Chapter Eight.
A Case for Psychical Research.
One
“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.”
Once upon a time it was my hap to dwell in a certain town in the Eastern Province of Cape Colony, which will not be recognised under the name of Hilston. With a population of about a thousand Europeans, it bore a strong resemblance to several other communities in the same province. It contained the usual disproportionate number of churches and liquor-shops, the usual utter absence of anything like Christianity as a rule of life—or, in fact, as anything but a mere form—the usual number of persons whose only occupation appeared to be that of killing time, and the usual intellectual dry-rot and deadly dulness. The morning market was the great rendezvous for the gossips. Here, around the butter and vegetable-laden tables would the neighbouring farmers and their town cronies foregather every week-day morning; here they would swop mild and superannuated jokes, rank tobacco, scandalous tales, and insinuations more or less damaging to their neighbours’ characters.
Being engaged upon special duty, and living in daily expectation of having to move on to new official pastures, I had taken up my abode at a small hotel near the outskirts, my choice of a sojourning place being determined by the comparative nocturnal quiet of the vicinity. Here I dwelt in moderate comfort tempered by accidents which it is needless to specify.
By far the most interesting feature of Hilston, to me at least, was old Isaac, the septuagenarian billiard-marker at the hotel where I lodged and boarded. Isaac (it may be premised that he had, once upon a time, possessed a surname, although all trace of it was lost) had a phenomenally bad temper and an exceedingly bitter tongue. Being badly hump-backed, he was only about three feet nine in height. Twenty-eight years previously he had drifted as a tramp to Hilston, whence no one knew, and had been employed as a stable-hand by the then proprietor of the hotel. Eight years after this the establishment changed hands, and Isaac was taken over with the other fixtures. The new proprietor, a young man with a little capital at his command, built a billiard-room and imported a brand new and first-class table. Isaac, to his great satisfaction, was appointed marker, and he at once experienced what was probably the one great passion of his life, for he fell violently in love with his charge. It was said that he had been more than once watched through the window, when alone in the room, rubbing his cheek softly over the new, silky, green cloth, and that he was wont to stand for an hour at a time, when no players were about, gently passing his hand over the sides and fondling the cushions.
When I made the acquaintance of the table and its custodian, they looked equally the worse for wear. The original cloth was still doing duty, but was patched and darned in nearly a dozen places. In spite of the shabby attire, however, Isaac still loved his mistress with ardour and constancy. The proprietor informed me confidentially that he would long since have invested in a new cloth and cushions but for the strenuous way in which the old man opposed any suggestion towards a change. He still slept, as he had done for twenty years, rolled up in an old rug on one of the lumpy benches provided for the use of spectators, and no matter how late the habitual loafers, who practically lived in the room, or the gilded youth of the town, who now and then gambled mildly over the clicking ivories, kept up their threepenny black pool, he carefully dusted down his darling, and covered her with a drab holland cloth before retiring to rest on his narrow and uneven couch.
In South African towns of the Hilston class there are neither clubs, theatres nor music-halls. The billiard-room is, therefore, the only place of general resort for relaxation, and in it you will meet the local male inhabitant, or the greater part of him, in his most interesting—that is to say in his most natural—mood. Here he is relaxed and unconstrained; here he joins with his fellows in a brotherhood which, although temporary, is often renewed; here the tobacco-smoke cloud unites those who create it in a common humanity, and even seems to inspire those who breathe it with a common human soul. Many of the associations of the billiard-room are, no doubt, unedifying; but so long as man remains a gregarious animal, so long will he seek out some spot in which to meet his fellows without restraint. In my individual case the billiard-room was the only place in the hotel suitable for smoking in; consequently I spent a great deal of time in it, especially in the evenings.
In the very early stage of our acquaintanceship I won old Isaac’s heart by remonstrating with a semi-intoxicated player for allowing burning tobacco to fall from his pipe upon the cloth. Soon after I got an inkling of the old man’s affection for his charge I began, for the sake of amusement, to play up to it; then the evident genuineness of the feeling gained my involuntary respect, and I could not avoid being struck by the pathos of the situation.
As our acquaintance grew, Isaac became more and more confidential, and I was astonished at the critical faculty displayed in his caustic comments upon the different frequenters of the billiard-room. He had the faculty of ticking people off in a terse phrase of epigrammatic force and inevitable application. Being more or less of a butt for cheap witticisms on the part of those among whom his daily life was thrown, Isaac cordially disliked nine people out of every ten whom he knew. One of the favourite diversions of the gilded youth was to abuse the table in the old marker’s hearing, and to compare its capabilities unfavourably with those of the rival hotel up the street. This Isaac would stand for a time, but when the limit of endurance had been reached, he would break into a withering storm of profane invective such as I have never heard equalled. His power of venting ingenious and fantastic scurrility on these occasions might have rivalled that of Thersites, the “deformed and scurrilous Grecian.”
Over and over again has he told me the history of each individual tear in the cloth. Two of the worst of these had been perpetrated nearly ten years’ previously, and, although the perpetrators were still constant frequenters of the room, Isaac had never from the dates of their respective delinquencies spoken a word to either of them. When one of these persons lost a game and thus had to pay for the use of the table, Isaac would silently hold out a claw-like hand for the money, and no matter how brutal the chaff to which he might be subjected, he could never be provoked to retort.
One morning, after I had been for about two months a resident at the hotel, I entered the billiard-room, and there found Isaac sitting on the bench and weeping bitterly. His head was bowed upon his hands, and his poor twisted frame shook to the violence of his sobs. A large parcel lay next to him; one end of this had been opened and a new cloth thus revealed. It was quite clear what had happened: the evil and much-dreaded day had arrived; the old cloth was about to be discarded and another substituted. As a matter of fact the proprietor of the rival table up the street had invested in a new cloth and cushions, and consequently was drawing away custom in an alarming manner. Isaac’s master had at length put his foot down, and Isaac’s darling was to be re-clothed and re-cushioned. This Isaac regarded more or less as Mr Ruskin would regard draping the “Venus de Medicis” in a velveteen polonaise.
“I’d rather they took off my skin and put new calves to my legs,” he said between his sobs. “If I only knowed where to get gunpowder I’d blow the two of us up.”
I tried to reason with him, but he turned and withered me, in company with the proprietor and everyone else he could think of, in a blast of anathema that would have made a pope of the Middle Ages weep with envy, so I beat a hasty retreat.
Later in the day Isaac was reported to be very ill. Next morning I found him crouched on his face among pillows in a comfortable little room which formed a lean-to at the side of the stable. He was breathing stertorously and evidently had not long to live. When I addressed him he looked up at me with pain-shot eyes, but appeared to be unable to reply. Sounds of tacking could be heard coming from the direction of the billiard-room; the old cloth was being removed and the new one fixed in its place. A man named Scarren was sitting at the bedside; every now and then he puffed strong tobacco-smoke into the sick man’s face. This, Scarren explained in a whisper, was done at Isaac’s request. I noticed that when Scarren, during the conversation with me, allowed a longer interval than usual to elapse without puffing, Isaac became very uneasy.
Isaac died during the night. I forget exactly how the doctor who attended him described his malady, but judging from the length of the name it must have been something as uncommon as deadly. My private, unprofessional opinion was that the poor old man had died of a broken heart. Strange, that for the commonest of all diseases there should be no medical name—to say nothing of a cure.
Next day old Isaac’s body was carried to its resting-place in the pretty little cemetery, in the beautifying of which the inhabitants of Hilston spent a lot of money, which would have been far better devoted to sanitation, the same being very badly needed. Scarren, two of the regular votaries at the billiard-room and myself were the only mourners. Before the body was placed in the coffin I had, with the consent of the proprietor, laid the old cloth, neatly folded, where the worn-out body would rest upon it. The editor of the local paper heard of this circumstance and took me roundly to task for what he called my “heartless practical joke at the expense of a dead man.” I had, just previously, been the means of having a heavy reduction effected in his bill for some Government printing, the details of which proved, upon examination, to be as untrustworthy as his leading articles.
Scarren was installed as marker in old Isaac’s place. He was an old, shrivelled-up man of few words but many pipes, of the worst tobacco I have ever inhaled the smoke of. Scarren and Isaac had been great cronies, although the one had been as loquacious as the other was silent. However, in spite of his reserve there was a twinkle in Scarren’s eye which suggested latent humorous possibilities. He had been a hanger-on at the hotel for several years, making a precarious living by doing odd jobs. The occupation he loved most was fishing, especially for eels. As a rule, before you had conversed with him for five minutes upon any subject whatever, he would produce from his pocket what had once been a fish-hook, which ought to have been capable of holding a moderately-sized shark, but which was now a straight bar of iron with a barb at one end. The straightening-out had, he said, been effected in the following manner: One night he had hooked an enormous eel. Finding his strength unequal to landing the prey he tied the line to an adjacent thorn-tree, which swayed violently to the monster’s frantic tugs. All at once the stress on the line ceased and Scarren thought it had broken; but no, it was the hook that had given way, for when he drew it out of the water it was no longer a hook but a straight bar. The date of this episode was long before I made Scarren’s acquaintance. I was informed upon unimpeachable authority that the original, actual hook of the adventure had been stolen many years previously by some practical joker. Scarren, however, said not a word of his loss, but next day he was seen, when telling the story to a stranger, to produce another and a larger straightened hook from his pocket for the purpose of illustrating his narrative. Shortly afterwards the second hook was stolen, but was replaced by yet a larger one. This process had been several times repeated, with the result that the alleged hook of the adventure grew until quite a startling size was reached. The size to which Scarren’s hook will have attained in, say, ten years, if Scarren lives so long, might be an interesting subject for speculation.
Two
About a month before old Isaac’s death a certain man whom I will call Chimer came to stay at the hotel. He had been sent as the representative of a firm of Port Elizabeth merchants to assist in winding up the affairs of a local trader who had come to financial grief. Chimer’s room was next to mine; thus we got into the habit of finishing our evenings together.
Nearly every man has a fad, and this man’s fad was spiritualism. He was a firm believer in ghosts and astral bodies, and the prophets of his cult were A.P. Sinnett and Madame Blavatski. He did his best to make a convert of me, but in spite of a close perusal of some very striking literature on the subject from the pens of men of splendid ability and great scientific attainments, I remained conscientiously unconvinced. Like the late George Augustus Sala, although I could conceive the possibility of the ghost of a man revisiting the scenes of his lifetime, I found it impossible to believe in the ghost of his garments, and who ever heard of an undraped apparition? The detailed account given by one eminent scientist as to how he was in the habit of materialising an attractive young female spirit named “Katie King,” with whom he was on terms of striking intimacy, seemed not alone an insult to the human understanding but a melancholy instance of the weaknesses of the strong, of which history is full. Chimer was said to be a most successful medium, but he failed signally to produce any “manifestations” on the occasions when he attempted to convince me by means of demonstration. In discussing spiritualism he never used the first person singular, but always spoke of what “we” believe, what “we” have done, etc.
On the second evening after old Isaac’s death I dined at the house of a friend; it was about half-past ten o’clock when I returned to the hotel. I was surprised to find the usual habitués of the billiard-room sitting in the dining-room. The only one who looked cheerful was Chimer; all the others appeared to be absolutely terror-stricken, their faces gleaming pallid under the sickly rays of a debilitated paraffin lamp. From time to time they glanced uneasily over their shuddering shoulders, and they all puffed with nervous fury at their respective pipes.
It was a queer collection of specimens of the genus Homo that I saw. There was Woods, who had not missed an evening in the billiard-room (excepting Sundays, when he invariably went to church) for many years. He was in the habit of beating his wife and starving his children; no one had the least idea as to what the source of his income was, but he always had money for liquor, for billiards and for putting in the plate. There was Shawe, champion liar of the town; he apparently lived on Cape and tobacco-smoke, and he played a fair game of billiards except when sober. There was Loots, the Dutchman, who never drank at his own expense or played a game of billiards that there was the slightest chance of his losing. Dan Menzies, the Scotch tailor, who had all the instincts of a gentleman, as well as many of the potential elements of greatness, in spite of the fact of his being an almost hopeless sot. Brooke Crofton, who had been dismissed from his regiment during the Soudan campaign for disobedience of orders given during an action, or, as others put it, for cowardice. He was now, and had been for several years, trying to drink himself to death on an allowance made him for that purpose by his wife, who lived in England and had money of her own. Most of the others were young clerks and assistants in stores. Chimer looked up and caught my eye. In his there was a triumphant gleam.
The proprietor, whose face was the palest of the lot, soon revealed the gruesome cause of the terror which brooded over the gathering. A few hours previously they had all been sitting in the billiard-room, watching the course of a game, the first played on the table since the fixing of the new cloth and cushions, which had only been completed during the afternoon. On the top of a little cupboard which stood in the corner, and in which spare balls, chalk, sandpaper and other billiard requisites were kept, had been placed the mahogany triangle-frame which is used for fixing the balls in position in the game of pyramid pool. Lying in the triangle were the fifteen pyramid balls. Woods and Crofton were the players. It was noticed that the lamps were in very bad trim and gave a most wretched light. (Shawe declared fervently that he had noticed a distinctly blue tinge in the flame; two of the clerks present corroborated this when appealed to).
All at once the triangle was seen to fly violently from the top of the cupboard, whilst the fifteen ivory balls crashed down on the floor and rolled with loud clatterings in different directions. The triangle-frame, out of which the balls had dropped, seemed as if propelled by an unseen power almost out of the window, close to which it, too, fell to the floor with an appalling noise. The effect on the spectators was terrific; Woods, Crofton and one of the clerks fainted dead away, and the others rushed from the room with wild yells.
As the moving incident was being related to me, Scarren, who happened not to have witnessed it, was engaged in quenching the lights and generally putting the room in order. The Fingo waiter was in unwilling attendance; for Scarren had, naturally enough, demurred at entering the room alone, and none of those who had been present when the fearsome occurrence took place would consent to accompany him.
After some very straight hints from the proprietor the haggard band departed in a body to see each other home. The last man was not to be envied.
Three
Whilst on the way to my room for the purpose of retiring I noticed Chimer sitting on his bed. I entered his room. He was smoking his pipe, and his face wore a look of exultant satisfaction. I could hardly be surprised.
“Well?” said he.
“Well?” replied I.
“I should like to know how you account for what occurred to-night.”
“At present I cannot account for it. Can you?”
“Yes, but I fear your prejudices would not allow of your admitting my explanation.”
“You think, of course, that the spirit of old Isaac sent these balls rolling about the room.”
“Certainly, I do.”
“But if,” said I, with the vain rashness of superior knowledge, “as you admit, a spirit gives neither chemical or dynamic evidence of its presence, how can it act physically upon inert bodies?”
“My dear fellow, as I have often told you, we do not for a moment pretend to be able to give an exhaustive explanation of phenomena of this class. We simply say that in incidents such as this, where what are called ‘natural’ causes are eliminated from the field of consideration by the fact of their absence, it is reasonable to fall back on what is called the ‘supernatural.’ As I have been careful to explain to you more than once, this may be a branch of the natural, and may be recognised some day as a legitimate subject for scientific research by those who now treat us with derision.”
“But are you justified in eliminating all possible natural causes in the present instance?”
“Certainly—you heard the account given; this was corroborated by all who were present. There was no one near the cupboard, the triangle was seen, in direct opposition to the law of gravitation, to fly through the air impelled by some force which could not, according to any scientific hypothesis, have had a natural origin.”
“But, assuming the elimination of all natural possibilities—which is rather a large order—does it not seem shockingly inconsistent with all our ideas on the subject of death, which lends a certain dignity that we instinctively recognise even to the passing away of the life of a puppy, to believe that the spirits of a large number of men who, in essentials were very much the same in their lifetime as we are, have found nothing better to do in ‘the vasty halls of death,’ than to remain at the beck and call of a lot of (very often) silly persons and, when so bidden, to make tables dance, rap out unmeaning nonsense, or else to scare tipplers from a billiard-room by rolling balls about the floor.”
“The world of the flesh is full of inconsistencies,” my philosopher explained; “why not, therefore, the world of the spirits? What we think of that phase of the question is this, namely: that spirits on the lower planes—which are those concerned in so-called manifestations—are the ones which cannot sever themselves from the environment their bodies were accustomed to. As there are different degrees of development among animals, of which man is the head, so there are among spirits. Thus some of the latter may be as the lower animals of the spirit-kingdom, and may indulge, as there is good reason for believing that they do, in spiritual monkey-tricks.”
Knowing that Chimer and old Isaac had detested each other, I felt it would have been of no use my attempting the rehabilitation of the old man’s ghost from the suspicion of being a spiritual monkey in the gloomy groves of Hades.
“Good-night, Chimer; I can only repeat the argument which Hume used against miracles. I do not think that Isaac had anything to do with to-night’s scare.”
And so, with the complacent dogmatism of the sceptic, I turned on my heel. The reader, no doubt, is of the opinion I expressed, but let him await the sequel.
Chimer nodded to me with an expression of pitying superiority. I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately, for me a very unusual circumstance. I had a strange and vivid dream. I seemed to be wandering through a shadowy grove; all at once I saw a dejected-looking monkey which took great pains to conceal its face. It was sitting under a tree, to which its tail was tied. Moved by a sympathetic impulse, I approached and untied the knot; then I gently removed the paws from the downcast visage, with the view of offering consolation. The poor creature looked up diffidently and I recognised the features of Chimer.
After this I wandered on and on, until I found myself on the verge of the smiling Elysian fields, which seemed to stretch away to infinity in fertile beauty. Under a tree which was laden with many-hued spherical fruit of about the size of billiard-balls, lay old Isaac, fast asleep, and with a smile of supreme peace upon his worn face. He was wrapped in the old billiard-cloth which I had caused to be placed in his coffin.
Four
Another month went past. In a few days my somewhat wearying stay at Hilston would draw to a close. Chimer had returned to Port Elizabeth, whence he had written to tell me of a remarkable manifestation which had taken place under his mediumship, in the course of which he had actually communicated with Isaac’s spirit. Isaac said that he had caused the manifestation in the billiard-room, but that he did not mean to do the like again. After this, he had obstinately refused to answer any more questions. This, Chimer considered, proved that Isaac dead was more or less of the same disobliging nature as Isaac had been living—a strong collateral evidence of the genuineness of both his messages from the unseen. However, so far as manifestations were concerned, Isaac had hitherto kept his word, for the harmony of the billiard-room had not again been disturbed. The episode of the triangle and the scattered balls was almost forgotten, and the muddy trickle of belated life around the renovated table had long since resumed its normal course.
I had, all along, been keenly anxious to unravel the mystery of the locomotive triangle and the crashing balls, but hitherto all my efforts had been vain. I had from the beginning suspected Scarren of having had a hand in the business, and had over and over again attempted to draw him out on the subject. He, however, with much adroitness, had invariably turned the conversation to the topic of eel-fishing. However, the suspicion that Scarren could explain the matter if he only would, grew on me day by day, and I determined to make a desperate assault upon the citadel of his reserve before leaving Hilston. I had accidentally found out that whenever I fixed him with my eye, Scarren became very uneasy and endeavoured to escape. After this discovery I ceased to question him, but whenever I could manage to do so, I fixed him with a steady stare. Each successive time this happened he squirmed more and more until, at length, he got to avoiding me by means of the most obvious and awkward shifts.
At length—it was two days before my intended departure—I caught him alone in the billiard-room, where I had seen him enter with a paraffin can for the purpose of replenishing the lamps. I followed him, shut the door behind me, walked slowly to where he stood in the corner fumbling at a lamp with feverish and ostentatious activity, and stood behind him, relentless as Fate. First of all he pretended to be unaware of my presence, then he gave a hurried and startled glance over his shoulder.
“Scarren,” said I, “you might as well own up. How did you manage it?”
He tried to bolt incontinently, but I got between him and the door.
“Don’t be a fool,” I said reassuringly. “I don’t want to get you into a row; if you own up freely, I won’t say a word to anyone.”
“Well, sir, I’ll have to tell you, but for God’s sake don’t give me away. It isn’t that I am afraid of getting the sack—although that, of course, would follow; but I’ve a reason for keeping it dark which you’d never guess, and which I can’t tell you.”
“Scarren,” I rejoined with solemn severity, “you’ll have to tell me all about it, mind that. I shall not stick to my promise if you keep a single word back. Speak up at once, or else look out.”
He went quietly to the doorway and looked out to see that no one was listening. Then he carefully closed the door, after which he returned on tiptoe to the corner where I was standing with a stern visage but a triumphant heart.
“It was old Isaac, right enough—”
“Scarren,” I exclaimed with indignation, “don’t try that on with me.”
“Wait a bit, sir, don’t speak so loud. Let me tell you from the beginning, and then you’ll understand. About half an hour before you came, on the day that Isaac died, I was sitting smoking at him, and all at once he seemed to get much better.
“‘Scarren,’ says he in quite a strong voice, ‘I’ll never hear the cock crow no more; I’ll die before lock-up time.’
“‘Why, Isaac,’ says I, ‘you look as if you was quite your own self again. I believe you’ll be singin’ out the game again the day after to-morrow.’
“While we was talking we could hear the noise of the new cloth being nailed down. Isaac knew well enough what was going on and it made him angry.
“‘No,’ says he, quite raspy, ‘I’ll sing out no more games. Twenty years I’ve brushed her down, and they won’t let me die before rippin’ of her up.’
“Then he lay a long time silent, and I could see he was thinking hard about something. All at once he grips my hand—
“‘Scarren,’ says he, ‘do you believe in ghosts?’
“First of all I was going to say no; then I thought that if I said so it might annoy him after he was dead, and he might come and show me I was mistaken.
“‘Yes, Isaac,’ says I; ‘I’ve not seen any myself, but still I believes in them.’
“‘All right,’ says he; ‘I’m going to give you my last dying will and testament by word of mouth, which you’ve got to carry out or be haunted by me whenever the Devil leaves the gate ajar for as much as five minutes.’
“‘Well, Isaac,’ says I, ‘what is it that you want me to do?’
“‘On the first night,’ says he, ‘when they plays on the new cloth and with them new cushions, which I know will be twice too strong for a table of her age, I want you to give them a fright and make them think that I’ve come back.’
“‘Yes, Isaac,’ says I, ‘I’m quite willing to oblige, but how do you want me to do it?’
“‘That I leave to you,’ says he; ‘there’s lots of ways. You can let the rack fall down, or set the balls rolling about, or put gun-caps atop of the lamps. Only, mind this—you’ve got to make them jump, and think it’s me that’s done it; if you don’t, I’ll make you do the jumping.’
“Well, after Isaac was underground I set to thinking how I was to carry out his last will and testament, and I got fairly puzzled. There was lots of ways of making them jump, but I would be dead sure to be found out, and then, not only would I lose my billet, but I’d always think that Isaac was not satisfied, and might come to tell me so, for Isaac was always a man of his word. Then I went to rummage in an old box of his, which he’d said I might have as a keepsake. I came across in it some fine brass wire, like what he’d used for mending cues that got their butts split. All at once an idea came, and I’m quite sure that Isaac put it into my head. So that evening, before I lit the lamps, I tied the one end of the wire, which was that fine you couldn’t hardly see it, to the triangle which lay, full of balls, on the cupboard. The other end I passed along the wall and out through the window where the sash gapes; there I just whipped it round a nail. Then I lit the lamps and sat waiting for the room to fill up. When I thought there were enough in, I sneaked out, pretending that I was going to get my supper. After a bit I just gave the wire a tug, and then bolted round the corner.”
Scarren’s excitement had waxed during the narrative. From force of habit he had taken the straightened-out fish-hook from his pocket, and with it he had punctuated his sentences. I remained silent and lost in thought—marvelling at the fortitude of old Isaac and wishing I knew how to attain to a philosophy such as enabled its possessor to enjoy a prospective and post-mortem practical joke upon his death-bed.
“It was a regular three-star, double-barrelled eighteen-carat scare,” said Scarren, after a pause—“and I know for as good a fact that old Isaac enjoyed it well.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, on the same night I had such a curious dream. I saw Isaac, as plain as ever you like, sitting under a tree full of red and yeller apples. He was wrapped in the cloth we put in his coffin, and was laughing fit to split hisself.”
I gave an involuntary start, for my dream of the same night flashed across my mind. After making the most solemn promises not to reveal the tale—except under certain improbable eventualities which, strangely enough, have since become actual—I bade farewell to old Scarren and walked away thinking, for the first time, that there might, after all, be something true in Chimer’s creed.