THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2616, 25 September 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

Bj- DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY, Author of “The Bishop’s Bible,”

“A Wasted Crime,” etc

You are probably aware that many authorities are convinced that madness is contagious. Alienists, as the professional students of mental disorders are called, are often known to bo themselves mentally alienated. If you •keep this idea before you it may help towards the solution of a problem of the most interesting kind. It is perhaps a score of 3'ears since the whole country was shocked by the discovery of an amazingly cold-blooded and horrible murder. It was the work of a man of science, a surgeon and a viviscctionalist, who chose one of his own servants for experiment. He carried out his investigations to tlicir fata] close, and appeared to be quite astonished when he found himself arrested. Ho believed that he had acted in the interests of science, and that he had made discoveries of great importance. He was tried and found guilty, but there was no doubt that he was insane, and he was sent to Broadmoor to be imprisoned at the pleasure of the Crown. He busied himself there in the preparation of a volume for the Press in which he set down in clear and coherent terms the results of his horrible experiment. Apart from the contemplation of his crime he was as sane, as clear in thought, and as normal as a man might Ire. He could not be made to see that in sacrificing the. life of a fellow creature lie had done anything more to be reprehended than in the vivisection of a rabbit. It was jttst a bit of scientific research like any other, and he left no doubt on the minds of the practised and skilled investigators, who had him under observation, that lie was guilty of no pretence, and that lie did seriously ' regard himself as one about whom a terrible misconception had gathered. He argued that lie had absoluteh’ nothing to gain by his victim’s death, except tho knowledge of which 110 had been in search ;* that no man in the world could fix any fault upon him apart from the fact that in his student days he had yielded to the dissipations of the town—perhaps he had indulged excessively for a year—that he had never any grudge against Iris victim, and that he could appeal to all who had ever known him to say that he had already shown a kind and benevolent disposition. The stand he took from first to last, was that he was a martyr to-science, and that lie had been vilely, misused and misunderstood. The rules which obtain at Broadmoor .are not like those which arc observed in any other penal establishment. The men and women there are regarded rather as patients than as prisoners,, -and if their conduct justifies the privilege they are allowed to consort with each other, and witli their attendants. The conduct of the prisoner Fairbrother was exemplary from the first. He was very much depressed at the beginning at what ho thought- the inhumanity of the sentence passed upon him, but lie soon resigned himself, and when supplied with writing materials and books he became almost -happy. He worked indefatigably, and 1 have Morton’s word for it that much of what he produced was of real value. He was a daring and original thinker, and apart from his dreadful indifference to the deed which led to his confinement, there was no trace of any mental estrangement whatsoever. Mildma3 T , from whom Dr. Morton and I received the curious stor3' which follows, was one of the attendants of the place at the time at which Fairbrother was brought in under escort. He was a very unassuming, medest' man, but 110 was very much beyor.d his station. He was an omnivorous reader, and he could think. All excellent library .was open to him, and lie made the best of it. He took an interest in Fairbrother from the beginning, and when he. encountered anything which puzzled him in his reading he fe.l into the habit cf consulting him about- it. In the course of a year or two lie had come to regard the mad professor as a sort of encyclopaedia of general knowledge, and lie used to say that “apart, from the one thing they had put him away for” there was not a saner man in England. He was a good deal surprised, when the prisoner-patient asked him to take a steady survey of his face, and to tell him what ho saw there, feature by feature. “Brown liair,” said Mildmay. “Brown moustache and beard.” “No, no.” said Fairbrother. “Very sparse white hair, head bald on the crown. Lip s cheeks, and chin clean shaven.” Mildmay thought it discreet not to insist. “Eyes, now.” said Fairbrother. “What color are the ©yes?” “Brown,” raid Mildmay. “No, no. Blue-grey. I see hew it,is. You are describing me as I was 3-ester-day, not as I am to-day. You needn’t be in the least degree afraid that the truth will alarm me.” Mildmay felt that it was wiser to let the subject drop, but a little later the mad Professor startled him by saving that he was not quite sure that his medical friends had been so very wrong after all. “I am beginning t-o think,” said Fairbrother, “that I acted too precipitately. I was before my time. I should have deferred by investigations. I might have known that they would excite a general prejudice. If I had reflected fully, I should have deferred them until my next incarnation.” “Well, perhaps, sir,” said Mildmay, humoring him, “that would havo been w * r co " r -” -'V-

“I don’t suppose,” said Falrbrothcr thoughtfully, “that that idea would have occurred to mo it it Jiad not been Lw this- curious visitation. None of the others ever haunted me, and the fact that # I am wearing poor old Miller’s face Jsoeps me reminded of him. He reminds me of him in a rather painful way—a rather regretful way. I could really wish that I had never chosen Miller a subject for investigation. Mi dmay said that perhaps., it might have boon as well, and he thought in Iris own mind that the lesion in the" mad Professor’s brain was spreading. “Of course,” said Fail-brother, “1 know perfectly well why they don’t allow me the use of a looking-glass. They think I might break it and open a vein with one of the fragments. Do you think you could let me. have v. look at myself, Mildrnay?” “Dr. Morton’s always very glad to see you, sir,” said Mildrnay. “You might ask him.” “Take mo to him alter exercise, will you, Mildrnay ” said the mad Professor, and strolled on thoughtfully, pulling at his beard. Mildrnay promised, and in due time introduced him to Morton’s room. Fairbrother expressed his wish, and the doctor opened his wash-hand stand. “There’s a mirror here,” he said. “Look for yourself:”'? Fairhrother drew a-chair before the stand and looked intently at his own reflection. After a time he called Morton. « “I should like you to verify this for yourself,” he said, quietly and collectedly. “It’s a matter of science, which so far as I know has not hitherto been observed.” Morton looked over his shoulder. “Tell me honestly what you see. I see the reflection of your face and mine,” said the doctor. “You’re there,” said the mad Professor, “you’re there,, right enough. But I’m not. That’s Miller. That’s not I. Bald brow, furrowed forehead, reddish nose—l always rather suspected that Miller had a key to the tantalus—clean shaven. Don’t you see him?” “No,” said Morton. “I see your reflection and my own. No more.” “Send Mildrnay here,” said Fairbrother. “Now, Mildrnay, what do you see? Speak out .straight, man. What do you see?” ‘ “You and me, sir,” said Mildrnay. “Nobody else.” “You’re dealing honestly with me, the pair of you?”'asked Fairhrother. “Are you?” “Quite honestly,” said Morton. “Quito honestly, sir,” echoed Mildrnay. “Then I’ll tell you what it is,” said Fairhrother, “you are the victims of a subjective obsession, both of you. You don’t see the real object either in my face or its reflection. You see what you expect to see, not that which is. It’s a common error. I’ve marked it a thousand times.” “That’s possible.” said Morton, “’but if it’s possible in one case it’s possible in another. You must take the balance of evidence, you knew. It’s just as likely that you’re deluded as that we are.” “That’s true, of course.” said the Professor, “and it would be fatal to my belief if I didn’t happen to know.” “Exactly,”, said Morton; we’re all liable to error.”

Tho mad Professor accepted this piece of philosophy, and went away to dinner. He worked away at his books and his writing all the afternoon and evening, and slept tranquilly. Next day he was strolling in the grounds, Mildmay watching him as usual, when he turned and beckoned his attendant. “You remember what we were talking about yesterday,” he began, and then quite abruptly: “Do you shave yourself. Mildmay, or do you employ a barber ?”

I. shave myself, sir,” answered

Mildmay. “What kind ci a mirror do you use!'” “Regular bachelor kind of thing. Little circular-' affair about five inches.”

“Just s..p it into your pocket when you get back to quarters.” said the Professor. “Thai curious metamorphosis I told you of is not always permanent. It e nnes and gees, and it’s curious and interesting to examine the symptoms. IJsofc a sign of it to-day, for example, is vliere?” “Not a sign, sir,” said Mildmay, and his mental comment was "Lesion partially absorbed.” For it was Mildmay’s theory that all forms of insanity, and all remission and aggravations of any 'one of them, were governed' by the action of a clot in the brain, which was liable to capricious shrinkage and expansion. “You’re quite yourself this morning, sir.”

“Yes,” said Fairbrother, “I know it. But I want you to carry that glass if you’ll so far oblige me. I want to be present, as it were, at the moment of transformation if I can.” “There won’t be any difficulty about that, sir,” answered Mildmay. “I’ll just speak to Dr. Mprton, as a matter of form, but he’ll make no objection.” Morton offered no objection, and on the following day Mildmay was on duty with the mirror in his pocket.

“I wish I’d seen you an hour earlier,” said the mad Professor. “What I am particularly anxious to secure is the process of change. You see the difference of course between now and yesterday.” “I don’t know that, I quite perceive it,” Mildmay responded. “I can’t help fancying it’s pure imagination on your part this time sir. Yovt Took at yourself and see now if it isn’t.” “Ah!” said Fairbrother, looking at himself full in the glass, and then peering right across his nose at his reflection. “That’s Miller. Poor old Miller. I almost wish I had been a little less zealous. I had a certain esteem for Miller, and I miss him.” The attendant was too used to tho fancies of the alienated mind to take fillliiiiiiiiMiilßllil

any particular notice. He had his little flock to see to, and lie had to humor the lunatic whims of ten or a dozen.

But Fairhrother claimed the greater part of his attention, and -whenever he was on duty, and the mad Professor felt the transformation coming on, he was called upon to produce the little shavi;:g g;ass, .-.nd at such times the crazy nmn would watch and report the imagined change with great minuteness. “i ou’il see it,” he would say in. a tone of cheerful encouragement. “You’ll see it one of these days. The scales will fall from your eyes, and you will be amazed at your own blindness.” I daresay I shall sir,” Mildrnay used to answer, and one day it shook him from head to foot to find that he was making this answer with a sort of inward conviction.

Must take a look at me through tlio mirror now,” sail! the mad Profes-

sor. “It’s particularly definite this ! morning. Sometimes the lineaments arc blurred. I have marked upon occasion sort of blend of Miller and myself, but to-day it is Miller absolute. Turn the glass so that you can see mo through it.” Mildrnay took the glass in his hand, and a needle of ice seemed to run lip and down his spinal marrow, for he saw before him the face of a mans with sparse white hair, and -haven facer; There was a baldness on the crown, of ' which the Professor had spoken of scores of times. But it was the eyes that frightened Mildrnay. They were wide open, and filmed and glazed with death. He looked at the Professor. There was no change in him. He adjusted the glass anew, and there was the dead face again. “You see it?” asked the Professor, facing upon him, as he stood fumbling to return the glass to an outside pocket. “Nothing more than usual, sir,” said Mildrnay, but having secured the attention of a colleague, he bolted headlong for Morton’s room. “For Gwad’s sake sir,” he bleated, “save me.” He told his story, and Morton gripped him by both thumbs. “'Look me in the eye,” he said. "“Go to sleep. l~ou can’t help it. Go to sleep.” The man’s staring eyes dosed and he reeled a little. “Sit down,” said Morton. Mildrnay obeyed like an automaton. “That’s all rot you were telling me just now. You know that, don’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “Very, well, then. You’ll sleep for a quarter of an hour, and when you wake you’ll have forgotten ad about it. Do you hear?” “Yes, sir.” “Then go to sleep. Fifteen minutes.” The man sank back somnolent, and snored, and the doctor looked at him. “And a nice suggestible subject you are to be in constant communication with deluded minds. You’ll remember to resign to-morrow.” “Yes. sir.” He resigned next day.