‘There is not the slightest trace left of Antoine B.’s visit to Fontainebleau in 1883. At Barbizon, wherehe stayed with his wife from the 15th May to 20th June 1883, he lived in a rustic inn, which has been demolished to make way for a tram-line. No writing, no letter, no souvenir of any kind whatever could have furnished a clue to this private detail in Antoine B.’s life.
‘III. I will now confront the reality, such as it was in June 1883, with what Madame X. wrote me in October 1900.
‘1. In order to go to Fontainebleau, or rather to Barbizon, M. and Mme. B. left the train atMelun. It is impossible to say, whether the initials of A. B. and the name of Lucie are engraved on a tree in the forest.
‘2. “There is much resemblance between Antoine, as he was, and the physical portrait drawn of him by Madame X., especially the soft, caressing expression of the eyes. In politics he held advanced opinions for his time, and, had he lived, he would, in all probability, have been a socialist to-day; at least his opinions would have been very favourable to socialistic doctrines. The sentence,Nous étions tristement heureux, is characteristically true; for at Barbizon, in spite of our long walks and our reveries in the forest, he was already very weak and in the grip of the illness which, soon afterwards, carried him off so rapidly.” [The above was written and handed to me by Madame B. in October 1901.]
‘3. Lucie is not Madame B.’s name. Her name is Marie. But Antoine often said to her, “What a pity you are not called Lucie!” It was his favourite name.
‘4. It is quite true that, alone among all my friends, Antoine called me “Carlos,” and that I, on my side, called him “Tony.” This is a fact known only to me. It is also perfectly correct—and I am not aware ofhaving related this fact to any person whomsoever—that, when Antoine died, stricken to death in a few hours by a disease of the heart, I went into his death-chamber and kissed him on the brow.
‘5. All the details relative to the construction of machines, electric wires, invention of the telephone, [before Gr. Bell’s invention had been made known], collaboration with me in a scientific work, all these details are correct.
‘6. The house in which he stayed at Fontainebleau stood by itself, with its back to the forest; a tramway passes there to-day, the house having been pulled down to make room for it.
‘7. His daughter (who died in September 1900, at about the time when Madame X. says she first heard a voice call me “Carlos”) was called Madeleine. His sister’s name was Louise. Louise married M. H. of Jewish origin. [There are Jews in his family.]
‘8. He was thirty-two years old when he died, and his death was almost instantaneous. It would be impossible to describe his death more correctly than Madame X. does in the words:Quelque chose l’a étouffé à la poitrine, et ce fut tout.In fact, towards eleven o’clock in the night he was seized by a thoracic oppression, which made such rapid progress, that he expired at four o’clock in the early morning.
‘9. He was not wounded during the Commune; but once when, as a reserve artillery officer, he was assisting at gun-firing at Grenoble he lost the hearing of the left ear, an affliction which saddened him very much. Probably I knew this, but, if so, I had completely forgotten it. It was Madame B., who related this detail to me inOctober 1901, a detail absolutely unknown to every one, for Antoine never spoke of it.
‘10. When Antoine was already grown up, shortly before his marriage, his father, Louis, suffered heavy losses of money through a defaulting cashier. Antoine did not take this to heart; moreover, no one ever knew of the incident, which was carefully kept from the knowledge of every one outside of the family.
‘11. He wrote under a pseudonym. He wrote a few insignificant plays in 1876 or 1877; but it would be almost impossible to recover traces of them to-day.
‘12. The house where he was born, and where he lived up to the time of his marriage, is very old (situated on the Quai de H., and not in the Faubourg Montmartre); the furniture is ancient; the house is quite unlike a modern one.
‘13. The description of Lucie, his wife, is exact—“a very charming woman with beautiful dark hair and eyes.” Antoine had a portrait of her in a locket, which he used to wear on his person.
‘14. In a conversation I had with him a short time before his death, he spoke to me about the extreme fatigue which he felt, a kind of general lassitude, and of his great need of change and rest.
‘In all the above facts there is an admirable and most unlikely concordance between the reality and the indications given by Madame X.
‘To be quite complete, I ought to mention the facts which I have not been able to verify, and those which seem inexact to me.
‘Among the facts I have been unable to verify, are the names of Yvonne, Josephine, Sarah, Marguerite, Georges, Clotilde.
‘The chief inexact details are the story of Lucie’s true husband—a Jew (un gros juif)—and of the child Lucie and Antoine had, of whose existence hardly any one knew; also the detail of having been wounded during the Commune and his wound having been dressed by my father. I ought also to add that Antoine and Marie B. were at Fontainebleau with their three children. However, for reasons which I will develop further on, these errors have a great interest and merit an attentive examination.
‘When considering these phenomena we must, first of all, rid ourselves of commonplace prejudices. The question is, not whether such or such a phenomenon does or does not concord with recognised ideas, but whether the phenomenon exists or does not exist—always supposing, of course, that it be not in flagrant contradiction with established and verified truths.
‘Therefore every effort of demonstration must be concentrated on this one point: Can we explain the above facts by any known process? For the sake of simplicity let us only take one of the facts, that of the presence—“or of thethought”—of Antoine B. at the Melun railway station. We have seen that I fell into error by endeavouring to explain this presence—or thisthought—by a term at the School of Artillery at Fontainebleau; and I do not see what other explanation can be attempted, since not the slightest trace is left of Antoine’s visit to Fontainebleau with his wife twenty years ago.
‘Even if an expensive detective inquiry had been set on foot, it is highly doubtful if anything concerning Monsieur and Madame B.’s visit to Fontainebleau could have been found out.
‘Therefore, at the very outset, and without taking into account any of the other exact details in Madame X.’s visions, we encounter the material impossibility of establishing any relations between Fontainebleau and Antoine.
‘But, just for one moment, let us make the concession that the names of Monsieur and Madame B. had been somewhere met with at Barbizon after an interval of twenty years; this would immediately entail the knowledge of many other details ever so much easier to gather than were those very details given by Madame X., and not only easier but also more exact. Had this visit become known to Madame X. by any normal means, there would not have been the story of an illegal union, and of a residence of five years at Fontainebleau.[12]So even the mistakes are a confirmation of the truth, one of the most interesting of confirmations; for, honestly, we cannot suppose that, knowing the real facts, Madame X. would have taken it into her head to add facts, which she knew to be incorrect.
‘To put it in another way, even if we admit this absurdity of an extremely cleverly conducted detective inquiry making known to Madame X. the story of Antoine’s life, she would not have distorted the results of such an inquiry by introducing errors therein. To take an example, when Antoine was at Fontainebleau with his wife and three children, she would have mentioned the other two children. She would also have said—and this was extremely easy to find out—thatthe B. establishment was situated on the Quai de H., and not in the Faubourg Montmartre.
‘Therefore, every point carefully considered, I think it is absolutely certain that normal means of knowledge could not establish any connection between Antoine and Fontainebleau.
‘In the second place, unpublished details were furnished. I will pass over all the details—though they too be correct—which might be found in biographical or necrological articles; I will simply draw attention to the following five extremely privatedetails:—
‘Now, not one of these details could have been found out by any inquiry, however clever, however well-planned and well carried out such an inquiry might have been.
‘1. Madame B. was theonlyliving person who knew of Antoine’s preference for the name of Lucie. She had never spoken of this to any one; and it is a minute detail of which I was in complete ignorance, until Madame B. told me of it in 1901, after hearing about the visions Madame X. had related to me in her letters, a year before.
‘2. I was theonlyperson living who knew that Antoine called me “Carlos”; and this is not a very commonplace statement, since no one, save Antoine, has ever called me “Carlos.”
‘3. No one ever suspected Antoine of having written under anom de plume; the few insignificant things he wrote for the stage are so entirely forgotten, that Madame B. herself remembered nothing about them in 1901; and it is even highly probable that what he wrote could not be found again, the Bobino theatre, where he presented his plays, having disappeared years ago.
‘4. The monetary losses which his father, Louis B., sustained a short while before Antoine’s marriage, had been carefully kept from the knowledge of every one. These losses were occasioned by a dishonest cashier. The man was not prosecuted. Notwithstanding the importance of the sum involved, Antoine was relatively indifferent to the loss, as was distinctly indicated by Madame X.
‘5. The circumstances of his death are described with striking reality. I kissed Antoine on the forehead when he was dead. Some little time before the end, he spoke to me about his health, saying he felt in great need of rest. He did not look ill, however, and he died, after a few hours’ illness only, from a cardiac affection:quelque chose l’a étouffé à la poitrine.
‘There is still another item of interest, which I wish to touch upon: this is, the “message” from Antoine to his wife:rien de mauvais ne lui arrivera. These words were written by Madame X. in one of her letters to me, with the indication that Antoine had pronounced them on a certain day. Now, on that very day, Madame B. was delivered of a still-born child. She was, therefore, in a perilous condition at the very timeAntoine said: “I watch over her, even now; tell her, no evil will ever befall her.”
‘We have, now, to draw our conclusion. The hypothesis of chance is absurd; the hypothesis of fraud is absurd; there remains but a third hypothesis, that of a phenomenon inexplicable by any of the existing data of our knowledge. It is for this inexplicable phenomenon, that we are going to try and find an explanation.
‘Two explanations at once present themselves:α, either this knowledge is entirely due to the intellectual faculties of Madame X.; orβ, some other intelligence intervenes, which manifests itself to Madame X.
‘α. This hypothesis is rather complicated, for it is not in the form of abstract knowledge that Madame X. learnt of all these real facts concerning Antoine, but in the form of Antoine himself. So that, if it really be only a question of abstract notions, these abstract notions have taken a concrete form in order to manifest themselves. They would thus have constituted a sort of error in themselves. It has been supposed that Antoine himself came into the railway carriage at Melun, that he accompanied Madame X. in her walks in the forest at Fontainebleau during the whole month of October 1900, that he related the story of his life to her; and there is something which shocks us in the thought that, though the story told to Madame X. be true, there was no Antoine. At the same time, this objection is not paramount; for we know so little of the ways in which supernormal knowledge flows into the mind, that we are unable to make any negation concerning them.
‘Moreover, it is, relatively, more rational, not tosuppose the intervention of another force, since,à la rigueur, a human intelligence, under extraordinary conditions of clairvoyance, may suffice to explain everything.
‘β. If other personalities intervene, they may be eitherβ´, the personality of Antoine B. himself, or,β´´, other forces non-identical with human personalities.
‘β´. Assuredly, the hypothesis that it is the consciousness of Antoine B. himself who came to Madame X. is the simplest, and at a first glance, it satisfies us. But then! what a number of objections such a hypothesis raises! How is it possible for the consciousness to survive after death? How can intelligences which suffer birth escape death? A beginning implies an end: Birth implies death, the one involves the other!
‘β´´. Other forces such as genii, demons, angels, etc., may exist, as strict logic commands us to admit. There is a certain impertinence in supposing that, in the Infinite Immensity of Worlds and Forces, man is the only force capable of thinking. It seems to me necessary to admit, that there exist intelligent forces in nature, other than man; forces, which are constituted differently to him, and are consequently imperceptible to his normal senses; these forces may be called angels, genii, demons, spirits, no matter the name we give them. It is evident, however, that this hypothesis of intelligent forces ought not to be confounded with the hypothesis of human personalities surviving after death. These are two absolutely distinct hypotheses. Now, I think that it is not the hypothesis of intelligent forces which is doubtful; what is extremely doubtful is that these forces can enter into communication with man. Moreover, as in the case under notice, why should they take thematerial appearance of a deceased human being, and declare their identity with such?
‘We see that all the explanations so far put forth are imperfect, and, for my part, I find them so imperfect, that I am inclined to believe in some other hypothesis which I do not know, which I cannot even guess, but which, nevertheless, I am convinced exists, since here we have real facts, which not any of the hypotheses heretofore presented can explain in a satisfactory manner. It is to this hypothesisXthat I attach myself, for the present, recognising, while doing so, that there is a certain amount of irony in proposing a hypothesis, of which I am unable to give the formula.
‘In conclusion, we see that this case of Antoine B. involves the whole problem of spiritism. It appeared to interest you, my friend, and I have, therefore, related it to you, because the simple and complete narration of facts ought to precede theories.’
November 1903.
‘My dear Maxwell,—The series of phenomena concerning Antoine B. do not cease with the recital I recently sent you. That recital comports an epilogue not less extraordinary than itself. I say an “epilogue,” for most assuredly it has some connection—of a psychological order—with the preceding recital. I will set it forth as concisely as possible:
‘One evening in May 1903 I was dining with Madame X. and her family. After dinner we tried for phenomena, but received nothing. Towards the close of the evening, shortly before I left, Madame X. pronounced the following words—words which I wrote down among my notes as soon as I reachedhome—“I see a woman standing near me; she has grey hair, she is about fifty years of age, but looks older than she really is. Her hair is quite grey. I believe it is Madame B.” (Antoine’s widow), “though I am not quite sure yet. I see the figure 7 with her, which probably means that she will die in seven months, or on the 7th of some near month.” Such is the copy of the very brief note I took of Madame X.’s words. I ought to add that this note is a much abridged account of Madame X.’s actual words, and that she also said:—“Madame B. is very ill; she has some sort of chest complaint—perhaps tuberculosis—and she will die very soon indeed.”
‘What renders this premonition extremely interesting is that Madame B., at that moment, was only very slightly ill. She was so slightly indisposed, that not for a moment did the thought ever cross my mind, that her indisposition might turn into anything serious. Neither I nor any one in the world suspected any danger whatsoever. But fifteen days after this prognostication had been made, the apparently slight bronchial affection from which Madame B. was suffering, and of which I had, naturally, never said a word to Madame X., remained stationary, but still the idea that the result might prove fatal never entered into any one’s head.
‘Nevertheless, the result did prove fatal. Madame B. died, within seven weeks after Madame X.’s prediction, on Tuesday, 30th June 1903, after a very sudden and irresistible aggravation of her previously slight indisposition, which carried her off in four or five days. The illness turned out to be a sort of pulmonary affection, the nature of which is still unknown to the doctors who attended her: (tuberculosis? infectiousgrippe?).
‘An interesting detail: Madame B. had black hair; I, who knew her well, had never noticed any grey in her hair; I did not know she was grey. Now a few days before her illness took a serious turn, one of the members of my family who had just been paying Madame B. a visit, said to me: “Madame B. does not dye her hair any longer, so that one can now see how very grey she is!”
‘Here is a veritable premonition. The authenticity of this remarkable fact cannot be doubted, for it would have been impossible for me, or for any one else, by means of telepathy, or in any other way, to convey to Madame X. the idea of a death, in which I did not believe, and which did not, even for a moment, cross my mind, or any one else’s mind.
‘Such, dear Dr. Maxwell, is the epilogue of the recital I sent you. Although we cannot state precisely the link uniting the diverse psychical phenomena exposed in my two letters, I do not think we can consider them as independent of each other. There are certain mysterious relations here, which the future, aided by our patience, will certainly elucidate.—Yours sincerely,
‘Charles Richet.’
January 1905.
‘Dear Friend,—During the revision of the above pages, whilst I was showing them to Madame X., the latter told me that “the family B. were not yet done with” [tout n’est pas fini encore pour la famille B.!]; her words conveyed to me the impression of a presentiment of some misfortune about to fall upon that family. These words were uttered between 3 and 4 o’clock on the 23rd December 1904.
‘Now, during the night of the 23rd-24th December, towards 11 o’clock, Louis B. (the son of Antoine B.) narrowly escaped being killed in a serious railway accident. That he was saved was little short of a miracle. When, on the morning of the 24th December, I saw by the newspapers that Louis had escaped, I was struck by the thought that Madame X.’s prediction [tout n’est pas fini encore pour la famille B.] had been on the point of becoming realised.
‘Alas! the presentiment was but too true; for Oliver L., the son of Madame B.’s second husband, was in the same train as Louis B., and, though the morning papers did not mention the fact, he was killed instantaneously.
......
‘I have another interesting point to mention in connection with this presentiment. On the 8th July 1903 Madame X. wrote to me saying, that Madame B.’s death (she had just died) would be soon followed by another. She added: ‘Some one tells me that one of the sons will soon die,—before the end of two years. I think it is Jacques B., but they do not say so.’ [Quelqu’un me dit qu’un des fils mourra bientôt, avant deux ans. Je pense que c’est Jacques B., mais on ne le dit pas.]
‘Thus this premonition—somewhat vague it is true—pronounced eighteen months before, was realised. It will be remarked that Madame X., by adding her own impression to her auditory perception, committed an error; whilst the perception itself, though not very explicit, was correct.—Yours very sincerely,
‘Charles Richet.’
The observations which I have just laid before my readers, relate to facts occurring in the domain of sensibility; the motor centres do not escape automatism, and there is a whole series of motor automatisms, simple or mixed, to be noticed. For the sake of clearness, I will divide them into fourclasses:—
1. Simple muscular automatism:—Typtology; Planchette; and diverse alphabetic systems, ouija, etc.
2. Graphic muscular automatism:—Automatic script and drawing; Planchettes, baskets, tables.
3. Phonetic automatism:—Automatic discourses.
4. Mixed automatisms:—Incarnations.
I will remark, first of all, that the word automatism, borrowed from Myer’s terminology, is not strictly correct. In reality, we can only speak of automatism when we are in presence of mechanical acts, excluding intervention of the will. Now this is not the case with the acts in question; these acts, which appear to be automatic if they are looked at solely from the point of view of the personal consciousness, are in reality due to some sort of consciousness, parasitic or non-parasitic, and offer the characteristic features of voluntary acts. These reserves made, I will continue, for want of better, to use the word consecrated by custom.
1. Simple muscular automatism.—I designate thus those acts which require no association of complicated movements, such as the movements of writing and language exact. The simplest way of provoking this automatism is in the ordinary spiritistic process of typtology.
The experimenters sit down round a table, and laytheir hands lightly on it. Sooner or later the table trembles, sways about from side to side, sometimes turns round, but more often raises one of its feet and strikes the ground with it. A code of signals is arranged to express ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘doubtful’—e.g.three, two, and four:—the manner in which the alphabet is to be pointed out is also agreed upon, either the table will strike the number of the letter’s rank, for example, one for A, three for C, 15 for O, 20 for T, etc., or it will strike the floor when the letter desired is pronounced.
I rank this phenomenon with automatisms because, nearly always, it has appeared to me to be due to involuntary, or unconscious movements. I do not like this kind of experiment; it does not carry conviction. Gasparian, and after him, Chevreul have given the correct interpretation of it.
It is interesting only when the communications obtained reveal facts, apparently unknown to the experimenters. Then the phenomenon is no longer explicable by simple automatic action: the muscular movement is determined by the impersonal consciousness of the sitters or the medium, and becomes the manner of transmitting the message addressed by the impersonal consciousness to the personal consciousness. In fact, we conceive that, if what I said concerning parakinesis be correct, the movements of the table may be sometimes parakinetic. I have been present at many seances for typtology, but I have never verified interesting facts, except the one I related concerningTouton la Pipe. When the experiments are conducted under the conditions which I consider indispensable, I am careful not to encourage typtological manifestations.
There exists other means of inducing simple muscular automatism. The best are instruments after the style of the psychograph. The alphabet, numbers, and the words ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘I do not know,’ are written on a dial in the centre of which a needle is placed. The displacements of this index hand indicate the letters, numbers, etc., like the needle of the dial of a Bréguet telegraph. These dials are made of different sizes, and of different materials. It is best, however, to construct them in the following manner:—take a square piece of white wood, non-resinous, from seventeen to twenty inches broad. Trace thereon a circumference of seven to nine inches in diameter, and write around it the letters of the alphabet, numbers, the words, ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘I do not know,’ and any other desired indications. Place in the centre of the circle a bone or ivory pivot, the axis round which the needle will turn. Make the needle of wood, giving it enough thickness and solidity for the hands to be able to rest on it. It is not necessary to give much mobility to the needle if the hands are to rest on it; in this case, it will suffice to pierce a hole in it, through which the pivot may pass.[13]
I have been told of cases where the needle moved of its own accord; but I have not personally verified this fact. If movements of the needle without contact be desired, it would be well to give a more perfect suspension to the needle: this may be accomplished by supporting it on small movable rollers, like those on the planchettes used for automatic writing.
I have rarely experimented with psychographs, for the same reasons which made me shun typtology.
I will say the same thing of another kind of apparatus: the ouija, made in England. It is a board on which the alphabet and other signs are written. A small movable planchette supported on three or four feet is placed on the board; the sitters put their hands on the planchette which points out the letters, etc., with one of its feet, a process which is irksome, to say the least of it.
There are yet other means for inducing muscular automatism. I will point out, as an example, the very ancient method of divination by the ring. A metal, or better still an ivory ring, is suspended to a hair or silken thread. The end of the hair or thread is held in the fingers; the ring is held, thus suspended, in the centre of a small circle of three or four inches in diameter on which the alphabet is written.
At the end of a certain time, the ring sways about, then strikes the letters, sometimes spelling out words. By placing the ring in a glass, it will strike against it, giving indications in this way. I have only used this method once or twice, for it seemed to me to present very little interest. This is in reality Chevreul’s exploring pendulum.
2. Automatic script.—Automatic writing is, I think, one of the most interesting of all phenomena; I have no need to bring to mind the important studies which Myers, Hodgson, Hyslop, Sidgwick, and others have made on this phenomena. I have been able to make some observations of great interest, but the limits of this book do not permit me to give a detailed report of them. The thorough examination I made of one particular case of automatic writing—a rather rudimentarycase, it is true—clearly revealed to me the play of the unconscious souvenirs of the medium.
The methods for obtaining automatic writing are numerous. We can even make a table write by fixing a pencil to one of its feet; the same with a hat or basket, etc. More perfect methods exist, of which the following are thebest:—
First of all the planchette; an instrument in the shape of an oval piece of wood, resting on three movable tiny ivory rollers, with a small copper setting at one end, in which a lead-pencil may be screwed. With the planchette two or three persons may write at the same time.
Another equally good method is the following: Fix two, three or four handles on to a large wooden ball, of about seven inches in diameter. Fix the pencil in a hole bored through the ball, each handle of which is held by an experimenter. Place a sheet of paper underneath the pencil, the latter will then often move and write words and phrases.
Finally, the best method of all is to write naturally, without any instrument at all. The sensitive sits down with a pencil, as though to write, and waits.
Whatever the method adopted may be, it is seldom that automatic writing is manifested at the outset. Generally one or several seances are passed in illegible scribblings, in making strokes, zigzags, in endless repetitions of the same letter. But we must not be discouraged; on the contrary, we must continue experimenting for a certain time, before concluding to the impossibility of success. Whether we be trying to obtain collective or ordinary automatic writing, it is a good plan to consecrate ten or fifteen minutes every day,always at the same hour, to these trials. The phenomenon takes a long time to evolve, and people, who have obtained most curious results with automatic writing, have passed months in developing their faculty.
As I said before, I have chiefly directed my experiments towards the observation of movements without contact; therefore, I have not sought very assiduously to obtain automatic writing with my mediums. The greater number of cases I have observed offer little interest, if we compare them to the curious visual hallucinations which I related a little while ago. I will make an exception though for one which I am in the act of studying, and which makes me conceive some hopes, the sensitive having written in English, a language which I am positive he does not know. This medium, like many I have met with, submits grudgingly to these experiments, and has not yet consented to sit regularly for automatic writing. I hope I may succeed in persuading him to do so.
Though my observations present very little relative interest, I will give some examples of the results I have obtained personally. I will give them simply as indications, for, none of the facts I have observed present, so far, any real interest, except the one I was able to analyse, and even this contains nothing of a transcendental nature.
I myself have often tried to write with the planchette. I obtained words and incoherent phrases, all extremely commonplace. I wrote alone or with others; alone, I obtained it with the left as well as with the right hand. The left hand sometimes gives mirror-writing,Spiegelschrift; with the planchette, the left hand generally writesin the usual manner from left to right. One point to be noted with planchette-writing, is the dissociation of the graphic elements. The letters are as a rule fairly large, varying from an eighth of an inch to nearly an inch. It is chiefly in capital letters we find the dissociation curious. The characteristics of my hand-writing are not altered. I will add that this manifestation does not present much interest, for I am perfectly conscious of what I write when alone, and when I write with another person, the movements of the planchette indicate to me what letters are being formed.
With the ball and handles, of which I gave a description, I once observed a curious fact. I was experimenting with a lady and her husband; the former is a medium whose faculties are above the average. The writing announced the reception of a letter from Hendaye on the morrow. The letter came; but to demonstrate the premonitory feature of this fact, I have only the affirmation of my co-experimenters, and although they are people of unimpeachable probity, their affirmation alone would be insufficient to establish the reality of the premonition in a positive manner. Therefore, I only give it as a specimen of the facts which may be obtained with automatic writing.
I have often observed ordinary writing, but I have never obtained a veridic paranormal fact in this way. I have, as I said, studied a case of semi-automatic writing, and was able to analyse its psychological features thoroughly. The writer was what spiritualists call anintuitivemedium, that is to say, he was conscious of what he wrote. He was thirty-five years of age, and had never indulged in spiritistic practices before, though heknew the literature, especially Allan Kardac’s works. At the time the phenomenon manifested itself with him, he was mentally overdone through excess of brain work. He occupied an important official position. Apparently he has no nervous defect, and, except for frequent headaches, his health is good. I have not been able to study his reflex movements, nor examine him from a somatic point of view.
He commenced writing with the planchette; he had a sensation of being guided, but knew what he wrote and what he was going to write. There was, therefore, a beginning of dissociation between the mental images, properly so called, and their motor action. This fact should be noted, because it seems to me to have an interesting signification, in so far as it demonstrates that the ideomotor image is not simple, but has complex elements, and, notably, that elements which are purely ideal and motor elements can become dissociated. In the example cited, the sensitive was fully conscious of theideaswhich were formed in, or which presented themselves to, his consciousness. On the contrary, he was not fully conscious of the movements his hand made. The stereognostic perception and the muscular sense were intact; only the consciousness of the origin of the accomplished movement was obscure; therefore, it was only the sphere of voluntary motor power in the personal consciousness which was touched.
The first manifestations of pseudo-automatic writing claimed to emanate from a deceased relation. This relation was quite disposed to communicate facts known to the sensitive, but manifested very little eagerness to answer questions which the sensitive’s consciousness couldnot answer. Invited to justify his identity, the personality showed itself incapable of giving the slightest proof.
Meanwhile, the sensitive tried ordinary writing, and obtained it. It presented the same features as planchette-writing. A new personification came and assisted the deceased relation—he was nothing less than a Mahatma from India! At this time the sensitive was reading the works of Madame Blavatsky and Mr. Sinnett, especially the latter’sOccult World. The communications were signedHymaladar. This Mahatma presented nothing of transcendental interest, and was lavish with his promises. He declared he was ready to undertake the exoteric education of the sensitive, who, in hisnaïveté, yielded to the Mahatma’s advice. The Mahatma promised to transport him actually over to India, to precipitate letters, etc. The promises were never fulfilled.
Other personifications manifested; the sensitive tried to obtain some proofs of identity, but without success. On the other hand the personifications were verbose on general topics, and gave proof of a lively imagination. Here are some specimens of their style and ideas.
A guide, signing himselfMemnon, expressed the following opinion upon a certain mysticbook:—
‘... Do not allow yourself to be led away by its descriptions: they apply to all those who, in no matter what religion, devote themselves to a contemplative life, which is, assuredly, a blessing, but one which must be won by patience and effort. When the duties common to every man born of the flesh have been fulfilled, abstention from the imperious duty of procreation can, and really does, favour the faculty for projection of the soul, and rendersecstasyeasier; but not only is such adevelopment artificial, it is also reprehensible to arrive at that contemplative life, without having founded a family in compliance with the imprescriptible law of nature. Herein lies the original vice of all religious communities which offend creation’s views; it would suffice to generalise the doctrine to discover its falseness immediately. Man has physical as well as moral duties to accomplish: he is composed of a body and a soul; he is culpable when he subordinates one of his composing parts to the other. The senses have no more the right to command the body than the soul has of making the body suffer in its physical functions. The suppression of any natural function is criminal, and every religious order does this. This is their capital error. He who has raised children and satisfied the physical evolution, he alone has the right to withdraw from the world, to lead a contemplative life, when the body, worn out by old age, has finished its active rôle here below. It is only then that preparation is useful.’
The pencil was verbose every time general subjects were broached. Whenever the sensitive pressed the personification on some given point, the latter was silent—he disappeared. The questions were written as well as the replies. There are some amusing conversations, where the ‘spirit’ plays a rôle other than that of simple interlocutor. By way of specimen, I note the followingdialogue:—
Q. Do you see me?
A. Yes, but badly; we do not see matter clearly; a long apprenticeship is necessary, and we have not been working long with matter.
Q. Is it long since you left your sphere?
A. Eight years.
Q. Who are you?
A. Monsieur A.
Q. And?
A. And Mamie Beaupuyat.
Q. You have known me?
A. Yes, I was one of your college friends.
Q. Where?
A. At N.
Q. What college?
A. Z. College.
Q. Will you write your name again?
A. Maurice B. (here the name of a street).
Q. I do not remember having known you my friend. Remark this, you have given me two different names, Beaupuyat and B.
A. Many details are forgotten in Paradise (sic).
Q. Ah! strange ambassador! You come to see me without letters of credit!
A. Good-bye.
Q. Good-night.
The subconscious excuse for the contradiction pointed out is not wanting in humour.
Here is anotherexample:—
Q. Are my guides here?
A. We are always at hand to help you, always.
Q. Will you show yourselves to me?
A. Ought you to ask us for anything before giving us tokens?
......
Q. Is it X. who is influencing me?
A. Yes.
Q. But he is dead?
A. Yes.
Q. But you forbid me to evoke the dead?
A. We are the spirits of dead people.
Q. But you told me you were Mahatmas?
A. We areMahatmas, butMahatmasare not living.
Q. Is it again a trick of my subliminal?
A. Yes, your subliminal is the will.
Q. Yes, it is true, but the will is chiefly superliminal.
A. You are right.
Q. Why do you always make fun of me?
A. We do so to please the Lord.
Q. This is cruel. I am in earnest, and your lord, if he be just, will punish you severely for your farces.
A. Yes, he will give us the whip.
Q. I do not like this joking, leave me.
A. Always ... (illegible).
Q. What?
A. Magician.
Q. Am I a magician?
A. Yes.
Q. I did not know it.
A. Always do good, and you will be happy.
Q. Happiness is not so easy to obtain.
A. Good-bye.
Q. Who are you?
A. A friend.
This is simply nonsense. I have quoted these three examples in order to show the growing analogy found therein with the delirium of dream. It is scarcely visiblein the first quotation, which is coherent, logical and of fairly elegant form. But the ideas which are expressed have their sources in subconscious souvenirs: they will be found inSpirit Teachings,Higher Aspects of Spiritualism,Occult World, andEsoteric Buddhism.
The second quotation reveals decided oneiroscopic associations. The name Beaupuyat awakens no souvenir; the name of a street having nearly the same assonance is then substituted for it; this is an illogical association, formed by phonetic elements. The explanation of the contradiction between the names given successively is very illogical, but it is what might be called ‘a good hit.’ This is one of our ways of reasoning with ourselves in dreams.
The third quotation shows a still more marked degree of incoherence. The first replies are attempts at conciliation of contradictions impossible to do away with: they are affirmations which are but echoes of the questions asked. I do not quite understand the association between subliminal and will; but the emergence of the idea of will gives place to a curious phenomenon: the evolution of a parasitical association of ideas bringing to mind the psychological phenomenon which A. Pick describes under the name ofVorbeidenken. We have non-expressed stages, from will to ‘God’s will,’ words which are often associated together in religious language: ‘to do the will of God, to be agreeable to God.’ The incoherent reply, which consists in saying that the Mahatmas make fun of the subject in order to be agreeable to God, is then the last link of a chain of latent associations; this last link is the only one shown. Also, the incongruous idea of beings who call themselves spirits and wise men, and declare they must bewhipped, is the result of an evident association between the idea of being severe consciously expressed, and the idea of severity, chastisement, whip, average latent terms. The psychological analysis, therefore, reveals to us mental processes which are known and classed. It shows us, that the dream character of subconscious messages does not differ from that observed in the mental operations of the consciousness, as soon as the latter’s personal and voluntary activity becomes weakened or gradually gives place to spontaneous ideation. I think the three examples I have chosen show this progressive debilitation very well, and also the corresponding accentuation of the characteristics of dream in the messages obtained. The case I examined is at the limit of paranormal facts, but the inquisitive reader has at his disposal the weighty analysis of the transcendental cases published in theProceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, epitomised by M. Sage in his bookMrs. Piper et la Société Anglo-Américaine des Recherches Psychiques, to verify the accuracy of my conclusion, viz. that the mental processes in simple cases, as well as in the more complex cases, are identical.
I return to the case observed by me. The obstinacy of even the best and most moral of these personalities in refusing to expose themselves to any control whatsoever, the falsehoods they were imprudent enough to overlook, and the critical attitude of mind of the sensitive himself, awakened a spirit of distrust in the latter. He began to observe himself, and the first result of his observation of the conditions under which the writing was produced, was the gradual disappearance ofthe sensation of impulse which he had felt: his pencil, he told me, had seemed to follow a magnet. As this sensation weakened and disappeared, so the personifications affected to be either grievously pained, or cold and dignified, or frankly insolent; they all deplored the sensitive’s incredulity. The relation bade him adieu and appeared no more; Hymaladar himself ceased to be interested in hischela. The sensitive soon saw the futility of his efforts, and the writing ceased completely to present the peculiarity it had offered during several weeks.
This case is instructive, because it is on the borderline between conscious and unconscious phenomena. Thanks to the clear and complete indications on the part of the sensitive, I was able to reconstitute the genesis of every personality. That of the relation is easily explained, but Hymaladar was more rebellious to analysis. Upon investigation it appeared to me to be the synthesis of the words Hymalaya and Damodar. The one, which quite naturally evokes the thought of India, is the dwelling-place of the sages who, it appears, preside in a very secret manner at the evolution of the theosophical movement; the disciple orchelaof one of them was the guru, the master of Madame Blavatsky. His name was Damodar. The associated ideas—Blavatsky, India, Hymalaya, Damodar—lead up to the wordHymala(ya Damo)dar; the genesis of the word is thus quite comprehensible.
At present I am observing a more complex case, in which paranormal phenomena accompany automatic writing. The sensitive, who is in the act of developing his medianity, unfortunately gives himself up ratherunwillingly to observation. He does not know English, yet he has automatically written certain phrases in English. However, we must not conclude therefrom, that these messages are of transcendental origin. This sensitive is a well-educated person, and most probably English words and phrases have fallen under his eyes from time to time; thus the irruption of English in messages he obtains may be explained by the emergence of subconscious souvenirs. The tenor of the messages is still vague; the writing is often difficult to read; no precise fact capable of being analysed and verified has so far been given. It appears to me useless, in these circumstances, to give examples of these messages, but I will point out an interesting peculiarity which I have observed only with this sensitive. This is the concomitancy of raps and automatic writing. I have most carefully studied these raps; they appear to me to occur on a level with the point of the pencil. The phenomenon is forthcoming in broad daylight, and under excellent conditions of observation. An attentive examination shows that the point of the pencil does not leave the paper. The raps are forthcoming even when I put my finger on the upper end of the pencil, and when I press the point on the paper. The pencil vibrates, but it is not displaced. As these raps are very sonorous, I have calculated that it would be necessary to give rather a strong knock in order to reproduce them artificially: the necessary movement would require raising the pencil from the twentieth to the eighth of an inch, according to the intensity of the raps. Now, the pencil does not appear to be displaced. Further, when the writing runs quickly the raps succeed one anotherwith great rapidity, and the close examination of the writing reveals no stops; the text is unbroken, no trace of pencil dots is perceptible, there is no thickening of the characters. The conditions of observation appear to me to exclude the possibility of a trick. I will add that during this automatic writing the arm and hand of the sensitive are in a state of anæsthesia.
3. Phonetic and mixed automatisms. I combine these two categories of automatisms because the automatism is seldom purely phonetic. The sensitive makes gestures appropriate to the personage he represents, and the automatism is complicated; the muscles which regulate the emission of the voice are not the only ones in activity.
This kind of automatism is very easy to observe. It is the basis of ordinary spiritistic seances; it is called ‘incarnation’ or ‘control,’ and the sensitive, who produces this kind of phenomena, is called a ‘trance medium.’
Its necessary condition is the trance or somnambulistic state. The sensitive falls asleep spontaneously, or is put to sleep artificially by passes. After a certain time, more or less long, and after diverse movements, the most usual of which seem to be muscular contractions of the face and pharynx, the sensitive enters into somnambulism and passes into the secondary state. Some subjects fall asleep very quickly. It is not a rare thing in spiritistic seances, for two or three persons to enter into a state of somnambulism at the same time. The perfection of the sensitive’s acting, when personifying diverse individualities, is most striking when they have known the persons they are imitating. Observationis extremely interesting. In spiritistic seances these personalities, naturally, always represent spirits.
I have seen nothing in this order of phenomenon which appeared to me worth noting. Everything is easily explained by the play of impersonal memory and by imitation. Many transcendental facts have been related to me: personally I have observed none. But I have very rarely tried to provoke trance phenomena. They do not present the same interest to me as physical phenomena do. The most interesting I have seen, were given me by Madame Agullana, in private seances. This sensitive’s most curious personality is that of a doctor, who died about eighty or a hundred years ago: he has always refused to give any information concerning his identity; the reason he advances for maintaining his incognito—the existence of his family, members of whom are living in the south of France—does not satisfy me; I imagine he is withholding the best. His medical language is archaic. He calls plants by their ancient medical names; his diagnosis, accompanied with extra-ordinary explanations, is generally correct, but the description of the internal symptoms which he perceives is such as would astound a doctor of the twentieth century. Matters, fluids, molecules, dance a strange saraband. Nevertheless, my colleague from beyond the tomb—not at all loquacious, by the way—retains a serenity, which is proof against everything, and humbly recognises that there are many things he does not know. During the ten years I have been observing him, he has not changed, and presents a logical continuity which is most striking. Persons, who are notau courantwith the features of secondary personalities, might easily bedeceived and believe in his objective reality. Be he what he says he is, or be he what I suspect him to be, that is to say, one of the sensitive’s secondary personalities, myconfrèreHippolytus is an interesting interlocutor, and, with his conversation, one could write a work on clinical medicine which would be rather out of the common. This is not the place to study him, for his examination only raises problems of psychological interest. In these phenomena of mixed automatism, of ‘incarnation,’ we observe the complete development ofpersonifications. These personifications are the feature common to all psychical phenomena. Raps claim to emanate from a given personality, paranormal movements have the same pretension, automatic script assures us of a like origin: ‘incarnation’ or ‘control’ puts forth the claim of being the personality himself, in full possession of the sensitive’s body, directing and using it as he pleases.
The problem which these personifications set before us is, perhaps, the most interesting of all those which are to be met with, in the kind of study to which this book is consecrated. I have pointed out, that the general feature of these personifications is to present themselves as living—or more usually deceased human beings. My observations do not tend to make me think that this claim is well founded. It does not come within the scheme of my work to analyse the different hypotheses, which have been emitted by the different mystic schools. Occultists profess to see astral shells, in these personifications, debris—still organised—of the body’s astral double, which the superior principles have abandoned. Theosophists have about the same theory, designating thesedebris by the name of elementals. Spiritists attribute their phenomena to the spirits of the dead. Roman Catholics see the intervention of the devil therein, while the greater number of savants only see fraud or chimera. All these opinions are too absolute. There is, certainly, something; but I think this something is neither spirit, shell, elemental nor demon. It is not my province to formulate in detail my theory: properly speaking, I have not any. I observe without bias of any kind, and the only indication I can give is the following:—in almost every case I have studied, I believe I recognised the mentality of the medium and the sitters in the personification. It is true, there are certain cases which I cannot explain in this way; but the spirit hypothesis explains them still less satisfactorily. We must continue seeking.
The examples I have given of intellectual phenomena show that in every case of which I have been able to make a thorough analysis, we discover the action of the impersonal consciousness. This explains itself naturally, since the personal and voluntary consciousness excludes by definition the co-existence of a second personality. Nevertheless, this is not absolutely true. The medium, of whom I have already spoken, he who produces raps when writing, writes automatically while he speaks, in quite a natural way, of other things. In fact, he only writes well when his attention is drawn away from his hand. As soon as he is conscious of the movement, the writing ceases. Things happen with him, as though the normal consciousness lost all contact with the motor centres of the arm and hand. A special consciousness appears to be developed in these centres.
The difficulty, which is raised by the interpretation of facts of the kind exposed above, is considerable. It is to be remembered, that the sensitive of whom I have just spoken, does not appear to suffer any diminution of his normal personality; he converses with facility, his normal personal souvenirs and his intelligence remain intact. His arm and hand alone, especially the latter, are withdrawn from consciousness, and this in the sensitive as well as in the motor spheres. Janet sees in these facts psychological disaggregation, and in many cases his explication is the correct one. But it cannot be applied to the case I am speaking of, for no diminution in the memory, intelligence or mental activity is perceptible. However, Janet seems to have only seen one of the phases of these curious phenomena. I attach so much importance to the establishing of thepoint de faitthat, before all analysis thereof, I desire to state it precisely, successively with the discussion.
The first circumstance of fact which observation of the case I am examining reveals, is the one I have just pointed out: an apparent dissociation of the normal personality, from the cenesthesic consciousness of which a portion of the body is withdrawn. The second circumstance is the relative knowledge of English—with correct orthography excepting one mistake only—which is shown by the apparently self-governed limb. Note also that I feel sure that this knowledge of English is probably subconscious, and that I have supposed, although this has not been proved, that the writer hasnow and then come across a few English sentences, containing the phrases written by him. These two circumstances are, for me, observed facts.
From these facts there results a third fact, the consequence of the first two: the consciousness, which directs the limb withdrawn from the personality, appears to have more considerable resources—at least from a memory point of view—than the normal consciousness. If it be correct to speak of apparent disaggregation in that which concerns the conscious normal personality, it seems to me that this expression ceases to represent the facts, as soon as it can be demonstrated, that the consciousness manifested by the automatism is more extensive than the normal consciousness. If we are to attach a precise meaning to language—and Janet’s language is so clear and simple that we may not accuse this elegant and remarkable writer of want of precision—the idea of disaggregation implies the division of the personal consciousness into elementary parts, according to definition, lesser than the whole. This phenomenon is frequently observed,e.g.when automatic writing shows itself to be incapable of logical co-ordination, of which I have given examples; sometimes there is no trace of thought, properly so called,e.g.when the sensitive confines himself to repeatingsine diethe same letter, or traces nothing but lines, and strokes, etc. But can we consider the case as one of veritable disaggregation where the hand, withdrawn from normal consciousness, appears to dispose of a greater mass of souvenirs than the normal consciousness does?
Janet himself has verified the fact, and gives some examples of it in his work,Névroses et idées fixes, voli.After that, is it not contradictory to say (Automatisme psychologique, p. 452): ‘The result of our studies has been to bring back the diverse phenomena of automatism to their essential conditions—most of these phenomena depend upon a state of anæsthesia or abstraction. This state is connected with the narrowing of the field of consciousness, and this narrowing itself is due to the feebleness of synthesis and the disaggregation of the mental compound into diverse groups smaller than they should normally be. These diverse points are easy to verify; the state of abstraction, incoherence, of disaggregation, in a word, of suggestible individuals has often been pointed out.’ How can a group, smaller than the mental compound of which it forms one of the parts, be more considerable than that compound? How can a part be greater than its whole? This is, nevertheless, a fact easily verifiable in the domain of memory and sometimes in that of intelligence. Janet’s theory explains only some of the observable facts; it is only partially true. It suffices to compare the quotation I have just given with what he says in his work,Névroses et idées fixes, vol.i.p. 137: ‘The souvenir even in somnambulism only exists if the patient be oblivious to everything and replies automatically to questions, by the mechanical association of ideas without reflection, without the personal perception of what he is doing.
‘... The souvenir, in a word, is only manifested unknown to the person: it disappears when the person has to speak or write in his own name, conscious of what he is doing.’ For Janet this is the sign of mental disaggregation.
The quotations I have just given define sharply Janet’s opinion, and show up his mistake and his contradiction. That which becomes disaggregated is thepersonality, thepersonal consciousness. But it does not become resolved into groups smaller than they ought normally to be, since these groups often show themselves to be more comprehensive than the mental compound. It is, therefore, illogical to consider them as a part which has become dissociated from the whole.
I have already had occasion to express my manner of thinking in other writings: nevertheless, perhaps I may be permitted to indicate the direction which psychological interpretation should take in order to avoid an encounter with facts.
The personal consciousness is only one of the modalities of the general consciousness. Clinical observation reveals that, in a great many cases, it has been proved, that the souvenirs stored up in the general consciousness are infinitely more numerous, than those which the personal consciousness has at its free disposition. Myers has expressed these ideas most happily in the following words (‘The Subliminal Consciousness,’Proceedings, S. P. R.,vii.p. 301):—
‘I suggest, then, that the stream of consciousness in which we habitually live is not the only consciousness which exists in connection with our organism. Our habitual or empirical consciousness may consist of a mere selection from a multitude of thoughts and sensations, of which some at least are equally conscious with those that we empirically know. I accord no primacy to my ordinary waking self, except that among my potential selves this one has shown itself the fittest tomeet the needs of common life. I hold that it has established no further claim, and that it is perfectly possible that other thoughts, feelings, and memories, either isolated or in continuous connection, may now be actively conscious, as we say, ‘within me’—in some kind of co-ordination with my organism, and forming some part of my total individuality. I conceive it possible that at some future time, and under changed conditions, I may recollect all; I may assume these various personalities under one single consciousness, in which ultimate and complete consciousness the empirical consciousness which at this moment directs my hand may be only one element out of many.’
He appears to me to be nearer the truth than Janet is: I do not know if we shall ever arrive at that complete consciousness which Myers hopes for, but it seems to me probable, that our personal consciousness is only one element of our general consciousness. This latter becomes concrete and definite, but also grows less by becoming personal. The apparent supremacy of the personal consciousness may be only an effect of the circumstances in which we are evolving; if Darwin’s ideas are true, we can understand that the necessities of life may have favoured the development of the active, voluntary, personal consciousness; we can imagine other conditions—which the monastic life sometimes realises—where the active and voluntary phases of the general consciousness may be less evolved than its receptive and passive phases. Therefore, the psychologist finds the study of hagiography teeming with information.
Janet’s disaggregation is but the weakening of the sentiment of the conscious and voluntary personalactivity, of what I called the sentiment of the personal participation in intercurrent psychological phenomena. It is no veritable disaggregation; it is a disappearance of one modality of the consciousness, of one of itslimited expressions, so to speak. However, I recognise, with Janet, that this mode of expression of the consciousness is the necessary basis of our activity inordinary life, and that it is legitimate to consider as invalids, those persons in whom it is normally wanting. But the fact itself of its disappearance has more the features of anintegrationthan of adisintegration, since upon an attentive examination, the personal consciousness is revealed as a limitation and a special determination of the general consciousness of which it is, in a way, a dismemberment. If I dared to use metaphysical language, I would say that rational and voluntary activity is in reality a disaggregation; personality is only a contingent and limited manifestation of the being, or rather of individuality. This latter, to use the expression of an eminent philosopher, would be superior to reason itself, and of irrational essence, an idea which contains the first principles of a new philosophy. I make this incursion into metaphysics merely to show how narrow Janet’s theories are, and what different consequences result from such a professional manner of thinking as his is, and from a more general conception of that, of which his manner of thinking only concerns one particular case.
The facts, moreover, condemn Janet’s theory. I have too high an opinion of the distinguished man whose ideas I criticise, but whose works I admire sincerely, not to be convinced that he has only observedundeveloped subjects. What demonstrates this in my eyes is his timid affirmation, that ‘nearly always (I do not say always in order not to prejudice an important question) these mediums are neurotics, when they are not downright hysterics.’ It is difficult to discuss an opinion expressed with so much reserve, and I can only commend him for his circumspection, for my personal observations contradict his. I have seen many mediums: the best were notneuroticsin the medical sense of the word. The finest experiments I have made have been with persons appearing to present none of the stigmæ of hysteria. Up to the present Janet seems to have operated with invalids only, and I am not surprised, therefore, that he should assimilate the automatic phenomena of sensitives with those of his hysterical patients. It would be surprising were it otherwise. I am not going to defend spiritistic mediums; they appear to me to present very poor interest—at least in ordinary seances—but my duty is to protest against the generality of the judgment which Janet brings to bear upon automatic phenomena. Those facts, which are worthy of careful observation, differ essentially from those which ordinary hysterics present. They indicate nomisère psychologique—quite the contrary, and I will state the reasons why.
The discussion, in order to be clear, must be divided:
1. The phenomena observable with good mediums are not those we observe in hysterical patients. I said I had obtained raps and movements without contact under conditions of control, which appeared to me to be convincing. I added that I had obtained by raps, or by the rappings of a table without contact, words andphrases which were extremely coherent. This is not quite the kind of phenomena to which hospital patients have accustomed us. What does Janet say on this point?
‘The essential point of spiritism is indeed, we believe, the disaggregation of psychological phenomena, and the formation beyond the personal perception of a second series of thoughts detached from the first. As for the means which the second personality employs to manifest itself unknown to the first—movements of tables, automatic writing or speaking, etc....—this is a secondary question (sic). Where do those sounds come from which are heard on tables and walls in answer to questions? Is it from a movement of the toes, of that contraction of the tendon supposed by Jobert de Lamballe...? Is it from a contraction of the stomach and from a veritable ventriloquism as Gros. Jean supposes, or from some other physical action yet unknown? Are they produced by the automatic movements of the medium himself, or, indeed, as appears to me most likely in some cases,in the obscurity demanded by the spirits(!) by the subconscious actions of one of the assistants, who deceives others and himself at the same time, and who becomes an accomplice without knowing it? It does not matter very much.’
That is not my opinion. I think, on the contrary, it matters a great deal. I am positive that every sincere and patient experimenter will observe, as I have done, in broad daylight, and not in obscurity, sounds and movements which will not appear to be explicable by any known cause. Those who, like myself, haveverified these facts, will not dream of attributing them to unconscious or involuntary movements, to the cracking of a tendon, to ventriloquism. The cases observed by me will not admit of this explanation. Things happen as though some force or other were produced by the medium and the assistants, and could act beyond the limits of the body. If this fact be correct, can we consider it as secondary and without importance? On the contrary, does it not open to the psychology of the future the road of direct observation and experimentation, if, as I have tried to show, this force preserves certain relations with our general consciousness? Does this not make one think of those words of Proclus when speaking ofsouls:—