It all made him feel breathless and panicky; he sat on a bench to calm himself. He looked at the passers-by but saw only dead people walking—prisoners released on licence but likely to be recalled at any moment. He opened
Memories and Adventures
and began flipping its pages in an attempt to distract himself. And instantly two words presented themselves to his eyes. They were in normal type, but they struck him like capitals: “Albert Hall.” A more superstitious or credulous mind might have found significance in the moment; George declined to view it as anything more than a coincidence. Even so, he read, and was distracted. He read how, nearly thirty years previously, Sir Arthur had been invited to judge a Strong Man competition in the Hall; and how, after a champagne supper, he had walked out into the empty night and found himself a few steps behind the victor, a simple fellow preparing to walk the London streets until it was time to catch the morning train back to Lancashire. George feels himself in a sudden, vivid dreamland. There is fog, and people’s breath is white, and a strong man with a gold statue has no money for a bed. He sees the fellow from behind, as Sir Arthur had; he sees a hat at an angle, the cloth of a jacket pulled tight by powerful shoulders, a statue clamped casually under one arm, its feet pointing backwards. Lost in the fog, but with a large, gentle, Scottish-voiced rescuer padding up behind, and never afraid to act. What will happen to them all—the wrongly accused lawyer, the collapsed marathon runner, the disoriented strong man—now that Sir Arthur has left them?
There was still an hour to go, but people had already started moving towards the Hall, so he joined them to avoid a later crush. His ticket was for a second-tier box. He was directed up some back steps and emerged into a curving corridor. A door was opened, and he found himself in the narrow funnel of a box. There were five seats, all currently empty: one at the back, two side by side, and another pair at the front by the brass rail. George hesitated for a moment, then took a breath and stepped forwards.
Lights blaze at him from all around this gilt and red-plush Colosseum. It is less a building than an oval canyon; he looks far across, far below, far above. How many does it hold—eight thousand, ten thousand? Almost dizzy, he takes a seat at the front. He is glad Maud suggested bringing the binoculars: he scours the arena and the sloping stalls, the three tiers of boxes, the great pipe organ behind the stage, then the higher slope of the circle, the row of arches supported by brown marble columns, and above them the beginnings of a soaring dome cut off from view by a floating canopy of linen duck, like a cloudscape over their heads. He examines the people arriving below—some in full evening dress, but most obedient to Sir Arthur’s wish that he not be mourned. George sweeps the binoculars back to the platform: there are banks of what he takes to be hydrangeas, and large drooping ferns of some kind. A line of square-backed chairs has been set up for the family. The middle one has an oblong of cardboard set up across it. George focuses his glasses on this chair. The sign reads
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
.
As the hall fills up, George stows his binoculars back in their case. Neighbours arrive in the box on his left; he is only a padded armrest away. They greet him in a friendly manner, as if the occasion, while serious, is also informal. He wonders if he is the only person present who is not a spiritualist. A family of four arrives to complete his box; he offers to take the single seat at the back, but they will not hear of it. They seem to him like ordinary Londoners: a couple, with two children approaching adulthood. The wife unselfconsciously takes the seat next to him: she is a woman in her late thirties, he judges, dressed in dark blue, with a broad, clear face and flowing auburn hair.
“Halfway to Heaven already, up here, aren’t we?” she says pleasantly. He nods politely. “And where are you from?”
For once, George decides to respond precisely. “Great Wyrley,” he says. “It’s near Cannock in Staffordshire.” He half expects her to say, like Greenway and Stentson, “No, where are you really from?” But instead she just waits, perhaps for him to mention which spiritualist association he belongs to. George is tempted to say, “Sir Arthur was a friend of mine,” and to add, “Indeed, I was at his wedding,” and then, if she doubts him, to prove it from his copy of
Memories and Adventures.
But he thinks this might appear presumptuous. Besides, she might wonder why, if he was a friend of Sir Arthur’s, he is sitting so far away from the stage among ordinary folk who did not have that luck.
When the hall is full, the lights are dimmed and the official party walks out on stage. George wonders if they are meant to stand up, perhaps even applaud; he is so used to the rituals of the Church, of knowing when to stand, to kneel, to remain seated, that he feels rather lost. If this were a theatre and they played the National Anthem, that would solve the problem. He feels everyone ought to be on their feet, in tribute to Sir Arthur and in deference to his widow; but there is no instruction, and so all remain seated. Lady Conan Doyle is wearing grey rather than mourning black; her two tall sons, Denis and Adrian, are in evening dress and carry top hats; they are followed by their sister Jean, and half-sister Mary, the surviving child of Sir Arthur’s first marriage. Lady Conan Doyle takes her seat at the left hand of the empty chair. One son sits next to her, the other on the far side of the placard; the two young men rather self-consciously place their top hats on the floor. George cannot see their faces at all distinctly, and wants to reach for his binoculars, but doubts the gesture would be held appropriate. Instead, he looks down at his watch. It is seven o’clock precisely. He is impressed by the punctuality; he somehow expected spiritualists to be more lax in their timekeeping.
Mr. George Craze of the Marylebone Spiritualist Association introduces himself as chairman of the meeting. He begins by reading a statement on behalf of Lady Conan Doyle:
At every meeting all over the world, I have sat at my beloved husband’s side, and at this great meeting, where people have come with respect and love in their hearts to do him honour, his chair is placed beside me, and I know that in the spiritual presence he will be close to me. Although our earthly eyes cannot see beyond the earth’s vibrations, those with the God-given extra sight called clairvoyance will be able to see the dear form in our midst.
I want in my children’s, and my own, and my beloved husband’s name, to thank you all from my heart for the love for him which brought you here tonight.
There is a murmur round the hall; George is unable to tell if it indicates sympathy for the widow, or disappointment that Sir Arthur will not be miraculously appearing before them on stage. Mr. Craze confirms that, contrary to the more foolish speculation in the press, there is no question of some physical representation of Sir Arthur manifesting itself as if by magic trick. For those unacquainted with the truths of Spiritualism, and especially for journalists present, he explains that when someone passes over, there is often a period of confusion for the spirit, which may not be able to demonstrate immediately. Sir Arthur, however, was quite prepared for his passing, which he faced with a smiling tranquillity, leaving his family like one going on a long journey yet confident they would all meet again soon. In such conditions it is expected that the spirit will find its place and its powers quicker than most.
George remembers something Sir Arthur’s son Adrian told the
Daily Herald.
The family, he said, would miss the patriarch’s footsteps and his physical presence, but that was all: “Otherwise, he might only have gone to Australia.” George knows that his champion once visited that distant continent, because a few years ago he borrowed
The Wanderings of a Spiritualist
from the library. In truth, he found its travel information of greater interest than its theological disquisitions. But he remembers that when Sir Arthur and his family—along with the indefatigable Mr. Wood—were propagandizing in Australia, they were christened The Pilgrims. Now Sir Arthur is back there, or at least in the spiritualist equivalent, whatever that might be.
A telegram from Sir Oliver Lodge is read out. “Our great-hearted champion will still be continuing his campaign on the Other Side, with added wisdom and knowledge.
Sursum corda.
” Then Mrs. St. Clair Stobart reads from Corinthians, and declares that St. Paul’s words are fitting to the occasion, since Sir Arthur was often in his life described as the St. Paul of Spiritualism. Miss Gladys Ripley sings Liddle’s solo “Abide With Me.” The Revd. G. Vale Owen speaks of Sir Arthur’s literary work and agrees with the author’s own view that
The White Company
and its sequel
Sir Nigel
were his best writings; indeed, he judges that the description in the latter work of a Christian knight and man of high devotion may serve as the very picture of Sir Arthur himself. The Revd. C. Drayton Thomas, who took half the funeral service at Crowborough, praises Sir Arthur’s tireless activity as Spiritualism’s mouthpiece.
Next they all stand for the movement’s favourite hymn, “Lead, Kindly Light.” George notices something different about the singing, which he cannot at first identify. “Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see / The distant scene; one step enough for me.” For a moment he is distracted by the words, which do not seem especially appropriate to Spiritualism: as far as George understands it, the movement’s adherents have their eyes on the distant scene all the time, and have precisely laid down the steps it takes to get there. Then he shifts his attention from matter to manner. The singing
is
different. In church people sing hymns as if reacquainting themselves with lines familiar from months and years ago—lines containing truths so established that they need neither proving, nor thinking about. Here there is directness and freshness in the voices; also a kind of cheerfulness verging on passion which most Vicars would find worrisome. Each word is enunciated as if it contains a brand new truth, one which needs to be celebrated and urgently conveyed to others. It all strikes George as highly unEnglish. Cautiously, he finds it rather admirable. “till / The night is gone, / And with the morn those angel faces smile, / Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.”
As the hymn ends and they take their seats again, George gives his neighbour a small, indeterminate greeting—modest enough, yet even so, something he would never do in church. She responds with a smile that fills every surface of her face. There is nothing forward in it, nor anything of the missionary either. Nor is there any evident complacency. Her smile merely says: yes, this is certain, this is right, this is joyful.
George is impressed, but also slightly shocked: he is suspicious of joy. He has come across little of it in his life. In his childhood there was something called pleasure, usually accompanied by the adjectives guilty, furtive or illicit. The only pleasures allowed were those modified by the word simple. As for joy, it was something associated with angels blowing trumpets, and its true place was in Heaven not on Earth. Let joy be unconfined—that was what people said, wasn’t it? But in George’s experience, joy has always been closely confined. As for pleasure, he has known the pleasure of doing one’s duty—to family, to clients, and occasionally to God. But he has never done most of the things that afford his compatriots pleasure: drinking beer, dancing, playing football and cricket; not to mention things that might have come if marriage had come. He will never know a woman who jumps up like a girl, pats her hair, and runs to meet him.
Mr. E. W. Oaten, who once proudly chaired the first large meeting Sir Arthur addressed on Spiritualism, says that no man better combined within himself all the virtues we associate with the British character: courage, optimism, loyalty, sympathy, magnanimity, love of truth and devotion to God. Next Mr. Hannen Swaffer recalls how less than a fortnight ago, Sir Arthur, though mortally ill, struggled up the steps of the Home Office to plead for the repeal of the Witchcraft Act, which those of malevolent intent sought to invoke against mediums. It was his last duty, and in his devotion to duty he never faltered. This showed itself in every aspect of his life. Many people knew Doyle the writer, Doyle the dramatist, Doyle the traveller, Doyle the boxer, Doyle the cricketer who once dismissed the great W. G. Grace. But greater than any of these was the Doyle who pleaded for justice when the innocent were made to suffer. It was due to his influence that the law of Criminal Appeal was carried. It was this Doyle who so triumphantly took up the causes of Edalji and Slater.
George instinctively looks down at the mention of his name, then proudly up, then surreptitiously sideways. A pity he has been coupled yet again with that low and ungrateful criminal; but he may, he thinks, take honourable pleasure in having his name spoken at this great occasion. Maud will be pleased too. He glances more openly at his neighbours, but his moment has passed. They have eyes only for Mr. Swaffer, who has moved on to celebrate another Doyle, and an even greater one than Doyle the bringer of justice. This greatest of all Doyles was and is the man who in the hours of the War’s despair carried to the women of the country the comforting proof that their loved ones were not dead.
They are now asked to stand in silence for two minutes to honour the memory of their great champion. Lady Conan Doyle, as she rises, looks briefly down at the empty chair next to her, and then stands, with one tall son on either side of her, gazing out at the hall. Six—eight? ten?—thousand gaze back, from gallery, from balcony, from tiered boxes, from the great curve of stalls, and from the arena. In church, people would lower their heads and close their eyes to remember the departed. Here there is no such discretion or inwardness: frank sympathy is conveyed with a direct look. It also seems to George that the silence is of a different nature to any he has felt before. Official silences are respectful, grave, often deliberately saddening; this silence is active, filled with anticipation and even passion. If a silence can be like suppressed noise, then this is such a silence. When it ends, George realizes that it has held such a strange power over him that he has almost forgotten about Sir Arthur.