LADY CAITHNESS AND AVENUE WAGRAM
Having spent the winter months of 1894 (from January to April) in Egypt,
I was returning thence in the latter month with my friend Mrs Judge of
Windsor. Our route was _via_ Paris, and I had arranged to spend a week
there in the same hotel as the young Swedish lady whom I first met in
India, and who has been referred to more than once in this record.
She told me she had made the acquaintance that winter of the famous
"Countess of Caithness and Duchesse de Pomar," and thinking it would
interest me to meet this lady, she had asked for permission to introduce
me to her.
As it turned out, Madame Brügel was unable to accompany me to the house,
having several engagements for the afternoon, but she promised to "put
in an appearance" later. So Mrs Judge and I drove off to the well-known
mansion in the Avenue de Wagram, and were received very cordially by
Lady Caithness.
I had once tried to read a very abstruse and mystic book by this lady,
and had heard her spoken of as a more or less hopeless lunatic, "who
imagined herself Mary Queen of Scots," and so forth.
Otherwise I went without prejudice, and being accustomed to judge for
myself in such matters, came to the conclusion that Lady Caithness was
an extremely shrewd woman, with her head remarkably "well screwed on,"
as the saying is. As regards her claims to be Mary Queen of Scots, I
never heard these from her own lips, although I saw her daily for a
week, and we had many interesting talks.
She certainly _did_ claim to be in very close relations with the
ill-fated Queen of Scotland, but I do not know what views she may have
held privately as to varied manifestations of the one spirit. I have
heard Lord Monkswell propound an interesting theory, with Archdeacon
Wilberforce in the chair, to the effect that as one short earth life
gave small scope for spiritual experience and development, he thought it
quite possible that the same spirit might have several bodily
manifestations simultaneously, and that the judge and the criminal might
conceivably be one and the same individual in two personalities!
It is possible that Lady Caithness may have had some such view, not
theoretically (as was the case with Lord Monkswell), but as a matter of
conviction, and apart from the limits of Time and Space involved in the
conception of the latter.
I can only say that I never heard her speak of Mary Queen of Scots
except as an entity, quite distinct from herself. But that she carried
the "Marie" _culte_ to great extremes is an undoubted fact. The hall and
rooms on the ground floor of the Avenue Wagram House were arranged and
furnished in close imitation of Holyrood Palace. I counted over fifty
miniatures and other pictures of the Scottish Queen in the Countess's
beautiful bedroom alone, and later on shall have to speak more
definitely of one life size and exquisitely painted portrait of the
Queen.
But to return to this first reception.
I must confess that a somewhat inconveniently keen sense of humour found
only too much nourishment on this occasion.
The Countess was magnificently dressed, as was usual with her, in
priceless lace, falling over head and shoulders, and a beautiful tiara
of various coloured jewels arranged over the lace. This was eccentric
perhaps, considering the occasion, but not laughable. Lady Caithness, in
addition to geniality, had enough quiet dignity to carry off the lace
and jewels with success. I was chiefly amused by the attitude of adoring
humility and flattering appreciation shown by the numerous ladies
already assembled when we arrived. Only one man was present, and he was
a priest. Later I learned to appreciate the friendliness of the Abbé
Petit and to admire his intellectual courage and manliness.
For the moment, seeing him surrounded by these female worshippers,
hanging upon his lips as he discoursed to us about new readings of old
truths, one was irresistibly reminded of certain scenes in Molière's
"_Femmes Savantes_."
A lively little American lady (married to an Italian count) plied him
with numerous questions in fluent French, spoken with an atrocious
accent. Finally, she wished to hear the Abbé's views upon
_Melchisedech!_ In the midst of other questions and answers, the kindly
little man managed to turn round to her with a cheery "_Ah, Madame la
Comtesse! pour le Melchisedech--nous reviendrons tout de suite à
Melchisedech!_" All the affairs of the religious universe were being
wound up at a similar pace and in like fashion, and this final word of
cheerful assurance would have proved absolutely disastrous to me had I
not been sitting close to my friend and able to whisper to her: "_Please
dig your nails into my wrist--hard._" Any bodily pain was preferable to
the hysterical laughter which had been so long suppressed and seemed now
imminent.
But there was worse to come!
An Englishwoman, the very type of the characteristic British spinster,
turned round, and addressed M. l'Abbé in laboured and extremely British
French (I must leave the accent to be imagined and supplied by my
reader):
"Mais, Monsieur l'Abbé! c'est le Protestantisme que vous nous enseignez
la."
He turned round upon her in his wrath:
"Mais, Madame--ou MADEMOISELLE." (No print can convey the utter scorn
and contempt of this last word.)
The rest of the sentence was lost to us in the loud laugh of the genial,
good-tempered woman: "_Moi_, Mademoiselle! J'ai été mariée vingt ans et
j'ai six enfants!"
The whole scene was too funny for words, and, with the exception of this
good lady, all present took themselves as seriously as a University don!
It was a real relief when the solemnity of the reception broke up and we
were ushered into the adjoining dining-room for an excellent tea. Here
I came upon my Swedish friend, who had only just arrived, and "missed
all the fun." She told me there was to be a _séance_ held in the house
next day, and that she had been asking the Countess if I might not be
present. "_It might amuse you, Kat!_" was her irreverent way of putting
it. "_Unfortunately, there seems to be some difficulty about it._"
At this moment Lady Caithness came up, and cordially expressed her
regrets that she could not accede to Madame Brügel's suggestion.
"Had you been staying until next week, Miss Bates, I would gladly have
arranged for it, but to-morrow is a very special occasion. As a matter
of fact, I have promised M. Petit that no one shall be present except
himself and me, and the two female mediums, of course. On Wednesday we
are to have a crowded meeting here--all the well-known people in Paris
will come--and M. l'Abbé will read his paper explaining that he can no
longer blind his eyes to the new light breaking upon the world through
scientific discovery, etc., but that he remains a loyal son of the
Church, if the Church will allow him to do so. It is, of course, a very
trying and anxious ordeal; for many priests will be present, also a
cardinal and one or more of our bishops. So the _séance_ to-morrow will
be specially devoted to receiving last instructions for the paper he is
about to read, and some words, we trust, of encouragement and hope."
Of course, I hastened to assure Lady Caithness of my full comprehension
of her point, and added that I was only sorry she should have been asked
to alter her arrangements on my account.
"But you will join us on Wednesday at the meeting, I trust? It will be
held at three P.M., in a large room on the ground floor, which is
arranged for such gatherings. I shall expect you then, so we will not
say good-bye."
This was heaping coals of fire on my head; for so observant a woman as
Lady Caithness must have noticed my difficulty in keeping a grave face
earlier in the afternoon!
Now comes a curious point. As we left the house Madame Brügel in
expressing disappointment about the next evening, added: "And yet
somehow I think you will go after all."
"Yes," I said involuntarily. "I believe I _shall_ go, but I cannot think
how it will come about; nothing could be more decided than what we have
just heard, and I cannot possibly put off my journey to England the end
of this week."
I think we were both a little disappointed when no letter arrived by the
morning's post. "Local letters often come by second post," urged my
friend, who was very keen upon her presentiment.
A long morning at the Louvre prevented my reaching home till one P.M.,
when the _déjeuner à la fourchette_ was half way through its course. No
letter on my plate! So Madame Brügel and I agreed that the wish must
have been father to the thought with both of us, and put the matter out
of our heads once for all.
At two-thirty P.M., however, a _dépêche_ letter arrived for me.
Lady Caithness wrote to _beg that I would make a point of being with her
that evening by nine p.m._ "You will think this very inconsistent with
what I told you yesterday," she wrote, "but I said only what was the
exact truth, as matters then stood. It is the Queen herself who has
communicated with me this morning, and _insists_ upon your being present
this evening. The Abbé and I can only bow to this decision. I need not
tell you how pleased I shall be personally to greet you this evening."
I was again shown into the spacious bedroom of the Countess, where she
"received" in general, quite after the manner of the French kings in the
days of the old monarchy.
Her bed was quite a State bed too, with its beautiful silk furnishings
and heavy velvet hangings. On the wall behind this, was a very valuable
fresco painting, representing Jacob's ladder, with the angels ascending
and descending, executed by a famous modern artist.
We soon descended to the ground floor, and passing through the large
lecture-room, of which Lady Caithness had spoken, and which had
sufficient gilt and cane chairs to seat a large audience; we stepped
down some marble stairs into a small but exquisitely appointed room. It
was a sort of chapel, in fact, built "by the Queen's instructions," and
used for all purposes and occasions of direct communication with her. A
general impression remains with me of rare woods and exquisite marbles,
and the walls were hung with framed tapestries representing various
scenes in the Queen's life.
To me the most striking and beautiful thing in the room was a
full-length, life-sized portrait of Mary herself, so arranged that a
hidden lamp threw its soft light on the features; whilst the hanging
velvet curtains of deep crimson on either side concealed the frame of
the picture, and conveyed the illusion that a living woman was standing
there ready to receive her guests.
I have never seen anything more perfect than the way in which this
impression was conveyed, without a jarring note of sensational effect.
The two French women mediums were already in the room, and I am bound to
say they did not attract me pleasantly nor impress me very favourably.
They were mother and daughter, and "Harpy" was written large over either
countenance. Doubtless they were very good mediums, in spite of this
fact. They _must_ have been so, unless one supposes that Lady Caithness
and the Abbé Petit were themselves abnormally strong sensitives; in
which case one would have thought this extraneous help would have been
unnecessary.
We sat down at a fairly large wooden table, polished, but without
covering of any kind, and having only one solid support to it, coming
from the centre, passing down as a single wooden pillar, and spreading
out in the usual fashion at the bottom. I had noted this on first
entering the room.
The two women sat together on my right-hand side. On my left was the
Abbé, and the Countess sat exactly opposite to me, with a printed
alphabet pasted on to a card, and a long pencil as pointer.
This made up the party. At a side table, placed some distance away, sat
a pleasant young French lady, who was writing automatically all the
time; a secretary to the Countess, I believe. This young lady had no
possible connection with the table.
The _séance_ began with a few words of prayer from the Abbé for light
and guidance.
The process was as follows:--First, the Countess and then I took the
printed alphabet, and pointed silently and at a fair pace to the
letters, going on from one to the other without pause. At the letter
needed the table did not rise, but gave a sound more like a bang than a
rap. I have never heard anything _quite_ so loud and definite in my long
investigation. The sound seemed to come from _within the wood_, as in
ordinary "raps," when these are genuine, but it was far louder and more
rapid and decided than the usual _séance_ rap. There was no hesitation,
no gathering up of force. Any amount of vitality was evidently present,
and the intelligence, from whatever source, was unerring. The Countess
and I were the only two persons who held the alphabet and pointed, and
when _she_ held it the mediums could not have seen the letters from
their position at the table with regard to hers. Yet the letters were
banged out (I can use no other expression) with absolute accuracy, and
at a pace which, quick to start with, became more and more rapid as we
wearied of the monotonous task and handed the alphabet to each other in
turn.
When the name of GOD or of OUR LORD came, only the first letter was
indicated, and then the table swayed slowly to and fro in a very
reverent and characteristic way for a few seconds; after which we began
the alphabet again for the next word.
When these loud bangs came I could trace the reverberation in the wood,
and it seemed to me practically impossible that the Harpies could be
producing them by any unlawful methods, whilst sitting in full light and
with immovable faces, the daughter writing down the letters as quickly
as these were indicated.
One did not feel quite comfortable about making investigations in a
private house without being invited to do so.
Again, if the women were tricking, and I caught them at it, there was
always the chance of a disagreeable scene with people of their class.
On the other hand, it was losing a great opportunity, to refrain, as a
mere matter of courtesy. Also I comforted myself by thinking that if
anyone needed to feel ashamed it would be the ones who cheated, and not
the detective.
So I pushed my chair a little nearer to the table, and the next time the
Countess took the alphabet from me and the bangs were in full swing, I
put my foot cautiously but very effectually _entirely round the one leg
of the table, moving it also up and down freely_. Not a vestige of
another foot, nor even of the flimsiest particle of dress or other
obstruction! I could positively and distinctly hear the reverberation of
the loud bangs on the wood, _between me and the centre of the table_,
whilst my own leg and foot were firmly embracing the single wooden
pillar upon which the latter stood. So the Harpies were justified, so
far as this one phenomenon was concerned. The letters written down so
rapidly by the daughter on large sheets of paper presented an apparently
hopeless jumble, but when the sitting was over at the last, the Abbé
and I were able to make out the words and sentences without great
difficulty (he being accustomed to the task), and we then found a long,
coherent, and at anyrate perfectly sensible, message addressed to him,
and referring to the points of his coming discourse. This had to be
proved upon its own merits, and without prejudice, arising from the fact
that St Paul's name was given as the author. It was quite as helpful as
some of the Apostle's letters, with the advantage of being up to date as
regarded the question in hand. After all, the Abbé was about to embark
upon an enterprise requiring much courage and great tact, in the forlorn
hope that the walls of narrow Orthodoxy and Priestcraft might fall down
before the trumpets of advancing Knowledge and Light.
It may or may not have been St Paul who stood by the Abbé with words of
encouragement that night; but I, for one, find no difficulty in thinking
it conceivable that the great Apostle should take a keen interest in the
evolution of the planet upon which he once lived.
The charming young lady delivered up her script also. It was interesting
and well written, but the only paragraph which remains in my memory was
an excellent analysis of the initial difference between Christianity and
Theosophy.
The Abbé kindly copied it out for me next day, but I must quote from
memory.
"Christianity is a stretching down of the Divinity to Man.
"Theosophy is the attempt of Man, by his own efforts, to reach the
Divine."
This seems to me both terse and true.
We had sat from nine P.M. till one A.M., and I think we were all
relieved when an adjournment for supper was suggested by Lady Caithness.
Her son, the Duc de Pomar, joined us for _this_ part of the evening, and
was introduced to me. My enjoyment of the excellent fare, after so many
hours of exhaustion, was only tempered by an unfortunate and violent
quarrel between the mother and daughter mediums, on the score of the age
of the latter! The mother declared her daughter was forty-five; the
daughter said: "Not a day over thirty-five," and intimated that she
surely might be supposed to know her own age! The mother, however,
murmured provokingly: "_Moi, je sais mieux que ça_"; and so the wrangle
went on, until I made a diversion by taking leave of my hostess and
promising to be present at the lecture the "following afternoon," which,
by the way, had become "this afternoon" by the time I left the Hotel
Wagram.
When I entered the house once more, it was to be shown into the large
lecture-room previously described, which was already three parts full,
and very shortly entirely so.
Lady Caithness had kindly reserved a front seat for me, so I could see
and hear without difficulty. On the raised platform stood my friend the
Abbé looking very grave and rather nervous. A cardinal, two bishops, and
some half-dozen priests were seated close to him, and very shortly the
lecture, which was, I think, extempore, began.
The Abbé was so manifestly in dead earnest and without any suspicion of
_pose_, that one could not fail to be deeply impressed by the scene. It
needed all the help of a sincere purpose and a brave heart, to stand up
amongst those of his own cloth, and, in face of a partially indifferent
and partially unfriendly audience, to declare boldly "the faith that was
in him"--a faith that burned all the more brightly and warmly from the
fact that it was being purged of the superstitions which must always
become the accretions of every form of religion; the clinging refuse of
weed and shell, which from time to time must be scraped off the bottom
of the grand old ship if it is to convey us safely from port to harbour.
The Cardinal sat twirling his big seal ring, with a look of cynical
amusement on his face, or so it seemed to me.
As the Abbé proceeded to mention the advances made in science and the
necessity for a restatement of old truths, which should bring them into
line with other truths of the nineteenth century, proving the essential
unity of _all truth_, and breaking down the fallacy that the vital part
of religion and the vital part of science have anything to fear from one
another, the Cardinal's face was a study to me.
"Yes, of course, we know all that, you and I, but what is the use of
making this fuss about it? We belong to a system, and this system has
worked very well for centuries past, and will work very well for
centuries to come if fools don't attempt to upset the coach by
restatements and readjustments, as they are called. The people _don't
want restatements_; they want a dead certainty, and that is just what we
give them."
All this I seemed to read in his clever, cynical countenance, in direct
opposition to the thrilling sentences of the Abbé Petit as he leant
forward and said, with uplifted finger and prophetic intensity:
"_La lumière est venue, mes frères--et si vous ne la suivez pas--vous
serez laissés seuls dans vos églises._"
It is impossible to exaggerate the affectionate solemnity of this appeal
to his brother priests. The tragic note was relieved later by an amused
smile which rippled round the audience. This puzzled me until a kind
French lady sitting next to me explained that the audience were amused
by the "_très chers frères_" (dearly beloved brethren), with which the
Abbé addressed them in this rather unorthodox lecture. It was evidently
looked upon as a curious bit of "professional survival."
On the following day (Thursday) I was invited to lunch with Lady
Caithness at two P.M., and being a punctual person, I arrived at that
hour. The powdered footman announced that his mistress had not yet
emerged from her bedroom, and showed me up into the dining-room
adjoining, where I awaited her. In a few minutes I was joined here by
the Abbé, who politely expressed his sorrow that he had not known of my
arrival earlier.
As we sat chatting together, he told me a curious experience of his of
the previous night, which will certainly "cause the enemy" to smile, if
not "to blaspheme."
He said (of course, in French): "I was sitting last night in my room,
which looks over the back of the house, and where I can hear no sounds
from the Avenue, and I was talking to 'La Reine.' Suddenly '_Elle m'a
frappé sur l'épaule_,' and then said she must leave me at once, in order
to meet the Duchesse, who had just returned home. At that moment twelve
o'clock struck from a neighbouring church, and I looked at my watch, and
found it was indeed midnight. When Madame la Duchesse comes in, I am
most anxious to find out whether she and the Duc were returning home at
that hour. You will be my witness, madame, that I have told you of this
occurrence before seeing the Duchesse."
I assured him that I would gladly testify to this; and in a few moments
the Duc de Pomar arrived, and almost immediately after him, Lady
Caithness emerged from her bedroom on the other side of the dining-room.
We sat down to luncheon, and I was much amused by the form of the Abbé's
question later in the meal.
"_Madame la Duchesse! puis je vous demander sans indiscrétion, a quelle
heure vous êtes revenue hier au soir?_"
Lady Caithness looked a little surprised, but answered readily enough:
"Well, it must have been past midnight; I did not notice very
specially."
"Not past midnight, mother," corrected the Duc de Pomar; "I heard a
clock strike twelve just as we were driving through the Porte Cochère."
"_Bien, Madame, qu'est-ce-que je vous ai dit?_" demanded the Abbé,
turning to me in triumph. He then repeated his story, and I was able to
certify that he had already mentioned it to me on my arrival.
The following day I took my leave of Lady Caithness, with a happy
remembrance of her and her great kindness and hospitality to me during
this pleasant week. She made me promise to let her know whenever I might
happen to be passing through Paris. I wrote to her the next year, when
about to make a short stay in Paris, on returning from Algeria, and
received an answer from the Riviera. She had been wintering there, and
had been packed and ready for the return to Paris, when an obstinate
chill had upset all plans. She begged me to go to the Avenue Wagram when
I arrived and find out the latest news of her, as the doctors might give
leave for the journey at any moment.
Ten days later I _did_ go to her house and interview the lady secretary
(not the one I had seen), who was very grudging in her answers, and gave
me the impression that she was accustomed to deal with persons who had
some "axe to grind" by claiming acquaintance with the Countess.
I did not happen to have the letter in my pocket which authorised my
visit, and should probably not have produced it in any case. So I turned
away rather shortly, leaving my card, saying: "I must trouble you to
forward this at once to Lady Caithness."
The moment the secretary saw my name, her manner entirely changed, and
became as servile as it had been "cavalier."
"Miss Bates, I see? Oh, certainly, I shall communicate at once with her
ladyship. I had no idea it was Miss Bates. Pray excuse me, so many come
and ask for the Duchesse, and we have to be so very particular. But, of
course, _you_ must be the lady the Duchesse is so very fond of. She has
mentioned you often, and warned us to receive you with every courtesy."
And that is my last recollection of the kindly woman, who died a few
months later. No, not absolutely my last recollection: visiting Scotland
in 1896, I made a point of going to Holyrood Chapel for the express
purpose of finding her grave.
The plain stone slab and simple inscription seemed at first a curious
contrast to the gorgeous magnificence of her home and dress and
surroundings. Yet I am inclined to think that they represented a side of
her character which was quite as real as the other.
In like manner, no one who knew of her only as a "wild visionary" could
have realised the shrewd, practical woman of business and of
common-sense who shared the personality of Countess of Caithness and
Duchesse de Pomar.
I remember that Mr Frederic Myers made the same remark to me after a
visit he paid to her, just after my return to England, for the purpose
of arranging matters with regard to her generous bequest to the Society
for Psychical Research.