Round the Fire Stories

by Arthur Conan Doyle

PLAYING WITH FIRE

  I cannot pretend to say what occurred on the 14th of April last at No.17, Badderly Gardens. Put down in black and white, my surmise might seemtoo crude, too grotesque, for serious consideration. And yet thatsomething did occur, and that it was of a nature which will leave itsmark upon every one of us for the rest of our lives, is as certain asthe unanimous testimony of five witnesses can make it. I will not enterinto any argument or speculation. I will only give a plain statement,which will be submitted to John Moir, Harvey Deacon, and Mrs. Delamere,and withheld from publication unless they are prepared to corroborateevery detail. I cannot obtain the sanction of Paul Le Duc, for heappears to have left the country.

  It was John Moir (the well-known senior partner of Moir, Moir, andSanderson) who had originally turned our attention to occult subjects.He had, like many very hard and practical men of business, a mystic sideto his nature, which had led him to the examination, and eventually tothe acceptance, of those elusive phenomena which are grouped togetherwith much that is foolish, and much that is fraudulent, under the commonheading of spiritualism. His researches, which had begun with an openmind, ended unhappily in dogma, and he became as positive and fanaticalas any other bigot. He represented in our little group the body of menwho have turned these singular phenomena into a new religion.

  Mrs. Delamere, our medium, was his sister, the wife of Delamere, therising sculptor. Our experience had shown us that to work on thesesubjects without a medium was as futile as for an astronomer to makeobservations without a telescope. On the other hand, the introduction ofa paid medium was hateful to all of us. Was it not obvious that he orshe would feel bound to return some result for money received, and thatthe temptation to fraud would be an overpowering one? No phenomena couldbe relied upon which were produced at a guinea an hour. But,fortunately, Moir had discovered that his sister was mediumistic—inother words, that she was a battery of that animal magnetic force whichis the only form of energy which is subtle enough to be acted upon fromthe spiritual plane as well as from our own material one. Of course,when I say this, I do not mean to beg the question; but I am simplyindicating the theories upon which we were ourselves, rightly orwrongly, explaining what we saw. The lady came, not altogether with theapproval of her husband, and though she never gave indications of anyvery great psychic force, we were able, at least, to obtain those usualphenomena of message-tilting which are at the same time so puerile andso inexplicable. Every Sunday evening we met in Harvey Deacon’s studioat Badderly Gardens, the next house to the corner of Merton Park Road.

  Harvey Deacon’s imaginative work in art would prepare any one to findthat he was an ardent lover of everything which was _outré_ andsensational. A certain picturesqueness in the study of the occult hadbeen the quality which had originally attracted him to it, but hisattention was speedily arrested by some of those phenomena to which Ihave referred, and he was coming rapidly to the conclusion that what hehad looked upon as an amusing romance and an after-dinner entertainmentwas really a very formidable reality. He is a man with a remarkablyclear and logical brain—a true descendant of his ancestor, thewell-known Scotch professor—and he represented in our small circle thecritical element, the man who has no prejudices, is prepared to followfacts as far as he can see them, and refuses to theorize in advance ofhis data. His caution annoyed Moir as much as the latter’s robust faithamused Deacon, but each in his own way was equally keen upon the matter.

  And I? What am I to say that I represented? I was not the devotee. I wasnot the scientific critic. Perhaps the best that I can claim for myselfis that I was the dilettante man about town, anxious to be in the swimof every fresh movement, thankful for any new sensation which would takeme out of myself and open up fresh possibilities of existence. I am notan enthusiast myself, but I like the company of those who are. Moir’stalk, which made me feel as if we had a private pass-key through thedoor of death, filled me with a vague contentment. The soothingatmosphere of the séance with the darkened lights was delightful to me.In a word, the thing amused me, and so I was there.

  It was, as I have said, upon the 14th of April last that the verysingular event which I am about to put upon record took place. I was thefirst of the men to arrive at the studio, but Mrs. Delamere was alreadythere, having had afternoon tea with Mrs. Harvey Deacon. The two ladiesand Deacon himself were standing in front of an unfinished picture ofhis upon the easel. I am not an expert in art, and I have neverprofessed to understand what Harvey Deacon meant by his pictures; but Icould see in this instance that it was all very clever and imaginative,fairies and animals and allegorical figures of all sorts. The ladieswere loud in their praises, and indeed the colour effect was aremarkable one.

  “What do you think of it, Markham?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s above me,” said I. “These beasts—what are they?”

  “Mythical monsters, imaginary creatures, heraldic emblems—a sort ofweird, bizarre procession of them.”

  “With a white horse in front!”

  “It’s not a horse,” said he, rather testily—which was surprising, for hewas a very good-humoured fellow as a rule, and hardly ever took himselfseriously.

  “What is it, then?”

  “Can’t you see the horn in front? It’s a unicorn. I told you they wereheraldic beasts. Can’t you recognize one?”

  “Very sorry, Deacon,” said I, for he really seemed to be annoyed.

  He laughed at his own irritation.

  “Excuse me, Markham!” said he; “the fact is that I have had an awful jobover the beast. All day I have been painting him in and painting himout, and trying to imagine what a real live, ramping unicorn would looklike. At last I got him, as I hoped; so when you failed to recognize it,it took me on the raw.”

  “Why, of course it’s a unicorn,” said I, for he was evidently depressedat my obtuseness. “I can see the horn quite plainly, but I never saw aunicorn except beside the Royal Arms, and so I never thought of thecreature. And these others are griffins and cockatrices, and dragons ofsorts?”

  “Yes, I had no difficulty with them. It was the unicorn which botheredme. However, there’s an end of it until to-morrow.” He turned thepicture round upon the easel, and we all chatted about other subjects.

  Moir was late that evening, and when he did arrive he brought with him,rather to our surprise, a small, stout Frenchman, whom he introduced asMonsieur Paul Le Duc. I say to our surprise, for we held a theory thatany intrusion into our spiritual circle deranged the conditions, andintroduced an element of suspicion. We knew that we could trust eachother, but all our results were vitiated by the presence of an outsider.However, Moir soon reconciled us to the innovation. Monsieur Paul Le Ducwas a famous student of occultism, a seer, a medium, and a mystic. Hewas travelling in England with a letter of introduction to Moir from thePresident of the Parisian brothers of the Rosy Cross. What more naturalthan that he should bring him to our little séance, or that we shouldfeel honoured by his presence?

  He was, as I have said, a small, stout man, undistinguished inappearance, with a broad, smooth, clean-shaven face, remarkable only fora pair of large, brown, velvety eyes, staring vaguely out in front ofhim. He was well dressed, with the manners of a gentleman, and hiscurious little turns of English speech set the ladies smiling. Mrs.Deacon had a prejudice against our researches and left the room, uponwhich we lowered the lights, as was our custom, and drew up our chairsto the square mahogany table which stood in the centre of the studio.The light was subdued, but sufficient to allow us to see each otherquite plainly. I remember that I could even observe the curious, podgylittle square-topped hands which the Frenchman laid upon the table.

  “What a fun!” said he. “It is many years since I have sat in thisfashion, and it is to me amusing. Madame is medium. Does madame make thetrance?”

  “Well, hardly that,” said Mrs. Delamere. “But I am always conscious ofextreme sleepiness.”

  “It is the first stage. Then you encourage it, and there comes
thetrance. When the trance comes, then out jumps your little spirit and injumps another little spirit, and so you have direct talking or writing.You leave your machine to be worked by another. _Hein?_ But what haveunicorns to do with it?”

  Harvey Deacon started in his chair. The Frenchman was moving his headslowly round and staring into the shadows which draped the walls.

  “What a fun!” said he. “Always unicorns. Who has been thinking so hardupon a subject so bizarre?”

  “This is wonderful!” cried Deacon. “I have been trying to paint one allday. But how could you know it?”

  “You have been thinking of them in this room.”

  “Certainly.”

  “But thoughts are things, my friend. When you imagine a thing you make athing. You did not know it, _hein_? But I can see your unicorns becauseit is not only with my eye that I can see.”

  “Do you mean to say that I create a thing which has never existed bymerely thinking of it?”

  “But certainly. It is the fact which lies under all other facts. That iswhy an evil thought is also a danger.”

  “They are, I suppose, upon the astral plane?” said Moir.

  “Ah, well, these are but words, my friends. They arethere—somewhere—everywhere—I cannot tell myself. I see them. I could nottouch them.”

  “You could not make _us_ see them.”

  “It is to materialize them. Hold! It is an experiment. But the power iswanting. Let us see what power we have, and then arrange what we shalldo. May I place you as I should wish?”

  “You evidently know a great deal more about it than we do,” said HarveyDeacon; “I wish that you would take complete control.”

  “It may be that the conditions are not good. But we will try what we cando. Madame will sit where she is, I next, and this gentleman beside me.Meester Moir will sit next to madame, because it is well to have blacksand blondes in turn. So! And now with your permission I will turn thelights all out.”

  “What is the advantage of the dark?” I asked.

  “Because the force with which we deal is a vibration of ether and soalso is light. We have the wires all for ourselves now—_hein_? You willnot be frightened in the darkness, madame? What a fun is such a séance!”

  At first the darkness appeared to be absolutely pitchy, but in a fewminutes our eyes became so far accustomed to it that we could just makeout each other’s presence—very dimly and vaguely, it is true. I couldsee nothing else in the room—only the black loom of the motionlessfigures. We were all taking the matter much more seriously than we hadever done before.

  “You will place your hands in front. It is hopeless that we touch, sincewe are so few round so large a table. You will compose yourself, madame,and if sleep should come to you you will not fight against it. And nowwe sit in silence and we expect——_hein_?”

  So we sat in silence and expected, staring out into the blackness infront of us. A clock ticked in the passage. A dog barked intermittentlyfar away. Once or twice a cab rattled past in the street, and the gleamof its lamps through the chink in the curtains was a cheerful break inthat gloomy vigil. I felt those physical symptoms with which previousséances had made me familiar—the coldness of the feet, the tingling inthe hands, the glow of the palms, the feeling of a cold wind upon theback. Strange little shooting pains came in my forearms, especially asit seemed to me in my left one, which was nearest to our visitor—due nodoubt to disturbance of the vascular system, but worthy of someattention all the same. At the same time I was conscious of a strainedfeeling of expectancy which was almost painful. From the rigid, absolutesilence of my companions I gathered that their nerves were as tense asmy own.

  And then suddenly a sound came out of the darkness—a low, sibilantsound, the quick, thin breathing of a woman. Quicker and thinner yet itcame, as between clenched teeth, to end in a loud gasp with a dullrustle of cloth.

  “What’s that? Is all right?” someone asked in the darkness.

  “Yes, all is right,” said the Frenchman. “It is madame. She is in hertrance. Now, gentlemen, if you will wait quiet you will see something, Ithink, which will interest you much.”

  Still the ticking in the hall. Still the breathing, deeper and fullernow, from the medium. Still the occasional flash, more welcome thanever, of the passing lights of the hansoms. What a gap we were bridging,the half-raised veil of the eternal on the one side and the cabs ofLondon on the other. The table was throbbing with a mighty pulse. Itswayed steadily, rhythmically, with an easy swooping, scooping motionunder our fingers. Sharp little raps and cracks came from its substance,file-firing, volley-firing, the sounds of a fagot burning briskly on afrosty night.

  “There is much power,” said the Frenchman. “See it on the table!”

  I had thought it was some delusion of my own, but all could see it now.There was a greenish-yellow phosphorescent light—or I should say aluminous vapour rather than a light—which lay over the surface of thetable. It rolled and wreathed and undulated in dim glimmering folds,turning and swirling like clouds of smoke. I could see the white,square-ended hands of the French medium in this baleful light.

  “What a fun!” he cried. “It is splendid!”

  “Shall we call the alphabet?” asked Moir.

  “But no—for we can do much better,” said our visitor. “It is but aclumsy thing to tilt the table for every letter of the alphabet, andwith such a medium as madame we should do better than that.”

  “Yes, you will do better,” said a voice.

  “Who was that? Who spoke? Was that you, Markham?”

  “No, I did not speak.”

  “It was madame who spoke.”

  “But it was not her voice.”

  “Is that you, Mrs. Delamere?”

  “It is not the medium, but it is the power which uses the organs of themedium,” said the strange, deep voice.

  “Where is Mrs. Delamere? It will not hurt her, I trust.”

  “The medium is happy in another plane of existence. She has taken myplace, as I have taken hers.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It cannot matter to you who I am. I am one who has lived as you areliving, and who has died as you will die.”

  We heard the creak and grate of a cab pulling up next door. There was anargument about the fare, and the cabman grumbled hoarsely down thestreet. The green-yellow cloud still swirled faintly over the table,dull elsewhere, but glowing into a dim luminosity in the direction ofthe medium. It seemed to be piling itself up in front of her. A sense offear and cold struck into my heart. It seemed to me that lightly andflippantly we had approached the most real and august of sacraments,that communion with the dead of which the fathers of the Church hadspoken.

  “Don’t you think we are going too far? Should we not break up thisséance?” I cried.

  But the others were all earnest to see the end of it. They laughed at myscruples.

  “All the powers are made for use,” said Harvey Deacon. “If we _can_ dothis, we _should_ do this. Every new departure of knowledge has beencalled unlawful in its inception. It is right and proper that we shouldinquire into the nature of death.”

  “It is right and proper,” said the voice.

  “There, what more could you ask?” cried Moir, who was much excited. “Letus have a test. Will you give us a test that you are really there?”

  “What test do you demand?”

  “Well, now—I have some coins in my pocket. Will you tell me how many?”

  “We come back in the hope of teaching and of elevating, and not to guesschildish riddles.”

  “Ha, ha, Meester Moir, you catch it that time,” cried the Frenchman.“But surely this is very good sense what the Control is saying.”

  “It is a religion, not a game,” said the cold, hard voice.

  “Exactly—the very view I take of it,” cried Moir. “I am sure I am verysorry if I have asked a foolish question. You will not tell me who youare?”

  “What d
oes it matter?”

  “Have you been a spirit long?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “We cannot reckon time as you do. Our conditions are different.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would not wish to come back to life?”

  “No—certainly not.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “We could not be happy if we were not busy.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I have said that the conditions are entirely different.”

  “Can you give us no idea of your work?”

  “We labour for our own improvement and for the advancement of others.”

  “Do you like coming here to-night?”

  “I am glad to come if I can do any good by coming.”

  “Then to do good is your object?”

  “It is the object of all life on every plane.”

  “You see, Markham, that should answer your scruples.”

  It did, for my doubts had passed and only interest remained.

  “Have you pain in your life?” I asked.

  “No; pain is a thing of the body.”

  “Have you mental pain?”

  “Yes; one may always be sad or anxious.”

  “Do you meet the friends whom you have known on earth?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Why only some of them?”

  “Only those who are sympathetic.”

  “Do husbands meet wives?”

  “Those who have truly loved.”

  “And the others?”

  “They are nothing to each other.”

  “There must be a spiritual connection?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is what we are doing right?”

  “If done in the right spirit.”

  “What is the wrong spirit?”

  “Curiosity and levity.”

  “May harm come of that?”

  “Very serious harm.”

  “What sort of harm?”

  “You may call up forces over which you have no control.”

  “Evil forces?”

  “Undeveloped forces.”

  “You say they are dangerous. Dangerous to body or mind?”

  “Sometimes to both.”

  There was a pause, and the blackness seemed to grow blacker still, whilethe yellow-green fog swirled and smoked upon the table.

  “Any questions you would like to ask, Moir?” said Harvey Deacon.

  “Only this—do you pray in your world?”

  “One should pray in every world.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is the acknowledgment of forces outside ourselves.”

  “What religion do you hold over there?”

  “We differ exactly as you do.”

  “You have no certain knowledge?”

  “We have only faith.”

  “These questions of religion,” said the Frenchman, “they are of interestto you serious English people, but they are not so much fun. It seems tome that with this power here we might be able to have some greatexperience—_hein_? Something of which we could talk.”

  “But nothing could be more interesting than this,” said Moir.

  “Well, if you think so, that is very well,” the Frenchman answered,peevishly. “For my part, it seems to me that I have heard all thisbefore, and that to-night I should weesh to try some experiment with allthis force which is given to us. But if you have other questions, thenask them, and when you are finish we can try something more.”

  But the spell was broken. We asked and asked, but the medium sat silentin her chair. Only her deep, regular breathing showed that she wasthere. The mist still swirled upon the table.

  “You have disturbed the harmony. She will not answer.”

  “But we have learned already all that she can tell—_hein_? For my part Iwish to see something that I have never seen before.”

  “What then?”

  “You will let me try?”

  “What would you do?”

  “I have said to you that thoughts are things. Now I wish to _prove_ itto you, and to show you that which is only a thought. Yes, yes, I can doit and you will see. Now I ask you only to sit still and say nothing,and keep ever your hands quiet upon the table.”

  The room was blacker and more silent than ever. The same feeling ofapprehension which had lain heavily upon me at the beginning of theséance was back at my heart once more. The roots of my hair weretingling.

  “It is working! It is working!” cried the Frenchman, and there was acrack in his voice as he spoke which told me that he also was strung tohis tightest.

  The luminous fog drifted slowly off the table, and wavered and flickeredacross the room. There in the farther and darkest corner it gathered andglowed, hardening down into a shining core—a strange, shifty, luminous,and yet non-illuminating patch of radiance, bright itself, but throwingno rays into the darkness. It had changed from a greenish-yellow to adusky sullen red. Then round this centre there coiled a dark, smokysubstance, thickening, hardening, growing denser and blacker. And thenthe light went out, smothered in that which had grown round it.

  “It has gone.”

  “Hush—there’s something in the room.”

  We heard it in the corner where the light had been, something whichbreathed deeply and fidgeted in the darkness.

  “What is it? Le Duc, what have you done?”

  “It is all right. No harm will come.” The Frenchman’s voice was treblewith agitation.

  “Good heavens, Moir, there’s a large animal in the room. Here it is,close by my chair! Go away! Go away!”

  It was Harvey Deacon’s voice, and then came the sound of a blow uponsome hard object. And then ... And then ... how can I tell you whathappened then?

  Some huge thing hurtled against us in the darkness, rearing, stamping,smashing, springing, snorting. The table was splintered. We werescattered in every direction. It clattered and scrambled amongst us,rushing with horrible energy from one corner of the room to another. Wewere all screaming with fear, grovelling upon our hands and knees to getaway from it. Something trod upon my left hand, and I felt the bonessplinter under the weight.

  “A light! A light!” someone yelled.

  “Moir, you have matches, matches!”

  “No, I have none. Deacon, where are the matches? For God’s sake, thematches!”

  “I can’t find them. Here, you Frenchman, stop it!”

  “It is beyond me. Oh, _mon Dieu_, I cannot stop it. The door! Where isthe door?”

  My hand, by good luck, lit upon the handle as I groped about in thedarkness. The hard-breathing, snorting, rushing creature tore past meand butted with a fearful crash against the oaken partition. The instantthat it had passed I turned the handle, and next moment we were alloutside and the door shut behind us. From within came a horriblecrashing and rending and stamping.

  “What is it? In Heaven’s name, what is it?”

  “A horse. I saw it when the door opened. But Mrs. Delamere——?”

  “We must fetch her out. Come on, Markham; the longer we wait the less weshall like it.”

  He flung open the door and we rushed in. She was there on the groundamidst the splinters of her chair. We seized her and dragged her swiftlyout, and as we gained the door I looked over my shoulder into thedarkness. There were two strange eyes glowing at us, a rattle of hoofs,and I had just time to slam the door when there came a crash upon itwhich split it from top to bottom.

  “It’s coming through! It’s coming!”

  “Run, run for your lives!” cried the Frenchman.

  Another crash, and something shot through the riven door. It was a longwhite spike, gleaming in the lamplight. For a moment it shone before us,and then with a snap it disappeared again.

  “Quick! Quick! This way!” Harvey Deacon shouted. “Carry her in! Here!Q
uick!”

  We had taken refuge in the dining-room, and shut the heavy oak door. Welaid the senseless woman upon the sofa, and as we did so, Moir, the hardman of business, drooped and fainted across the hearthrug. Harvey Deaconwas as white as a corpse, jerking and twitching like an epileptic. Witha crash we heard the studio door fly to pieces, and the snorting andstamping were in the passage, up and down, up and down, shaking thehouse with their fury. The Frenchman had sunk his face on his hands, andsobbed like a frightened child.

  “What shall we do?” I shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Is a gun anyuse?”

  “No, no. The power will pass. Then it will end.”

  “You might have killed us all—you unspeakable fool—with your infernalexperiments.”

  “I did not know. How could I tell that it would be frightened? It is madwith terror. It was his fault. He struck it.”

  Harvey Deacon sprang up. “Good heavens!” he cried.

  A terrible scream sounded through the house.

  “It’s my wife! Here, I’m going out. If it’s the Evil One himself I amgoing out!”

  He had thrown open the door and rushed out into the passage. At the endof it, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Deacon was lying senseless,struck down by the sight which she had seen. But there was nothing else.

  With eyes of horror we looked about us, but all was perfectly quiet andstill. I approached the black square of the studio door, expecting withevery slow step that some atrocious shape would hurl itself out of it.But nothing came, and all was silent inside the room. Peeping andpeering, our hearts in our mouths, we came to the very threshold, andstared into the darkness. There was still no sound, but in one directionthere was also no darkness. A luminous, glowing cloud, with anincandescent centre, hovered in the corner of the room. Slowly it dimmedand faded, growing thinner and fainter, until at last the same dense,velvety blackness filled the whole studio. And with the last flickeringgleam of that baleful light the Frenchman broke into a shout of joy.

  “What a fun!” he cried. “No one is hurt, and only the door broken, andthe ladies frightened. But, my friends, we have done what has never beendone before.”

  “And as far as I can help it,” said Harvey Deacon, “it will certainlynever be done again.”

  And that was what befell on the 14th of April last at No. 17, BadderlyGardens. I began by saying that it would seem too grotesque to dogmatizeas to what it was which actually did occur; but I give my impressions,_our_ impressions (since they are corroborated by Harvey Deacon and JohnMoir), for what they are worth. You may, if it pleases you, imagine thatwe were the victims of an elaborate and extraordinary hoax. Or you maythink with us that we underwent a very real and a very terribleexperience. Or perhaps you may know more than we do of such occultmatters, and can inform us of some similar occurrence. In this lattercase a letter to William Markham, 146M, The Albany, would help to throwa light upon that which is very dark to us.