IXA BUDGET OF NEW SCIENCES
PREVIOUS to leaving home Mrs. Cultus had flattered herself she was taking the Professor abroad to obtain rest from his arduous scientific pursuits—alas! only to find herself at once in a very vortex of new sciences and arts, so-called. Authorities discussed Ping Pong as an art, also skittles, and the nomenclature of golf was quite enough in matter of differentiations to establish it as a science. Then there were new methods in the practice of medicine. Thoughts warranted to cure were for sale under the title of Mental Science;—and even a religious science, said to be popular and quite new to the orthodox Science of Religions. All were on board and much in evidence.
None of these things would have much troubled the Professor, but to Mrs. Cultus they afforded a glorious opportunity to pick up odd bits of information. She herself was certainly not suffering from fatigue from the perusal of scientific publications, so when the book of experience opened a chapter new to her, written by folk who prided themselves upon the especial efficacy of their own mental efforts, why, that appealed as the sort of science and art quite in her line rather than the Professor’s. Having no lack of worldly wisdom in her own mentality she at once took her stand. With regard to any new phase of religious science, so-called, she would be very inquisitive, not opinionated, much less dogmatic; but as to any mental racket, scientific or otherwise, she thought she might venture further. In fact ought to have some opinion of herown, being entitled to it,ex-officio, as a Professor’s spouse. Such was Mrs. Cultus’ point of view.
Matters were soon brought to a focus. She overheard repeated remarks about patients who had been healed simply by receiving new mental impressions easily obtained, generally by correspondence, fixed charge, five dollars for epistolary impression. Some one who had been victimized had told her of a bushel-basket full of impressions shipped by mail each day from a single office.
“There must be some good ones in the lot,” thought Mrs. Cultus. “We must investigate a little.”
Then she heard of others cured by thought-transference, either with or without faith,—and finally of cures which tax credulity to extreme limits of sanity, namely, by the persuasive efficacy of belief, even in spite of the Creator Father’s natural laws to the contrary, as if natural laws were inadequate to suit the Creator’s purpose. Surely enough this to excite Mrs. Cultus’ curiosity. “What’s the use of travelling unless you take things in, without being taken in yourself?”—and she determined to caution her daughter. “Adele, my dear, when your father and I first crossed the ocean together, some time since, before you appeared, the ship’s company contained many pilgrims from a sacred shrine, very sacred and very profitable. We then heard much about cures. If I mistake not I have yet a bottle of the sacred water from that European shrine, stowed away in our medicine closet, warranted to be very efficacious to the faithful.”
“Did you ever test its efficacy?” asked Adele.
“Well, to be frank, I never saw it used except just previous to funerals, which struck me as rather late in the day. It certainly acted like a sedative upon those who administered it, but that’s another matter. What I was going to remark is, that to-day the tide of curative waters seems to flow all the other way. America does the quick-cure business whether the patient is faithful or not.”
“Well, that’s certainly great gain for the medicine,” remarked Miss Winchester. Mrs. Cultus continued:
“Yes, indeed; one might have guessed Americans would introduce improvements in the system. I always did believe in practical science, practical metaphysics they call it now, and all that sort of thing, specially when the thing looks a little mysterious to begin with,—it clears out the system.”
“Whose system? What system?” wondered Miss Winchester, “the medicine’s or the patient’s?” but she said nothing, and smiled inwardly as Mrs. Cultus continued her drolling.
“But tell me, are the new medicines proprietary, patented, or merely bottles for sale, duly authenticated like the old bottles? I wonder if it would be safe to put some of this new wine, beg pardon, curative water, into the old bottles?”
“Oh, dear no!” exclaimed Miss Winchester, promptly. “All medicines are quite out of date. All you have to do is to think you think, pay the price, and there you are—cured. I was cured myself.”
“Why, bless me, child! of what?”
“Nothing serious—merely of my former impression.”
“What was your impression of an impressionist, Frank?” said Adele, laughing. “I don’t believe all of them are quacks, certainly not until I first hear what they have to say.”
Now Miss Winchester, being of the literary craft, indulged in methods not unlike those practiced by the Doctor in connection with his palmistry pranks. They both were much given to observing individuals whose outward appearance suggested a personality from whom they could learn something. Studying types, the Doctor called it; studying human nature, Miss Winchester considered it. All was grist that came to their mill, good, bad, and even the indifferent, cranks and amiables included. It so happened that in the course of her study of human nature Miss Winchester had encountered apronounced specimen of the genus Professoress, said to occupy the chair of Thought-Cure in a would-be Sanitorium-University. This had been some time ago. What was her surprise now to find said Professoress on board, occupying a deck-chair among the innocents abroad. Not wishing to claim any acquaintance (having already written her up in an article upon “The Inside Cure”) unless forced to do so, she had avoided a meeting. It had been this same individual of whom she had thought when telling Mrs. Cultus of her own cure; and as luck would have it, there the healer appeared,—on deck, in a chair, quite near them when Adele innocently asked for an impression of an impressionist.
Not wishing, however, to disclose this coincidence until she could lead up to it after her own fashion, Miss Winchester kept one eye upon the occupant of the chair, and the other upon Professor Cultus, and yet answered Adele at the same time; all of which goes to show that she herself was somewhat of an expert in impressions, and in leading others up to them; observing others while not herself perceived. When she was ready she replied:
“No, Adele, I do not believe they are all quacks; but I do believe in nerves and hysterics. There is such a thing as self-deception;—the little tin-Solomon within the most of us does sometimes assert himself;—you know the saying, ‘Everybody’s crazy except you and me, and you’re a little off!’ I certainly believe in nerves and hysteria.”
“What has that got to do with it?” asked Mrs. Cultus, curious.
“May I refer to the Professor?” quoth Miss Winchester, blandly.
Professor Cultus thus unwillingly drawn in, gave some points simply as the quickest way to get rid of the talking. “There is a class of disease known as hysteria, nervous, yet involving no recognizable anatomical hurt, wound or injury.The nervous system plays a very important part in the problem, and nerves, you know, affect mentality.”
“No doubt of it, my dear,” interrupted Mrs. Cultus; “a pinch always makes me start up as nervous as a witch, and I never could talk sense during an electric storm. I feel nervous now just to think of it.”
The Professor continued: “To meddle unadvisedly with the nervous system is dangerous; yet with shrewd sense based upon clinical observation it is possible to perfect cures.”
“Not without some smelling salts,” chimed in Mrs. Cultus, laughing. “But bless me! are these new doctors experts like that?”
“Specialists in the shrewd-sense department,” remarked Miss Winchester. “Please go on, Professor Cultus.”
“When mental science encounters cases of hysteria, it is quite possible a cure may be accomplished now and then, but from the standpoint of what you would call orthodox treatment, mental derangement of any kind requires most careful consideration and perhaps prolonged treatment in the full light of scientific research. To attempt such practice irregularly is to court the consequences of ignorance, or perhaps worse, really to injure the patient.”
“Oh, I understand it perfectly!” exclaimed Mrs. Cultus. “I might be accidentally cured by irregular treatment, but would not stay cured. My dear, I prefer to be orthodox. Adele, where are my salts? Look in that bag, please,—I haven’t used them for some time.”
“Nonsense, Mother! You’re cured already and don’t want any salting, the sea air is quite enough;—nor do I believe that all mental scientists have the hysterics, I mean their patients haven’t.”
“No, indeed!” said the sprightly Frank Winchester; “it is those who are cured who had the hysterics or something equivalent; and the practitioners who now have the shrewd sense and cash perquisite,—I know from experience.”
“What! Oh, my!” exclaimed Adele, “you have the hysterics! Frank, I should never have accused you of such accomplishments,” then, as if musing: “Isn’t it strange that when you begin to describe an ache, so many others soon find they have the same thing. Mild case I suppose, Frank?”
Miss Winchester enjoyed immensely this little rap; but having been caught concluded to make the next sensational remark more specific.
“I’m thankful to say, in my case there was no hysterics;—but I did visit a mental science center, where ‘vibrations’ were said to radiate marvellously. I went there on strictly professional business, to hunt up a case, and on arriving was received by—by——”
The speaker came to a sudden halt, her eyes fixed upon a remarkable individual, the Professoress, now standing by the deck-rail, overlooking the sea;—a short, very stout personage under a broad-brimmed hat decorated with enough feathers to have plumed a male ostrich in the month of January. Her attendant, a tall, slender man with long neck, sharp eyes, and gold eye-glasses. Fortunately the couple stood far enough away to be out of hearing, or Miss Winchester would not have continued:
“Speak of angels! there she is herself! She of the winged thoughts! the redoubtable Angelica Thorn, popularly known as ‘Madame,’ the honorary title conferred exclusively by the Sanitorium-University. You may not believe it, but that impressive angel with wings in her hat and honorary degree on her own University register, is gifted with a marvellous power of radiating thoughts,—her words fly up but thoughts remain below, credited with realizing thousands of dollars per annum by giving and taking mental impressions, sent and received by the bushel-basket full, all by mail.” Mrs. Cultus put up her lorgnette to see if any ships were passing in that direction—then whispered:
“You surely don’t mean that person with flowing tresses andall those waving plumes? She’s Milesian Frinch, not Parisian French. You can’t deceive me. And what is she here for?”
Mrs. Thorn had taken off her hat; the tall, slim attendant held it; while she, resting both elbows on the rail, and her chin on her wrists, gazed out o’er the mighty deep.
“The pose is certainly cherubic,” remarked Mrs. Cultus, cynical.
“No doubt she is radiating now,” remarked Frank Winchester. Adele noticed her hair parted on one side, and plastered flat over the temples, also wavy ringlets round her neck.
The Doctor, who thus far had not taken any part in this impressionistic séance, no sooner observed her hands exposed to display an unusual assortment of rings glistening in the sunlight, than he concluded his turn for investigation had arrived. Possibly here palmistry might be in order,—and diamond cut diamond. There might be some real sport in it. Before the others noticed, he sauntered off towards the couple. Little did he then realize the consequences.