PSYCHO-SENSORY AND INTELLECTUAL PHENOMENA
Under this somewhat vague title I am bringing certain facts together,
which differ greatly from those I have been examining. In reality, the
facts so far related by me refer to material manifestations, and it was
merely as an accessory, that I pointed out the intelligent character
some of these manifestations presented. I will now describe the means
best adapted for obtaining not _physical_ but _intellectual_ phenomena,
properly so-called; that is to say, phenomena which are interesting
solely because of the ideas expressed, or because of the signification
of the images produced, and not at all because of the conditions under
which they are obtained.
I have studied this category of phenomena with less interest than
sonorous, motor or luminous phenomena, where observation is relatively
simple. Intellectual phenomena can only be studied indirectly, and
in order to verify them, we are generally obliged to trust to the
statement of a third person. I think these are bad conditions of
observation. This reserve made, I will divide these phenomena into two
wide categories:—
1. Sensory automatism.
2. Motor automatism.
I. SENSORY AUTOMATISM
I thus designate phenomena produced by the spontaneous activity of
our senses, and which do not appear to be due to exterior excitation.
They border on hallucination. They are observed in the different
sensory spheres. I will only examine olfactory, auditory, and visual
sensations; tactile impressions were studied in the last chapter. As
for gustatory sensations, they are very rare and without interest.
(_a_) _Olfactory sensations._—These consist of a special odour. I have
never observed any in the seances at which I have been present. In one
series, however, the medium associated the odour of Jasmine with the
manifestation of certain personifications. To me this sensation seemed
to be purely subjective; it was constant.
An odour of ozone is often perceived after luminous phenomena have been
obtained, a fact which ought to be borne in mind. It may be compared
with the odour of ozone, perceived in the vicinity of powerful static
machines, which give off electricity at _very high potentiality_. Here
is an analogy which is, perhaps, not altogether fortuitous; these
facts, however, are unintelligible.
(_b_) _Auditory sensations._—I do not speak of sonorous phenomena.
I now enter directly into the study of intellectual phenomena, that
is to say, phenomena having a signification more or less precise and
intelligible.
Auditory phenomena may be divided into two categories: provoked
automatisms, and spontaneous automatisms or _clairaudience_. The first
may be considered as hallucinations induced by diverse methods. The
simplest method consists in the use of certain shells, horns, trumpets,
or, in a word, any object capable of augmenting and allowing the
perception of those external or internal sounds, which are not usually
perceptible to the hearing. This is what is observed particularly with
some sea-shells. When we apply them to the ear, we hear a murmur or
a slight rumbling sound. This sensation is common to every one, and
children are accustomed to play at ‘listening to the sound of the sea
in the sea-shells.’
Some people do not hear this sound, or rather, when they listen,
it quickly disappears and makes way for words and phrases. I
know a subject with whom this faculty exists, but circumstances,
unfortunately, have prevented me from studying him carefully. I point
out, to the attention of observers, the interest which this automatism
presents; the rapidity of communication is very great; in this way
there is a greater output than with automatic writing, and it is
less tiring for the sensitive. The only precaution to observe is to
take down all he says in shorthand. We must accustom him to repeat,
instantly, everything he hears, because words heard in this way are
speedily forgotten—as in dream—but amnesia is not the sole point of
resemblance between this automatism and dream. It has much analogy with
visual automatism, but it has an interesting advantage over the latter.
Visual images are those which offer the highest degree of symbolism;
they are vague, wanting in precision, and require interpretation.
Auditory hallucinations, on the contrary, have greater precision.
Perhaps this is due to language, the usual manner in which auditory
images are revealed. On the other hand, they are not so rich, and
contain less detail than visual images do.
The meaning of auditory messages is seldom very clear; but there are
cases where it is wonderfully so. Such are the chief features of
provoked auditory phenomena. I have given too little attention to
this phase of manifestation, to be able to enter into a more complete
analysis of it.
_Clairaudience_ is more frequent; perhaps this is due to the negligence
of experimenters, who do not think of using the methods of induction I
have just described.
I have rarely observed the existence of isolated auditory
hallucinations; I have always observed them associated with visual
hallucinations; therefore I will study them after these last, when
examining mixed phenomena.
(_c_) _Visual sensations._—Observable, visual phenomena are very
numerous, and have already been the object of exhaustive studies. I
will again divide these into provoked and spontaneous phenomena. Of
course, I am speaking of hallucinations experienced by sensitives out
of seance hours. In this part of my analysis, I am replacing the word
_medium_ by the word _sensitive_, which seems to me to define more
correctly the distinguishing features, of those persons who have the
faculties I am going to describe. This word conveys the correct idea,
that the facts observed belong to the sphere of sensibility.
One of the oldest known methods of inducing visual hallucination is the
use of a crystal ball. I have no need to recall to mind the practices
of former fortune-tellers, nor the history of John Dee, nor the
numerous recitals handed down to us by ancient chroniclers, novelists,
etc. The crystal ball and the black mirror are the best methods; but
the ordinary mirror, a glass of water, a decanter, a shoemaker’s wooden
ball, the finger-nail, the watch-glass, any polished surface, in fact,
may serve to induce hallucination; but I only recommend the first
methods—they are certainly the best; a glass of water, a decanter, a
syphon of seltzer-water, the thumb-nail, polished surfaces, etc., may
serve to induce hallucination, but these last methods only succeed with
very highly sensitive subjects.
I have carefully studied crystal-gazing, and though I have remarked
individual differences in each sensitive, I think I may say that, as
far as working methods are concerned, I have come to the following
conclusions:—
The material of which the object is composed is not a matter of
indifference. Balls of rock-crystal have given me the best results. I
have seen people, incapable of receiving visions with ordinary glass,
obtain them in a tiny ball of natural crystal. Objects in rock-crystal
have the inconvenience of being very expensive.
Ordinary glass gives good results, but care should be taken that
the ball contains no air bubbles or other defects. They must be as
homogeneous as possible.
The ball may be spherical or egg-shaped. I think the elliptical form
is, perhaps, the best; reflections are more easily avoided with this
shape.
The size is a matter of indifference; personally, I prefer rather
large balls. I have, nevertheless, obtained just as good results with
balls of only one centimetre in diameter as with balls of six or seven
centimetres in diameter.
The crystal may be white, blue, violet, yellow, green; it may be
opalescent or transparent; but, I think, the best results are obtained
with white transparent balls; blue or amethyst coloured crystals are
also very good, and tire the eyes less than others.[8]
[8] As crystal-gazing seems to me one of the most curious
phenomena to study, I will take the liberty of mentioning
that well-made crystal balls may be found at Leymarie, 42 Rue
Saint-Jacques, Paris; at the Society for Psychical Research,
20 Hanover Square, London, W.; or Mrs. Venman, Sugden Road,
Lavender Hill, London, S.W. The price of the globes varies from
6s. to 9s.; those of ovoids, from 8s. to 10s. The best thing to
do would be to look for a ball in rock-crystal, the price of
which would vary from 4s. to £8. They must be cut to order, for
it is extremely difficult to find any ready made. M. Servan,
jeweller at Bordeaux, furnishes good ones.
When looking into the ball, it should be sheltered from reflection, as
it should offer a uniform tint, without any brilliant points. To obtain
this result, it may be enveloped in a piece of dark foulard or velvet,
or held in the hollow of the hand, or even at the fingertips, provided
the conditions mentioned above have been observed. The object ought to
be placed within the range of normal vision; the gaze should not be
directed on to the surface of the crystal, but _in the crystal itself_.
The knack of gazing inside the crystal is speedily acquired.
Mirrors also give very good results. They can be made like ordinary
mirrors, or black like the famous mirrors of Bhatta, which are made
of a special composition. Sensitives say that the mirror should not
reflect anything: it should present a uniform tint, _e.g._ that of the
sky, blue or grey, but without the mixture of these colours as would be
the case with a cloudy sky; in a room the ceiling may be reflected, if
it be monochrome.
Under these conditions of operation I have sometimes observed results
so extraordinary, as to confound the imagination. They appeared to
me to tend towards demonstrating Kant’s idea of the relativity and
contingency of time and space. It is very difficult to admit, that
these two ordinates of our perceptions are exactly what they seem to
be, unless we push the theory of coincidence to the absurd. But this
would be shutting the door on all discussion, and on all intelligent
examination of a fact apparently abnormal.
My observations have been made with different persons, and a great many
have been pointed out to me. Sensitives, possessing the faculty of
seeing in the crystal, are not rare. The analysis of the facts I have
observed, or of which I hold first-hand reports, allows me to class
these ‘hallucinations’(?) under six categories of increasing interest:—
_A._ Imagination—images, ordinary hallucination.
_B._ Forgotten souvenirs, recalled to memory in the form of visions.
_C._ Passed events, of which the sensitive affirms to have always been
ignorant.
_D._ Present events, certainly unknown to the sensitive.
_E._ Future events.
_F._ Facts of doubtful interpretation.
This grouping shows the curious gradation observed in these visions.
First of all, disorderly and illogical activity as in dreams; then,
more orderly activity: knowledge of forgotten facts, knowledge of past
events unknown to the sensitive, knowledge of present events unknown to
the sensitive, apparent prescience. I will give some examples.
_A._ Imagination—images are by far the most frequent. This phenomenon
is analogous to ordinary visual hallucination, and seems to me to
present the characteristic features of dream. This is hardly the place
to discuss the state of consciousness during dream; for the form I am
giving my recital would not bear any long psychological analyses. I
will simply confine myself to resuming the conclusions of the detailed
analysis, which I made in a work dealing with this subject.
The consciousness which works habitually in us, that which is
manifested in our everyday life, is the _personal consciousness_.
It is around this that are grouped the souvenirs accessible to our
normal personality, to that part of ourselves which we call ‘I.’
This _personal consciousness_ asserts itself in the highest acts of
the psychic life, in the comparison of images one with another, in
abstraction, judgment, and the voluntary selection of acts, which
appear to us equally possible. This selection is the expression of
our voluntary activity, personally conscious; it is determined by
the comparison of acts between themselves, by the examination of
their probable advantageous or disadvantageous consequences, by the
appreciation of their morality or immorality, according to the social
laws of the day, etc. Personal consciousness is the foundation of all
our intelligent life; practically, it alone appears to exist, and its
disappearance seems to us to annihilate our own personality.
In reality, such is not the case. With certain invalids, complete or
partial modifications of the personal consciousness may be observed.
Sometimes the notion of personality disappears. There are patients
who suddenly forget everything, even to their own name. All their
antecedent life is effaced, and they appear to return to the state they
were in at birth. They have to learn again how to speak, to eat, and
to dress themselves. Sometimes the amnesia is not so complete. I have
been able to observe a patient, who had forgotten everything which had
any connection whatever with his own personality. He was absolutely
ignorant of all he had ever done, did not remember where he was born,
who his parents were, or what his name was. He was thirty years of age.
Organic memory and memories organised apart from the personality
subsisted. He could read, write, draw, and displayed a certain amount
of musical talent. Amnesia, with him, was limited to all facts
connected with his antecedent personality; it presented the type of
systematised losses of memory. This is what is called in medical
phraseology _amnésie de dépersonnalisation_.
In a lesser degree, amnesia only affects limited periods of life.
Epileptics and hysterics often present the phenomenon of _ecmnesia_,
a term chosen by the eminent professor of clinical medicine at the
university of Bordeaux, M. Pitres, who was the first to point out
this phenomenon with hysterical subjects. The patient forgets a part
of his life, believes he is ten, fifteen, thirty years younger than
he really is, and behaves as though he were at the age he thinks he
is. The souvenirs of his ulterior life cease to be accessible to his
conscious personality, which finds itself brought back exclusively to
the elements which constituted it, at the time the ecmnesia carries
him to. Every idea, foreign to that diminished personality, remains
unintelligible to him. In order to make him understand, we must speak
to him only of what he knew at the epoch to which he has been brought
back.
Besides these disappearances or _amoindrissements de la personnalité_
of the personal consciousness, which may be permanent or transitory, we
also observe _qualitative_ without _quantitative_ alterations of the
personal consciousness. These are changes or variations of personality,
which have been well studied in hysterical subjects, but which also
exist in other invalids, notably epileptics and victims of certain
poisons.[9]
[9] Interested readers will find a complete analysis of
these facts in Azam’s celebrated work, _Hypnotisme et double
conscience_, Alcan; in Pitres’ book, _Leçons sur l’hystérie_,
Alcan; and in Janet’s _L’automatisme psychologique_, Alcan. It
is essential to know at least these three books, if we wish to
observe, profitably, the delicate phenomena I am discussing in
this chapter.
To sum up, the personal consciousness is susceptible of total or
partial disappearance, or of being replaced by another consciousness
which can be absolutely foreign to the normal personal consciousness,
or preserve more or less close relationship with it, _e.g._ the patient
who undergoes a change of personality may retain all the souvenirs of
the normal personality A and those of the new personality B. But in
an almost absolute manner the normal personality A is ignorant of all
which concerns B. This is the type of periodical amnesia.
The clinical study of diseases of personality permits observation
of the above facts. I ought to say that, in practice, they do not
present the simplicity of the _schéma_ which I have just given. Curious
problems arise from the nature itself of amnesia, its degree, its
mechanism, problems impossible to treat here.
But the facts I have summarily exposed already reveal an important
truth, which curable, transitory amnesia clearly demonstrates:
this is, that souvenirs can exist in a latent state in the general
consciousness, and be inaccessible to the personal consciousness. Let
us suppose that A forgets the ten previous years of his life—the result
of a fall or nervous crisis. This amnesia will perhaps last for six
months, during which period he will believe himself to have returned to
the age of fifteen, when he is really twenty-five. All the events of
his life between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five will have entirely
disappeared from his memory for six months; then they will, more or
less abruptly, reappear. Their temporary disappearance clearly shows
that these souvenirs have been preserved somewhere, and that they were
not really lost. We cannot affirm that they were accessible to the
general and impersonal consciousness in every case; but nevertheless we
can affirm it for hysteria, according to the observations of Pitres,
Janet, and others; and, according to Régis, for certain poisons. The
facts studied by these savants show, that souvenirs inaccessible to
the normal personality were known to the general consciousness. For
example, an amnesic patient can recover all his souvenirs when he is
put to sleep; this is what Régis has demonstrated even in certain cases
of amnesia from blood-poisoning. Janet, on his side, has established
that these souvenirs, forgotten by the personal consciousness, can be
evoked by certain automatisms (notably automatic writing), and are
therefore at the disposition of the impersonal consciousness, that is
to say, of that general consciousness of which personal consciousness
seems to be only a part.
This fact, which the study of nervous pathology has demonstrated,
is certainly general. The troubles of hysteria and other nervous
diseases only exaggerate a normal phenomenon. Our personality does not
burden itself with all the souvenirs, which our general consciousness
appears to possess: the greater part of the things we have seen,
learned, heard, etc., are forgotten; but this forgetfulness is probably
relative, and only extends to the personal consciousness. It is also
variable, and, according to circumstances, the souvenirs accumulated
in the general consciousness are at one time more accessible to the
personal consciousness, and less so at another time. If the personal
memory be over-excited, _exalté_, we have hypermnesia. The facts
which spring up in the personal consciousness have been so completely
forgotten by it that they sometimes appear to be new; souvenirs present
themselves to the consciousness without being identified by it, and
we commit errors on the localisation of the mnesic image in time and
space; this is what we call _paramnesia_.
The variations of the personal consciousness relative to memory,
whose rôle in the constitution of the personality of the _self_
is preponderant, are therefore translated clinically by amnesiæ,
hypermnesiæ, paramnesiæ; but the variations pointed out are not limited
to memory, they extend to other operations of the mind. I indicated
just now, that the personal consciousness was only a facet of that
more general consciousness existing in us, a consciousness where all
antecedent experiences are piled up, where all our sensations are
registered, be our personal consciousness aware or unaware of them.
This general consciousness is in itself impersonal, at least in
relation to our normal personality. This latter is only one of the
currents which circulate in that consciousness, its preponderance,
as Myers has indicated, is probably only a consequence of its greater
practical utility in daily life, and not an indication of its absolute
superiority; but there is one thing to point out, this is that we
are accustomed to connect with that personal consciousness all the
operations of our usual intelligence. Our reasonings, volitions,
judgments, whatever they may be, are grouped around our conscious
personality, or rather are founded upon its apparent activity. The
consequence is, that every time the sentiment of personality in the
consciousness varies, our reasonings, volitions, and judgments will
vary in the same proportion. Thoughts which come to us will cease to
be chosen by us, and will apparently come of their own accord; their
associations will escape all logic, their succession will be rapid and
incoherent for our personality, which will look on at their evolution
powerless to direct it. The weakening of the sentiment of personal
participation, in the acts of the psychical life, is then translated
by the diminution of our faculty to choose the images evoked in the
consciousness, by the diminution of our power of control over their
evolution, by the helplessness in which we are, not only to judge them
according to the rules of reason, but also to reject the most illogical
interpretations, which offer themselves to us or impose themselves
upon us. In a word, the weakening of the will, of the judgment, is
associated with that of the personal consciousness.
We also observe a corresponding attenuation in the faculty of
abstraction. Ideas are accompanied by their pictured or motor
representations. Sometimes they are only expressed by pictures, and
are presented in a symbolical form, or are dramatised; _e.g._ the idea
of the death of a relative will not be expressed with precision, as
is sometimes the case in verbal or written hallucinations, but by a
picture representing the relation in a coffin, or depicting his burial.
Such are the psychological expressions of the weakening of the personal
element in the consciousness.
We must not conclude, therefrom, that the impersonal consciousness
is incapable of intelligent operation. No such thing; and events
prove that the impersonal or subliminal consciousness is capable of
accomplishing, with great perfection, the most complicated intellectual
acts, without the personal consciousness being aware of it. In these
cases, when the result of the operation is transmitted to the personal
consciousness, this latter perceives it under the symbolical or
dramatical form I pointed out.
Observation shows, that all the features I have just described as being
met with in cases where participation of the personal consciousness
with our mental or physical activity is diminished, are to be found in
hallucination and in dreams.[10]
[10] Readers, interested to know my ideas on this point, will
find them more extensively developed in my book, _L’Amnésie et
les troubles de la conscience dans l‘épilepsie_.
I beg to be excused for this digression; it was indispensable in
order to develop, in a comprehensive manner, the analogies which are
presented between dreams and hallucinations provoked by crystal-gazing,
and the transcendental character which these visions can present,
without being, however, supernatural. These considerations set forth, I
arrive at the recital of some facts I have observed.
The way in which imagination-images or hallucinations are induced,
with most of the sensitives I have examined, is nearly always the same.
I will describe it, pointing out at the same time that the formation of
the hallucinatory image is the same in nearly every case, be the visual
impression imaginary, or be it the expression of a true fact, past,
present, or future.
I have shown how to hold the crystal, and how to look at it. The
sensitive, having fixed his eyes on the crystal for a few seconds or
minutes—the time varies according to individuals—sees an opalescent,
milky tint come over the crystal. I know a sensitive,—an intelligent
and well-educated lady—who compares this impression, to that produced
on the eye by rising mists and fleeting clouds. For her, the milky
tint in the crystal is in movement. It breaks away like a cloud or
mist, to disclose the hallucinatory image completely formed. To another
sensitive, the cloud appears first of all immobile, and then becomes
condensed into grey forms, which gradually become coloured and mobile.
This sensitive enters so completely into the hallucination, that, as
a rule, he thinks he is transported to the landscape he is gazing at;
he has not only a hallucination of sight, but a hallucination of all
the senses. Most people see the image in the crystal, but believe they
see it life-size. The dimension of the crystal has no influence on the
apparent dimension of the image;—at least, this is what I have nearly
always remarked.
What I say of the mode of induction of the image in the crystal can
be applied to any other mode of induction—mirror, glass of water,
decanter, etc.
The cause of the vision is sometimes an association of ideas or
images, which is easy to trace. Here is an example: I was once in a
spiritistic group, and among those present were several sensitives
presenting subconscious or paraconscious automatisms, with the features
of ordinary somnambulism. I begged one young girl, of about fifteen
or sixteen years old, to look into a white crystal ball of four
centimetres in diameter. Almost without transition she saw goldfish
in the ball. Every one knows the spherical bowls in which goldfish
are put; as it happened, there was a bowl of this kind in the room.
The idea of a transparent bowl was naturally associated with that of
goldfish; this subconscious association provoked the visual image of
the fish. Facts of this kind are the simplest; their psychological
mechanism is easy to penetrate; the associations of images are almost
logical, and their dreamlike character is scarcely marked. In the
above case, the impossibility of placing the fish in a crystal ball is
not perceived by the consciousness, which suffers the succession of
images empirically associated; the globe of water containing the fish
resembled in its form and aspect the transparent glass ball; therefore,
the latter evoked the image of the former, and the fish which it
contained. This association is very intelligible.
Here is another example borrowed from experiments I made with a
remarkable sensitive—the one with whom the hallucination becomes
generalised. This person, looking in the crystal, perceived a
railway-station, and saw portmanteaux in the luggage-room. He then
plunged right into the dream, and imagined he was going to take away
his own portmanteau; he entered the luggage-room, took his trunk and
opened it. It contained a particularly horrible dead body, which
leaped out of the portmanteau, and bitterly complained of being
disturbed. It threw itself upon the sensitive, who immediately fled,
pursued by the dead body. After a desperate chase, the sensitive darted
into a road which crossed a park. This park, in reality, is situated at
more than six hundred miles from the railway-station, where he believed
he saw the portmanteaux: this distance had disappeared in the vision.
The dead body took a corresponding road; the two roads met on a hill,
where the persecutor made a dead set at the sensitive; the latter fell,
and the dead body stopped and bent down to strike him. The visionary
gave him a kick in the stomach, and stretched him full length on the
ground. The hallucination then ceased abruptly, and the sensitive found
himself back in his room, in front of the crystal. The vision was so
intense, that he was still upset with fright, and breathless from
running.
This hallucination is of a dreamlike character, and reminds one of
certain kinds of delirium. I have often questioned the sensitive
carefully, in order to try to reconstitute the psychological elements
of his hallucinations, and for this particular hallucination, as I have
related it, I will indicate the result of my inquiry:—
1. The sensitive has often seen dead bodies. He is not afraid of them;
he feels no repugnance even when touching them.
2. He has travelled a great deal, but has no souvenir of any
connection whatever between his portmanteau and dead bodies, except
the associations which stories of the nature of the Gouffé affair may
evoke.[11]
[11] A lawyer who was murdered, and whose dead body, much
hacked about, was found in a trunk in the luggage-room of a
railway-station in France.
3. The chase occurred at a spot known to the sensitive, who had, as
it happened, gone, one day, to that very spot on a walking expedition
with one of his friends, under some conditions recalling those of the
hallucination, notably the choice of different roads; the two roads
corresponded and met as in the vision.
4. He did not fall, and has no conscious souvenir, which can explain
his struggle with the dead body.
This curious hallucination shows us an admixture of true images and
fantastic images, these latter, however, composed of real elements.
The duration of this hallucination, so full of events, was very short.
This is another feature observed in dreams. We see here the trace of
queer associations, some explicable, others not so. The idea of a
railway-station awakens that of portmanteaux; that of the dead body is
already abnormal, but comprehensible, the sensitive being sufficiently
acquainted with contemporary criminal literature to know of the Gouffé
affair. The leap of the dead body out of the valise, the flight of the
sensitive, and the pursuit of the dead body after him, are abnormal
associations. The first is difficult to explain; the flight and pursuit
are more easily explained. The first of these ideas naturally suggests
the second. The idea of pursuit awakens the idea of running; this, in
its turn, awakens the idea of the place where the sensitive has really
run a race; and, notwithstanding its illogism, that association is
accepted, though the railway-station, where the scene begins, be more
than six hundred miles from the park where the chase takes place.
All these associations bear the characteristic stamp of dreams.
_B._ Visions of past and forgotten facts present a different
appearance. The following is an example:—The sensitive, in the course
of conversation, was asked to sing one of Delmet’s songs. He could not
remember two lines of one of the verses, and was obliged to pass them
over. I had the curiosity to improvise an experiment, and I begged the
sensitive to look into a crystal. The forgotten lines were read by him
in the crystal. Facts of this nature—and they are very numerous in
technical literature—can be explained by the action of the impersonal
or subliminal consciousness. The souvenir forgotten by the personal
consciousness exists in the general consciousness, which has need
of scenic effects in order to transmit its message to the personal
consciousness; hence we have sensorial, automatic, visual activity,
and the reading of the forgotten words, which appear printed in the
crystal. I will not dwell upon facts of this kind; they are so well
known.
_C._ The third category of visions comprises the perception of past
events, which the medium affirms never to have known. It is evident
that these facts can, in the greater number of cases, come under the
preceding category, and be but forgotten souvenirs. But I have reason
to think it is not always so, and that a certain number of cases
exists, in which knowledge of the past appears to be acquired in a
supernormal manner. This is only an impression, which I draw from the
reality of certain premonitory facts observed by me.
As an example of the facts I am describing at present, I will cite the
following:—
A sensitive one day looked into the crystal; he suddenly saw the words
‘Salon de 1885,’ and a series of pictures, announced by their titles,
passed before his eyes. The pictures, thus seen by him, had really been
exhibited in the salon of 1885. In 1885 the sensitive was too young, to
have had any personal knowledge of the salon of that year; but nothing
is easier than to read descriptions of past salons, or to procure
reproductions of the pictures exhibited there. The sensitive, whose
good faith is above suspicion, affirms having no conscious souvenir
of a like reading. He believes he has never seen or read anything
concerning the salon of 1885, but he confines himself to affirming the
non-existence of a conscious souvenir. It is, nevertheless, possible,
as he acknowledges, that he may have glanced over a former catalogue or
criticism without remembering it.
Facts of this kind are never convincing, for it is very difficult to
know exactly, if the sensitive has ever had knowledge of the fact,
which emerges in the vision. I cite the above case, as an example only,
without pronouncing an opinion on its signification.
_D._ I have had no occasion of observing induced hallucinations
representing a scene actually happening; at least, I have never been
able to verify any in a satisfactory manner.
_E._ The cases of premonition I have obtained are, on the contrary,
relatively numerous. I have, personally, observed some of them,
and have obtained first-hand accounts of others. Here are my most
interesting cases:—
I had given a crystal to Monsieur X., a friend of mine, who is much
interested in psychical researches. Madame X. has the faculty of seeing
in the crystal, but I have never had the opportunity of interrogating
her upon her visions. The fact, which her husband related to me,
concerns a woman who is cashier in a large restaurant at Bordeaux.
Monsieur X., who sometimes lunches at this restaurant, one day showed
the crystal to the cashier; the latter looked into it and saw therein
a small dog. She did not recognise the dog, and the vision appeared to
have no interest.
Shortly afterwards, Monsieur X. was again lunching in the same
restaurant. The cashier called him up to her, and told him she was much
astonished, because she had just received the present of a small dog,
exactly like the one she had seen in the crystal.
Another lady sometimes sees visions in a mirror; these visions are
formed on the glass of a wardrobe, which is placed facing a window,
thus partly satisfying the conditions indicated further back. The
recital, which was given me of these visions by her friends, was
confirmed by the lady herself.
She saw a man seated on the footpath of a certain street, the man was
wounded, in a particular manner, on the forehead; a piece of skin was
torn away and lay over the eye. Among other details about his costume
was a sack, which the man had rolled round his neck; on the sack the
letters V. L. were printed. The lady, in her vision, saw herself speak
to the wounded man, take him to the hospital and have his wound dressed.
She went out on the morning of the next day, met the wounded man at the
spot she had seen him the day before, and her vision came true to the
letter, even to the detail of the sack around the neck, and the letters
which were printed upon it.
Another time this lady perceived, always under the same conditions,
that is in the glass of the wardrobe, one of her friends, who is
married to a government officer abroad, where he is consul of a
sister-power. This lady, in the vision, appeared to be walking up the
street Tourny at Bordeaux, just where it opens out into the square
Gambetta. The details of the costume were noted by the observer:—a
light cloak, and a blouse made of Scotch plaid with gold trimming about
the neck. Two or three days afterwards, the percipient happened to be
in a tram. As the tram arrived at the junction of the street Tourny and
the square Gambetta, she perceived her friend, exactly as the vision
had represented her.
Here is another and last example, still more significative than the
preceding, for the vision was related to me eight days before the event
took place, and I myself had related it to several persons before its
realisation. A sensitive perceived in a crystal the following scene:—A
large steamer, flying a flag of three horizontal bands, black, white,
and red, and bearing the name _Leutschland_, navigating in mid-ocean;
the boat was surrounded by smoke; a great number of sailors, passengers
and men in uniform rushed to the upper-deck, and the sensitive saw the
vessel founder.
Eight days afterwards, the newspapers announced the accident to the
_Deutschland_, whose boiler had burst, obliging the boat to stand to.
This vision is very curious, and as the details were given me before
the accident, I will analyse it with care.
In the first place, one thing strikes us:—The premonition was not
exactly fulfilled. The _Deutschland_ met with an accident, it is true;
from the nature of that accident, it must have been surrounded with
vapour; the crew and passengers would probably have rushed to the
upper-deck; but happily, this magnificent vessel did not founder. On
the other hand, the sensitive read L instead of D; but this detail is
of no importance, the foreign word being probably badly deciphered.
Lastly, one thing worthy of noting is the complete absence of personal
interest in this vision, for the sensitive has no connection whatever
with Germany, and was ignorant, at least consciously, of the existence
of this boat, though he might certainly have seen illustrations of it.
Evidently, we must not attach too much importance to this premonition,
but the same sensitive has given me many other curious examples of
the same kind; and these cases, compared with others I myself have
observed, or with those of which I have received first-hand accounts,
render the hypothesis of coincidence very improbable, but do not
exclude it in an absolute manner. Such as they are, I think these facts
are sufficiently interesting, for systematic observation of the visual
phenomena I point out to be undertaken by competent persons, with true
sensitives, and _not with hysterical subjects_, who seldom, if ever,
give good observations.
The facts of premonition which I have observed or controlled, and
of which I have just given a few examples, cannot, I think, be
reasonably regarded as coincidences. I have already said that this
hypothesis, without being inadmissible, is insufficient. Think of the
immense proportion of probabilities, which accumulate in favour of
the reality of a fact, as soon as the details themselves accumulate.
The visions relative to the foreign friend, and to the wounded man,
are instructive from this point of view, given the great number of
circumstances seen beforehand:—exact locality, exact details of the
wound, the costume, etc. It is a pity these facts were not observed
under good conditions. That of the _Deutschland_ is much less
demonstrative, because of the inaccuracy in the foreseen issue.
If we compare these facts with those which have been already registered
by the Society for Psychical Research, we will come to a conclusion,
which confirms the simple impression that my own observations have
given birth to in my mind. What is the cause of these premonitions?
What signification have they with respect to the reality of time? Why
do these visions come to people, who often have no interest whatever
in knowing of them? These are all so many questions I am putting,
without being able to indicate their solution. We must observe, with
the greatest care, the facts which are presented, accumulate them in as
great a number as possible, and, before considering their causes, be,
first of all, doubly sure of their reality.
I have indicated, further back, the analogy of the greater part of
these visions with dreams. I will point out finally another resemblance
which is, perhaps, not the least interesting. This is, that these
visions are often quickly forgotten. We must make the sensitives we
observe write down their visions immediately; for, in the greater
number of cases, a rapid amnesia mixes up the details and causes them
to disappear. These visions, therefore, react upon the memory in the
manner of dreams.
_F._ Certain visions are of a doubtful character. Here are some
examples:—Several times a sensitive sees, in the crystal, a long
procession of personages clothed in white enter a sort of crypt,
which looks like the entrance to a tunnel. The vision presents no
incoherence, but appears to have no signification, either as a souvenir
evoked unconsciously or as a subconscious symbolical image admitting of
interpretation.
And now, I am going to relate a vision, which, doubtless, will
particularly interest occultists. I was operating with a sensitive,
who was ignorant, I think, of their theories and those of spiritists;
who had no notion whatever about larvæ, and the forms given to such in
the literature of occult sciences. Now the sensitive, of whom I speak,
twice saw the vision of a tree standing out detached from the others
in a forest. The earth appeared white, the tree itself was white, and
appeared to be covered with white pears hanging from its branches.
In his vision the sensitive drew near, and perceived that the pears
were in reality white beasts of hideous appearance; they were like
heads without bodies, terminating in long tails. These beings were
suspended to the branches by their tails. This vision seems to me to
be purely imaginary, but I have related it because the curious forms
described concord, I believe, with the aspect given to larvæ by occult
writers. I cannot positively affirm the sensitive’s absolute ignorance
of mystic literature, but I have serious reasons to admit it. Must we
simply see herein a morphological association between the different
forms of larvæ, of tears embroidered on funereal garb and pears! This
explanation would be possible, if the sensitive knew the signification
of the word larvæ, and the form lent to these fabulous beings.
I must now cut short the recital of these observations, and confine
myself to resuming the conclusion to which I have come:—This is, that
sensorial automatisms and especially visual hallucinations have the
same characteristic features we note in dreams, the same weakening
of the power of control of the will and judgment over the selection
of images, over their coherence, their likelihood, and the same
rapid amnesia. These are characteristic features, which we observe
in every case, where the sentiment of personality is impaired. This
is just as noticeable in purely imaginary hallucinations, as in
hallucinations which appear to have a real foundation. This fact seems
to me of great importance, for it permits us to think, that one of the
conditions of the transcendental perception of facts past, present
or even future is the disappearance of the voluntary and personal
activity of the consciousness. Less fit to act actively, it would be
more inclined to be passively impressed by influences, which are at
present indeterminable; the transmission to the normal consciousness
of the impressions perceived by the impersonal consciousness appears
to take place in the same way as in a dream, that is to say by
dramatisation,—by a scene which expresses the idea in a concrete and
symbolical manner.
There is therefore a _rapprochement_ between these sensory automatisms
and dreams and telepathy. Several premonitory dreams have been related
to me by people of absolute good faith; I will give two, which were
told me by magistrates. The first concerns a man holding a high rank
in the magistracy. He had sold, at an advantageous price, the wood on
a property he possessed in the neighbouring country, but the bargain
was not definitely settled, and was to be concluded in an interview
arranged for between the owner and the purchaser. On the eve of the
day when the magistrate should have gone to the country, his wife
dreamt that she was present at the woodman’s visit. In her dream, the
latter offered a price, which was inferior to the price originally
agreed upon, and covered his treachery with all sorts of periphrases,
trying to prove that the bargain remained excellent for the owner.
Finally he turned towards Madame X., who was present at the interview,
and said to her, ‘This is fair speaking, is it not, Madame?’ Madame X.
related the dream to her husband, telling him also that she thought the
bargain would not come off. Her dream was fulfilled literally, and the
phrase heard in her dream was uttered by the woodman. I received this
account from the magistrate himself, an eminent man and one of the most
brilliant intellects I have known.
The second dream is, perhaps, still more curious; it was told me by one
of my colleagues, a calm, positive man with not the slightest tendency
whatever to mysticism, employing his leisure hours in hunting rather
than with metaphysics. He is, moreover, an experienced magistrate,
and occupies a distinguished position at a court in the centre of
France. At the time he had the dream I am going to relate, he was
_juge d’instruction_ in a small town, where there are some important
factories. He was closely connected with a large manufacturer, and was
accustomed to go and see him nearly every day. He knew the staff of the
factory, and notably an overseer, a native of Flanders; this man, after
many years of faithful service, wished to return to his birthplace and
left his employer, remaining, however, on the best of terms with him.
Some months afterwards my colleague dreamt, he had taken his usual
promenade and paid his visit to his friend. In his dream, he saw the
overseer and manifested his surprise at seeing him; the overseer
replied, ‘Yes, sir, it is I. I could not find any work in my own
country, and i’ faith, I came back here.’ My colleague attached no
importance to this dream; on the morrow he went, as usual, to see his
friend, and in the factory found the overseer whom he had seen in his
dream. He exchanged the same conversation he had held with him in his
dream.
Facts of this kind are very numerous. Perhaps they are only simple
coincidences, but, as with sensory automatisms already described, I
cannot help thinking, that coincidence does not explain everything. The
concording details are often so numerous, that the probabilities in an
extremely large proportion are against pure hazard. Richet, however,
has carefully studied the Calculus of Probabilities, and I will not go
into the question. I simply give my impression, persuaded as I am that
those who study these facts impartially will come to the conclusion,
that hazard does not explain everything.
The two dreams which I have taken as examples offer us cases of
telepathy, that is to say, the impression perceived in a way which the
ordinary senses do not explain. Telepathy has been carefully studied
by Myers, Gurney, Podmore, Sidgwick, Ermacora, and discussion on this
question can only be pursued, if the work of these savants has been
studied. Telepathy appears to me to be established in a definitive
manner, but I have no personal example to cite. However, a very great
number of cases have been related to me, by persons who have received
telepathic impressions. I know of many people who have had veridical
hallucinations, either during sleep or when awake. The following are
some examples borrowed from my circle of friends or relations:—
One of my great-uncles had married a coloured woman at Martinique.
This lady, though highly respectable, was the victim of tenacious
prejudice on the part of the white creole families on the island, and
my uncle’s marriage aroused the displeasure of his family. He left
Saint-Pierre, and came to Bordeaux. His wife’s mind suddenly gave way;
she had dangerous attacks of fury, but the union between my great-uncle
and his wife was so close, and their reciprocal affection so profound,
that my relation would not consent to a separation and have her cared
for in an asylum. He fell a victim to his devotion; his wife killed
him in an attack of high fever. One of my great-aunts, the dead man’s
sister, living at Paris, was awakened in the middle of the night by
her brother’s voice calling her. This hallucination coincided with the
death of my great-uncle.
An intimate friend of my mother’s, a creole living at Bordeaux, had
been present at the embarkation of a family belonging to Martinique,
that was returning to Saint-Pierre. Some time afterwards she had a
dream in which she saw a steamer founder; the stern of the vessel rose
above the waves, and she was able to read the name of the boat; it was
the one on which her friends had embarked. The vessel was lost and not
a life saved.
Here is another interesting fact, in which (1) a sentiment of anxiety,
the cause unknown to the conscious personality, corresponds with the
serious illness of a near relation; (2) the telepathic, premonitory
hallucination of a telephonic call preceded the real call by two hours.
This fact was communicated to me by one of my friends.
‘Here is the exact account of the fact I mentioned to you.
‘On the evening of the 17th October 1901 I went to bed feeling greatly
disturbed; I could not define the cause of my mental anguish, for I was
in perfect health. This trouble persisted, and my sleep was haunted by
painful nightmare.
‘At half-past four I suddenly awoke, having distinctly heard the
sound of my telephone bell. I ran to the apparatus, and answered the
ring. The night operator replied that he had not rung me up, and that
nothing unusual was happening. I had therefore been labouring under a
hallucination, provoked by a particular haunting impression.
‘At seven o’clock in the morning, the telephone again sounded, and I
was put into communication with my brother-in-law residing at Biarritz.
He told me that my sister, Madame V., had, in the night, been struck
with congestion of the brain, and was in a critical state.’
All these facts may be considered as coincidences; their attentive
study, their thorough analysis, and their careful, thoughtful
comparison can alone make us suspect, that hazard has nothing whatever
to do with their production.
I may compare these cases of telepathy to facts of exteriorisation of
sensibility, and of vision at a distance. I have given very little
study to these facts, for they do not enter into the habitual plan of
my researches; I have sometimes observed them, but under conditions
which do not satisfy me. My observations, however incomplete they
may be, tend, nevertheless, to make me think, that the phenomenon
described by de Rochas, under the name of _extériorisation de la
sensibilité_, is real. I have met with two sensitives, who presented
the phenomenon in a fairly clear manner in a waking state. I was led
to make the following experiment with one of these sensitives. As soon
as she entered the seance-room and had taken off her cloak, I took
hold of the garment and pinched the lining. The sensitive mentioned
feeling a certain sensation, rather feeble however, in the part of her
body which had been covered by the garment in the place I had pinched
it. The first time I tried this experiment, the sensitive had not been
warned, and was surprised at the sensation she felt. Needless to say, I
took precautions to make sure, this lady did not see what I was doing.
I have observed, that this particular sensibility disappears very
rapidly; at the end of forty or fifty seconds it has ceased to exist.
I have asked a lady friend of this sensitive’s to try the same
experiment with her more private garments, especially with the corsets.
Sensibility should then be greater.
I think that the observation of this fact, which I point out with much
reserve, not having submitted it to serious study, is easier than
is supposed, by employing the method I indicate, that is to say, by
pinching or pricking garments which the sensitive has just thrown off.
I have had occasion also of verifying this phenomenon, under the
technical conditions indicated by Colonel de Rochas. Very few
sensitives present it in a marked manner, and it has seemed to me
necessary to push the artificial sleep rather deeply. This expression
may seem somewhat antiquated, to those who have frequented our learned
neurological cliniques; but I cannot help thinking, that a real
difference exists between the different phases of somnambulism, if they
be observed. I speak of a difference of degree. It seems to me that,
once the subject is put to sleep, the repeated action of the passes
determines a particular state, pointed out by ancient magnetisers
and exposed in detail by de Rochas, in which the subject appears to
lose the notion of his personality, and be in close dependence upon
his ‘magnetiser.’ I have experimented very little in this order of
research, and I can permit myself only to give indications; I am
unable to affirm a personal conviction. The few experiments I have
made, however, tend to make me think that de Rochas is quite right in
speaking of superficial and profound states. I am not convinced that
the passage from the one to the other takes place with the regularity
that my eminent friend has observed, but the fact pointed out by him
is, I think, true in a general way. I am going to support my opinion
with an example.
I have already spoken of Madame Agullana. Those who have only been
present at her ordinary seances can have no idea of the curious
faculties, she sometimes presents. An experienced manipulator can
obtain with her—on condition of operating quietly and in the presence
of very few people—phenomena which are very interesting, in the sphere
of what is called animal magnetism. I was at her home one evening with
Monsieur B. We were expecting a tutor, a medium of whom I had heard
marvellous things. This tutor did not turn up; but, while waiting for
him, I put Madame Agullana to sleep; I wished to show Monsieur B.,
who had no experience of this kind, the effects of profound sleep.
I prolonged my passes, made longitudinally from the forehead to the
epigastrium, for more than twenty-five minutes. From time to time,
every seven or eight minutes, I asked Madame Agullana what was her
name. She told me her name. At last the moment came when she could
not remember her name, and appeared to have lost consciousness of her
personality. I made a few more passes, and remarked to Monsieur B.
that, when Madame A. appeared to have cutaneous anæsthesia, she seemed
to perceive pricks at a distance of two or three centimetres from the
skin. The passes were continued for about another quarter of an hour;
at that moment Madame A. appeared to present two peculiarities:—
1. Her sensitiveness appeared to be localised behind her, at about
three feet from, and twenty-one inches above the level of her head. She
winced, when—care being taken that she did not see—the air was pinched
at the spot indicated.
2. Only the persons _en rapport_ with her—in the sense given to this
word by de Rochas—could make an impression upon her; contacts and
pinching by other people were not perceived by her. I did not observe
these two peculiarities under conditions sufficiently precise to
warrant me affirming, that my observation was good; but I indicate
them, for to me they appeared probable.
Then, phenomena were forthcoming. Madame Agullana said she was in the
street, outside of the house. I asked her to go and see what one of
my friends, Monsieur Béchade, was doing—a man whom she knew well. It
was twenty minutes past ten o’clock. To our great surprise, she told
us that she saw ‘Monsieur Béchade half-undressed, walking bare-footed
on stones.’ This did not seem to us to have any sense. I saw my friend
the next day, and, although he is well acquainted with spiritistic
phenomena, he seemed to be astonished at my recital, and said to me,
word for word: ‘I was not feeling very well yesterday evening; one of
my friends who lives with me advised me to try Kneipp’s method, and
urged me so strongly, that, in order to satisfy him, I tried last night
for the first time to walk barefooted on cold stone. I was, in reality,
half-undressed when I made the first attempt; it was then twenty
minutes past ten o’clock; I walked about for some time on the first
steps of the staircase, which is built of stone.’
Perhaps this also is a coincidence, but this fact, which was witnessed
by several people, presents very strange coincidences all the same.
The hour, the costume, the unusual operation, are circumstances of too
special a nature for mere hazard to suffice to explain them, it seems
to me. I cite this case because it came under my personal observation,
and because it shows a variety of telepathic phenomena; it is what the
ancient magnetisers called lucidity, clairvoyance or, more exactly,
vision at a distance. It appears to me to be a development of the facts
pointed out by de Rochas; it looks as though the entire sensibility was
exteriorised to variable distances. This is telæsthesia, a phenomenon
in the sensitivo-sensorial domain, analogous to motor telekinesis.
Experimenters, who might be desirous of verifying these facts, should
not forget, (1) it is necessary to have a sensitive who has often been
_magnetised_—I do not say _hypnotised_; (2) sleep must be pushed
very deeply—passes must be continued for more than half an hour after
somnambulism sets in. The time is reduced with sensitives who are well
developed.
It would be easy to multiply examples of this kind, particularly
those of well-observed telepathic cases. The publications of the
London Society for Psychical Research, Flammarion’s book, _L’Inconnu
et les problèmes psychiques_, the _Annales des Sciences psychiques_,
contain a great number of them. This symbolism will always be met
with,—this dramatic element, which I have indicated as the ordinary way
by which the general consciousness transmits its information to the
personal consciousness. The assimilation which I make between sensory
automatisms and dreams, crystal vision and telepathy, appears to me
to find support in these facts. These phenomena are of the same order
and, in all probability, have their seat in the same strata of the
consciousness.
I will not try to fathom the cause; once again I must repeat what I
have so often said already,—the question is still so little known, that
we are not able to enter profitably upon the study of the apparent
cause of the psychical facts examined in this present chapter. We must
multiply observations and verify the undeniable existence of the facts,
before attempting to interpret them.
I give here, both as an example of careful observation and as an
illustration of the chief features of the phenomena of which I have
just been speaking, the following account which Professor Charles
Richet has kindly sent me.
A COMPLEX CASE OF PSYCHICAL PHENOMENA.
BY PROFESSOR CHARLES RICHET.
_April, 1903._
‘DEAR DR. MAXWELL,—The following is a brief account of the strange,
bewildering facts, of which I promised you the narration.
‘I. In the beginning of October 1900 I was at Carqueiranne, when I
received a letter from Madame X. Madame X. had left Paris on the 1st of
October for Fontainebleau, with the intention of spending a month near
the forest. In her letter to me she related, that on the arrival of the
train at the station of Melun, she had a notion that some one entered
her carriage and sat down opposite to her. This “vision” spoke to her,
saying he had known me very well, that he used to call me “Carlos,” and
that I called him “Tony”; he told her, that he knew Fontainebleau very
well and would accompany her in her walks in the forest.
‘After that letter I received others from Madame X., giving me
numerous details concerning this vision which called itself “Tony,” a
vision which was repeated several times during Madame X.’s visit at
Fontainebleau. These details were particularly remarkable and abundant
between the 20th and the 28th October. I will briefly enumerate them,
after which I will enter upon a discussion and appreciation of the
chief details.
‘“Tony” showed me a tree to-day on which were engraved the letters
A. B. and a date 1880, or 1883—the last figure was indistinct;
underneath the letters A. B. was the name “Lucie.” ... “Tony” seems to
have had to do with machinery of some kind. He had hoped to construct
a machine, which would have been of great use to mankind. He seems to
say it was he who discovered the telephone,—or, at least, that he was
on the right track.... I hear him say, “I know Madeleine well.” He says
he adored his father. He speaks about Léon, Sarah, and Marguerite, but
especially about Lucie. His wife’s name was Lucie.... There were Jews
in his family; he also talks about Louise.... He worked with telegraphy
and electric wires.... He knew you remarkably well; he called you
“Carlos,” and you called him “Tony”; of this I am sure, for he speaks
of it so often. He says he collaborated with you in some work. He says
that when he was dead, you went into his death-chamber and kissed
him on the forehead.... He had not been previously ill,—a feeling of
suffocation in the chest and that was all. [_Quelque chose l’a étouffé
à la poitrine, et ce fut tout._] He was only 30 or 32 years old when he
died.... I do not think he was married, that is to say, in the legal
sense of the word; but he was very much attached to Lucie, by whom
he had a daughter, who was about three years old when he died. This
child seems to be still alive, but very few people know about it. He
adored Lucie, who seems to have been very charming, for Antoine shows
me her portrait,—a medallion or locket which he used to wear—in which
she seems to have beautiful dark eyes and hair. He lived for about
four or five years with Lucie; but Lucie had previously been married
to a Jew [_un gros juif_], whom she did not care for. I think Antoine
lived a long time with Lucie at Fontainebleau; they were sadly happy
there [_tristement heureux_]. The house they stayed at is no longer
inhabited. It was a red and white cottage, quite close to the forest,
which was just behind it.... The house stood alone; a tramway passes
by there to-day.... “Tony” also speaks about his father. His father
loved his own fireside; he once lost a lot of money when Antoine was
grown up; but Antoine did not take much notice of this, for he did
not trouble himself about money matters. The house in which “Tony”
and his father lived together, is one which they seem to have always
inhabited. “Tony” seems to have always known this house. The furniture
is old; the rooms look as though they had been occupied for a very long
time. He speaks of the Faubourg Montmartre; does that mean he used to
live there?... Antoine also had to do with engines of war. I think he
was wounded during the war [the Commune], because I hear the noise of
cannon—and your father dressed his wound....
‘Antoine was a free-mason. He admired Claude Bernard. His political
opinions were of a socialistic tendency. He did not care for the
society of women. He was temperate, and did not drink wine; he was no
epicure.... He has been to Geneva.... He has hunted with you.... He
used to like reading _Titus Livy_.... He cared naught for the world’s
opinion, taking his conscience for his sole guide.... He often saw
Philippe. He also mentions Yvonne, Josephine, Georges, James, Clotilde,
and André.... He speaks about a pseudonym; he has written some things
under a _nom-de-plume_.... Antoine had beautiful dark eyes, large and
most expressive, full of resolution, but, at the same time, soft,
dreamy-looking eyes. He had a frank, hearty laugh, and this merry
sound was often heard [_Il riait souvent de ce bon rire_]. He had a
habit of putting his hands behind his head, and stretching himself
out on a sofa, laughing merrily.... He has very long, thin fingers,
which seem to be clever at mechanical work; indeed he seems to have
been clever at everything, and to do all things well.... A short time
before he died—a Wednesday,—you and he were at a banquet together, and
drank each other’s health. “Tony” then told you, that he had not been
feeling well, and that he was in great need of a holiday.... Antoine
told me again to-day, that he loved Lucie dearly; “and,” he said, “I
still watch over her, even now; tell her no evil will ever befall her.”
[_Rien de mauvais ne lui arrivera._]
‘II. The preceding are the most important of the data concerning my
friend Antoine B., given me in Madame X.’s letters during the month
of October 1900. I repeat Madame X. was at Fontainebleau, and I at
Carqueiranne. Therefore, I could not have given her any hints by my
words, and I am particularly anxious to point out a fact, of which I am
absolutely certain, which is, that I had never pronounced the name of
my friend Antoine B. in the presence of Madame X.; I am positive that
no word of mine could have afforded the smallest clue to Madame X. of
my acquaintance with Antoine B.
‘I may also add that, though to-day four years after these visions
occurred, Madame X. has become one of my friends, at that moment,
October 1900, our acquaintanceship dated from a few months only; and,
at Madame X.’s own request, in order to avoid hints and suggestions,
I abstained from ever speaking with her on anything save vague,
general topics. Madame X., at this time, lived a secluded, retired
life in a convent, seldom going out and receiving no visitors. She
was, moreover, almost an entire stranger to Paris, having arrived
there only a short time before I made her acquaintance. If Madame X.
spoke of any one of my deceased friends to-day, it would be impossible
for me to affirm positively that I had never pronounced that name in
her presence; but, thanks to the great care I took at that moment to
avoid all manner of confidences whatsoever, continually seconded in my
efforts by Madame X. herself, I can certify that the name of Antoine B.
had not been pronounced up to the month of October 1900.
‘Therefore my stupefaction was indeed great, when I discovered in
Madame X.’s letters so many precise and correct data, though mixed up
with occasional errors. And when I speak of precise and correct data, I
do not mean data, traces of which may have been left in printed matter.
I speak of private, unpublished facts, facts known only to me or to his
wife. Notwithstanding this, however, I was blind to the truth. And I
sought to explain away these phenomena of lucidity, by an apparently
rational explanation.
‘Here is the fable I invented, for I think it may be useful to acquaint
the reader with my hesitations, and the manner in which I tried to
explain these facts. First of all, I supposed that Fontainebleau
was a mistake, since, as far as I knew, Antoine B. did not go to
Fontainebleau in 1883. At the same time, I thought I remembered he had
been a pupil at the School of Artillery at Fontainebleau in 1874. But,
I asked myself, why should Madame X. speak about Antoine B., whose name
I was and am certain never to have pronounced in her presence? I found,
or rather I thought I had found, the explanation. In the month of
September 1900, Antoine B.’s daughter Madeleine, the wife of Jacques
S., died, and one or two newspapers mentioned this sad and premature
death. Now, I supposed that Madame X. had unconsciously glanced
over one of these newspapers, that Antoine B.’s name had appeared
therein with his biography more or less fully traced, our relations
mentioned [he had been director with me of the _Revue Scientifique_,]
and reference made to his term at the School of Application at
Fontainebleau. That was my fable.
‘It is true there were several other facts awaiting explanation; but
I did not let them hinder me,—so dazed are we by the fear of meeting
with the truth just where it really is, when we find ourselves in the
presence of facts, with which force of habit has not yet rendered us
familiar.
‘I will not dwell upon the absurdity of this manner of thinking; I will
simply repeat, that my first thought was that this vision of Antoine
was simply the souvenir of some sub-conscious reading, with here and
there a few gleams of lucidity, already very important in themselves,
but not exceeding in precision or in importance other proofs of
lucidity, of which Madame X. had already given me numerous and decisive
examples.
‘Well! I was altogether wrong! It was a conversation which I had with
Antoine B.’s widow, [she was now Madame L., having married a second
time] which showed me my mistake.
‘During the summer vacation in 1901, she was staying at my house at
Carqueiranne, and one day I happened to speak about Madame X.’s visions
concerning Antoine. As soon as I began, Madame B. became agitated;
the recital wrought upon her feelings considerably. When I had
finished, she furnished me with the two following fundamental facts,
facts which entirely destroyed the point of view I had first of all
adopted: 1. “Antoine was never a pupil at the School of Application at
Fontainebleau”; 2. “In 1883 he and I were at Fontainebleau together.”
‘Consequently the scaffolding I had erected in order to explain Madame
X.’s visions entirely collapsed. The connection between Antoine and
Fontainebleau—connection discovered by Madame X.—could not have been
provoked by the souvenir of the reading of any newspaper, and the
hypothesis—a very improbable one moreover—of a sub-conscious souvenir,
of the unconscious reading of a hypothetical newspaper, had therefore
no _raison d’être_. So that the knowledge of a connection between
Antoine and Fontainebleau could not have been due to any printed
matter—since, naturally, no newspaper had mentioned this private
detail in Antoine’s life—or to any suggestion I might have given
inadvertently—since I was ignorant of the fact.
‘Three other hypotheses remain:—that of chance, and this is so absurd,
that it is useless even to mention it; that of collusion between Madame
X. and Madame B., a hypothesis which is as absurd as the preceding
one, even if it were possible, for neither of these two ladies had
or have ever seen one another; lastly, there is the hypothesis of an
extraordinary lucidity, on the nature of which I will not dwell, in
order to avoid theorising, but which I must, perforce, be content with
simply pointing out.
‘There is not the slightest trace left of Antoine B.’s visit to
Fontainebleau in 1883. At Barbizon, where he 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 at _Melun_. 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 of
having 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 in October 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.