The Seance

: A Voyage To Arcturus

On a march evening, at eight o'clock, Backhouse, the medium--a

fast-rising star in the psychic world--was ushered into the study

at Prolands, the Hampstead residence of Montague Faull. The room was

illuminated only by the light of a blazing fire. The host, eying him

with indolent curiosity, got up, and the usual conventional greetings

were exchanged. Having indicated an easy chair before the fire to his

guest, the Sout American merchant sank back again into his own. The

electric light was switched on. Faull's prominent, clear-cut features,

metallic-looking skin, and general air of bored impassiveness, did not

seem greatly to impress the medium, who was accustomed to regard men

from a special angle. Backhouse, on the contrary, was a novelty to the

merchant. As he tranquilly studied him through half closed lids and the

smoke of a cigar, he wondered how this little, thickset person with the

pointed beard contrived to remain so fresh and sane in appearance, in

view of the morbid nature of his occupation.



"Do you smoke?" drawled Faull, by way of starting the Conversation. "No?

Then will you take a drink?"



"Not at present, I thank you."



A pause.



"Everything is satisfactory? The materialisation will take place?"



"I see no reason to doubt it."



"That's good, for I would not like my guests to be disappointed. I have

your check written out in my pocket."



"Afterward will do quite well."



"Nine o'clock was the time specified, I believe?"



"I fancy so."



The conversation continued to flag. Faull sprawled in his chair, and

remained apathetic.



"Would you care to hear what arrangements I have made?"



"I am unaware that any are necessary, beyond chairs for your guests."



"I mean the decoration of the seance room, the music, and so forth."



Backhouse stared at his host. "But this is not a theatrical

performance."



"That's correct. Perhaps I ought to explain.... There will be ladies

present, and ladies, you know, are aesthetically inclined."



"In that case I have no objection. I only hope they will enjoy the

performance to the end."



He spoke rather dryly.



"Well, that's all right, then," said Faull. Flicking his cigar into the

fire, he got up and helped himself to whisky.



"Will you come and see the room?"



"Thank you, no. I prefer to have nothing to do with it till the time

arrives."



"Then let's go to see my sister, Mrs. Jameson, who is in the drawing

room. She sometimes does me the kindness to act as my hostess, as I am

unmarried."



"I will be delighted," said Backhouse coldly.



They found the lady alone, sitting by the open pianoforte in a pensive

attitude. She had been playing Scriabin and was overcome. The medium

took in her small, tight, patrician features and porcelain-like hands,

and wondered how Faull came by such a sister. She received him bravely,

with just a shade of quiet emotion. He was used to such receptions at

the hands of the sex, and knew well how to respond to them.



"What amazes me," she half whispered, after ten minutes of graceful,

hollow conversation, "is, if you must know it, not so much the

manifestation itself--though that will surely be wonderful--as

your assurance that it will take place. Tell me the grounds of your

confidence."



"I dream with open eyes," he answered, looking around at the door, "and

others see my dreams. That is all."



"But that's beautiful," responded Mrs. Jameson. She smiled rather

absently, for the first guest had just entered.



It was Kent-Smith, the ex-magistrate, celebrated for his shrewd judicial

humour, which, however, he had the good sense not to attempt to carry

into private life. Although well on the wrong side of seventy, his eyes

were still disconcertingly bright. With the selective skill of an old

man, he immediately settled himself in the most comfortable of many

comfortable chairs.



"So we are to see wonders tonight?"



"Fresh material for your autobiography," remarked Faull.



"Ah, you should not have mentioned my unfortunate book. An old public

servant is merely amusing himself in his retirement, Mr. Backhouse. You

have no cause for alarm--I have studied in the school of discretion."



"I am not alarmed. There can be no possible objection to your publishing

whatever you please."



"You are most kind," said the old man, with a cunning smile.



"Trent is not coming tonight," remarked Mrs. Jameson, throwing a curious

little glance at her brother.



"I never thought he would. It's not in his line."



"Mrs. Trent, you must understand," she went on, addressing the

ex-magistrate, "has placed us all under a debt of gratitude. She has

decorated the old lounge hall upstairs most beautifully, and has secured

the services of the sweetest little orchestra."



"But this is Roman magnificence."



"Backhouse thinks the spirits should be treated with more deference,"

laughed Faull.



"Surely, Mr. Backhouse--a poetic environment..."



"Pardon me. I am a simple man, and always prefer to reduce things to

elemental simplicity. I raise no opposition, but I express my opinion.

Nature is one thing, and art is another."



"And I am not sure that I don't agree with you," said the ex-magistrate.

"An occasion like this ought to be simple, to guard against the

possibility of deception--if you will forgive my bluntness, Mr.

Backhouse."



"We shall sit in full light," replied Backhouse, "and every opportunity

will be given to all to inspect the room. I shall also ask you to submit

me to a personal examination."



A rather embarrassed silence followed. It was broken by the arrival of

two more guests, who entered together. These were Prior, the prosperous

City coffee importer, and Lang, the stockjobber, well known in his own

circle as an amateur prestidigitator. Backhouse was slightly acquainted

with the latter. Prior, perfuming the room with the faint odour of wine

and tobacco smoke, tried to introduce an atmosphere of joviality into

the proceedings. Finding that no one seconded his efforts, however, he

shortly subsided and fell to examining the water colours on the walls.

Lang, tall, thin, and growing bald, said little, but stared at Backhouse

a good deal.



Coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes were now brought in. Everyone partook,

except Lang and the medium. At the same moment, Professor Halbert was

announced. He was the eminent psychologist, the author and lecturer

on crime, insanity, genius, and so forth, considered in their mental

aspects. His presence at such a gathering somewhat mystified the other

guests, but all felt as if the object of their meeting had immediately

acquired additional solemnity. He was small, meagre-looking, and mild

in manner, but was probably the most stubborn-brained of all that mixed

company. Completely ignoring the medium, he at once sat down beside

Kent-Smith, with whom he began to exchange remarks.



At a few minutes past the appointed hour Mrs. Trent entered,

unannounced. She was a woman of about twenty-eight. She had a white,

demure, saintlike face, smooth black hair, and lips so crimson and full

that they seemed to be bursting with blood. Her tall, graceful body was

most expensively attired. Kisses were exchanged between her and Mrs.

Jameson. She bowed to the rest of the assembly, and stole a half glance

and a smile at Faull. The latter gave her a queer look, and Backhouse,

who lost nothing, saw the concealed barbarian in the complacent gleam

of his eye. She refused the refreshment that was offered her, and Faull

proposed that, as everyone had now arrived, they should adjourn to the

lounge hall.



Mrs. Trent held up a slender palm. "Did you, or did you not, give me

carte blanche, Montague?"



"Of course I did," said Faull, laughing. "But what's the matter?"



"Perhaps I have been rather presumptuous. I don't know. I have invited

a couple of friends to join us. No, no one knows them.... The two most

extraordinary individuals you ever saw. And mediums, I am sure."



"It sounds very mysterious. Who are these conspirators?"



"At least tell us their names, you provoking girl," put in Mrs. Jameson.



"One rejoices in the name of Maskull, and the other in that of

Nightspore. That's nearly all that I know about them, so don't overwhelm

me with, any more questions."



"But where did you pick them up? You must have picked them up

somewhere."



"But this is a cross-examination. Have I sinned again convention? I

swear I will tell you not another word about them. They will be here

directly, and then I will deliver them to your tender mercy."



"I don't know them," said Faull, "and nobody else seems to, but, of

course, we will all be very pleased to have them.... Shall we wait, or

what?"



"I said nine, and it's past that now. It's quite possible they may not

turn up after all.... Anyway, don't wait."



"I would prefer to start at once," said Backhouse.



The lounge, a lofty room, forty feet long by twenty wide, had been

divided for the occasion into two equal parts by a heavy brocade curtain

drawn across the middle. The far end was thus concealed. The nearer half

had been converted into an auditorium by a crescent of armchairs. There

was no other furniture. A large fire was burning halfway along the wall,

between the chairbacks and the door. The room was brilliantly lighted by

electric bracket lamps. A sumptuous carpet covered the floor.



Having settled his guests in their seats, Faull stepped up to the

curtain and flung it aside. A replica, or nearly so, of the Drury Lane

presentation of the temple scene in The Magic Flute was then exposed to

view: the gloomy, massive architecture of the interior, the glowing sky

above it in the background, and, silhouetted against the latter, the

gigantic seated statue of the Pharaoh. A fantastically carved wooden

couch lay before the pedestal of the statue. Near the curtain, obliquely

placed to the auditorium, was a plain oak armchair, for the use of the

medium.



Many of those present felt privately that the setting was quite

inappropriate to the occasion and savoured rather unpleasantly

of ostentation. Backhouse in particular seemed put out. The usual

compliments, however, were showered on Mrs. Trent as the deviser of

so remarkable a theatre. Faull invited his friends to step forward and

examine the apartment as minutely as they might desire. Prior and

Lang were the only ones to accept. The former wandered about among the

pasteboard scenery, whistling to himself and occasionally tapping a part

of it with his knuckles. Lang, who was in his element, ignored the rest

of his party and commenced a patient, systematic search, on his own

account, for secret apparatus. Faull and Mrs. Trent stood in a corner

of the temple, talking together in low tones; while Mrs. Jameson,

pretending to hold Backhouse in conversation, watched them as only a

deeply interested woman knows how to watch.



Lang, to his own disgust, having failed to find anything of a suspicious

nature, the medium now requested that his own clothing should be

searched.



"All these precautions are quite needless and beside the matter in

hand, as you will immediately see for yourselves. My reputation demands,

however, that other people who are not present would not be able to say

afterward that trickery has been resorted to."



To Lang again fell the ungrateful task of investigating pockets and

sleeves. Within a few minutes he expressed himself satisfied that

nothing mechanical was in Backhouse's possession. The guests reseated

themselves. Faull ordered two more chairs to be brought for Mrs. Trent's

friends, who, however, had not yet arrived. He then pressed an electric

bell, and took his own seat.



The signal was for the hidden orchestra to begin playing. A murmur of

surprise passed through the audience as, without previous warning, the

beautiful and solemn strains of Mozart's "temple" music pulsated through

the air. The expectation of everyone was raised, while, beneath her

pallor and composure, it could be seen that Mrs. Trent was deeply moved.

It was evident that aesthetically she was by far the most important

person present. Faull watched her, with his face sunk on his chest,

sprawling as usual.



Backhouse stood up, with one hand on the back of his chair, and began

speaking. The music instantly sank to pianissimo, and remained so for as

long as he was on his legs.



"Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness a materialisation. That

means you will see something appear in space that was not previously

there. At first it will appear as a vaporous form, but finally it will

be a solid body, which anyone present may feel and handle--and, for

example, shake hands with. For this body will be in the human shape.

It will be a real man or woman--which, I can't say--but a man or

woman without known antecedents. If, however, you demand from me an

explanation of the origin of this materialised form--where it comes

from, whence the atoms and molecules composing its tissues are

derived--I am unable to satisfy you. I am about to produce the

phenomenon; if anyone can explain it to me afterward, I shall be very

grateful.... That is all I have to say."



He resumed his seat, half turning his back on the assembly, and paused

for a moment before beginning his task.



It was precisely at this minute that the manservant opened the door

and announced in a subdued but distinct voice: "Mr. Maskull, Mr.

Nightspore."



Everyone turned round. Faull rose to welcome the late arrivals.

Backhouse also stood up, and stared hard at them.



The two strangers remained standing by the door, which was closed

quietly behind them. They seemed to be waiting for the mild sensation

caused by their appearance to subside before advancing into the room.

Maskull was a kind of giant, but of broader and more robust physique

than most giants. He wore a full beard. His features were thick and

heavy, coarsely modelled, like those of a wooden carving; but his eyes,

small and black, sparkled with the fires of intelligence and audacity.

His hair was short, black, and bristling. Nightspore was of middle

height, but so tough-looking that he appeared to be trained out of all

human frailties and susceptibilities. His hairless face seemed consumed

by an intense spiritual hunger, and his eyes were wild and distant. Both

men were dressed in tweeds.



Before any words were spoken, a loud and terrible crash of falling

masonry caused the assembled party to start up from their chairs in

consternation. It sounded as if the entire upper part of the building

had collapsed. Faull sprang to the door, and called to the servant to

say what was happening. The man had to be questioned twice before he

gathered what was required of him. He said he had heard nothing. In

obedience to his master's order, he went upstairs. Nothing, however, was

amiss there, neither had the maids heard anything.



In the meantime Backhouse, who almost alone of those assembled had

preserved his sangfroid, went straight up to Nightspore, who stood

gnawing his nails.



"Perhaps you can explain it, sir?"



"It was supernatural," said Nightspore, in a harsh, muffled voice,

turning away from his questioner.



"I guessed so. It is a familiar phenomenon, but I have never heard it so

loud."



He then went among the guests, reassuring them. By degrees they settled

down, but it was observable that their former easy and good-humoured

interest in the proceedings was now changed to strained watchfulness.

Maskull and Nightspore took the places allotted to them. Mrs. Trent

kept stealing uneasy glances at them. Throughout the entire incident,

Mozart's hymn continued to be played. The orchestra also had heard

nothing.



Backhouse now entered on his task. It was one that began to be familiar

to him, and he had no anxiety about the result. It was not possible

to effect the materialisation by mere concentration of will, or the

exercise of any faculty; otherwise many people could have done what he

had engaged himself to do. His nature was phenomenal--the dividing

wall between himself and the spiritual world was broken in many places.

Through the gaps in his mind the inhabitants of the invisible, when he

summoned them, passed for a moment timidly and awfully into the solid,

coloured universe.... He could not say how it was brought about.... The

experience was a rough one for the body, and many such struggles would

lead to insanity and early death. That is why Backhouse was stern

and abrupt in his manner. The coarse, clumsy suspicion of some of the

witnesses, the frivolous aestheticism of others, were equally obnoxious

to his grim, bursting heart; but he was obliged to live, and, to pay his

way, must put up with these impertinences.



He sat down facing the wooden couch. His eyes remained open but seemed

to look inward. His cheeks paled, and he became noticeably thinner. The

spectators almost forgot to breathe. The more sensitive among them began

to feel, or imagine, strange presences all around them. Maskull's

eyes glittered with anticipation, and his brows went up and down, but

Nightspore appeared bored.



After a long ten minutes the pedestal of the statue was seen to become

slightly blurred, as though an intervening mist were rising from the

ground. This slowly developed into a visible cloud, coiling hither and

thither, and constantly changing shape. The professor half rose, and

held his glasses with one hand further forward on the bridge of his

nose.



By slow stages the cloud acquired the dimensions and approximate outline

of an adult human body, although all was still vague and blurred. It

hovered lightly in the air, a foot or so above the couch. Backhouse

looked haggard and ghastly. Mrs. Jameson quietly fainted in her chair,

but she was unnoticed, and presently revived. The apparition now settled

down upon the couch, and at the moment of doing so seemed suddenly to

grow dark, solid, and manlike. Many of the guests were as pale as the

medium himself, but Faull preserved his stoical apathy, and glanced once

or twice at Mrs. Trent. She was staring straight at the couch, and was

twisting a little lace handkerchief through the different fingers of her

hand. The music went on playing.



The figure was by this time unmistakably that of a man lying down. The

face focused itself into distinctness. The body was draped in a sort of

shroud, but the features were those of a young man. One smooth hand

fell over, nearly touching the floor, white and motionless. The weaker

spirits of the company stared at the vision in sick horror; the rest

were grave and perplexed. The seeming man was dead, but somehow it did

not appear like a death succeeding life, but like a death preliminary to

life. All felt that he might sit up at any minute.



"Stop that music!" muttered Backhouse, tottering from his chair and

facing the party. Faull touched the bell. A few more bars sounded, and

then total silence ensued.



"Anyone who wants to may approach the couch," said Backhouse with

difficulty.



Lang at once advanced, and stared awestruck at the supernatural youth.



"You are at liberty to touch," said the medium.



But Lang did not venture to, nor did any of the others, who one by one

stole up to the couch--until it came to Faull's turn. He looked straight

at Mrs. Trent, who seemed frightened and disgusted at the spectacle

before her, and then not only touched the apparition but suddenly

grasped the drooping hand in his own and gave it a powerful squeeze.

Mrs. Trent gave a low scream. The ghostly visitor opened his eyes,

looked at Faull strangely, and sat up on the couch. A cryptic smile

started playing over his mouth. Faull looked at his hand; a feeling of

intense pleasure passed through his body.



Maskull caught Mrs. Jameson in his arms; she was attacked by another

spell of faintness. Mrs. Trent ran forward, and led her out of the room.

Neither of them returned.



The phantom body now stood upright, looking about him, still with his

peculiar smile. Prior suddenly felt sick, and went out. The other

men more or less hung together, for the sake of human society, but

Nightspore paced up and down, like a man weary and impatient, while

Maskull attempted to interrogate the youth. The apparition watched him

with a baffling expression, but did not answer. Backhouse was sitting

apart, his face buried in his hands.



It was at this moment that the door was burst open violently, and a

stranger, unannounced, half leaped, half strode a few yards into the

room, and then stopped. None of Faull's friends had ever seen him

before. He was a thick, shortish man, with surprising muscular

development and a head far too large in proportion to his body. His

beardless yellow face indicated, as a first impression, a mixture of

sagacity, brutality, and humour.



"Aha-i, gentlemen!" he called out loudly. His voice was piercing, and

oddly disagreeable to the ear. "So we have a little visitor here."



Nightspore turned his back, but everyone else stared at the intruder in

astonishment. He took another few steps forward, which brought him to

the edge of the theatre.



"May I ask, sir, how I come to have the honour of being your host?"

asked Faull sullenly. He thought that the evening was not proceeding as

smoothly as he had anticipated.



The newcomer looked at him for a second, and then broke into a great,

roaring guffaw. He thumped Faull on the back playfully--but the play was

rather rough, for the victim was sent staggering against the wall before

he could recover his balance.



"Good evening, my host!"



"And good evening to you too, my lad!" he went on, addressing the

supernatural youth, who was now beginning to wander about the room, in

apparent unconsciousness of his surroundings. "I have seen someone very

like you before, I think."



There was no response.



The intruder thrust his head almost up to the phantom's face. "You have

no right here, as you know."



The shape looked back at him with a smile full of significance, which,

however, no one could understand.



"Be careful what you are doing," said Backhouse quickly.



"What's the matter, spirit usher?"



"I don't know who you are, but if you use physical violence toward that,

as you seem inclined to do, the consequences may prove very unpleasant."



"And without pleasure our evening would be spoiled, wouldn't it, my

little mercenary friend?"



Humour vanished from his face, like sunlight from a landscape, leaving

it hard and rocky. Before anyone realised what he was doing, he

encircled the soft, white neck of the materialised shape with his hairy

hands and, with a double turn, twisted it completely round. A faint,

unearthly shriek sounded, and the body fell in a heap to the floor. Its

face was uppermost. The guests were unutterably shocked to observe that

its expression had changed from the mysterious but fascinating smile

to a vulgar, sordid, bestial grin, which cast a cold shadow of moral

nastiness into every heart. The transformation was accompanied by a

sickening stench of the graveyard.



The features faded rapidly away, the body lost its consistence, passing

from the solid to the shadowy condition, and, before two minutes had

elapsed, the spirit-form had entirely disappeared.



The short stranger turned and confronted the party, with a long, loud

laugh, like nothing in nature.



The professor talked excitedly to Kent-Smith in low tones. Faull

beckoned Backhouse behind a wing of scenery, and handed him his check

without a word. The medium put it in his pocket, buttoned his coat, and

walked out of the room. Lang followed him, in order to get a drink.



The stranger poked his face up into Maskull's.



"Well, giant, what do you think of it all? Wouldn't you like to see the

land where this sort of fruit grows wild?"



"What sort of fruit?"



"That specimen goblin."



Maskull waved him away with his huge hand. "Who are you, and how did you

come here?"



"Call up your friend. Perhaps he may recognise me." Nightspore had moved

a chair to the fire, and was watching the embers with a set, fanatical

expression.



"Let Krag come to me, if he wants me," he said, in his strange voice.



"You see, he does know me," uttered Krag, with a humorous look. Walking

over to Nightspore, he put a hand on the back of his chair.



"Still the same old gnawing hunger?"



"What is doing these days?" demanded Nightspore disdainfully, without

altering his attitude.



"Surtur has gone, and we are to follow him."



"How do you two come to know each other, and of whom are you speaking?"

asked Maskull, looking from one to the other in perplexity.



"Krag has something for us. Let us go outside," replied Nightspore. He

got up, and glanced over his shoulder. Maskull, following the direction

of his eye, observed that the few remaining men were watching their

little group attentively.