happened a few moments before the man was wounded; but this human
automaton (so to call him, without theorising as to his actual
condition) goes through other performances. He has a good voice, and
was at one time a singer in a _café_. 'In one of his abnormal states he
was observed to begin humming a tune. He then went to his room, dressed
himself carefully, and took up some parts of a periodical novel which
lay on his bed, as if he were trying to find something. Dr. Mesnet,
suspecting that he was seeking his music, made up one of these into a
roll and put it into his hand. He appeared satisfied, took up his cane
and went downstairs to the door. Here Dr. Mesnet, turned him round, and
he walked quite contentedly in the opposite direction, towards the room
of the _concierge_. The light of the sun shining through a window now
happened to fall upon him, and seemed to suggest the footlights of the
stage on which he was accustomed to make his appearance. He stopped,
opened his roll of imaginary music, put himself into the attitude of a
singer, and sung, with perfect execution, three songs, one after the
other. After which he wiped his face with his handkerchief and drank,
without a grimace, a tumbler of strong vinegar and water which was put
into his hand.'
But the most remarkable part of the whole story is that which follows.
'Sitting at a table in one of his abnormal states, Sergeant F. took
up a pen, felt for paper and ink, and began to write a letter to his
general, in which he recommended himself for a medal on account of
his good conduct and courage.' (Rather a strange thing, by the way,
for a mere automaton to do.) 'It occurred to Dr. Mesnet to ascertain
experimentally how far vision was concerned in this act of writing. He
therefore interposed a screen between the man's eyes and his hands;
under these circumstances, F. went on writing for a short time, but the
words became illegible, and he finally stopped, without manifesting
any discontent. On the withdrawal of the screen, he began to write
again where he had left off. The substitution of water for ink in the
inkstand had a similar result. He stopped, looked at his pen, wiped it
on his coat, dipped it in the water, and began again with a similar
result. On another occasion, he began to write upon the topmost of
ten superimposed sheets of paper. After he had written a line or two,
this sheet was suddenly drawn away. There was a slight expression of
surprise, but he continued his letter on the second sheet exactly as if
it had been the first. This operation was repeated five times, so that
the fifth sheet contained nothing but the writer's signature at the
bottom of the page. Nevertheless, when the signature was finished, his
eyes turned to the top of the blank sheet, and he went through the form
of reading what he had written--a movement of the lips accompanying
each word; moreover, with his pen, he put in such corrections as were
needed, in that part of the blank page which corresponded with the
position of the words which required correction in the sheets which had
been taken away. If the five sheets had been transparent, therefore,
they would, when superposed, have formed a properly written and
corrected letter. Immediately after he had written his letter, F. got
up, walked down to the garden, made himself a cigarette, lighted and
smoked it. He was about to prepare another, but sought in vain for his
tobacco-pouch, which had been purposely taken away. The pouch was now
thrust before his eyes and put under his nose, but he neither saw nor
smelt it; when, however, it was placed in his hand, he at once seized
it, made a fresh cigarette, and ignited a match to light the latter.
The match was blown out, and another lighted match placed close before
his eyes, but he made no attempt to take it; and if his cigarette was
lighted for him, he made no attempt to smoke. All this time his eyes
were vacant, and neither winked nor exhibited any contraction of the
pupil.'
These and other similar experiments are explained by Dr. Mesnet (and
Professor Huxley appears to agree with him) by the theory that F. 'sees
some things and not others; that the sense of sight is accessible to
all things which are brought into relation with him by the sense of
touch, and, on the contrary, insensible to all things which lie outside
this relation.' It seems to me that the evidence scarcely supports
this conclusion. In every case where F. appears to see, it is quite
possible that in reality he is guided entirely by the sense of touch.
All the circumstances accord much better with this explanation than
with the theory that the sense of sight was in any way affected. Thus
the sunlight shining through the window must have affected the sense of
touch, and in a manner similar to what F. had experienced when before
the footlights of the stage, where he was accustomed to appear as a
singer. In this respect there was a much closer resemblance between
the effect of sunlight and that of the light from footlights, than in
the circumstances under which both sources of light affect the sense
of sight. For in one case the light came from above, in the other from
below; the heat would in neither case be sensibly localised. Again,
when a screen was interposed between his eyes and the paper on which
he was writing, he probably became conscious of its presence in the
same way that a blind man is conscious of the presence of objects near
him, even (in some cases) of objects quite remote, by some subtle
effects discernible by the sense of touch excited to abnormal relative
activity in the absence of impressions derived from the sense of
sight. It is true that one might have expected him to continue writing
legibly, notwithstanding the interposed screen; but the consciousness
of the existence of what in his normal condition would effectually
have prevented his writing legibly, would be sufficient to explain
his failure. If, while in full possession of all our senses, the
expectation of failure quite commonly causes failure, how much more
likely would this be to happen to a man in F.'s unfortunate abnormal
condition. The sense of touch again would suffice to indicate the
presence of water instead of ink in his pen when he was writing. I
question whether the difference might not be recognised by any person
of sensitive touch after a little practice; but certainly a blind
man, whose sense of touch was abnormally developed, would recognise
the difference, as we know from experiments which have indicated even
greater delicacy of perception than would be required for this purpose.
The experiment with superposed sheets of paper is more remarkable than
any of the others, but certainly does not suggest that light makes
any impression upon Sergeant F. It proves, in fact, so far as any
experiment could prove such a point, that the sense of touch alone
regulates the man's movements. Unconscious of any change (because,
after the momentary surprise produced by the withdrawal of the paper,
he still found he had paper to write on), he continued writing. He
certainly did not in this case, as Dr. Mesnet suggests, see all things
which are brought into relation with him by the sense of touch; for if
he had, he would not have continued to write when he found the words
already written no longer discernible.
On the whole, it appears reasonable to conclude, as Professor Huxley
does, that though F. may be conscious in his abnormal state, he may
also be a mere automaton for the time being. The only circumstance
which seems to oppose itself very markedly to the latter view is the
letter-writing. Everything else that this man did was what he had
already done prior to the accident. If it could be shown that the
letters written in his abnormal state were transcripts, not merely
_verbatim et literatim_, but exact in every point, of some which he
had written before he was wounded, then a strong case would be made
out for the automaton theory. Certainly, few instances have come under
the experience of scientific men where a human being has so closely
resembled a mere machine as this man appears to do in his abnormal
condition.
The moral nature of F. in his abnormal condition is for this reason
a matter of less interest than it would be, did he show more of the
semblance of conscious humanity. Still it is worthy of notice, that,
whereas in his normal condition he is a perfectly honest man, in
his abnormal state 'he is an inveterate thief, stealing and hiding
away whatever he can lay hands on with much dexterity, and with an
absolutely absurd indifference as to whether the property is his own or
not.'
It will be observed that the cases of dual consciousness thus far
considered, though alike in some respects, present characteristic
divergences. In that of the boy at Norwood, the two characters were
very similar, so far as can be judged, and each life was distinct
from the other. The next case was only introduced to illustrate the
resemblance in certain respects between the phenomena of somnambulism
and those of double or rather alternating consciousness. The woman
Felida X. changed markedly in character when she passed from one state
to the other. Her case was also distinguished from that of the boy by
the circumstance that in one state she was conscious of what had passed
in the other, but while in this other state was unconscious of what
had passed in the former. Lastly, in Sergeant F.'s case we have to
deal with the effect of an injury to the brain, and find a much greater
difference between the two conditions than in the other cases. Not only
does the man change in character, but it may justly be said that he is
little more than an animal, even if he can be regarded as more than a
mere automaton while in the abnormal condition. We find that a similar
variety characterises other stories of double consciousness. Not only
are no two cases closely alike, but no case has been noted which has
not been distinguished by some very marked feature from all others.
Thus, although in certain respects the case we have next to consider
resembles very significantly the case of Sergeant F., it also has a
special significance of its own, and may help us to interpret the
general problem presented to us by the phenomena of dual consciousness.
I abridge, and in some respects simplify, the account given by Dr.
Carpenter in his interesting treatise on _Mental Physiology_. Comments
of my own are distinguished from the abridged narrative by being placed
within brackets:--
A young woman of robust constitution had narrowly escaped drowning.
She was insensible for six hours, and continued unwell after being
restored to animation. Ten days later she was seized with a fit of
complete stupor, which lasted four hours; when she opened her eyes she
seemed to recognise no one, and appeared to be utterly deprived of
the senses of hearing, taste, and smell, as well as of the power of
speech. Sight and touch remained, but though movements were excited
and controlled by these senses, they seemed to arouse no ideas in her
mind. In fact, her mental faculties seemed entirely suspended. Her
vision at short distances was quick, and the least touch startled her;
but unless she was touched or an object were placed where she could not
help seeing it, she took no notice of what was passing around her. [It
does not appear to me certain that at this stage of her illness she
_saw_ in the ordinary sense of the word; the sense of touch may alone
have been affected, as it certainly is affected to some degree by any
object so placed that _it could not but be seen by a short-sighted
person_. But it is clear that later the sense of sight was restored,
supposing, which is not perhaps probable, that it was ever lost in
the early stage.] She did not even know her own mother, who attended
constantly upon her. Wherever she was placed she remained. Her appetite
was good, but [like F.] she ate indifferently whatever she was fed
with, and took nauseous medicines as readily as agreeable food. Her
movements were solely of the automatic kind. Thus, she swallowed food
put into her mouth, but made no effort to feed herself. Yet when her
mother had conveyed the spoon [in the patient's hand] a few times to
her mouth, the patient continued the operation. It was necessary,
however, to repeat this lesson every time she was fed, showing the
complete absence of memory. 'The very limited nature of her faculties,
and the automatic life she was leading, appear further evident from the
following particulars. One of her first acts on recovering from the
fit had been to busy herself in picking the bedclothes; and as soon
as she was able to sit up and be dressed, she continued the habit by
incessantly picking some portion of her dress. She seemed to want an
occupation for her fingers, and accordingly part of an old straw bonnet
was given to her, which she pulled into pieces with great minuteness;
she was afterwards bountifully supplied with roses: she picked off the
leaves, and then tore them up into the smallest particles imaginable.
A few days subsequently, she began forming upon the table, out of
those minute particles, rude figures of roses, and other common garden
flowers; she had never received any instructions in drawing. Roses
not being so plentiful in London, waste paper and a pair of scissors
were put into her hand, and for some days she found an occupation in
cutting the paper into shreds; after a time these cuttings assumed rude
shapes and figures, and more particularly the shapes used in patchwork.
At length she was supplied with proper materials for patchwork, and
after some initiatory instruction, she took to her needle and to this
employment in good earnest. She now laboured incessantly at patchwork
from morning till night, and on Sundays and week-days, for she knew no
difference of days; nor could she be made to comprehend the difference.
She had no remembrance from day to day of what she had been doing on
the previous day, and so every morning commenced _de novo_. Whatever
she began, that she continued to work at while daylight lasted;
manifesting no uneasiness for anything to eat or drink, taking not the
slightest heed of anything which was going on around her, but intent
only on her patchwork.' From this time she began to improve, learning
like a child to register ideas. She presently learned worsted-work,
and showed delight in the harmony of colours and considerable taste in
selecting between good and bad patterns. After a while she began to
devise patterns of her own. But she still had no memory from day to day
of what she had done, and unless the unfinished work of one day was set
before her on the next, she would begin something new.
And now, for the first time, ideas derived from her life before her
illness seemed to be awakened within her. When pictures of flowers,
trees, and animals were shown her, she was pleased; but when she
was shown a landscape in which there was a river or a troubled sea,
she became violently agitated, and a fit of spasmodic rigidity and
insensibility immediately followed. The mere sight of water in motion
made her shudder. Again, from an early stage of her illness she had
derived pleasure from the proximity of a young man to whom she had been
attached. At a time when she did not remember from one hour to another
what she was doing, she would anxiously await his evening visit, and
be fretful if he failed to pay it. When, during her removal to the
country, she lost sight of him, she became unhappy and suffered from
frequent fits; on the other hand, when he remained constantly near her,
she improved in health, and early associations were gradually awakened.
At length a day came when she uttered her first word in this her second
life. She had learned to take heed of objects and persons around her;
and on one occasion, seeing her mother excessively agitated, she became
excited herself, and suddenly, yet hesitatingly, exclaimed, 'What's the
matter?' After this she began to articulate a few words. For a time she
called every object and person 'this,' then gave their right names to
wild flowers (of which she had been passionately fond when a child),
and this 'at a time when she exhibited not the least recollection of
the "old familiar friends and places" of her childhood.' The gradual
expansion of her intellect was manifested chiefly at this time in signs
of emotional excitement, frequently followed by attacks of spasmodic
rigidity and insensibility.
It was through the emotions that the patient was restored to the
consciousness of her former self. She became aware that her lover
was paying attention to another woman, and the emotion of jealousy
was so strongly excited, that she had a fit of insensibility which
resembled her first attack in duration and severity. But it restored
her to herself. 'When the insensibility passed off, she was no longer
spell-bound. The veil of oblivion was withdrawn; and, as if awakening
from a sleep of twelve months' duration, she found herself surrounded
by her grandfather, grandmother, and their familiar friends and
acquaintances. She awoke in the possession of her natural faculties and
former knowledge; but without the slightest remembrance of anything
which had taken place in the year's interval, from the invasion of
the first fit to the [then] present time. She spoke, but she heard
not; she was still deaf, but being able to read and write as formerly,
she was no longer cut off from communication with others. From this
time she rapidly improved, but for some time continued deaf. She soon
perfectly understood by the motion of her lips what her mother said;
they conversed with facility and quickness together, but she did not
understand the language of the lips of a stranger. She was completely
unaware of the change in her lover's affections which had taken
place in her state of second consciousness; and a painful explanation
was necessary. This, however, she bore very well; and she has since
recovered her previous bodily and mental health.
There is little in this interesting narrative to suggest that the
duality of consciousness in this case was in any way dependent on the
duality of the brain. During the patient's abnormal condition, the
functions of the brain [proper] would seem to have been for a time
in complete abeyance, and then to have been gradually restored. One
can perceive no reason for supposing that the shock she had sustained
would affect one side rather than the other side of the brain, nor why
her recovery should restore one side to activity and cause the side
which (on the dual brain hypothesis) had been active during her second
condition to resume its original activity. The phenomena appear to
suggest that in some way the molecular arrangement of the brain matter
became modified during her second condition; and that when the original
arrangement was restored all recognisable traces of impressions
received while the abnormal arrangement lasted were obliterated. As Mr.
Slack presents one form of this idea, 'the grey matter of the brain may
have its molecules arranged in patterns somewhat analogous to those
of steel filings under the influence of a magnet, but in some way the
direction of the forces--or vibrations--may be changed in them. The
pattern will then be different.' We know certainly that thought and
sensation depend on material processes,--chemical reactions between
the blood and the muscular tissues. Without the free circulation of
blood in the brain, there can be neither clear thought nor ready
sensation. With changes in the nature of the circulation come changes
in the quality of thought and the nature of sensation, and with them
the emotions are changed also. Such changes affect all of us to some
degree. It may well be that such cases as we have been dealing with are
simply instances of the exaggerated operation of causes with which we
are all familiar; and it may also be that in the exaggeration itself
of these causes of change lies the explanation of the characteristic
peculiarity of cases of dual consciousness,--the circumstances, namely,
that either the two states of consciousness are absolutely distinct
one from the other, or that in one state only are events remembered
which happened in the other, no recollection whatever remaining in this
latter state of what happened in the other, or, lastly, that only faint
impressions excited by some intense emotion experienced in one state
remain in the other state.
It seems possible, also, that some cases of another kind may find
their explanation in this direction, as, for instance, cases in which,
through some strange sympathy, the brain of one person so responds to
the thoughts of another that for the time being the personality of the
person thus influenced may be regarded as in effect changed into that
of the person producing the influence. Thus, in one singular case cited
by Dr. Carpenter, a lady was 'metamorphosed into the worthy clergyman
on whose ministry she attended, and with whom she was personally
intimate. I shall never forget,' he says, 'the intensity of the
lackadaisical tone in which she replied to the matrimonial counsels of
the physician to whom he (she) had been led to give a long detail of
his (her) hypochondriacal symptoms: "A wife for a dying man, doctor."
No _intentional_ simulation could have approached the exactness of the
imitation alike in tone, manners, and language, which spontaneously
proceeded from the idea with which the fair subject was possessed,
that she herself experienced all the discomforts whose detail she had
doubtless frequently heard from the real sufferer.' The same lady, at
Dr. Carpenter's request, mentally 'ascended in a balloon and proceded
to the North Pole in search of Sir John Franklin, whom she found alive,
and her description of his appearance and that of his companions was
given with an inimitable expression of sorrow and pity.'