ON GHOSTS
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
Longfellow.
Ghosts! There is a charm in the very word. Tales of gruesome
apparitions told over a blazing fire at Christmas-time come back to
one--tales told long years ago, when, after hearing them, one was almost
afraid to go to bed; when one started at every shadow on the stairs and
imagined it was some dark denizen of the spirit world come to carry us
off; when, being fairly in bed and the light out, we drew the sheets
over our heads to shut out the phantoms that appeared in the darkness.
From my earliest childhood I was always a firm believer in ghosts--the
good old-fashioned ghost, I mean,--the unhappy lady or gentleman who
appears at twelve o'clock at night with wailings and groans, and rattles
chains and carries his or her head under his or her arm. That is the
sort of ghost _I_ like.
I have a contempt for the feeble ghost of to-day--the spirit that raps
on tables and moves chairs, that writes letters backwards that no one
can read, and never shows itself or behaves in a rational manner. The
modern ghost is very degenerate.
[Illustration: THE WHITE LADY]
My collaborator is a member of the Society for Psychical Research, so I
must be careful what I say, or I shall be abused again. We had a grand
_séance_ on the evening of 16th June. It was held in the "Emperor's
Room"--so called because the Emperor Leopold I. is said to have slept
there. His portrait is painted on the ceiling, which, by the way, is
of wonderful Venetian stucco, with cupids and garlands of fruits and
flowers all over it. It is a haunted room. It is not the Emperor that
appears here, however, but a much more interesting sort of person--the
White Lady. She had a cruel husband who threw her down the cliff under
the ruin. Her body may still be seen, as she was turned into stone, a
gigantic woman wrapped in a long white garment--everlastingly climbing
up the cliff, but never getting any higher. Her spirit returns to the
castle and searches for her lost children. On nights when the moon
is full one can hear the rustling of her robes, as she wanders
disconsolately about in the "Emperor's Room."
[Illustration: THE WHITE LADY]
We carried out our _séance_ on the most approved methods. Eight of
us--my collaborator, the Energetic Lady, the Photographic Lady, Miss
Umslopogaas, the two learned men, the Seal, and myself--sat round a
little oval table with both our hands on it, and clasped each other's
little fingers. The learned Dark Man calculated that there were eighty
fingers on that table. "Better eighty fingers on one table than eighty
tables on one finger" remarked our host. He was rather a nuisance (our
host, I mean), as he insisted on walking about the room and smoking
cigarettes. He also kept turning up the lamp (ghosts dislike much
light, and it is necessary to respect their feelings) to see how we were
getting on.
[Illustration: TIN-HO--FIRST-CLASS MANDARIN]
There was also a dog in the room. This dog rejoices in the name of
"Tin-ho"--he is a Chinese animal. I believe he is the last of his race,
or something of that sort, and is the most cherished possession of the
Energetic Lady. He is one of the banes of my life--he, Napoleon I., and
Wagner. I like animals--in fact, I love them--especially cats and
dogs. But _this_ dog is too much for me. I have made the most friendly
overtures to him. I have called him by the most endearing terms. I have
even learned some Italian (he only understands that language) especially
for his benefit, and have said _poverissima bellissima_ to him with a
pathos that would have moved a stone statue to tears. But it is of no
use. He is as unfriendly as ever, and treats me with contempt. Now I
kick him, whenever the Energetic Lady is not anywhere near him, which is
not very often, by the way.
I have not explained yet who Miss Umslopogaas is. She is a lady who is
staying here, and her proper name is difficult to pronounce--at least,
I cannot conquer it. I began by calling her Miss Asparagus, but that
sounds too much like a vegetable, and is familiar besides. Umslopogaas
is quite as much like what I can imagine her real name to be, and has
the advantage of sounding more foreign.
Well, we sat round that table for an hour and a half. My collaborator
was delighted at the beginning--she was sure the Seal was a perfect
medium, as he trembled all over and felt cold. (I have my own private
opinion about it.) The table, too, moved occasionally (no wonder, when
the Seal was shaking like an aspen leaf), so she was convinced something
was about to happen.
At last something did happen!
An unearthly shriek rang through the haunted chamber. There was a sound
of scuffling and struggling, a smothered exclamation.
The Photographic Lady leaped a foot from her chair and showed a tendency
to go into hysterics. The Seal's teeth chattered with fright.
But, after all, it was only our host who had trodden on the dog.
We sat on. The Photographic Lady flirted with the learned Fair Man, and
Miss Umslopogaas pinched the little finger of the learned Dark Man; but
no ghost appeared. I think there were too many of us, or we were not
serious enough, or the vagaries of our host and the dog were too much
for the spirits. But, in any case, our _séance_ was a failure, and we
had no manifestations at all.
We gave it up then, and took to telling ghost-stories. The Photographic
Lady related an experience of her own. Some three or four years ago she
went into the great banqueting hall in the evening, and there saw the
figure of a man. He was of immense height, elderly, and with a long
flowing beard, and his face was vividly impressed on her memory. He
advanced towards her, and then suddenly disappeared. According to her
own account she was not at all frightened. At the time she did not know
who it was, but on visiting the church at Gradisca some time later, she
recognised the ghost at once as the Della Torre who is carved in stone
on the tomb there, an ancestor of her own.
The Energetic Lady had had a strange experience in the same room. She
was there alone, and a _chair_ began to move about of its own accord.
It moved forwards--it moved backwards--it moved sideways, and then in
a slow and stately manner it waltzed round and round. With her usual
energy, she chased it, caught it, _sat down_ on it, but it continued
its antics, she still sitting on it. She said it was an uncomfortable
sensation and confessed to feelings of alarm--in fact, she left the
apartment in haste.
At this point the Seal said he should retire, as he did not like to talk
of such things. Miss Umslopogaas also took her departure--she did not
consider ghosts quite proper. She thought they should not appear in
people's bedrooms uninvited. Some of them were so insufficiently clothed
too!
The two learned men disputed on ghosts generally. They had different
theories on the matter.
My collaborator listened with a look of supreme contempt. She does not
care to relate _her_ experiences to the common herd. I was so crushed by
her superior manner that I was too modest to tell any story. I never saw
a ghost myself, but an intimate friend of mine has had that pleasure.
Our host was not bashful, however. This is what _he_ said: "I like
ghosts, because they never come. If there are ten persons in a room,
eight are fools, one is a rascal, the tenth might be all right ... but
_he_ is generally dead. I have no objection to _his_ coming. Still, as
'Happiness is of a retired nature,' I think him very considerate never
to do so."
I did not see any point in this, but every one else seemed to find it
very amusing.
Suddenly the great clock in the tower began striking--slowly--twelve!
Then we all went to bed.
* * * * *
We are all haunted by ghosts--ghosts of old friends, old scenes. We sit
alone, and the past rises up before us. They are all with us again--the
friends of our childhood, of our school-days, of our "Varsity" life.
Once more we feel the warm clasp of their hands, once more we hear the
merry voices and look into the kindly faces we knew long years ago.
Picture follows picture.
We see the old garden where we played as children, our brothers and
sisters, our child-friends, the old house, the flowers, the green lawn.
It is all so familiar, and yet it was all so long ago.
The scene changes: a long, low room, desks hacked with pocket-knives and
stained with ink, a hot, drowsy afternoon, a hum of voices, the master's
desk, the master himself in cap and gown, a crowd of boys.
The scene changes again. Stately buildings appear before us, old courts
and cloisters, the gleam of the river. Old familiar sounds ring in
our ears: the thud of the oars in the rowlocks, the click of the
cricket-bat, the tramp of feet on the football field.
Fair faces pass before us too. We hear the rustle of their dresses,
their girlish laughter, their soft voices, we see the bright eyes that
look into ours, the rosy lips that murmured words we shall never forget.
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die!
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And a verse of a sweet old song
Is haunting my memory still:
A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
Where are they all--those friends of other days?
Gone--some dead--all scattered; we have lost sight of most of them. Some
are sleeping on distant battlefields or beneath the waves of the hungry
sea, some are preaching their message of peace in busy town or quiet
village, some fighting with disease and death in the crowded hospitals
of great cities, some working their way upwards through dusty law-courts
or in foreign lands. But here--in Shadow-Land--they one and all come
back to us.
[Illustration]