he says there are two houses, and one ought to be settled
upon her--you _must_ ask about it, dear Miss Bates. He is most decided
and so dreadfully upset about it all, because he says it was he who
urged the marriage upon her."
I spent the following fifteen or twenty minutes as a sort of
messenger-boy between Mrs Peters in the dining-room and Carrie Waverly
in my sitting-room. Needless to say, _I_ knew nothing at all about the
settlements or how many houses the prospective bridegroom might possess,
and having no sort of curiosity about the financial affairs of my
neighbours, it was not at all pleasant to be employed in this way.
Mrs Peters, on the contrary, seemed to know everything connected with
the estate and the marriage settlement, _except the fact that the latter
had not yet been signed_, although reluctantly "passed" by both the
lady's trustees. Wherefore this special limitation in the father's
knowledge it is impossible to say. He certainly showed no limitation in
his knowledge of the bridegroom's character and disposition, and gave
the most elaborate and detailed instructions as to how his daughter
should behave towards her husband, and where she might, with advantage,
cultivate tact and patience.
My advice to Miss Waverly was to say nothing on the subject to her
sister, but she wisely, as it turned out, determined to take the
responsibility of telling her _everything_. She telegraphed to me next
day, asking if she might come and see Mrs Peters and bring the bride
with her.
This was done, and they arrived, with several photographs, large and
small, of the father, and also of the bridegroom, for identification.
Carrie, in fact, tried--a little unfairly perhaps--to make Mrs Peters
identify the wrong person by forcing into notice a large photograph of
the _bridegroom_ (some years senior to the father), and saying
carelessly: "_There, Mrs Peters--that is the face you saw yesterday of
my father, is it not?_" But Mrs Peters would have none of it. She looked
staggered for a moment, then caught sight of the second picture, and
turned to it with relief: "_This_ is the face I saw, whether it is your
father or not," she answered, with decision.
The bride begged for a private interview with Mrs Peters, which lasted
for a considerable time. Of course, I knew nothing of this interview,
nor should I feel at liberty to speak of it if I did know. I may,
however, be permitted to say that I have the bride's own assurance that
the accurate knowledge then given her of her future husband's
characteristics physical and mental, and the best way of dealing with
them, "made all the difference in her married life."
During that interview Mrs Peters also told her the number of years she
would be married; and the prophecy was accurately fulfilled, which is
the more remarkable, because, as a rule, it seems impossible to
predicate time, even when events can be foreseen.
I am happy to add that the marriage turned out a complete success, and
that a marriage settlement was made more in accordance with the father's
wishes, although neither trustees nor principal in the transaction, had
any idea that the actual arrangements were in any way due to the
strongly expressed wishes of a discarnate spirit.
If this book should ever fall into their hands, and they should trace
the story in spite of the thick veil I have thrown over all the
circumstances, I can only trust that, in gratitude for the results, they
may become reconciled with the channel through which these were made
possible.
People may say: "What a terrible idea that a father or a husband should
trouble himself about such sordid details as money, houses, etc."
But this is an extremely foolish remark, although it may appear very
spiritual on the surface. It is surely the most natural thing in the
world that a near relation--if permitted--should endeavour to secure
comfort and happiness for a dearly loved wife or daughter; especially
when, as in the above case, he felt mainly responsible for a state of
affairs which might have turned out so disastrously, save for his loving
care and foresight, exercised as these were from the other side of the
veil.
At anyrate it disposes once for all of the weary old "_Cui Bono_"
argument, which is so futile, and yet so constantly and triumphantly
quoted by stupid people, who seem to took upon it as a patent
extinguisher for any psychic gifts or experiences.
It is mainly in order to meet this senseless observation that I have
included this story in my reminiscences.
Most of us are debarred from answering the "_Cui Bono_" bray, by the
fact that our most helpful experiences are generally of a too intimate
and often sacred nature to be given to a scoffing world.
But this instance has the advantage of dealing entirely with material
matters, and thus being on a level with the ordinary intelligence.
Nobody can say in this case _no good was done_. It only remains to be
deeply shocked by the undignified, "nay, almost blasphemous,"
intervention in mundane affairs of a spirit "who should certainly have
had some more worthy occupation."
It is another case of the old man and the donkey. If discarnate spirits
_don't_ trouble about the personal affairs of those on earth, the "_Cui
Bono_" argument is hurled at them. If they _do_, they are called
blasphemous and irreverent!
The mention of the Waverly family reminds me of an incident which took
place when I was staying in their house in the country, a year or two
earlier than the time of which I am writing. I have reserved it
purposely as a sequel to this last story, which is in its proper
chronological setting.
In the year 1889 I was spending a pleasant fortnight with the Waverlys
in Yorkshire, at the very time when a dear old friend of mine (Mrs
Tennant) was dying in London. I had seen her only a week or two before,
but had no knowledge of her illness, as we were not in constant
correspondence, although there was a deep and strong affection between
us.
I did not even hear of her death, in fact, till a few weeks after it
took place, having missed the announcement in the papers. When Mrs
Tennant's sister, Mrs Lane, wrote me the details, I had left Yorkshire,
and was staying with cousins in Worcestershire. Thinking over the dates
mentioned in describing the illness, I realised with a shock of pained
surprise that the final state of unconsciousness must have set in the
very evening when I was enjoying myself in Yorkshire, at a large
dinner-party given by my host and hostess.
It seemed terrible to think that my dear and much loved friend should
have been lying unconscious upon her death-bed, and that no word or sign
should have come to me.
Then suddenly I remembered a curious little incident connected with that
dinner-party.
I had been admiring a pretty little slate-coloured kitten belonging to
the house, which was calmly sitting upon the grand piano after dinner,
when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room. After the gentlemen
joined us, I was deep in conversation with my host (a remarkably
interesting and intelligent man), when I noticed a small _black_ kitten
run past my dress. Probably I should have remarked upon it had we been
less occupied in talking, for I am extremely fond of cats and animals in
general. I did glance up, as a matter of fact, and satisfied myself that
it was not the little slate-coloured kitty, which sat in still triumph
on the piano. Besides, this kitten was _black_, not slate. I thought no
more of it until the guests had left and Mrs Waverly and I were going
upstairs to bed. She and I were very affinitive, but neither she nor her
family had any special interest in psychology.
On this occasion, however, she said rather mysteriously: "_I think
something will happen to-night to you._" A good many jokes had been made
about the probably uncanny atmosphere of my room, and the various spooks
who were doubtless sharing it with me, so I laughed, thinking this was
only the usual family joke. But Mrs Waverly was quite in earnest. At
first she would give no reason for her remark, "fearing I should tell
her daughters," and that she would be laughed at in consequence.
Reassured on this point, she said to me quite seriously:
"Whilst you were talking to my husband this evening I saw a black kitten
run straight across your dress--just opposite to me."
"_Well, of course, I saw the kitten!_" I answered, to her surprise; "but
there is nothing very remarkable about a black kitten in the house."
"_But we have no black kitten_ in the house, or anywhere on the
premises. Where did it go to? You never saw it again? No; it was not an
ordinary kitten, and I did not suppose till this moment that anyone had
seen it but myself."
It was a fact that no one but Mrs Waverly and I had seen any kitten but
the slate-coloured one already mentioned.
Thinking over this in the light of the sad news of my dear old friend's
death, and noting the correspondence in time between her loss of
consciousness and the appearance of the mysterious black kitten--seen
only by Mrs Waverly and myself--it was impossible not to ask in the
depths of my heart whether, perchance, the spirit of my faithful friend
had been trying to send me some symbol of her approaching death.
It may be objected that black cats are generally connected with good
luck. Well, I think my dear "London mother," as she called herself
sometimes, would have explained this apparent contradiction very simply.
She had lived through much sorrow, and was often oppressed by sore
doubts of the Cosmic Love. I never knew any woman with such strong and
passionate human sympathy, and to such fine spirits, the world, under
present conditions, must always offer terrible problems. Her sympathies
were sometimes too keen for that robust faith which can _always_ say:
"God's in His heaven! All's right with the world!" Yet her last words
were: "_I am so tired, and God will understand; and I am so glad to
go._"
To finish my chapter on a merrier note, I will mention an amusing
episode connected with the evening of the black kitten's appearance.
Amongst the guests invited to that dinner-party was a clergyman-squire,
a man of some means who had taken orders. A "squarson" is the
"portmanteau name" for such a gentleman in Yorkshire, I believe; one who
combines squire and parson.
This particular specimen of the genus was both a vegetarian and a
celibate. The latter fact had been made clear to me by the many regrets
expressed in the neighbourhood that he had remained a bachelor owing to
religious scruples. The vegetarianism was equally certain, for I had
heard orders given for special dishes to be prepared for this guest; and
sitting next to him at the dinner-table, I knew that he had not touched
either meat or game, although it was not a fast day.
After dinner, when the gentlemen had joined us in the drawing-room, the
conversation turned upon psychic matters and my experiences in America
of a few years before. This extreme High Churchman denounced all these,
"lock, stock, and barrel."
He believed that everything might have happened as described, but was
equally certain that the devil alone could have had a hand in "such
goings on"! Perhaps it will be wise to explain that he did not make use
of this latter expression!
My host, instead of coming to the rescue, which he might have done, as
one of "the Cloth"; looked much amused when I fielded most of my
adversary's theological balls.
At length, being unaccustomed to such irreverent handling, my enemy lost
his temper, and, as usual on such occasions, he tried to "take my
wicket" by quoting texts against me!
"Well, all I can say is that everything you have told us is in direct
opposition to Holy Writ. In fact, _we are specially warned in the
Scriptures that in the latter days seducing spirits shall arise_."
At this fatal moment, when the Theological Closure was descending upon
my unhappy head, a really brilliant thought occurred to me.
Was it a seducing spirit or a friendly intelligence who reminded me
that my opponent had only quoted half the text--_the half that suited
him_?
I pointed this fact out meekly.
He looked puzzled, and probably had honestly forgotten what he did not
wish to remember.
"Finish the text? What do you mean?" he said irritably.
So I finished it for him:
"In the latter days seducing spirits shall arise, _forbidding to marry
and commanding to abstain from meats_."
He had pressed me very hard and rather unfairly. Still, the counsel of
perfection would have been to refrain from the comment that, if _I_ were
a celibate and vegetarian, it was not the text I should have chosen with
which to clinch an argument!
AN INTERLUDE
I have headed this chapter an _Interlude_, for the following reason:--
It is the only one in this book which does not record a personal
experience.
The opportunity came to me at Florence, two years ago, of hearing one of
the best old-fashioned Christmas ghost stories I ever came across; also
a ghost story which has two rather unique advantages. First, it has
never been published before; secondly, the percipient was the matron of
a boys' school (a well-known one), and wrote out her experiences _within
twelve hours of their occurrence_.
Now, the matron of a large boys' school must, of necessity, be an
exceptionally practical woman, and her daily experiences can scarcely
tend to encourage undue Romance or Imagination.
When I add that this story was given to me, and a copy of the original
letter placed in my hands, by a sister of two of the schoolboys who were
under the matron's supervision, I shall have cleared the way for my
ghost to appear upon the scene.
I must add, however, that I met this sister, a young widow, in
Florence, two years ago. She then told me this story, finding that I
was intimately acquainted both with the county and the small county
town where it happened.
The matron had gone there for the prosaic purpose of taking the baths
for her rheumatism.
The adventure took place in the early morning of 14th April 1875, and
was recorded, within a few hours, in a long letter written by the
percipient to a favourite cousin.
My friend, Mrs Barker's brothers being at school at the time, begged to
be allowed to read this letter and take a copy of it. The copy was made
by their sister--then a young girl--and I have it in my hands at the
present moment of writing.
It is, of course, necessary to change the name of the county and town,
as the old family mansion, let in lodgings in 1875, has since then been
sold and turned into a boarding-house.
Mrs Barker's mother made an expedition to this town, a few years ago, to
verify the facts, and went over the house, which has been considerably
altered and reconstructed inside since 1875.
The small park mentioned in the story is now built over entirely, as the
town has increased in popularity, owing to its baths, and the family
portraits here mentioned have been removed since the house was sold.
I will now quote _verbatim_ from the matron's letter, _written on the
morning of her experiences_.
"The Priory, Grantwich.
"14th April 1875.
"MY DEAR EDIE,--When you asked me once for a ghost story, I daresay you
as little expected, as I did, how soon I should have to reveal to you an
experience which will doubtless give you, as it has me, much ground for
thought and speculation about those mysterious laws which rule the
spirit world.
"How true it is that Thought and Feeling annihilate Time and Space!
Since last night, I seem to have lived through half a lifetime, such an
effect have its events had upon my inner life. But before I begin to
relate the strange circumstances I have to tell you, I must describe to
you more particularly this house in which they happened.
"I think I told you that 'The Priory'--where I am now lodging--is an
old mansion, belonging to the Carbury family. For some years past, it
has been let to the present occupiers who make the rent by letting
lodgings. Some ancient pieces of furniture remain, and a great many
portraits, none of the earliest date, but a handsome and respectable
collection--soldiers, bishops, and judges, in their uniforms, robes,
and wigs, and ladies with powdered hair, hoops, and trains.
"Of these portraits, _two have engaged my attention, especially, from
the first moment of seeing them_, but I am not going to speak of them
yet; my first object is to give you an idea of the house, or rather that
part of it with which my story is connected.
"I think I have told you that the grand staircase goes up from the inner
hall, and that round the staircase runs a gallery; in this gallery and
in the hall below, are hung most of the portraits.
"On the first turn and landing of the staircase, there is a door opening
into a trellised walk which leads into the garden. On a level with this
door is a large window which looks on to sweeps of soft turf, shaded by
fine trees.
"Standing often to look from this window, as I passed up and down the
staircase, one tree has always riveted my attention. It is a large old
plane-tree, standing by itself, and having a strange, melancholy,
decayed look about it. I noticed--why, I cannot imagine--that on one
side of it the ground was bare and black, though everywhere else the
grass was green and fresh. I mention this, because it had struck me
_before_ the strange events occurred which I am going to tell you.
"You must now go with me to the top of the staircase. Just at the top,
on your right hand, hangs one of the portraits I mentioned. It is a
life-sized painting of Captain Richard Carbury, who landed, on the 19th
September 1738, in the Colony of Georgia, with General Oglethorpe's
regiment.
"Opposite to this, on the other side of the gallery, is the portrait of
a lady, with black, resolute brows and full, voluptuous mouth and chin.
She has a high colour, an exquisite hand and arm, and an Amazonian
bearing.
"Passing from the gallery, you enter a long passage, leading to other
passages and staircases, with which we have nothing to do.
"I only want you now to become acquainted with my own rooms. As you
enter the passage from the gallery, two doors open, one on either hand.
To the right is my sitting-room, a square, cheerful room, looking on the
street; to the left is my bedroom, which will require a more particular
description.
"It is a large, low room. As you enter from the passage, the window,
which looks into the garden, is opposite to you. In the middle of the
wall to your right hand stands the bed, and opposite to that, the
fireplace, and, as you will see, if you have taken in my description,
just at the back of the portrait of the lady with the black eyebrows, is
another door. Opposite to this last is yet another, which caught my
attention when I first entered the room from a peculiarity about it. The
upper part of this door is of glass, rendered opaque by being washed or
lined with some red substance.
"As soon as I was alone in the room I tried to open this door, but it
was firmly fastened. I don't know why I should have felt disquieted by
this circumstance, but certainly I did feel annoyed. I thought at first
that it probably opened into a dressing-room. There must have been a
strong light behind it, for a red light always fell on that side of the
room through the coloured glass, and I could see that red light in the
morning, before any light penetrated the window-blind.
"I think I have now told you all that is necessary for understanding my
experience.
"I must ask you to remember that yesterday was the thirteenth of April.
I went to bed about eleven o'clock, and soon fell asleep. I could not,
however, have slept long before I woke with an unusual feeling that
something strange was going to happen.
"I awoke, not as one does in the morning, with a drowsy resolve not to
go to sleep again because it is time to get up, but as one awakes when a
journey or some similar event is imminent, for which one's faculties
have to be clear, and one's body active and alert. I was rather
wondering at and enjoying the unusual clearness and energy of thought of
which I felt capable, when the clock in the hall began striking, and,
almost at the same moment, the clock of the old Church of St Andrew
began striking also.
"I knew that both were striking twelve, though I did not count the
blows, but just as the last stroke of the church clock died away,
another sound caught my ear.
"The door by the fireplace gave a loud crack and then opened, as if with
some difficulty.
"The _red door_ at the same time rattled, as if someone were trying
vainly to open it. The room had previously been dark, but I now plainly
saw a tall figure come through the doorway and stand near the foot of
the bed. There was a dull, yellowish light round the figure, which
illumined it, leaving the rest of the room in darkness; but this yellow
light, I perceived, became red at one point of the figure's left side,
and shone down on the floor with a red glow, like that which came
through the opposite door.
"The apparition stood quite silent whilst I looked at it. _The features
and figure were familiar to me_ for they were those of Captain Richard
Carbury, in the portrait, who had gone out to Georgia with the regiment
of His Excellency, General Oglethorpe!
"As soon as I was sure of this, I said: 'You are Captain Richard
Carbury?'
"The apparition nodded.
"'Why do you come to me?' I said. 'Cannot you speak?'
"He seemed to have some difficulty in doing so, but after two or three
efforts, such as one makes to move a rusty hinge, he parted his lips,
and said: 'Yes! I am Richard Carbury, and I am come to make you a
witness.'
"'A witness of what?' I said. 'Can I be of use to you? You come from the
spirit world. Is it then permitted to mortals to have personal
intercourse with spirits?'
"He held up his hand as if to silence me.
"'Listen to me,' he said. 'You are not frightened of me?'
"'No,' I replied; nor did I feel the slightest awe or fear. I felt
stimulated, a kind of electricity ran through my veins--I longed
earnestly to learn something of the mysterious realm from which he
came, but I had no vulgar or superstitious fear.
"'Nor need you have any dread,' he returned. 'I have no wish nor power
to hurt you, but you must listen to my story. Once in fifty years I am
allowed to leave my grave and revisit the scene of my tragical death,
and this must always be on the 14th of April, which is the anniversary
of the event.[4] I am also permitted to recount my story if I find
anyone sleeping in this room who is willing to listen to me. Are you
willing?'
[4] There is evidently some mistake here in the figures given by the
ghost or received by the matron. If his death took place in 1741 (three
years after landing in Georgia), his first spirit return was due in
1791, the second, 1841, and the third, not till 1891. It appears to
have been anticipated by sixteen years, if the dates given are correct.
A friend suggests that "once _in_ fifty years" does not necessitate
exact _intervals_ of fifty years.
"I replied that I should gladly hear what he had to tell, but would he
allow me to ask him one question?
"He inclined his head in assent, and I said I had always thought that
the spirits of the dead, if they were allowed to appear on earth, came
with shadowy and skeleton forms. Why did he appear with flesh like a
living man?
"'Ah!' he said, 'that is owing to the peculiarity of my grave. I am
buried in salt.'
"' Have you anything more to ask?' said my visitor.
"'Nothing more at present,' I replied. 'I am ready now to hear your
story.'
"'I will make it as short as possible and not detain you long. You have
noticed my portrait in the gallery?'
"'Yes.'
"'And that of the lady opposite, my cousin, Lucretia Carbury?'
"'Certainly.' (Here the red door was violently shaken).
"'She cannot open it,' said Captain Carbury, 'it is sealed.'
"'When I went out to Georgia,' he resumed, 'in 1738, I was engaged to
be married to her; we had been betrothed by our parents in our
childhood, and family reasons made it almost a necessity that we
should be united, but as we grew up neither of us was very anxious to
fulfil the engagement, and, to tell the truth, I was glad of the
summons to join my regiment. However, after three years in that
distant colony, I came home, having made up my mind I would marry
Lucretia and settle down on the family property--which could only be
enjoyed by that means--for we were the only representatives of the
family, and the property was so left by our fathers that only by
marrying could we enter into possession. _Either by marrying or by the
death of one of us; when the whole of the property would go to the
other._ I knew that Lucretia was at the old house at Grantwich, and I
came straight to her.
"'I had written to say when she might expect me, and she received me
with apparent kindness and agreed to all my propositions about our
marriage. I arrived late at night, and she let me into the house herself
and got food for me. We supped together, and she pledged me in a cup,
which I now know was drugged to make me sleep heavily.
"'I then retired to my room--this room, this bed, on which you now lie!
"'What I am now going to tell you has been made clear to me since; at
the time I was conscious of nothing. As soon as I got into bed, I fell
asleep, and whilst I thus slept Lucretia came through that door
(pointing to the red door opposite), and stabbed me to the heart. I
will show you the instrument with which she did it, if you like.'
"'Pray do,' I said, and he unbuttoned his scarlet uniform coat and drew
from his left side a slender dagger or stiletto.
"I looked at it with great interest and asked if I might take it in my
hand.
"'Certainly, if you wish it,' he said, 'but I do not advise you to touch
it. It is rusty now from the salt, but I assure you it was bright and
keen when she drove it into my heart. The stroke was so cleverly aimed
that I died instantly. Lucretia then made a signal, which was answered
by the entrance of a man, and between them they carried my body through
the door by which I entered to-night.'
"He paused, and I thought he looked more ghastly. 'Is anything the
matter?' I asked.
"'I am thinking,' he answered, 'that I can show you the rest, if you
will follow me, but I must tell you that when we leave this room and
enter the gallery, it is possible the murderess will follow us. Shall
you be afraid?'
"'Not in the least,' I said, 'I will follow you with pleasure, but you
must allow me to put something on, as I am suffering from rheumatism,
and am afraid of the cold and damp.'
"'By all means,' said Captain Carbury. 'I will wait for you in the
gallery.'
"I then got up and put on my dressing-gown and slippers. Whilst I was
doing so, I heard a rustling in the passage as of a woman passing
slowly along. I found Captain Carbury, and followed him along the
gallery without looking round, but when we reached the end of the
gallery and turned to go down the first flight of stairs, I saw the
lady with the black brows--whom I now knew to be Lucretia Carbury, the
murderess--standing in the doorway, between the gallery and the
passage.
"'I do not think she can come any farther,' said my guide, and he
opened the door leading from the staircase into the garden.
"'I am showing you just where they brought me,' said he.
"'Who was the man?' I asked.
"'I never knew his name, but she married him afterwards.'
"He then moved across the lawn _to the bare spot under the plane-tree_.
Here he stopped, and, pointing downwards, showed me on the bare ground
an exact outline of the dagger which he had drawn from his side.
"'Here they dug my grave and here they buried me; a salt spring washes
over me.'
"At this moment the great clock of St Andrew struck ONE.
"'All that you have told me is very sad and strange,' I said, 'but now,
will you allow me to ask you why you have appeared to me? Is there
anything you want done on earth that I can do? Is there any restitution
to be made, or justice to be administered? Anything that you require, I
am ready to do, if you will grant me one favour when you return to the
spirit realm.'
"I had been speaking with my eyes fixed on the ground, but now,
happening to raise them, I was surprised to see that my companion
appeared to be sinking into the ground.
"'My time is up,' he said. '_Remember!_'--and, as his head disappeared,
his words came in a hollow, sepulchral voice from beneath _that spot of
black earth_--'remember you are my witness!'
"I was left standing alone under the plane-tree, with the thought, that
in returning to my room, I might probably meet the restless spirit of
Lucretia Carbury.
"Nothing of the kind, however, occurred. I passed through the doors that
had opened at the touch of Captain Carbury, and I noticed that they
closed behind me without any effort on my part. I regained my bed, and
almost immediately fell asleep. All had passed so naturally, and as a
matter of course, that only when I woke this morning, and thought over
the events of the night, did I realise that I had passed through such an
experience as is given to few human beings.
"You see, dear Edie, that my narrative has taken so long to write that I
have no time to speak of other things, even if I could bring my mind to
think of anything else, which, I confess, I should have great difficulty
in doing.--Ever your very affectionate, "M. PORTER."
Copied _verbatim_ from Miss Porter's letter, written on the morning of
14th April 1875.
* * * * *
So ends the story, with apologies to the S.P.R.!
I claim nothing for it beyond the following _facts_:
The Priory still exists at Grantwich, and is known to have been the
family mansion of the Carbury family.
Miss Porter was undoubtedly matron of the school where my friend's
brothers were educated. She was a woman of unblemished character and
truthfulness, and would certainly not have _invented_ this long and
detailed account of her personal experiences within a few hours of their
occurrence.
My friend most certainly copied this letter, which her brothers had
obtained leave to read, from their school matron--Miss Porter herself.
Lastly, my friend, Mrs Barker's mother (who is still alive), verified
the existence of the Priory (as I have called it) in the town of
Grantwich, and it _had_ been turned into a boarding-house at the time of
her visit, having been previously let in lodgings. Also she found that
Captain Richard Carbury was _supposed to have died in Georgia in the
year 1741_, as is inferred in the story.
As the murderess and her accomplice alone seem to have been aware of his
return on that fateful night, this would be the natural opinion of the
world.
As an old associate of the S.P.R., and quite conversant with their
methods, two criticisms of the story at once suggest themselves, in
addition to the confusion of dates, which might perhaps be excused,
owing to the abnormal nature of the interview described. But the obvious
Podmorian remark would be that the whole adventure was a dream on the
part of Miss Porter, induced by her interest in the two family portraits
she had seen, and the curious sensations she had experienced in looking
at a specially gloomy tree in the park.
This would certainly cover the ground, but it proves, perhaps, rather
too much.
It requires very robust "Faith in Unfaith" to suppose that a sensible,
practical woman, suffering from rheumatism, should carry her dream to
the verge of following her dream man into the garden and grounds of the
house. It may be urged that _she dreamt all this also_, but "that way
madness lies." We must be able to formulate that certain acts of ours
took place during full consciousness, or daily life would become
impossible and moral responsibility would cease.
Miss Porter might have been in a dream all through the night--granted.
But in these cases it is the "morning that brings counsel." We are all
aware of the extraordinary lifelike dreams which, with the return of
normal memory, we recognise as dream visions, no matter how vivid and
credible they may have appeared to us in the night.
But with Miss Porter this normal process was reversed. She went to sleep
quite calmly, and first realised, upon waking in the morning, how
thoroughly _abnormal_ her experiences had been.
I pass on to the next criticism, which a little "editing" on my part
could have averted:
"Is it credible that a woman, only just recovering from the surprise and
marvel of such an experience, should write about it, within a few hours,
to a favourite cousin, as if she were preparing a story for _The Family
Herald_?"
I confess that this was my own feeling when the record was placed in my
hands.
We must, however, remember--first, that the percipient was obviously a
lady of great courage, or she would not have followed her ghost into the
garden; secondly, that she was a keen observer and very accurate in
details. Probably, many generations of schoolboys, passing through her
hands, may have quickened her perceptions in both these ways.
As for the stilted style, that presents little difficulty, when one
remembers that people of a certain rank in life never use a short word
when a long one will answer the purpose!
I claim nothing for the story, beyond the points already mentioned.
These are matters of _fact_.
Each one must interpret it according to his own views and prejudices.
It is quite enough for me to be responsible for the truth and accuracy
of _my own_ experiences, to which we will now return.
* * * * *
_Note._--Since writing the above I have consulted the "Century
Encyclopædia," and find there:
"Oglethorpe--James Edward, born in London, December 21st, 1696, died
at Cranham Hall, Essex, England, 1785. An English General and
Philanthropist. He projected the Colony of Georgia for insolvent
debtors, and persecuted Protestants; conducted the expedition for its
settlement, 1733, and returned to England, 1743."
The apparent discrepancy between the date 1733 given in the
Encyclopædia, and the 1738 of Captain Carbury's ghostly narrative, may
be due to one of two causes:
The young girl copying Miss Porter's letter may have mistaken a three
for an eight rather easily.
Again, Captain Carbury did not state that he landed _with_ General
Oglethorpe, 19th September 1738, but with General Oglethorpe's regiment.
This latter may have been a reinforcement sent out to the General after
his first landing in the Colony.