Shadow Land, or, Light from the Other Side

Front matter

SHADOW LAND LIGHT FROM THE OTHER SIDE

E. d’ ESPERANCE. :

THE NEW YOLK PUBLIC LISRARY

Preface

This book has been written at intervals during several years. I intended to hand over the manuscript to some one to publish after my death; but now having finished my work as a medium, I have come to the conclusion that I have no right to place on the shoulders of another, a burden of responsibility, that I would wish to escape bearing myself, and have decided that it is better to have the opportunity of defending the truths which I have here attempted to record rather than to leave the work to others.

A more weighty reason is the fact that suicides are increasing and | have never known a single instance of a sane man throwing his life away, when once he not only believed, but 4ew, the truths which have been part of my every day life since childhood.

Some months ago Stafford wrote an article on materialism which was reproduced in several German newspapers and a few weeks afterwards I received a letter from Baron X. saying, he had just lost a law suit which to him meant the loss of every thing. He had decided there was nothing left to live for and was arranging his affairs prior to taking leave of ‘this world, when accidently the newspaper containing Staffords article came into his hands. He read it, wrote to thank the authcr and decided to give life another trial.

This circumstance encourages me to hope that, by making my experiences known, some others of my fellow-men may pause and consider whether earthly existence ends all and whether, in throwing away the great gift of life, they are not making a mistake which, a few moments after they would give worlds to have the terrible deed undone.

Introduction

To Mrs. E. DESPERANCE.

My Dear Friend!

You have had the kindness to send me the proof of your book, of which you ask my opinion. It is with pleasure that I comply with your request. The task you had undertaken was rather difficult, yet you have successfully achieved that at which you aimed. The danger to be avoided was that of saying too much or too fittle. In saying too much, you would have been entangled in particulars, as it would have required ten volumes, and x more, to give a full record of your mediumship and vet, after all, it might have looked somewhat apologetical In saving too little, vou could remain obscure. You have however chosen a middle path, and, what is important, one gets a whole or complete impression — a very good one too. Perhaps even now you may remain obscure for others, but I speak for myself; as I have followed your mediumistic career in all its details for more than twenty vears, I can understand you better than many others.

Endowed from birth with the fatal gift of sensitiveness, you, against your will, became a medium. Prompted purely by a feeling of duty towards truth, you did not refuse your help to those who were anxious to push further into the enquiry, in which you yourself became more and more interested. Soon you obtained very remarkable phenomena, and you were enraptured with the idea of having such palpable demonstrations of the glorious truth of immortality. What a consolation for poor, benighted humanity!

XI

What a new field for science! A missionary spirit inspired you and you were ready for any sacrifice for the triumph of the truth of spirit intercourse.

Long ago when I first became acquainted with spiritualism, I often thought that if I were a powerful medium, I would gladly give all my life, all my strength and means, for proving to all and everyone, the fact that there is a spirit world, and that communication with it is possible. Happily, I am not a medium, but you are, and you were animated by the same principles, as I had thought should have guided me, had I been endowed with the gift which is yours. In your life I see what the results would then have been in mine. Your career is a proof that, with the best intentions and the fullest sincerity, the results attained do not appear to be in proportion to the sacrifices we have made, or the hopes we have fostered. I can, therefore, be content with the idea that my fate would not have been ‘better than yours. And why so? From ignorance of the pheno-

XII mena, their laws and conditions. Because new truths cannot be enforced upon one’s mind. Because the great pioneers of the cause are doomed to act alone, without finding help and counsel from others, who, to say the truth, are still just as ignorant as themselves. Truth is to be found in groping.

You began to be undeceived the very moment, when prompted by the “missionary spirit” you tried to give to the first comer, to every stranger, an actual demonstration (see ‘page 188) of spiritual manifestation. It was then that you made a discovery “which seemed likely to upset all your plans for regenerating the world;” you observed that the manifestations, which were obtained so easily in your private circle did not take place -before strangers, inasmuch as, they depended very much on the spiritual plane whereon they were enacted.

But your bitterest awakening began, when drawn unavoidably into the slippery path of materialisation, where all was then a mystery. To these experiments you had given yourself

XII with a devotedness which was worthy of you. Sitting inside the cabinet but without being entranced, remaining perfectly conscious, what had you to fear? It was well that Yolande, whom you yourself have so often seen and touched, appeared outside the cabinet. What could be more convincing and tranquilising for you? And, Lo! an unexpected accident precipitates you from heaven to earth!

You had the conviction of remaining in your place in possession of all your senses, and nevertheless your body was at the mercy of a foreign influence.

You fell a victim to the mysteries of suggestion. These mysteries were then almost completely ignored, and in the present casc complicated by the question: -— “From whom did the suggestion emanate?”

Appearances were all against you. You alone could know that your will had nothing to do with it and you were crushed by the mystery. It was very natural that for many years you could not even hear the name of spiritualism.

XIV

Ten years passed. I thought you were for ever lost to the cause. But time is the great healer, and some good friends induced you to sit again. A series of new experiments in photographing the materialised form were arranged. Splendid results, and another bitter awakening. Again you were accused when you knew you had done nothing else than sit for the benefit of others.

It was a repetition of the same mystery which you were incapable of solving, in consequence of the same ignorance.

It was at this juncture that I came to Gothenburg to again take up the experiments. in photography. Having never submitted yourself to any tests used with the professional medium, you, however, allowed me to treat you as an impostor, submitting you to all the tests I could find necessary to apply. Never the least objection. I can testify that you were quite as much interested as myself in finding out the truth.

After a long series of experiments and much trouble, we arrived at two conclusions.

XV

The first was, that notwithstanding your full consciousness of remaining passive in the cabinet, your body, or a semblance of your body, could be used by a mysterious power outside the cabinet. Even your spirit friend Walter announced, through your own hand, that it might happen that nothing visible remained of you inside the cabinet. This was for you an exasperating revelation.

Another important point was gained — the doubts and suspicions of outsiders were to be excused, as they appeared to have more grounds than you ever thought it possible.

All this was most depressing.

Hence your resolution: “If I have any part in representing the spirit forms I must know it” (see page 353), and you decided that you would not sit behind the curtain again.

Under these new conditions you obtained most excellent results; and then took place a remarkable case, which you describe in Chapter XXIV “Shall I be Anna, or Anna be

Ie?’ I feared you would omit to mention

XVI this experience, but I am glad you have

, teproduced the details of it. The case is a precious one. You had there a_ palpable duplication of the human organism. This phenomenon lies at the root of all materialisation and has been the source of many, so called, exposures.

But for you, what a new perplexity!

I myself remember well the time, when laboring under the heaviest doubts, you were

4 writing to me “Is all my life a mistake? Have I been misled? Have I been deceived and deceived others? How can I undo the wrong I have wrought?”

From the depths of that world, which was so near to you from your very birth and for which you have worked so earnestly and disinterestedly came the light for which you had prayed so eagerly — you received an answer to the doubts which were crushing you down. I am glad to see you again at the plough.

In your quite recent experiments in photography you succeeded in developing a new

XVII phase of your mediumship, which I have always supposed as belonging to you, but which at the time of my visit to Gothenburg, did not go further than the case reported at page 389. The recent results you obtained are completing your former experiments in materialisation and are in accordance with the beautiful vision which explained to you the mystery. We cannot see a spirit, but we want to see it. We cannot represent to ourselves a spirit otherwise than in a human form; and so “they” manufacture for that purpose what they can. Such were the forms and human heads, which you have seen and drawn in obscurity, (see page 151); such were, quite lately, the invisible human forms which you have photographed by daylight or with the magnesium light. I am inclined to suppose, that, if you had been sitting in the dark, you would have seen these forms also. Finally such were the materialised visible forms, which were photographed ‘in Gothenburg and of which you give a specimen under the name of Leila at

XVIII pages 310 and 312. All of these are only attempts to give us something tangible to our senses; attempts proving solely that behind these forms are spiritual agencies at work. ‘That these forms were not to be taken for the images of spirits was told to us by them from the very beginning.

If you continue on these lines and become master of the conditions, one cannot tell where you may stop or what good results may be attained.

Such were my impressions, dear friend, when I was reading your book. It is.a unique one. These are not the confessions of a recanting or apologising medium, but the open and sad story of the disappointments of a truth-loving and truth-searching soul, at the mercy of unknown but much promising powers.

Leaving this world of “shadows” I say unto you: — Go on! Go on! “Fais ce que tu dois, advienne qui pourra” — this is a good rule of yours. I shall not see your next achievements, but your mission, I am

XIX sure, is far from being completed. Some day you will find your Crookes, who will understand the delicate nature of your mediumship, and how to cultivate and develop your manifold psychical gifts for the benefit of science and humanity.

Very truly yours A. Aksakof.

Repiofka, Russia 5/17 September 1897.

Contents

Chapter.

XXI.

XXII.

Chapter I. The Old House And Its Occupants

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.

LONGFELLOW.

Wuen one has made up one’s mind to relate a story, I suppose it is the proper thing to begin at the beginning. I have therefore been trying to remember a fitting time or incident in my life to start from, but have given up the attempt because I

I cannot recollect any incident, in regard to which there was not something that led up to it and that would have therefore to be told as well. So I suppose I must go back all the way to where I began myself. This was shortly before the Crimean war, for my very earliest recollections are connected with my fathers home coming, and the rejoicings when peace was proclaimed. I could not understand what it all meant, but as it brought my father home it was to me a sufficient cause for rejoicing.

The experiences I have to relate, when looked on from the ordinary commonplace every-day life of this apparently work-a-day world, are strange and incomprehensible. Sometimes I have tried to put myself in other people’s places, to see with their eyes, and judge with their understandings, and I have invariably come to the conclusion that they were not to blame for doubting the reality of the occurrences. For myself, these things have grown with my growth, and have been familiar to me from the beginning, since

I can recall no time when they were not familiar and natural; so that the only curious thing to me seemed the fact that other people should not have the same experiences.

As a child I could not understand this fact; indeed the refusal of my companions to accept my version of what was going on around us sometimes irritated me beyond measure, and my frequent exhibitions of temper at their incredulity, gained for me the reputation of being “a little vixen” as well as “decidedly queer”.

To my mind it was always the other people who were “queer”; and I thought it a great trial to have to listen to the wonder and incredulity, which frequently greeted my narration of something that to me seemed a trifling incident of every day life. However, as I grew older I began to understand that all were not gifted alike, and was magnanimous enough to make excuses for others in my mind on the plea that there was something lamentably wanting in them which prevented their seeing, hearing, or understanding so much that was going on around us, which was so plain and real to me. Child as I was, I naturally took upon myself to be their eyes and ears in much the same way as the companion of a blind man would do, till I met with so many rebuffs that I gave up the task, although pitying the infirmities of the ignorant grown up people who, half blind and half deaf, still persisted in rejecting my kind offices.

During my earliest childhood we lived in a gloomy old house situated at the east end of London, — a large house that had at one time been an imposing mansion; but that must have been centuries before, for now it was fast falling into decay and ruin. It was said either to have been built by, or resided in, by Oliver Cromwell, I dont remember which; in any case it was very unlike modern residences. Large, ponderous, gloomy as it was, it had yet an air of superiority and dignity strangely out of place amid the newness of the houses which were springing up mushroom-fashion on all sides of it.

The house was doomed to come down, but its final destruction was deferred year after year, and meanwhile we lived in it.

Surrounding the ancient edifice was a courtyard in which one or two trees struggled for existence. It was paved by squares of black and white marble reminding one of a chequer board. The house was approached by a flight of marble steps that had once been beautiful but were now stained, worn, and broken. The door at the top of the steps was of ponderous carven oak, studded with iron bolts, and guarded on each side by great griffins which were the terror of my childish soul. Somebody had painted these monsters bright green, giving them red eyes and tongues.

The bolt-studded door gave admission to a gloomy oak-panelled hall, from which opened several disused empty rooms, also a broad staircase leading to the upper part of the house. Most of the rooms were oak-panelled and dark, the small windows never admitting light enough to make them cheerful, though at the back of the house — which looked out over a large piece of ground that had at one time been a garden, but was now only a grass-grown space — the rooms were of a more cheerful aspect, owing to the fact that the original small bottle-glass casements

‘had been removed and French windows opening to the floor put in their places.

These latter were the rooms we lived in; the rest of the house was unoccupied and the rooms kept closed, except the lower part or kitchens, in which lived an old couple supposed to be caretakers.

How we came to live there I do not know, probably because the neighbourhood was convenient for my father, and perhaps also because, in spite of its gloomy age and its reputation of being haunted, the building was a more respectable and exclusive place of residence than the locality could otherwise boast.

The most gruesome stories were told of the ghosts who perambulated the many empty rooms, and my childish imagination was taxed to the utmost in picturing the doings of these strange visitants. I did not know what ghosts were supposed to be, but fancied they must be of the same ilk as the griffins at the great oaken door at the top of the steps, and was accordingly very much afraid of them.

At the same time I was very fond of wandering about from one empty room to another, and of sitting with my dolls on the broad low window seats, whence I would be fetched with an exclamation of horror and wonder by our servant, who considered my liking for the haunted rooms as “uncanny” and unnatural, threatening me with the ghosts and their vengeance if I persisted in invading their domains by myself.

I could never quite understand nurse’s tfemarks about the lonelines of the rooms, though her threats about the ghosts frightened me. To me the rooms were never empty nor lonely; — strangers were constantly passing to and fro, from one room to another; some took no notice of me, some nodded and smiled as I held up my doll for their inspection. I did not know who the strangers were, but I grew to know them by sight, and look eagerly for them; I took my toys with me that I might show them, and a book of pictures that I prized above all the rest of my possessions.

Sometimes since I have wondered how it was that a little child should have been left so much alone to wander about the great house, with no other companion than a rag doll, but as my mother was an invalid and for a long time confined to her bed, I sup- ‘pose there was sufficient occupation for our servant. There were no other children to keep me company; the little brother and sister who had been born only lived a few weeks, . so that my earliest years were lonely ones, and I was left to do very much as I liked so long as I did not make my pinafores dirty — this being an almost unpardonable offence.

When my father, who was a sea captain, was at home the world changed for me; his presence was my very heaven; he was the one being that belonged entirely to me and of whose love I was sure. He was the only one who encouraged me to talk of my dreams and fancies, the only one who never scolded or spoke angrily to me; it was perfect happiness to sit on his knee and feel his arm around me, or to nestle at his side in the wide chimney corner and hold his hand while listening to the strange stories he told of foreign lands he had visited. Extraordinary stories they were, and, as I knew afterwards, sometimes invented on the spur of the mo-— ment simply to gratify my love of the strange and marvellous; but to me they were pure gospel because my father had related them.

After all they were not more wonderful than my dreams, though perhaps of a different character. It was nothing remarkable for me to hear stories of mermaids who lured the charmed seamen to the fairy palaces beneath the waves — nothing strange to learn of the wonderful music that only a few could hear. All this I thought I could understand, and it seemed to explain so much that was puzzling my small brain. It seemed to form a connecting link between myself and others. Somehow, child as I was, I had experienced a dull cold feeling of being in some way different from other people. I had heard myself designated as being “queer”, and though in my own mind I had decided that it was the other people who were “queer”, yet the consciousness of there being a something in which I differed from the rest caused me a nervous miserable dread of being misunderstood, and sometimes a passionate resentment against the intangible something which constituted the difference.

But these weird legends told me by my father had the effect of reconciling me, and even making me exult in being so well able to understand the mysterious people and sounds to which ordinary beings were blind and deaf. It was the same with me as with his heroes and heroines. I could see faces

THE OLD HOUSE AND ITS OCCUPANTS. II and forms where others saw nothing but mist. I could hear music and singing where others only heard the moaning of the wind. So I believed all he told me of nymphs, lorelies, watersprites, mermaids’ enchantments, spells and the like, and the thought that some others were familiar with these things was the greatest comfort to me, and, as it were, re-established me in my opinion of myself and of the “queerness” of those who did not see and hear the same things as I myself did. As I grew older and was busy with lessons I had less time to dream in, less time to spend with my shadow friends, as I had learned to call them. Yet no sooner was I released from the monotony of the schoolroom than I joyfully took my way to the haunted rooms. My dreams came back, and imagination had full sway in peopling the old fashioned apartments and passages. I am now using the words “dreams” and “qmagination” because other people used them and I do not know what other words to use, but they are not the right ones, since “dreams”

and “imaginings” imply something fancied and unreal, but these particular “dreams” and “imaginings” of mine were very real, more real than any other part of my daily life.

To me the rooms were never dark nor empty. Sometimes on entering I would look round disappointedly at meeting no familiar form, then I would be startled at finding them suddenly peopled by strangers. Sometimes these shadowy figures were so real, so life-like that I mistook them for ordinary visitors. Scarcely ever did I go into a room without looking round for some possible shadowy occupant, and seldom did I look in vain. Some looked at me in a friendly, pleasant manner, and these I got quite accustomed to; others would take no notice, would pass me on the stairs or in the passages as though they never saw me. This vexed me sometimes and I felt indignant that my smile of greeting should pass unnoticed.

One of my shadow friends, was an elderly lady always dressed in black of some soft silken material that resembled satin yet was not satin. The frills of soft lace round her close-fitting white cap enclosed a sweet old face with smoothly banded grey hair. The cap was peculiar in shape having a high-standing crown while, at the back of the frills was passed a broad black band which came down under the chin and was tied there. Round her shoulders she wore a lace kerchief knotted at the breast.

This shadow lady seemed mostly to occupy one special room, though I saw her many times in others. The room was a rather long narrow one, low-ceiled and dark for the window was a small latticed one with diamond panes.

As our family grew bigger this room was oftener used, and as a consequence the old latticed window was replaced by a larger French casement with windows opening to the floor; the oldfashioned grate was also removed and a modern register stove occupied its place, but to my great delight the wide, deep recess on each side of the fireplace remained, for next to the window ledges behind the curtains, my favorite haunt was the chimney corner, where I could sit and pore over my book by the firelight, undisturbed and unnoticed.

After these alterations, the room newly furnished became a comfortable sitting-room, and, as it adjoined my mother’s bedroom, was used by her as her special sanctum where she occupied herself with the family sewing.

Many times I wondered how my shadow lady would like this intrusion, for I rather resented any liberties that were taken with the rights of my shadow friends. It always seemed to me that they were the legitimate occupants of the unused rooms.

Somehow though I frequently spoke of these visionary inhabitants of our home I liked best to sit silently watching them; I was jealous of the thought of others sharing their acquaintance and friendship and exulted in the fact that I alone was privileged to know them.

Chapter II. My Troubles Begin

Many were the fancies I had about these silent figures and many the stories I imagined relative to them. Many times I would wonder uneasily what it all meant and why others did not see them, but after having been punished for “romancing” when I related something of what I saw, I became chary of talking to any one about them. I did not, like to be laughed at and still less to be accused of telling untruths.

About the time of the renovation of the room I have mentioned, a nurse girl related a series of ghost stories to me, in a manner which so frightened me that I dared not go into a room alone if it chanced to be dark, and even in daylight or moonlight I was terrified lest some uneasy ghost should be visible.

Night after night after listening with breathless interest to these blood-curdling stories I would lie with my head buried in the bedclothes, in a perfect agony of fear lest some visitant from the graveyard should make its presence known.

Yet, strange to say, I never once in my thoughts associated my shadow frends with the dreaded ghosts. They never inspired me with any fear. I could meet them at any time of day or night, return their friendly glance as they passed, or gaze curiously after them if they took no notice of me, I was even not afraid of the ghosts iffknew these friends were near me. I felt a sense of protection and safety in their presence, and never objected to be left alone in bed without a light when I was conscions that

‘one or more of my shadow friends were in the room.

Many times in later years I have thought it was a strange thing that this apparently unnatural sort of existence did not arouse more curiosity or occasion more comment, but, as I have said, my mother’s health was not good, and she was busily engaged in cares occasioned by the advent of babies in quick succession. Meanwhile I was left very much to my own devices and though nowa tall slip of a girl, was seldom required to assist in any duties except my daily lessons and perhaps at times some of the needlework of the family.

This last I was not particularly fond of, nor do I think I was fond of any kind of work except that of drawing, but for this I seldom had an opportunity, as my mother considered it a waste of time. I always had some sewing on hand, but there it generally remained till, impatient at its long delay, some one else finished it for me, scolding the while at my lazy habits. I bore the scoldings with perfect equanimity so long as I was left at leisure to pursue my favorite pastime, that of dreamily watching my shadow friends and speculating as to their histories.

At length one day, my mother annoyed at my dilatoriness, ordered me to sit in her room and sew a seam which appeared to me to be interminable. Work done by sewing machine was despised by mother, who had repeatedly declared she would not have such an abomination in the house. So the household sewing was a never ending work and, to my way of thinking, a hindrance to all rational employment. Not so to my mother, who seemed to find in it both a solace and a pleasure.