1900-1901
I must now note a curious episode connected with my friend Judge Forbes,
whose astral influence I had traced clinging to the rooms he once
occupied in Cambridge.
As before mentioned, he had married, and I had lost sight of him and his
whole family for many years. But we had several mutual friends, through
whom I had heard of the birth of his only son and only child, and later
of the boy being sent to Eton, and eventually entering the army.
This was very shortly before the breaking out of the South African War,
and the young fellow was one of many who were drafted from India, after
a few months' service there, to help to defend their Queen's possessions
and their countrymen's lives and property in South Africa.
Later, young Forbes was shut up in Ladysmith, and one cold, dismal day
in January (6th January 1900) I was lying very ill in bed with a severe
bronchial attack in the house of my eldest brother in Hampshire, when
the latter came home one evening from the Winchester Club and told us of
the celebrated _sortie_ and the death of three young English officers.
The name of Forbes of the Royal Rifles figured amongst these, and I
felt convinced that it must be the only child of my old friend.
Without hesitation I prepared to write a few short lines of sympathy
with the heart-broken father. In vain my sister-in-law protested against
my concluding at once that it must be the judge's son, since other
members of the family of the same name were known to be in the army. I
had not a moment's doubt that this was the boy already mentioned, and
even a silence of over twenty years seemed to present no difficulty in
expressing one's deep sympathy, in the face of such a sorrow.
The real drawback lay in my weak state of health and physical inability
to write more than a few lines. But in these I expressed a hope that _in
time_ my poor friend might come to realise that his boy was "as much
alive and as near to him as ever--perhaps nearer."
It will indicate how entirely all relations between us had been broken
off for many years, when I say that I did not even know the judge's
private address, and was forced to send my letter to his court. In a day
or two I received a very touching and grateful answer, pathetic not only
in its grief, but even more in his frankly avowed inability to derive
any consolation from the thoughts that my short note had suggested.
Resignation to the inscrutable will of God was the keynote of the
letter. In some far-distant future he might be permitted once more to
see his beloved son, but meanwhile all was gloom and misery.
The episode was over. I had expressed my sincere sympathy with an
overwhelming sorrow, I had received a most kind and appreciative
answer--no more could be done in the matter.
This was _my_ conclusion, but evidently not the conclusion of young
Talbot Forbes. I had never seen this boy in my life, nor his mother; but
I suppose my old friendship with his father, and my deep sympathy with
the latter, enabled the son to approach me soon after he had passed into
the next sphere.
Anyway, he made me conscious of his presence by my bedside during the
greater part of the night following my receipt of his father's letter.
Owing to my severe illness I was sleeping very little, and once or twice
in the night an attendant came in to make up my fire and keep the
temperature of the room even, so that I had ample opportunity for
realising the presence of my hitherto unknown visitor.
Those who know what "hearing with the inner ear" means will realise the
method through which the following conversation took place, so far as I
can now recall it:--
_TALBOT._--"_Yes, it is Talbot Forbes. I want to speak to you. Please
listen to me! I want to tell you, you must do more for them than
this--you have to help them about me._"
E. K. B.--"Who do you mean by '_them_'?"
_TALBOT._--"_My parents, of course. Don't you understand what I am
saying? You have to do more for them--you must make them know I am close
to them._"
Now I could only suppose that he wished me to write again to his father,
and explain more fully my own ideas on the subject of our departed
friends. As this would have involved a wearisome and almost certainly
_useless_ discussion on a topic which I had reason to know was very
distasteful to the boy's father, I said rather shortly, and I am afraid
with some of the petulance of an invalid:
"Oh, do be quiet, and leave me alone! I have done all I can, and there
is no more to be said about it. I am very sorry for you, but I really
can't help you in this. I don't know your mother or what her views about
it may be; and as for your father--well, I am not going to worry and
torment him about ideas that he dislikes and disapproves of, and just
now, too, when he is so miserable! No, I won't do it, not even if you
come and worry me about it every night."
I was feeling ill and weary, and longing for sleep, and hoped this would
be a quietus to my young friend. Not a bit of it! His next remark was:
"_What does it matter what_ YOU _think or what you mean to do or not to
do? You have to help them, not to think about your own feelings._"
This was frank at anyrate, but not altogether convincing. Soon
afterwards, tired out with the discussion, I really did fall asleep, and
only woke a short time before my breakfast and daily budget of letters
arrived. Amongst these letters was one in an unknown handwriting, which
proved to be from _Mrs_ Forbes, saying she had seen my letter to her
husband, and begging that I would tell her the grounds I had for my
assurance that those we love are close to us after the great change we
call death.
Evidently the boy knew that this letter was coming to me, and was trying
to prepare me to answer it in such a way as should help him to convince
his mother of his continued existence in her immediate presence.
As this case is one well known to the Society for Psychical Research
(the lady I have called Mrs Forbes appearing on their records both as
Mrs Scott and under the pseudonym I have borrowed from them), it is
unnecessary to go into further details. Suffice it to say that my
nocturnal visitor was successful in his aim.
I answered his mother's letter as he wished. This led to a long
correspondence between us, and to my making her acquaintance shortly
afterwards and renewing my old friendship with her husband.
Mrs Forbes had several sittings with Mrs Thompson and other mediums,
became convinced of her son's presence with her, and very soon was
independent of outside assistance in communicating with him. The judge
also declared himself "unable to resist the evidence," but I don't think
he ever quite honestly _rejoiced_ in his convictions. It is hard to
eradicate prejudices and traditions after fifty years of age, and the
_human_ element in his son's bright and happy messages always seemed to
worry and perplex him a little.
He knows all about it now! Much as I deplore the earthly disappearance
of such an old and faithful friend of my youth, I can sincerely rejoice
in thinking of him as once more united with his son, in ways that will
no longer appear to him unnatural or undesirable.
During the judge's lifetime, and after the son's death, I often stayed
with him and his wife in their northern home. Mrs Forbes used frequently
to say: "It was _Talbot_ who brought us all three together, we must
remember!"
PEKIN STORY
It was during my first visit to Judge and Mrs Forbes, in the north of
England, that another curious experience came to me.
This happened on the 4th of July 1900, for I remember saying to Mrs
Forbes next morning: "I shall remember the date from its being American
Independence Day."
It was the year of the Boxer rebellion in China, when the Pekin Embassy
was in a state of siege, and by July almost all hope that any Europeans
would be saved from their dire peril had faded away.
The Memorial Service, arranged by a too eager dignitary of the Church to
take place in St Paul's, had certainly been adjourned at the last
moment; but as days and weeks passed, and the little garrison was still
unrelieved, very little hope was entertained. In fact, by July most
people hoped and believed that their troubles must be already over,
through the merciful interposition of death.
A connection of mine, whom I had known well when she was a child, but
had not seen for many years, was shut up with her husband, children, and
sister in the Pekin Embassy at the time. Thousands were lamenting her
sad fate, and I naturally amongst them; but I wish to make clear that,
owing to the years that had elapsed since I had seen this special member
of the family, it was not in any sense a very personal sorrow, nor was I
then--nor am I now--aware of any special tie of affinity between this
lady and myself.
I had gone to bed about eleven o'clock on the night of 4th July 1900,
and had been in bed about half-an-hour, without any attempt at going to
sleep, when suddenly I felt extremely alert in mind, very much as Miss
Porter described herself in the Captain Carbury episode. Almost
immediately upon this feeling of mental alertness came the conviction
that Mabel M'Leod (as I will call her) was in the room, close to me, and
that she was in some dire and urgent need of help--instantaneous help, I
mean. I could neither see nor hear on this occasion--I only _knew_ these
facts through some power of intuition, all the more remarkable because,
having made up my mind that all was over at the Embassy, I had not been
thinking of her or of her fellow-sufferers for some days past.
My thoughts were fully engaged at the time with the grief of my host and
hostess.
With the knowledge of Mabel's presence came also the conviction that she
was _still alive_--in the physical body--and that it was no excarnate
spirit that was appealing to me for help.
The impression was so vivid that I called out instinctively: "What is
it, Mabel? What can I do for you?" There was no response, either by
outward or inner voice, only the insistent appeal for help, and
knowledge of some imminent danger at hand for her. I am trying to
explain that something more than the usual hourly peril in which they
must be living, _if on this side the veil_, was implied by the
impression I received. _It was some acute and additional danger which
threatened her at the moment._ Feeling it was useless to waste time
trying to find out by writing or other means what the exact nature of
this danger might be, I jumped out of bed as quickly as possible,
saying: "Never mind trying to make me understand--I will pray for you,
whatever it is!" So I knelt down, and prayed most earnestly that this
poor woman, whose spirit had appealed for help at some dread crisis,
might be comforted, and delivered from any dangers threatening her at
the time.
I had been very comfortably tucked up in bed, looking forward to the
pleasant drowsiness which promises sleep, and I am quite sure I should
not have put myself to all this inconvenience without a very strong
motive.
When I felt the poor, tormented spirit was calmed and soothed by the
atmosphere of prayer, I returned to my bed, and eventually fell asleep.
Next morning I told Mrs Forbes of my experience, making the remark
quoted about the date.
The following week she and I were together at one of the meetings of the
Society for Psychical Research, at the close of which, in shaking hands
with Mr Frederic Myers, I begged him to make a note of my experience and
the date.
"Ah, Miss Bates!" he said, taking out a small note-book, "I will make a
note of it, but I fear there is not the remotest chance of any of them
having been alive ten days ago."
"Then my experience goes for nothing," I answered. "It was a living
woman, not an excarnate one, who came to my bedside on the 4th July."
Later, when the Embassy was relieved, and this lady (who had presented
such a "stiff upper lip" to Fortune) was once more safe at home for a
much-needed rest, I found that she had gone through a special time of
accentuated suffering just when I felt her presence in my room. Her
husband was down with dysentery, and she had not enough food either for
him or for her poor little children, and the strain was almost too
great, even for that brave soul.
Of course, she had been quite unconscious of any appeal to me.
But she has Scottish as well as Irish blood in her veins, and this
heredity may have enabled her subconscious self to sense my locality and
to realise my power and will to help her in her desperate need.
Truly it was a case of "vain is the help of man," or woman either! But
we know too little of spiritual laws to be able to deny off-hand the
efficacy of _any_ earnest prayer.
I saw Mr Myers make a note of the circumstance, but, unfortunately, this
cannot be found amongst his papers. I asked Mrs Myers about it, and she
remembered distinctly her husband having mentioned the case to her when
he returned home after that meeting, but when I last saw her, she had
hunted amongst his papers in vain for the note which he made at the
time.
* * * * *
Early in January 1901, the day after Lord Robert's triumphant procession
through London, I went to spend some weeks at an "open-air cure" in
Devonshire, high up in the hills, and in a bleak part of the county.
Several severe illnesses had left me so supersensitive to colds and
draughts that it seemed a vital necessity to take some such drastic
step, even at this inclement time of the year, unless I were prepared to
sink into a state of chronic invalidism, and become a burden to myself
and my neighbours for the rest of my natural life.
An old friend was "second in command" in this special establishment,
which she had asked me to recommend, and a bright thought struck me that
I might do my friend a good turn, and myself also, by spending a few
weeks in the house.
I did not bargain, however, for the deep snow which fell on the very day
after my arrival, nor for the howling west winds, which continued to
blow during the whole of my stay.
In these parts, the west wind corresponds with our eastern variety, and
is quite as cold and disagreeable.
Nor were the surroundings inside of a very cheerful nature. All the
other patients (six or seven) were quite young girls, and all more or
less consumptive. Several of them were very attractive, which made it
seem all the more sad. Without exception, all were, or had been, engaged
to be married, as the coping-stone to this tragedy of their lives! In
several cases the engagements had been broken off, sometimes by mutual
consent, on the score of health. In a few exceptions, where love had
proved stronger than prudence and common-sense, it was equally
melancholy to realise that the future could hold nothing but
disappointment on the one side, and a hopeless regret on the other.
Under these circumstances it was perhaps only to be expected that my
first impressions of the establishment should not be entirely _couleur
de rose_. Yet the house itself was pleasant enough, and the view from
the drawing-room windows was simply magnificent, including sea as well
as moor.
Curtainless windows, with sashes thrown wide open, and chilly linoleum
to replace warm carpets, were rather a trial to the uninitiated, early
in January, with deep snow on the ground and fires none too plentiful.
In addition to these drawbacks I had another personal one. Coming in the
middle of the winter, it was naturally Hobson's choice as regarded the
bedrooms. All the best and warmest aspects had been appropriated in the
autumn, and an ugly little room, with cold, west outlook and depressing,
mustard-coloured distempered walls, fell to my lot.
Yet even these facts did not sufficiently account for the extremely
depressing effect of that room upon me.
"Has anyone died here lately?" was my first and natural query in a house
of this kind.
I had heard the girls casually mention two gentlemen patients who had
been in the house the previous year--one of these had gone into rooms in
a neighbouring town with his nurse. I did not hear what had become of
the other one, and had not sufficient curiosity to ask the question.
My friend reassured me by saying she was sure no one had died recently
in _my_ room. She had only lately come to the house herself, as I knew;
having been matron for some years of a small hospital in the country.
"The second poor gentleman, who was a patient here, did die in the
house, I believe, but that was months ago," she said, "and I understand
that he had Laura Pearce's room," mentioning one of the girls, who had a
specially cheerful apartment. It seemed quite natural that a sick man,
confined to his bed, should occupy a large and sunny room, so I thought
no more of the matter. Still, I was always conscious of an unpleasant
and sad atmosphere in my own room, and took occasion one day to ask the
lady at the head of the establishment whether she knew anything of the
predecessors in the house.
It struck me that the psychic atmosphere in my room might be connected
with some of _them_.
Miss Hunter replied laughingly: "I can't tell you anything about them,
for the very good reason that they don't exist. _I_ am the first tenant
of this house. It was only built two years ago, and remained vacant for
the first twelve months."
Then I told her very cautiously of my feeling about my room, and that I
had supposed it might have to do with someone who had slept there before
she took the house.
Two or three of the young girls were in the room at the time, and it
struck me that one of them--the one who was there for her second
winter--looked a little surprised and interested; but the matron passed
off the subject with a few bantering words, and again I had no suspicion
of the truth.
Six weeks passed, and my last night in the house had arrived. My nurse
friend was in the habit of giving me massage twice a day, before getting
up in the morning and the last thing at night. She left me on this
occasion about ten-thirty P.M., expressing a hope that I should soon
sleep, and have a good night before my long journey next day.
"Not much doubt of that," I murmured. "Why, I'm half asleep already!"
And I turned round, tired and yet soothed by the massage, and soon fell
into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Several hours must have passed, when I woke up, trembling and
terror-struck, after passing through an experience which seems as vivid
to me to-day as on that February night or early morning. My heart was
beating, my limbs trembling, beads of perspiration covered my face, as I
discovered later.
No wonder! I had been through an experience from which few, I imagine,
return to tell the tale. For I had passed through every detail of dying,
and dying a very hard and difficult death.
Body and soul were being literally _torn apart_, in spite of the
desperate effort to cling together, and my spirit seemed to be launched
into unknown depths of darkness and possible horror. It was the feeling
that _I did not know where I was going nor what awaited me_ that seemed
so terrible--this and the horrible fight for mastery between my poor
body and soul and some unknown force that was inexorably set upon
dividing them.
This, so far as I can express it, exactly describes the experience I had
just gone through, and from which I had awakened in such abject terror.
As the beating of my heart subsided, and I could think more calmly, I
remembered with startling distinctness that in the very worst of the
struggle I had been vainly endeavouring to say that text in the
twenty-third Psalm which begins:
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil; for Thou art with me: _Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me._" I
could say the first part of it quite easily, but some fiendish enemy
seemed bent upon preventing my saying the last sentence, and in my
terrible dream, rescue and safety depended upon my getting to the end of
the text. I tried again and again, always to be driven back in despair
before the crucial words were uttered. At last, with a desperate effort,
I seemed to shake off the incubus which was weighing me down, and I
finished the words triumphantly, and so loud that I had positively
wakened myself up _by shouting them out_. With returning memory I knew
this had happened, and hearing a door open and shut on the half landing
below my room, I thought for the moment that someone must have heard me,
and must be coming to see what was the matter. I looked at my
watch--just two-thirty A.M. No one appeared; and to my relief I
remembered that this was just the hour when either Miss Hunter or my
friend went round to the invalids, giving them milk or bovril, in the
night.
I had no inclination to seek out either of these ladies. The horror was
past, and no one could undo what I had endured; so I lay quiet, and in
course of time managed to go to sleep again, not waking until the
servant came into my room to light the fire at seven-thirty A.M.
It happened to be a certain _Minnie_ on this occasion, a very
respectable young woman, who had accompanied Miss Hunter when she gave
up the matronship of a well-known hospital, and who had therefore been
with her since this establishment had been started.
My night's experience convinced me so absolutely that, in spite of all
that had been said, the gentleman patient _had_ died in this room, and
that I had just gone through his death agonies, that instead of asking
any question about it, I said very quietly to Minnie, as she was on her
knees lighting my fire: "The poor gentleman who died here last summer
_died in this room, I find_."
"Yes, ma'am," she said quietly, not knowing, as it turned out, that any
mystery had been made about the fact.
My personal friend was guiltless of any deceit, for she had been told
the story about Laura Pearce's room, but the young girls confessed when
I went down to breakfast that they had been specially warned not to let
me know the true facts.
Miss Hunter did not appear at breakfast, as she was suffering from a
chill, so I went to her bedroom to say good-bye before going up to
London.
Feeling naturally annoyed and rather shaken by my night's experience, I
said to her rather drily:
"You need not have taken the trouble to deceive me about my room, Miss
Hunter, nor to warn the girls to do the same. I know that gentleman died
there, for I have just gone through his experiences." And then I told
her about my terrible night.
Although forced to admit the facts, Miss Hunter fought every inch of the
ground, so far as the _painful_ experiences were concerned.
"Such an excellent man! so interested in everything--a _clergyman_, my
dear Miss Bates, and so _good!_ How could there be anything painful
connected with his death?" etc. etc.
I suggested that, as Christians, we had the most overwhelming proof that
holiness of life does not always preclude even mental suffering at
death; but she would not hear of this argument, and doubtless considered
it blasphemous.
By dint of questioning, however, I made two discoveries--first, that
the death was quite unexpected. The man had only been a fortnight in the
house, and when I expressed surprise that he should have been moved
there so late in a fatal illness, she said unguardedly:
"_Oh, but he was very slightly ill when he came--it was more a
preventive measure. None of us had any idea that he was a dying man, the
symptoms developed so suddenly._"
I also elicited another fact--_i.e._ that this delightfully interesting
personality "so intellectual--so full of interest in everything" (to
quote Miss Hunter's words), had died at the age of forty, in the very
prime of life. No wonder, under the circumstances of so short an
illness, in the very zenith of life and enjoyment, that body and soul
should have been loath to separate, and thus free the imprisoned spirit!
But Miss Hunter was adamant, and would admit nothing.
Just before leaving her, it struck me that I had not yet told her about
the text, so I repeated that episode, and then, for the first time, a
startled look came into her eyes. She was taken by surprise, and said
hastily: "That _is_ extraordinary! I was with him when he died in the
night, and he kept on asking for that text. That is not so remarkable,
many might have asked for that text, but I stopped once or twice after
the first sentence, and he kept on urging me: "_Say it to the end, Miss
Hunter! Say it to the end!_"
Later the good lady even consented to write out the evidential points in
this story, which I sent at once to my friend Dr Richard Hodgson.
Immediately upon my return to London on this occasion, I was attacked
quite suddenly by a very acute form of rheumatism, which laid me on my
back--perfectly helpless--for several days.
When the doctor arrived, his first question was: "Have you had any
special shock lately? This particular form of rheumatism does not
generally come on with so little warning _unless there has been a
previous shock_."
I was about to deny this, thinking he referred to unexpected news, but
with the memory of my Devonshire experience so keen and clear, I felt
bound to tell him that I had certainly had a shock to my nerves
twenty-four hours previously.
Soon after this sudden and sharp attack of illness I found myself in
Portugal for the first time in my life.
I had gone there with an English friend--Mrs Frampton--in order to be
near connections who had lived in the country for many years.
A cousin and I spent a delightful afternoon in that Cintra paradise of
_Monserrat_, with General and Mrs Sartorius, who were living there at
the time of my visit to Portugal. I have heard that even this charming
house could tell strange tales if only walls could speak. It is easy to
imagine that any spirits--carnate or discarnate--might deem it a
privilege to haunt so exquisite a spot. Personally, I can only testify
to the hospitality of our kind host and hostess and the excellence of
the spirit of "Robur," which refreshed our weary bodies, and made the
walk back to the Cintra Hotel, through the lovely woodland paths, a
"thing of beauty and a joy for ever."
To return to Lisbon. My friend Mrs Frampton had never been present at
any sort of psychic phenomena, so we planned a little sitting for her
during one of these Lisbon evenings.
She and I descended in solemn state to the fine library of our host, on
the ground floor, whilst his wife and sister elected to remain in the
drawing-room upstairs. A sister-in-law also begged to be excused from
accompanying us, and spent the whole time occupied by our _séance_, in
playing Moody and Sankey hymns, doubtless hoping thereby to exorcise the
evil spirits whom we should presumably evoke.
Unfortunately, she did not play loud enough to divert the attention of
the Portuguese cook, who promptly gave warning next day, saying she
could not stand these "devilish practices"! We had failed to realise
that the very wall, close to which our small table was placed, divided
the kitchen from the large ground-floor library, so the poor woman
doubtless sat with her ear well jammed up against this partition, and
considered every rap of the table leg on the floor, a distinct footstep
of the devil!
Nothing more terrible happened to _us_ that evening than being forced to
look up our English history once more, in "Hume" and "Green's Short
History of the English People," both of which volumes were close at
hand. For the whole _séance_ might have been an "easy lesson in English
history," with John, Duke of Northumberland, Lady Jane Grey, the Earl of
Leicester, and the famous Elizabeth as its exponents. All these
purported to be with us that evening, and I am bound to say that all
dates and details mentioned, which our middle-aged memories could not
verify at the moment, were in every case corroborated by reference to
the library books later.
It was just before leaving England for Portugal that I first met a lady
(with whom I have since become more intimate), under rather exceptional
circumstances--these latter were unknown to me at the time.
My brother, Colonel C. E. Bates, was living at this time (1901) in rooms
in Cambridge Terrace, and the drawing-room floor was occupied by a Miss
Isabel Smith, who was then only a name to us both. His landlady had
given him to understand that this lady had connections in India, and was
the niece of a General Propert, still on the active list, and an old
friend of my brother's in Indian days.
The last Sunday before starting for Lisbon I called in as usual to spend
the afternoon in Cambridge Terrace, and found that the "drawing-room
lady" had just been paying him a visit, and had left him most
enthusiastic.
This visit surprised me, because my brother, being a very great invalid,
had an inveterate dislike to meeting strangers, with whom he generally
found it difficult to carry on any lengthy conversation. But this
visitor had evidently been an exception. My brother expressed some
regret that I should have missed seeing her, so to please him I
suggested sending his valet upstairs with his compliments, and asking if
I might pay the lady a short visit, should she be disengaged.
She came downstairs kindly, a second time, and we had a pleasant chat,
whilst my brother and an old Indian brother officer carried on their
conversation.
I left England a few days later, and scarcely expected to see or hear
any more of Miss Isabel Smith. Fate, however, ordained otherwise. Some
weeks elapsed, and then I received a letter from my brother, mentioning
the curious circumstances that, he had just heard, had led to his making
the acquaintance of this pleasant neighbour. "It is too long a story to
write," he concluded, "but I will tell you all about it next time we
meet."
He did so, and as his account exactly tallies with the one Miss Isabel
Smith (now Mrs Finch) has kindly written out for me for insertion in
this volume, I will quote the latter from her own words. I must premise
that Miss Smith turned out to be naturally clairvoyant and
clair-audient, rather to the disgust of my brother, who considered
himself superior to these "superstitions." Her narrative is interesting
not only in itself, but because it is an object lesson in the curious
"hits and misses" in psychic investigation. In this case a spirit
confessed to an impersonation; but it was an impersonation of the
brother of a man whom my brother had really known in India--a fact
entirely apart from any possible knowledge on the part of Miss Smith,
who had never met my brother at the time of her adventure. I will now
give Miss Smith's narrative.
"When at Grindelwald in the winter 1900-1901 an excarnate entity came
and spoke to me. He seemed much interested in the South African
campaign; told me he had been a soldier, first in the Rifle Brigade,
then in the Indian army. When I asked his name he said he was Henry
Arthur Chomley (the name of a celebrated ambassador was the one given),
that he was a brother of Sir Frederic Chomley, and had been in the
Rifle Brigade and in India, _and had passed over two or three years
before_.
When, shortly afterwards, I returned to Cambridge Terrace, he realised
the changed surroundings, and asked where I was. On learning I was in
rooms he asked whether there was anyone else in the house, and on my
telling him there was a paralysed military man downstairs named Bates,
he exclaimed 'What! Charlie Bates? I knew him very well in India--do ask
him if he remembers me!'
I said I did not know the gentleman, but would certainly ask him if an
opportunity should occur.
A few days after this, a message was brought up to me from Colonel
Bates, asking for my uncle, General Propert's, address in Burmah. This
gave me the opening. I wrote giving the required information, and
suggested that I might come and have a talk with him.
In my next conversation with 'Colonel Chomley' I told him all this, and
he again said: '_Mind you ask him about me!_' I answered: '_How can I,
when I don't know what Colonel Bates' ideas are on these subjects? He
might look on me as a dangerous lunatic!_'
Colonel Chomley remarked: '_I think you will find that he is interested
in psychic matters._'
I discovered that this was true, for on my first visit I saw a copy of
the S.P.R. Proceedings lying on the table.
I found him interested, but unable to get beyond the 'subliminal
consciousness' theory.
A few days later I asked Colonel Bates if he had ever met a Colonel
Henry Arthur Chomley in India. He thought for a moment, then said:
'Chomley? Why, of course I knew a Chomley, but I don't know his
Christian name. He was Brigade Major at Meean Meer, and I took over the
brigade from him, and bought his horses, etc. Where did _you_ know him?'
I then told him of the spirit who had given me the name of Henry Arthur
Chomley, who said he had known him in India, and had over and over again
begged to be remembered to him.
The day following this conversation Colonel Bates sent me up his Army
List, open, and marked at the name of Colonel _Walter_ Chomley, and a
note explaining that it was not Henry Arthur, but _Walter Chomley_ whom
he had known at Meean Meer.
I then asked 'Henry Arthur' if his name was Walter or Henry Arthur.
He said: '_Henry Arthur. Surely I ought to know my own name!_'
Colonel Bates told the story to you the next time you (_i.e._ E. K.
Bates) came to see him, and I remember we discussed it together when we
met again.
Shortly afterwards you wrote to tell me that you had looked up a
_Debrett_ for 1895, and had there found _Colonel Henry Arthur Chomley, a
brother of Sir Frederic Chomley, of the Rifle Brigade, etc._, so that
Henry Arthur Chomley was evidently alive in that year, and _had_ been in
the Rifle Brigade.
I was much pleased to get this corroborative evidence, though the
mistake in initials must have been Colonel Bates' error, and apologised
to Colonel Henry Arthur Chomley in the Unseen.
A few weeks later, however, you wrote again, and told me that you had
been staying with a friend, who drove you over to call upon Colonel and
Mrs Henry Arthur Chomley, that he was a brother of Sir Frederic Chomley,
and was certainly _alive_, although not _at home_, at the time of your
visit!
This information startled me, and my guide, at my request, went to look
up the _soi-disant_ Colonel to find out what it all meant.
The latter then confessed to having taken a friend's name, said a sudden
impulse came over him when I first asked his name, and having told one
lie, he felt bound to go on deceiving me, but that he had known both
Colonel Bates and Colonel Henry Arthur Chomley in India, and that his
own real name was Anstruther!"
This was Miss Smith's narrative.
Now out of this curious jumble of true and false, two points remain
clear:
My brother _had_ known a Chomley in India, and had succeeded him as
Brigade Major at Meean Meer. This Chomley _was_ a brother of Sir
Frederic Chomley, the well-known diplomatist, but his name was Walter,
not Henry Arthur. Yet Sir Frederic _had_ a brother named Henry Arthur,
and the impersonating Anstruther had borrowed the wrong brother's name
when trying to pose as the friend of Colonel Charles Bates. To make
confusion worse confounded, _Walter Chomley_ was alive, as well as
_Henry Arthur_, at the time of Miss Mabel Smith's experiences, for I
have seen his death within the last eight months!
The second point is that, personally, my brother and I had reason to be
grateful to the deceiving Anstruther. He was certainly the means of
introducing a pleasant acquaintance to my brother and to me.
Miss Mabel Smith's experience at Grindelwald reminds me of one of my own
in the same place during the following year.
I had gone there with a cousin, who was eager for skating and
tobogganing, in January 1902, on my way to Rome. After a pleasant week
at a charmingly quiet and comfortable hotel--the _Alpenrühe_ I think was
the name--my cousin wished, for purposes of policy, to change over to a
more famous, but noisy and overcrowded one.
So on the evening of 3rd February we found ourselves in this immense
caravanserai, having exchanged our large, comfortable, steam-heated
rooms for small, oblong apartments, each provided with three doors as
well as the window, and a wood fire to be fed from small "five-franc
baskets," and always going out at that!
There was deep snow on the ground and a heavy fog of snow falling when
we made our change, so that one was not in the most brilliant spirits;
and being suddenly thrust into the midst of a big, heterogeneous company
of strangers is never exhilarating.
Our bedrooms, though small and not specially comfortable, were perfectly
commonplace, the very last _milieu_ with which one would have associated
any interesting experience. The window of my room faced the door into
the passage, my bed lay between the two; right and left of it were two
other doors, each communicating with other occupied rooms.
Therefore I thought little the first night of noises and moving of
furniture, taking for granted that these must be occurring either right
or left of me, and that the clearness of the atmosphere accounted for my
odd impression that a table and chair--between my bed and the
window--were being moved.
The following night (4th February), however, this fact was indisputable.
I had heard both my neighbours retire to bed by ten P.M., as so many do
who have been skating and tobogganing all day long. I had sat up reading
for half-an-hour beyond this, and went to bed at eleven P.M., by which
time there was perfect silence in the hotel, as no special entertainment
was going on.
Very shortly, this movement of the furniture began again, unmistakably
in my room this time. Curiously enough, it did not frighten me at all
nor suggest burglars (a far greater terror to me than ghosts!). I cannot
at this distance of time remember _why_ the idea of Mr Myers should have
come to me in connection with these noises; but I am quite certain that
I _did_ think of him at the time, and fully expected his name to be
given, when I asked if anyone wished to speak to me and were trying to
attract my attention by moving the furniture about.
It was greatly to my surprise, therefore, that the name of _Gifford_ was
given. I may here note that this was the real name given to me. He said
he was a judge, one who had lived fifty or sixty years previously, that
he had once unintentionally condemned an innocent man to be hanged, and
he was evidently still greatly perturbed about this, and begged for my
prayers.
All this put Mr Myers entirely out of my head--_unfortunately_, as
events proved.
I had some further talk with Judge Gifford, but do not remember it in
detail.
Next morning I told my cousin of my experience, and on the evening of
the following day mentioned it in the presence of some neighbours at
_table d'hôte_ who had introduced psychic subjects to us.
This gentleman and his wife were both impressed, and yet incredulous,
and when my cousin laughingly declared that "Gifford had come to _her_
the second night, but that she told him she was too tired out to listen
to him," we all three supposed that she was turning the whole subject
into ridicule. This would have been quite characteristic of her,
although I have always thought she had some mediumistic faculty, and was
one of the many people whom I should advise to leave these matters
alone. I was the more convinced that she was merely "chaffing" on this
occasion, because when I warned our acquaintances of her powers of
exaggeration in "making fun" of things, she said nothing.
But when we had returned to our rooms that night she remarked quite
quietly: "But he _did_ come, Emmie! When you said that at _table d'hôte_
about my exaggerating things, I let it pass, because very often it is
true. But what I said this evening was _absolutely correct_, though
perhaps it is as well those people should not believe it. Someone _did_
come to my bedside last night, and said: 'I am Gifford--will you listen
to me?' And I said: 'No; not to-night. I am too tired,' just as I told
you."
I think poor Gifford came again more than once to me; but I had done all
I could for him, and explained this, adding that he must now leave me
alone, which he did.
Later my cousin returned to Paris, and I went on to Rome, where I
received a letter from Dr Richard Hodgson enclosing some Piper script.
_F. W. H. Myers communicating_, said that he had come to me on the
evening of 4th February, that I seemed to recognise him, and that he
thought he had "got his message through to me," and hoped that I should
write to Dr Hodgson to that effect.
In answering Dr Hodgson's letter I denied the Myers' episode _in toto_,
so far as _my_ consciousness was concerned. In fact, the Gifford
incident put all else so entirely out of my mind that I fear I did not
even mention to Dr Hodgson that my _first_ thought that night had been
connected with Mr Myers.
Anyway, the next letter from Boston enclosed an account of a sitting,
where Mr Myers came and apologised for having misled Dr Hodgson about my
recognition of him.
His words were almost literally as follows:--
"I am extremely sorry, my dear Hodgson, about that affair with Miss
Bates. I should not have thought of mentioning it to you had I not felt
convinced that she recognised me. _Her astral body was quite aware of my
presence_, and I quite thought she had realised it on the physical
plane" (the italics are mine).
It would seem that the Myers' message was in the very act of
transmission from my astral to my normal consciousness when this man
Gifford must have come, switching off the telephone for Mr Myers, and
getting on to it himself. Probably his great distress of mind would
have made him the stronger force of the two for the time being.
There must always be many disappointments of this kind in our research.
There is always something which so nearly succeeds and then just fails
at last. This _must_ be the case where conditions are so fine and subtle
and so easily disturbed, and where our own ignorance of many necessary
factors is so profound. This makes it none the less disheartening at
times!
Later I made an attempt with my friend Baroness Rosenkrantz of Rome to
get a message through the other way--_i.e._ from Mr Myers and myself to
Dr Hodgson, _via_ Mrs Piper.
The Baroness and I had a little "sitting" alone, wrote one or two short
messages with a couple of extracts from Mr Myers' own writings, sealed
up the envelope carefully, and I forwarded it to Dr Hodgson.
But the test failed. Two years later Dr Hodgson spoke of the letter as
being still intact.