Sir Arthur Conan Doyle became famous not only as the author of stories about the detective Sherlock Holmes, but also as a keen researcher of the mysterious, above all, phenomenon of life after death. Having traveled almost the whole world with lectures, during which it was proved that “earthly life is nothing more than an illusion, and real meaningful existence begins after death,” the writer summed up: “The only unshakable and eternal value is the memory of what we dare to discuss. The bridge over death is an eternal continuation of the path in the other world. Therefore, I undertake the obligation of a man of honor - by my physiological decline to show that we are all spiritually infinite after we become clots of all-pervading cognizing thought."
Until recently, there was no conclusive evidence that the "hardened mystic" Sir Arthur Conan Doyle kept his promise. But, as they say, everything has its own turn.
In 1969, scattered pages of the diary of the widow of the writer Jean were published in England, from which it followed that "in the posthumous months, the unforgettable Arthur, as if alive, visited four times, consoling in grief, described in detail his unearthly life, promising an early reunion." 37 years later, the diary was published as a separate book. The event became a sensation. The book has the intriguing title Conan Doyle spoke. But, before we get acquainted with what exactly the writer who returned from the “luminous spheres” told his wife, we will cite the memories of his last hours left by his daughter, Liina Jin:
“Dawn on July 7, Adrian and Denis rushed in a car to Tunbridge Wells for an oxygen tank. I stayed with my mother and Conan Doyle in his office, on the walls of which were hung portraits of boxers Tom Crib and Jack Mollino, rapiers, boxing gloves, a photograph of the military minesweeper "Conan Doyle", sheathed billiard cues, watercolors of artist friends. The painful silence was perhaps not ringing. At about eight o'clock in the morning, the balloon was finally delivered. Oxygen brought the patient to his senses. He clearly told his wife: “You are the best caregiver. You are a heroine. I promise to relieve your loneliness after the land accepts me. You just need to mentally call me, and I will come."
We looked at each other, imagining that my father was delusional. As if dismissing our suspicions, Conan Doyle whispered, "See, my heavenly path will intersect with your earthly paths." He squeezed my wrist tightly. He got up from the chair. He looked intently at each of us and closed his eyes forever.
After the funeral, we lived in indescribable tension. It seemed to us that the father was at home, the rapiers in the office were falling every now and then. The glass of the photographic frame of the actor Gillette, who brilliantly played Sherlock Holmes, cracked. The lithograph of William Blake was charred and woke up as ash. An unfinished manuscript, locked in a secretaire drawer, was tainted with red and blue pencil underlining. At night, sometimes during the day, from the study heard the sounds of impetuous footsteps, rearranged furniture, exclamations. It was definitely him. Everything calmed down as soon as you entered the curtained room. Only the plafond of the table lamp glowed faintly from the inside."
Jean Conan Doyle made her first appointment with her late husband on August 22, 1930, emphasizing that she was dozing when it happened:
“Our living room is adjacent to the study. The window frames are new. The glasses in the frames are firmly fixed. I was lying on the sofa when I was awakened by the strong rattling of the transom, from which the glass fell out and shattered with a clang.
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Time was approaching 9 o'clock in the afternoon. The cloudy sky created a poi darkness in the room. There was no wind. Nevertheless, soon all glass, without exception, began to vibrate. What does that mean? The answer begged along with a solid, monolithic mass of light, a wave moving towards me. This light settled on the floor carpet. As I watched the carpet, a human figure formed out of my field of vision. It was made of fluffy dim light and swayed over the top of the piano. I expected without emotion what would happen next. Further, this figure became "wax", that is, material, solid. I recognized her as my dear husband. Forgetting about his promise to visit, I, driven by horror, jumped off the sofa with cries for help and ran to the door, hitting my shoulder and splitting into kuo <and the "wax" visitor.
The family came running. I trembled with fear. The footprints of the soles were imprinted on the carpet, as Denis later found out, made with quicklime, which ruined the carpet. Denis, hoping to make sure that the marks were left by the ghost of her husband, put the soles of his boots to them. Completely discouraged, confused, we decided to spend the night in the living room until we calmed down. At about four o'clock at night, the ghost appeared to all of us. He stood, leaning on a silvery cane, in the middle of the living room and talking. But for some reason his voice rang out from the office. Adrian, fearlessly passing through him, jerked open the office door. We saw that there, too, the same second ghost, indistinguishable from the first. The ghost left the office and. floating over the floor of the living room, merged with the first ghost, making it solid "wax", all yellow, illuminated from the inside. The ghost spoke loudly. His voice was heard only by me. The ghost read the psalms. During his lifetime, the husband avoided religious rites and, of course, did not know any psalms. Have you seen how the candle melts? Cutting off its chant, without finishing the phrase, the ghost melted away, spreading in wax. Oddly enough, it was natural wax. I cried until morning. The children were not themselves for a long time."
The ghost of Conan Doyle calmed down and did not manifest itself in any way until December 21, 1930. Households spent the night each in his own room. Jean began to think that August's meeting with the disembodied doppelganger of Conan Doyle was her last. She even suggested that there was no meeting, that she and her loved ones were victims of group hallucinations provoked by the hardships of loss. Illusions were dispelled when in the morning at exactly 10:30 am "Sir Arthur" appeared more alive against the background of the living room window and offered, in order to make sure that his visit was not a dream, to answer any question regarding the whereabouts of family jewelry and securities. Jean readily agreed, considering it the only "identity" of the ghost. And what? The widow writes:
“I was shocked that the“double”unmistakably named not only the bank whose services we preferred, but also the account numbers, bank cells numbers. When I asked where Arthur's wedding ring and the duplicate key to our home safe, which I had searched unsuccessfully, had gone, these objects, clinking, fell at my feet. I asked the ghost not to bother me anymore, because I won't survive the next meeting. Received a negative answer. This callousness was completely alien to Arthur. Is he, though ethereal, in front of me? The ghost read my mind. And he offered to look into the photo album lying on the bookcase in the office. Looking at the dozen pictures, I was numb. In all the photographs, someone unknown captured me talking with the ghost of my husband.
My dates ended in a nervous resort. But even there, in Italy, I was pursued by flashes of light, beating out with fiery corollas when I walked along the beach in stormy weather."
During his lifetime, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle called the phenomenon that his widow and children faced as grave echoes. After his death, so that no one doubted his spiritual health, in practice he resorted to Schopenhauer's favorite logical postulate, according to which "the coincidence of many independent testimonies is proof of their truth." It is quite possible that this is the case. Even if this is not entirely true, the phenomenon itself is extremely curious and needs to be studied.