HOW THE CAMP TURNED SPIRITUALIST
I made up my mind to rag for an evening or two more and to face the
music, when it came, in the proper spirit. There was a recognized form
of punishment at Yozgad for a “rag.” It was a “posh.”[3] In my case,
with Doc., Matthews, Price, and of course the Seaman (who always joined
in on principle) as my torturers, I expected it would be a super-posh,
and trembled accordin’. I had no doubt in my own mind that discovery
would come very soon.
When evening came round, there were Alec, Doc., and Price waiting round
the spook-board with their tongues out, wanting more “Sally.” I sat down
with the unholy joy of the small boy preparing a snowball in ambush for
some huge and superior person of uncertain temper, and with not a little
of his fear of being found out before the snowball gets home on the
target.
“Now, Doc.,” said I, trying to avert suspicion from myself, “don’t you
get larking. I’m beginning to suspect you.”
“And I’m suspecting you,” he laughed. “Come on, ye old blackguard!”
We started, and for several minutes got nothing but a series of
unintelligible letters. The reason for this was simple enough. The
“medium’s” mind was blank. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what to say,
and could only push the glass about indiscriminately. Matthews and Price
faithfully noted down every letter touched. This kept everybody happy,
and as a matter of fact formed a useful precedent for future occasions.
“It’s there all right,” said Alec. “Keep it up, you fellows. We’ll get
something soon.”
Gatherer came in, and after watching for a minute gave an order to the
Spook in his parade voice: “Go round and look at your letters.”
The indiscriminate zig-zagging stopped and the glass went round the
circle slowly.
“Gee! Snakes!” said Alec. “That’s the stuff, Gatherer; give It some
more!”
“No sense in being afraid of the blighter,” said Gatherer. “Here! Stop
going round now! Tell us who you are!”
“Go—to—hell!” came the answer.
Gatherer was not abashed. “Is that where you are?” he asked, and the
Spook began to swear most horribly. My mind was no longer blank; it
teemed with memories of my court in Burma, and the glass said to
Gatherer what the old bazaar women of the East say to one another before
they get “run in.”
“All right, old chap,” said Gatherer. “That’s enough. I’m sorry. I
apologise.”
“Go away,” said the Spook, and until Gatherer obeyed the glass would do
nothing but repeat, “Go away,” “Go away,” to every question that was
asked.
Looking back, I can see this was an important episode. Of course the
glass wrote “go away” because I could think of nothing better to say at
the moment (practice was to make my imagination much more fertile), and
it kept on repeating the request because I had begun to wonder if I
really could make Gatherer leave the room.
“Shall I go?” Gatherer asked.
“Faith! You’d better,” said the Doc., “or who knows what It will be
saying next?”
Gatherer went, and the Spook began to write again. It might well do so,
for It had begun to establish its “Authority.”
Now, for successful spooking, “Authority” is all-important. The
utterances of a medium “under control” must be, and are for the
believer, the object of an unquestioning reverence.
I have two small mites of children. They usually demand a “story” of an
evening. Since my return they have gradually established a precedent,
and it has become a condition for their going to bed. I take them on my
knees, their silky hair against my cheeks, and look into the fire for
inspiration about “elephants” or “tigers” or “princesses,” or whatever
may be the subject of immediate interest and then I begin. I don’t go
very far without a question, and when that is successfully negotiated
there are two more questions on the ends of their restless tongues. The
linked answers comprise the story. Nobody makes any bones about the
credibility of it, because “father tells it.” Thousands of other fathers
are doing the same every day. Parents yet to be will continue the good
work for the generations unborn.
What the parent is for the child, the medium is for “believers.” The
gentle art, as Hill (my ultimate partner in the game) and I know it, is
merely a matter of shifting the authorship of the answers from yourself
to some Unknown Third, whose authority has become as unquestionable to
the “sitter” as the father’s is to the child. Once that is achieved the
problem in each case is precisely the same. It consists in answering
questions in a manner satisfactory to the audience. I also find there is
no fundamental difference in the material required for the “links.”
Granted the “authority,” the same sort of stuff pleases them all alike,
children and grown-up “sitters.” If you have ever watched a true
believer at a sitting you will know exactly what I mean; and if you can
describe the palace of an imaginary princess, you can also describe the
sixth, or seventh, or the eighth “sphere.” But of course you must always
be careful to call it a “palace” in the one instance, and a “sphere” in
the other.
I did not realize this all at once. I did not set out with any scheme of
building up the Spook’s authority. I laid out for myself no definite
line of action against my friends. My policy, in fact, was that by which
our own British Empire has grown. I determined to do the job nearest to
hand as well as I could, and to tackle each problem as it arose. I would
“rag around a bit” and then withdraw as soon as circumstances permitted
me to do so gracefully. But circumstances never permitted. One thing led
to another, and my “commitments” in the spook-world grew steadily, as
those of our Empire have done in this.
Nor, needless to say, did I see at this time the faintest resemblance
between Alec calling for “Sally” and my small boy demanding a “story” at
my knee. To me, Alec and Doc. and Price (not to mention the rest of the
camp) were grown men, thewed and sinewed, with the varied store of
wisdom that grown men acquire in their wanderings up and down the wide
seas and the broad lands of this old Empire of ours. They were
“enquirers”—not “true believers” as yet—and as I was to find out in due
course, they were “no mugs” at enquiring. I could only hug myself at the
idea of the poshing I would get when the rag was discovered, and fight
my hardest to ward off the evil day.
Soon after Gatherer left the room my career as a medium almost came to
an inglorious end. The trap into which I nearly fell was not consciously
set, so far as I am aware, for in those early days when everything was
fresh the interest of the audience was centred more in the substance of
the communications than in the manner in which they were produced.
The situation arose in this way: being a medium was a tiring game. An
hour on end of pushing the glass about at arm’s length required
considerable muscular effort. Your arm became as heavy as lead; until we
got into training Doc. and I had to take frequent rests. This fatigue
was natural enough, and everybody knew of it, but nobody knew that
practically the whole of my body was subjected to a physical strain. At
this period of my mediumship I used to close my eyes quite honestly; I
was therefore obliged to remember the exact position of each letter, not
only in its relation to other letters but also to myself, so as to be
able to steer the glass to it. The slightest movement of the
spook-board, caused, for example, by my sleeve or the Doc.’s catching on
the edge of it, as sometimes happened, was sufficient to upset all my
calculations until I had had an opportunity of glancing at it again. I
used to try to guard against this by resting my left hand lightly on the
edge of the board. I could then feel any movement, and at the same time
my left hand formed a guide to my right, for, before closing my eyes, I
used to note what letter my little finger was resting on. I had two
other guides—my right and my left foot under the table gave me the
angles of two other known letters. If the reader will try and sit for an
hour, moving his right hand freely, but with both feet and the left hand
absolutely still, he will understand why indefinite sittings were
impossible. Add to this the concentration of mind necessary to remember
the letters, to invent suitable answers to questions, and to spell them
out.
“I am fagged out,” I said wearily. “Don’t you feel the strain, Doc.?”
“Only my arm.” He rubbed the numbness out of it. “Come on, Bones, let’s
get some more; this is interesting.”
“I’m dead beat. I feel it all over me. It seems to take a lot out of
me.”
The three looked at me curiously. They obviously regarded me as a medium
who had been under “control.” (_En passant_, I wonder if the
“exhaustion” of all mediums after a séance is not due to similar
causes?)
“Right you are, Bones,” said Price, “I’ll take your place. You come and
note down.”
I took his pencil and notebook, and he sat down to the board with the
Doc. The glass moved and touched letters, but they made, of course,
nothing intelligible. After a space, when I had rested, Doc. said his
arm was tired and suggested I should take his place. I did so. Price and
I were now at the glass. Somebody asked a question. I started to reply
in the usual way, but luckily realized in time what I was doing, and
instead of giving a coherent answer, allowed the glass to wander among
the X’s and Y’s at its own sweet will. It had flashed across my mind
that so long as I obtained answers only when the Doc. was my partner, no
“sceptic” could tell which of the two of us was controlling the glass.
If, on the other hand, I obtained answers in conjunction with others as
well as when with the Doc., while no other pair in combination could do
so, I was clearly indicated as the control, and a very simple process of
elimination would doom me to discovery. I therefore came to a hurried
decision that only when the Doc. was my partner should the Unknown be
allowed to speak, and it was not till long after the Spook had proved to
the satisfaction of our “enquirers” its own separate existence that I
permitted myself to break this resolution.
So Price and I continued to bang out unintelligible answers until
everybody was tired of it. Matthews, who amongst other objectionable
pieces of knowledge had acquired something of Mathematics, then worked
out the Combinations and Permutations of four spookists, two together,
and insisted we should test them all. We did. The only result was pages
of Q’s and M’s, of X’s, Y’s and Z’s. Bones and the Doc. were the only
pair who got answers.
At our after-séance talk, this led to a new discovery—new, that is, for
us. It was obvious that mediums must be _en rapport_! We attacked the
subject from all sides, and as usual others joined in our discussion.
When I went to bed, Matthews was demonstrating, with the aid of two
tallow candles on a deal box, something about wave-lengths, and positive
and negative electricity, and tuning up and down to the same pitch. I am
sure I don’t know what it was all about, but it clearly proved the
necessity of something being _en rapport_ with something else in the
material world. Therefore why not the same necessity for spiritual
things? So far as I remember, Alec, old man, your theory was quite
sound—it was your facts that were wrong! Perhaps I should have told you
so, and saved you much hard thinking: but put yourself in my
place—wasn’t it fun?
* * * * *
Thus we continued for several evenings. The camp looked on with mingled
amusement and interest. Our séances began to be a popular form of
evening entertainment. Quite a little crowd would gather round the
board, and ask questions of the Spook. For the most part, at this stage,
the audiences were sceptical—they suspected a trick somewhere, though
they could not imagine how it was done. Curiously enough, suspicion
centred not on me, but on the perfectly innocent Doctor. The poor man
was pestered continually to reveal the secret. He swore vehemently that
he had nothing to do with it, but it was pointed out to him that the
glass only wrote when he was there—a fact he could not deny.
This sceptical attitude of the camp was of the utmost value to me. It
amounted to a challenge and spurred me to fresh efforts. The whole
affair being a rag, with no definite aim in view, it would not have been
fair play to the enquirers to have told an out-and-out lie. But I
considered it quite legitimate to dodge their questions if I could do so
successfully. The following is a type of the conversations that were
common at this period:
“Look here, Bones, is this business between you and the Doc. straight?”
“How do you mean, ‘straight’?”
“This spooking business! Is it genuine?”
“Jack,” I would say confidentially (or Dick, or Tom, as the case might
be), “I’ll tell you something. The whole thing is mysterious. I assure
you there is no arrangement whatsoever between the Doc. and myself. The
camp think we are in league for a leg-pull. But we’re not. We took this
business up as an enquiry—see, here’s the original postcard.”
And I would produce the well-worn bit of cardboard which first suggested
the spooking, and gently disentangle Jack’s fingers from my buttonhole.
Perhaps “Jack” would be satisfied and go away, or perhaps he would be a
persistent blighter and carry on.
“But how is it done, Bones?”
“You mean, what makes the glass move?”
“Well—yes.”
“My own theory—it may be wrong, of course, because I’ve never done much
at Psychical Research—my own theory is that the movement must be due to
muscular action on the part of the mediums. I believe Oliver Lodge and
those other Johnnies hold that the muscular action is subconscious, but
that is Tommy-rot. Anything is subconscious so long as you don’t think
of the process of thought, and nothing is subconscious so long as it is
known. Besides,” I would add, looking up into my questioner’s face as
innocently as I could, “as soon as the glass begins to move about I am
quite conscious of every movement. That’s straight. The Doc. will tell
you the same thing. I must admit that he has often pointed out to me
that one seems to be _following_ the glass about. He has been analysing
his own sensations from the medical point of view, and he is rather
interesting on this point. You should ask him about it.”
“I will,” Jack would say, and off he would go to cross-examine the poor
old Doc.
Probably Dick or Tom had been listening to our conversation, and would
now chip in with:
“That’s all very well, Bones, but _I_ believe you’re playing the fool
all the time. Now aren’t you?”
“Right-o, Dick! If you like to think I’m ass enough to sit there night
after night for the mere lark of the thing, you’re welcome.”
“But the whole affair’s absurd, impossible,” Dick would protest.
“You say so, but what about Oliver Lodge? He has studied this business
for years, and swears he gets into communication with the next world in
this way. And _he_ is a scientist, my boy, while _you_ are a plain
soldier man and don’t know your arm from your elbow in these matters. A
few years ago I expect you were saying that wireless telegraphy and
flying and all the rest of our modern scientific marvels were
impossible. You are the conservative type of fellow who doesn’t believe
a thing possible until he can do it himself. Why, you old idiot, for all
you know you may be a medium yourself. Why don’t you come along and try
some night?”
And Dick would come, and try, and get nothing!
I was often grateful in those days for my past experience as a
magistrate in Burma. My study of law and lawyers helped me considerably
in the gentle art of drawing a red herring across my questioners’ train
of thought.
I was beginning to think that the business had gone on long enough, and
it was time to confess, when Fate stepped in again. Intrigued by our
success, several other groups of experimenters had been formed in the
camp, notably in the Hospital House. One fine morning we were
electrified by the news that there also “results” had been obtained.
The Doc. came up to me as I was walking in the lane. He was all hunched
up with glee.
“Faith,” he said to me, “the sceptics have got it in the neck. Here’s
Nightingale and Bishop been an’ held a long conversation with the spooks
last night.”
“I don’t see that that will make much difference to the sceptics,” said
I.
“But I do,” said the Doc. “The camp doesn’t believe in it now because
you’re you and I’m me. But who in Turkey or out of it can suspect
fellows like Bishop and Nightingale?—that’s what I want to know.”
“And why not suspect Bishop and Nightingale?” I asked.
“Ach! ye might as well suspect a babe unborn. Not one of the two of them
has the imagination of a louse. They’re plain, straightforward
Englishmen—not Celtic fringe like you an’ me—an’ the camp knows it.”
“But don’t you suspect them yourself?” I asked. “You said the other day
that you suspected me, you know.”
“So I did, but that’s different, as I say. These two are genuine
enough.”
“No doubt,” said I, for I was quite open-minded about the possibilities
of “spooking.” “Whom were they talking to last night?”
“Oh—just Sally, and Silas P. Warner, and that lot,” said the Doc. “Same
crowd of spooks as we get ourselves.”
I glanced at him to see if he was joking. He wasn’t. Lord! Doc. dear,
how I longed to laugh!
* * * * *
Either Nightingale or Bishop (I did not know which at the time) was
fudging. I knew this for certain because they were using “spooks” of my
own creation. It puzzled me at the time to know why they should not have
invented spooks of their own. I learned long afterwards that mine were
adopted because it was thought that my show was possibly genuine. If so,
what could be more natural than that the spirits which haunted the Upper
House should also be found next door?
The position was now rather funny. I knew, of course, that both “shows”
were frauds. The villain of the piece in the Hospital House knew his own
show was a fraud, but was not sure about mine. The majority of the camp,
on the other hand, were inclined to think there might be something in
the Hospital House exhibition, although they had viewed mine with
suspicion. But if they accepted the Hospital House, they had to accept
ours too, the spooks being the same. And, in the course of time, that
was what happened.
The development in the Hospital House had another result. My little
“rag” was assuming larger proportions than I had intended, and as often
happens in this funny old world, circumstances were beginning to tie me
up. I could not now confess without giving somebody else away at the
same time as myself. Besides, I did not very much want to confess. The
“conversion” of a large portion of the camp was in sight, for Doc. was
quite right in his analysis of the situation, and the entry of Bishop
and Nightingale on the scene had disposed everybody to further enquiry
into the matter. The position was beginning to have a keen psychological
interest for me.
So I compromised with my conscience. Freeland drew for me a fitting
poster—a picture of a spook-glass and board, and beneath it I placed a
notice which said that ours was the original Psychical Research Society
of Yozgad, that it had no connection with any other firm, and that we
held séances on stated evenings. Our fellow-prisoners were asked to
attend. The closest inspection was invited. The poster ended by saying
that the mediums each suspected the other and would welcome any enquirer
who could decide how the rational movements of the glass were caused.
Muscular action, thought transference, spiritualism and alcoholism were
suggested to the camp as possible solutions.
Shortly after this notice was put up, Doc. and I were asked if we
objected to a series of “tests.” Doc., strong in his own innocence,
welcomed the suggestion. As for me, it was exactly what I wanted—the
_raison d’être_ of my notice. Up to now it had been “a shame to take the
money.” This put us on a reasonable basis. If all were discovered, as I
expected would be the case, I’d get my poshing, there would be a good
laugh all round, and that would be the end of it. If by any fluke of
fortune I survived, the testers would only have themselves to blame
afterwards. It was now a fair fight—my wits against the rest—catch as
catch can, and all grips allowed. Neither the Doc. nor I made any
conditions, nor did we want to know beforehand the nature of the tests
to which we were to be subjected.
But I took my precautions. I secretly nicked the edges of the circle on
which the letters were written in such a way that I could always
recognize, by touch, the position of the board.