In the Tube by E. F. Benson
"It's a convention," said Anthony Carling cheerfully, "and not a
very convincing one. Time, indeed! There's no such thing as Time
really; it has no actual existence. Time is nothing more than an
infinitesimal point in eternity, just as space is an infinitesimal
point in infinity. At the most, Time is a sort of tunnel through
which we are accustomed to believe that we are travelling.
"There's a roar in our ears and a darkness in our eyes which makes
it seem real to us. But before we came into the tunnel we existed for
ever in an infinite sunlight, and after we have got through it we
shall exist in an infinite sunlight again. So why should we bother
ourselves about the confusion and noise and darkness which only
encompass us for a moment?"
For a firm-rooted believer in such immeasurable ideas as these,
which he punctuated with brisk application of the poker to the brave
sparkle and glow of the fire, Anthony has a very pleasant
appreciation of the measurable and the finite, and nobody with whom I
have acquaintance has so keen a zest for life and its enjoyments as
he. He had given us this evening an admirable dinner, had passed
round a port beyond praise, and had illuminated the jolly hours with
the light of his infectious optimism. Now the small company had
melted away, and I was left with him over the fire in his study.
Outside the tattoo of wind-driven sleet was audible on the
window-panes, over-scoring now and again the flap of the flames on
the open hearth, and the thought of the chilly blasts and the
snow-covered pavement in Brompton Square, across which, to skidding
taxicabs, the last of his other guests had scurried, made my
position, resident here till to-morrow morning, the more delicately
delightful. Above all there was this stimulating and suggestive
companion, who, whether he talked of the great abstractions which
were so intensely real and practical to him, or of the very
remarkable experiences which he had encountered among these
conventions of time and space, was equally fascinating to the
"I adore life," he said. "I find it the most entrancing plaything.
It's a delightful game, and, as you know very well, the only
conceivable way to play a game is to treat it extremely seriously. If
you say to yourself, 'It's only a game,' you cease to take the
slightest interest in it. You have to know that it's only a game, and
behave as if it was the one object of existence. I should like it to
go on for many years yet. But all the time one has to be living on
the true plane as well, which is eternity and infinity. If you come
to think of it, the one thing which the human mind cannot grasp is
the finite, not the infinite, the temporary, not the eternal."
"That sounds rather paradoxical," said I.
"Only because you've made a habit of thinking about things that
seem bounded and limited.
"Look it in the face for a minute. Try to imagine finite Time and
Space, and you find you can't.
"Go back a million years, and multiply that million of years by
another million, and you find that you can't conceive of a beginning.
What happened before that beginning? Another beginning and another
beginning? And before that? Look at it like that, and you find that
the only solution comprehensible to you is the existence of an
eternity, something that never began and will never end. It's the
same about space. Project yourself to the farthest star, and what
comes beyond that?
"Emptiness? Go on through the emptiness, and you can't imagine it
being finite and having an end. It must needs go on for ever: that's
the only thing you can understand. There's no such thing as before or
after, or beginning or end, and what a comfort that is! I should
fidget myself to death if there wasn't the huge soft cushion of
eternity to lean one's head against. Some people say--I believe I've
heard you say it yourself--that the idea of eternity is so tiring;
you feel that you want to stop. But that's because you are thinking
of eternity in terms of Time, and mumbling in your brain, 'And after
that, and after that?' Don't you grasp the idea that in eternity
there isn't any 'after,' any more than there is any 'before'? It's
all one. Eternity isn't a quantity: it's a quality."
Sometimes, when Anthony talks in this manner, I seem to get a
glimpse of that which to his mind is so transparently clear and
solidly real, at other times (not having a brain that readily
envisages abstractions) I feel as though he was pushing me over a
precipice, and my intellectual faculties grasp wildly at anything
tangible or comprehensible. This was the case now, and I hastily
"But there is a 'before' and 'after,'" I said. "A few hours ago
you gave us an admirable dinner, and after that--yes, after--we
played bridge. And now you are going to explain things a little more
clearly to me, and after that I shall go to bed--"
"You shall do exactly as you like," he said, "and you shan't be a
slave to Time either to-night or to-morrow morning. We won't even
mention an hour for breakfast, but you shall have it in eternity
whenever you awake. And as I see it is not midnight yet, we'll slip
the bonds of Time, and talk quite infinitely. I will stop the clock,
if that will assist you in getting rid of your illusion, and then
I'll tell you a story, which to my mind, shows how unreal so-called
realities are; or, at any rate, how fallacious are our senses as
judges of what is real and what is not."
"Something occult, something spookish?" I asked, pricking up my
ears, for Anthony has the strangest clairvoyances and visions of
things unseen by the normal eye.
"I suppose you might call some of it occult," he said, "though
there's a certain amount of rather grim reality mixed up in it."
"Go on; excellent mixture," said I.
He threw a fresh log on the fire.
"It's a longish story," he said. "You may stop me as soon as you
ye had enough. But there will come a point for which I claim your
consideration. You, who cling to your 'before' and 'after,' has it
ever occurred to you how difficult it is to say when an incident
takes place? Say that a man commits some crime of violence, can we
not, with a good deal of truth, say that he really commits that crime
when he definitely plans and determines upon it, dwelling on it with
gusto? The actual commission of it, I think we can reasonably argue,
is the mere material sequel of his resolve: he is guilty of it when
he makes that determination. When, therefore, in the term of 'before'
and 'after,' does the crime truly take place? There is also in my
story a further point for your consideration. For it seems certain
that the spirit of a man, after the death of his body, is obliged to
re-enact such a crime, with a view, I suppose we may guess, to his
remorse and his eventual redemption. Those who have second sight have
seen such re-enactments. Perhaps he may have done his deed blindly in
this life; but then his spirit re-commits it with its spiritual eyes
open, and able to comprehend its enormity. So, shall we view the
man's original determination and the material commission of his crime
only as preludes to the real commission of it, when with eyes
unsealed he does it and repents of it?...That all sounds very
obscure when I speak in the abstract, but I think you will see what I
mean, if you follow my tale. Comfortable? Got everything you want?
Here goes, then."
He leaned back in his chair, concentrating his mind, and then
"The story that I am about to tell you," he said, "had its
beginning a month ago, when you were away in Switzerland. It reached
its conclusion, so I imagine, last night. I do not, at any rate
expect to experience any more of it. Well, a month ago I was
returning late on a very wet night from dining out. There was not a
taxi to be had, and I hurried through the pouring rain to the
tube-station at Piccadilly Circus, and thought myself very lucky to
catch the last train in this direction. The carriage into which I
stepped was quite empty except for one other passenger, who sat next
the door immediately opposite to me. I had never, to my knowledge,
seen him before, but I found my attention vividly fixed on him, as if
he somehow concerned me. He was a man of middle age, in
dress-clothes, and his face wore an expression of intense thought, as
if in his mind he was pondering some very significant matter, and his
hand which was resting on his knee clenched and unclenched itself.
Suddenly he looked up and stared me in the face, and I saw there
suspicion and fear, as if I had surprised him in some secret
"At that moment we stopped at Dover Street, and the conductor
threw open the doors, announced the station and added, 'Change here
for Hyde Park Corner and Gloucester Road.' That was all right for me
since it meant that the train would stop at Brompton Road, which was
my destination. It was all right apparently, too, for my companion,
for he certainly did not get out, and after a moment's stop, during
which no one else got in, we went on. I saw him, I must insist, after
the doors were closed and the train had started. But when I looked
again, as we rattled on, I saw that there was no one there. I was
quite alone in the carriage.
"Now you may think that I had had one of those swift momentary
dreams which flash in and out of the mind in the space of a second,
but I did not believe it was so myself, for I felt that I had
experienced some sort of premonition or clairvoyant vision. A man,
the semblance of whom, astral body or whatever you may choose to call
it, I had just seen, would sometime sit in that seat opposite to me,
pondering and planning."
"But why?" I asked. "Why should it have been the astral body of a
living man which you thought you had seen? Why not the ghost of a
"Because of my own sensations. The sight of the spirit of someone
dead, which has occurred to me two or three times in my life, has
always been accompanied by a physical shrinking and fear, and by the
sensation of cold and of loneliness. I believed, at any rate, that I
had seen a phantom of the living, and that impression was confirmed,
I might say proved, the next day. For I met the man himself. And the
next night, as you shall hear, I met the phantom again. We will take
them in order.
"I was lunching, then, the next day with my neighbour Mrs.
Stanley: there was a small party, and when I arrived we waited but
for the final guest. He entered while I was talking to some friend,
and presently at my elbow I heard Mrs. Stanley's voice--'Let me
introduce you to Sir Henry Payle,' she said.
"I turned and saw my vis-à-vis of the night before. It was
quite unmistakably he, and as we shook hands he looked at me I
thought with vague and puzzled recognition.
"'Haven't we met before, Mr. Carling?' he said. 'I seem to
"For the moment I forgot the strange manner of his disappearance
from the carriage, and thought that it had been the man himself whom
I had seen last night.
"'Surely, and not so long ago,' I said. 'For we sat opposite each
other in the last tube-train from Piccadilly Circus yesterday
"He still looked at me, frowning, puzzled, and shook his head.
"'That can hardly be,' he said. 'I only came up from the country
"Now this interested me profoundly, for the astral body, we are
told, abides in some half-conscious region of the mind or spirit, and
has recollections of what has happened to it, which it can convey
only very vaguely and dimly to the conscious mind. All lunch-time I
could see his eyes again and again directed to me with the same
puzzled and perplexed air, and as I was taking my departure he came
up to me.
"'I shall recollect some day,' he said, 'where we met before, and
I hope we may meet again. Was it not--?'--and he stopped. 'No: it has
gone from me,' he added."
The log that Anthony had thrown on the fire was burning bravely
now, and its high-flickering flame lit up his face.
"Now, I don't know whether you believe in coincidences as chance
things," he said, "but if you do, get rid of the notion. Or if you
can't at once, call it a coincidence that that very night I again
caught the last train on the tube going westwards. This time, so far
from my being a solitary passenger, there was a considerable crowd
waiting at Dover Street, where I entered, and just as the noise of
the approaching train began to reverberate in the tunnel I caught
sight of Sir Henry Payle standing near the opening from which the
train would presently emerge, apart from the rest of the crowd. And I
thought to myself how odd it was that I should have seen the phantom
of him at this very hour last night and the man himself now, and I
began walking towards him with the idea of saying, 'Anyhow, it is in
the tube that we meet to-night.'...And then a terrible and awful
thing happened. Just as the train emerged from the tunnel he jumped
down on to the line in front of it, and the train swept along over
him up the platform.
"For a moment I was stricken with horror at the sight, and I
remember covering my eyes against the dreadful tragedy. But then I
perceived that, though it had taken place in full sight of those who
were waiting, no one seemed to have seen it except myself. The
driver, looking out from his window, had not applied his brakes,
there was no jolt from the advancing train, no scream, no cry, and
the rest of the passengers began boarding the train with perfect
"I must have staggered, for I felt sick and faint with what I had
seen, and some kindly soul put his arm round me and supported me into
the train. He was a doctor, he told me, and asked if I was in pain,
or what ailed me. I told him what I thought I had seen, and he
assured me that no such accident had taken place.
"It was clear then to my own mind that I had seen the second act,
so to speak, in this psychical drama, and I pondered next morning
over the problem as to what I should do. Already I had glanced at the
morning paper, which, as I knew would be the case, contained no
mention whatever of what I had seen. The thing had certainly not
happened, but I knew in myself that it would happen. The flimsy veil
of Time had been withdrawn from my eyes, and I had seen into what you
would call the future. In terms of Time of course it was the future,
but from my point of view the thing was just as much in the past as
it was in the future. It existed, and waited only for its material
fulfilment. The more I thought about it, the more I saw that I could
I interrupted his narrative.
"You did nothing?" I exclaimed. "Surely you might have taken some
step in order to try to avert the tragedy."
He shook his head.
"What step precisely?" he said. "Was I to go to Sir Henry and tell
him that once more I had seen him in the tube in the act of
committing suicide? Look at it like this. Either what I had seen was
pure illusion, pure imagination, in which case it had no existence or
significance at all, or it was actual and real, and essentially it
had happened. Or take it, though not very logically, somewhere
between the two. Say that the idea of suicide, for some cause of
which I knew nothing, had occurred to him or would occur. Should I
not, if that was the case, be doing a very dangerous thing, by making
such a suggestion to him? Might not the fact of my telling him what I
had seen put the idea into his mind, or, if it was already there,
confirm it and strengthen it? 'It's a ticklish matter to play with
souls,' as Browning says."
"But it seems so inhuman not to interfere in any way," said I,
"not to make any attempt."
"What interference?" asked he. "What attempt?"
The human instinct in me still seemed to cry aloud at the thought
of doing nothing to avert such a tragedy, but it seemed to be beating
itself against something austere and inexorable. And cudgel my brain
as I would, I could not combat the sense of what he had said. I had
no answer for him, and he went on.
"You must recollect, too," he said, "that I believed then and
believe now that the thing had happened. The cause of it, whatever
that was, had begun to work, and the effect, in this material sphere,
was inevitable. That is what I alluded to when, at the beginning of
my story, I asked you to consider how difficult it was to say when an
action took place. You still hold that this particular action, this
suicide of Sir Henry, had not yet taken place, because he had not yet
thrown himself under the advancing train. To me that seems a
materialistic view. I hold that in all but the endorsement of it, so
to speak, it had taken place. I fancy that Sir Henry, for instance,
now free from the material dusks, knows that himself."
Exactly as he spoke there swept through the warm lit room a
current of ice-cold air, ruffling my hair as it passed me, and making
the wood flames on the hearth to dwindle and flare. I looked round to
see if the door at my back had opened, but nothing stirred there, and
over the closed window the curtains were fully drawn. As it reached
Anthony, he sat up quickly in his chair and directed his glance this
way and that about the room.
"Did you feel that?" he asked.
"Yes: a sudden draught," I said. "Ice-cold."
"Anything else?" he asked. "Any other sensation?"
I paused before I answered, for at the moment there occurred to me
Anthony's differentiation of the effects produced on the beholder by
a phantasm of the living and the apparition of the dead. It was the
latter which accurately described my sensations now, a certain
physical shrinking, a fear, a feeling of desolation. But yet I had
seen nothing. "I felt rather creepy," I said.
As I spoke I drew my chair rather closer to the fire, and sent a
swift and, I confess, a somewhat apprehensive scrutiny round the
walls of the brightly lit room. I noticed at the same time that
Anthony was peering across to the chimney-piece, on which, just below
a sconce holding two electric lights, stood the clock which at the
beginning of our talk he had offered to stop. The hands I noticed
pointed to twenty-five minutes to one.
"But you saw nothing?" he asked.
"Nothing whatever," I said. "Why should I? What was there to see?
Or did you--"
"I don't think so," he said.
Somehow this answer got on my nerves, for the queer feeling which
had accompanied that cold current of air had not left me. If anything
it had become more acute.
"But surely you know whether you saw anything or not?" I said.
"One can't always be certain," said he. "I say that I don't think
I saw anything. But I'm not sure, either, whether the story I am
telling you was quite concluded last night. I think there may be a
further incident. If you prefer it, I will leave the rest of it, as
far as I know it, unfinished till to-morrow morning, and you can go
off to bed now."
His complete calmness and tranquillity reassured me.
"But why should I do that?" I asked.
Again he looked round on the bright walls.
"Well, I think something entered the room just now," he said, "and
it may develop. If you don't like the notion, you had better go. Of
course there's nothing to be alarmed at; whatever it is, it can't
hurt us. But it is close on the hour when on two successive nights I
saw what I have already told you, and an apparition usually occurs at
the same time. Why that is so, I cannot say, but certainly it looks
as if a spirit that is earth-bound is still subject to certain
conventions, the conventions of time for instance. I think that
personally I shall see something before long, but most likely you
won't. You're not such a sufferer as I from these--these
I was frightened and knew it, but I was also intensely interested,
and some perverse pride wriggled within me at his last words. Why, so
I asked myself, shouldn't I see whatever was to be seen?...
"I don't want to go in the least," I said. "I want to hear the
rest of your story."
"Where was I, then? Ah, yes: you were wondering why I didn't do
something after I saw the train move up to the platform, and I said
that there was nothing to be done. If you think it over, I fancy you
will agree with me...A couple of days passed, and on the third
morning I saw in the paper that there had come fulfilment to my
vision. Sir Henry Payle, who had been waiting on the platform of
Dover Street Station for the last train to South Kensington, had
thrown himself in front of it as it came into the station. The train
had been pulled up in a couple of yards, but a wheel had passed over
his chest, crushing it in and instantly killing him.
"An inquest was held, and there emerged at it one of those dark
stories which, on occasions like these, sometimes fall like a
midnight shadow across a life that the world perhaps had thought
prosperous. He had long been on bad terms with his wife, from whom he
had lived apart, and it appeared that not long before this he had
fallen desperately in love with another woman. The night before his
suicide he had appeared very late at his wife's house, and had a long
and angry scene with her in which he entreated her to divorce him,
threatening otherwise to make her life a hell to her. She refused,
and in an ungovernable fit of passion he attempted to strangle her.
There was a struggle and the noise of it caused her manservant to
come up, who succeeded in overmastering him. Lady Payle threatened to
proceed against him for assault with the intention to murder her.
With this hanging over his head, the next night, as I have already
told you, he committed suicide."
He glanced at the clock again, and I saw that the hands now
pointed to ten minutes to one.
The fire was beginning to burn low and the room surely was growing
"That's not quite all," said Anthony, again looking round. "Are
you sure you wouldn't prefer to hear it to-morrow?"
The mixture of shame and pride and curiosity again prevailed.
"No: tell me the rest of it at once," I said.
Before speaking, he peered suddenly at some point behind my chair,
shading his eyes. I followed his glance, and knew what he meant by
saying that sometimes one could not be sure whether one saw something
or not. But was that an outlined shadow that intervened between me
and the wall? It was difficult to focus; I did not know whether it
was near the wall or near my chair. It seemed to clear away, anyhow,
as I looked more closely at it.
"You see nothing?" asked Anthony.
"No: I don't think so," said I. "And you?"
"I think I do," he said, and his eyes followed something which was
invisible to mine. They came to rest between him and the
chimney-piece. Looking steadily there, he spoke again.
"All this happened some weeks ago," he said, "when you were out in
Switzerland, and since then, up till last night, I saw nothing
further. But all the time I was expecting something further. I felt
that, as far as I was concerned, it was not all over yet, and last
night, with the intention of assisting any communication to come
through to me from--from beyond, I went into the Dover Street
tube-station at a few minutes before one o'clock, the hour at which
both the assault and the suicide had taken place. The platform when I
arrived on it was absolutely empty, or appeared to be so, but
presently, just as I began to hear the roar of the approaching train,
I saw there was the figure of a man standing some twenty yards from
me, looking into the tunnel. He had not come down with me in the
lift, and the moment before he had not been there. He began moving
towards me, and then I saw who it was, and I felt a stir of wind
icy-cold coming towards me as he approached. It was not the draught
that heralds the approach of a train, for it came from the opposite
direction. He came close up to me, and I saw there was recognition in
his eyes. He raised his face towards me and I saw his lips move, but,
perhaps in the increasing noise from the tunnel, I heard nothing come
from them. He put out his hand, as if entreating me to do something,
and with a cowardice for which I cannot forgive myself, I shrank from
him, for I knew, by the sign that I have told you, that this was one
from the dead, and my flesh quaked before him, drowning for the
moment all pity and all desire to help him, if that was
"Certainly he had something which he wanted of me, but I recoiled
from him. And by now the train was emerging from the tunnel, and next
moment, with a dreadful gesture of despair, he threw himself in front
As he finished speaking he got up quickly from his chair, still
looking fixedly in front of him.
I saw his pupils dilate, and his mouth worked.
"It is coming," he said. "I am to be given a chance of atoning for
my cowardice. There is nothing to be afraid of: I must remember that
As he spoke there came from the panelling above the chimney-piece
one loud shattering crack, and the cold wind again circled about my
head. I found myself shrinking back in my chair with my hands held in
front of me as instinctively I screened myself against something
which I knew was there but which I could not see. Every sense told me
that there was a presence in the room other than mine and Anthony's,
and the horror of it was that I could not see it. Any vision, however
terrible, would, I felt, be more tolerable than this clear certain
knowledge that close to me was this invisible thing. And yet what
horror might not be disclosed of the face of the dead and the crushed
chest...But all I could see, as I shuddered in this cold wind, was
the familiar walls of the room, and Anthony standing in front of me
stiff and firm, making, as I knew, a call on his courage. His eyes
were focused on something quite close to him, and some semblance of a
smile quivered on his mouth. And then he spoke again.
"Yes, I know you," he said. "And you want something of me. Tell
me, then, what it is."
There was absolute silence, but what was silence to my ears could
not have been so to his, for once or twice he nodded, and once he
said, "Yes: I see. I will do it." And with the knowledge that, even
as there was someone here whom I could not see, so there was speech
going on which I could not hear, this terror of the dead and of the
unknown rose in me with the sense of powerlessness to move that
accompanies nightmare. I could not stir, I could not speak. I could
only strain my ears for the inaudible and my eyes for the unseen,
while the cold wind from the very valley of the shadow of death
streamed over me. It was not that the presence of death itself was
terrible; it was that from its tranquillity and serene keeping there
had been driven some unquiet soul unable to rest in peace for
whatever ultimate awakening rouses the countless generations of those
who have passed away, driven, no less, from whatever activities are
theirs, back into the material world from which it should have been
delivered. Never, until the gulf between the living and the dead was
thus bridged, had it seemed so immense and so unnatural. It is
possible that the dead may have communication with the living, and it
was not that exactly that so terrified me, for such communication, as
we know it, comes voluntarily from them. But here was something
icy-cold and crime-laden, that was chased back from the peace that
would not pacify it.
And then, most horrible of all, there came a change in these
unseen conditions. Anthony was silent now, and from looking straight
and fixedly in front of him, he began to glance sideways to where I
sat and back again, and with that I felt that the unseen presence had
turned its attention from him to me. And now, too, gradually and by
awful degrees I began to see...
There came an outline of shadow across the chimney-piece and the
panels above it. It took shape: it fashioned itself into the outline
of a man. Within the shape of the shadow details began to form
themselves, and I saw wavering in the air, like something concealed
by haze, the semblance of a face, stricken and tragic, and burdened
with such a weight of woe as no human face had ever worn. Next, the
shoulders outlined themselves, and a stain livid and red spread out
below them, and suddenly the vision leaped into clearness. There he
stood, the chest crushed in and drowned in the red stain, from which
broken ribs, like the bones of a wrecked ship, protruded. The
mournful, terrible eyes were fixed on me, and it was from them, so I
knew, that the bitter wind proceeded...
Then, quick as the switching off of a lamp, the spectre vanished,
and the bitter wind was still, and opposite to me stood Anthony, in a
quiet, bright-lit room. There was no sense of an unseen presence any
more; he and I were then alone, with an interrupted conversation
still dangling between us in the warm air. I came round to that, as
one comes round after an anesthetic. It all swam into sight again,
unreal at first, and gradually assuming the texture of actuality.
"You were talking to somebody, not to me," I said. "Who was it?
What was it?"
He passed the back of his hand over his forehead, which glistened
in the light.
"A soul in hell," he said.
Now it is hard ever to recall mere physical sensations, when they
have passed. If you have been cold and are warmed, it is difficult to
remember what cold was like: if you have been hot and have got cool,
it is difficult to realise what the oppression of heat really meant.
Just so, with the passing of that presence, I found myself unable to
recapture the sense of the terror with which, a few moments ago only,
it had invaded and inspired me.
"A soul in hell?" I said. "What are you talking about?"
He moved about the room for a minute or so, and then came and sat
on the arm of my chair.
"I don't know what you saw," he said, "or what you felt, but there
has never in all my life happened to me anything more real than what
these last few minutes have brought. I have talked to a soul in the
hell of remorse, which is the only possible hell. He knew, from what
happened last night, that he could perhaps establish communication
through me with the world he had quitted, and he sought me and found
me. I am charged with a mission to a woman I have never seen, a
message from the contrite...You can guess who it is..."
He got up with a sudden briskness.
"Let's verify it anyhow," he said. "He gave me the street and the
number. Ah, there's the telephone book! Would it be a coincidence
merely if I found that at No. 20 in Chasemore Street, South
Kensington, there lived a Lady Payle?"
He turned over the leaves of the bulky volume.
"Yes, that's right," he said.