Josephine, Sarah, Marguerite, Georges, Clotilde.
‘The chief inexact details are the story of Lucie’s true husband—a
Jew (_un gros juif_)—and of the child Lucie and Antoine had, of whose
existence hardly any one knew; also the detail of having been wounded
during the Commune and his wound having been dressed by my father.
I ought also to add that Antoine and Marie B. were at Fontainebleau
with their three children. However, for reasons which I will develop
further on, these errors have a great interest and merit an attentive
examination.
‘When considering these phenomena we must, first of all, rid ourselves
of commonplace prejudices. The question is, not whether such or such a
phenomenon does or does not concord with recognised ideas, but whether
the phenomenon exists or does not exist—always supposing, of course,
that it be not in flagrant contradiction with established and verified
truths.
‘Therefore every effort of demonstration must be concentrated on this
one point: Can we explain the above facts by any known process? For
the sake of simplicity let us only take one of the facts, that of the
presence—“or of the _thought_”—of Antoine B. at the Melun railway
station. We have seen that I fell into error by endeavouring to explain
this presence—or this _thought_—by a term at the School of Artillery
at Fontainebleau; and I do not see what other explanation can be
attempted, since not the slightest trace is left of Antoine’s visit to
Fontainebleau with his wife twenty years ago.
‘Even if an expensive detective inquiry had been set on foot, it is
highly doubtful if anything concerning Monsieur and Madame B.’s visit
to Fontainebleau could have been found out.
‘Therefore, at the very outset, and without taking into account any
of the other exact details in Madame X.’s visions, we encounter
the material impossibility of establishing any relations between
Fontainebleau and Antoine.
‘But, just for one moment, let us make the concession that the names
of Monsieur and Madame B. had been somewhere met with at Barbizon
after an interval of twenty years; this would immediately entail the
knowledge of many other details ever so much easier to gather than were
those very details given by Madame X., and not only easier but also
more exact. Had this visit become known to Madame X. by any normal
means, there would not have been the story of an illegal union, and of
a residence of five years at Fontainebleau.[12] So even the mistakes
are a confirmation of the truth, one of the most interesting of
confirmations; for, honestly, we cannot suppose that, knowing the real
facts, Madame X. would have taken it into her head to add facts, which
she knew to be incorrect.
[12] Let us, however, point out that Antoine had been
five years married when he died, and that he had been
at Fontainebleau with his wife, consequently the error,
which consists in saying five years of life together at
Fontainebleau, constitutes only a relative error.
‘To put it in another way, even if we admit this absurdity of an
extremely cleverly conducted detective inquiry making known to Madame
X. the story of Antoine’s life, she would not have distorted the
results of such an inquiry by introducing errors therein. To take an
example, when Antoine was at Fontainebleau with his wife and three
children, she would have mentioned the other two children. She would
also have said—and this was extremely easy to find out—that the B.
establishment was situated on the Quai de H., and not in the Faubourg
Montmartre.
‘Therefore, every point carefully considered, I think it is absolutely
certain that normal means of knowledge could not establish any
connection between Antoine and Fontainebleau.
‘In the second place, unpublished details were furnished. I will pass
over all the details—though they too be correct—which might be found
in biographical or necrological articles; I will simply draw attention
to the following five extremely private details:—
‘1. The name of Lucie; and a locket containing her portrait which
Antoine always wore on his person.
‘2. The names of “Carlos” and “Tony.”
‘3. A pseudonym.
‘4. Money lost by his father.
‘5. The circumstances of his death.
‘Now, not one of these details could have been found out by any
inquiry, however clever, however well-planned and well carried out such
an inquiry might have been.
‘1. Madame B. was the _only_ living person who knew of Antoine’s
preference for the name of Lucie. She had never spoken of this to any
one; and it is a minute detail of which I was in complete ignorance,
until Madame B. told me of it in 1901, after hearing about the visions
Madame X. had related to me in her letters, a year before.
‘2. I was the _only_ person living who knew that Antoine called me
“Carlos”; and this is not a very commonplace statement, since no one,
save Antoine, has ever called me “Carlos.”
‘3. No one ever suspected Antoine of having written under a _nom de
plume_; the few insignificant things he wrote for the stage are so
entirely forgotten, that Madame B. herself remembered nothing about
them in 1901; and it is even highly probable that what he wrote could
not be found again, the Bobino theatre, where he presented his plays,
having disappeared years ago.
‘4. The monetary losses which his father, Louis B., sustained a short
while before Antoine’s marriage, had been carefully kept from the
knowledge of every one. These losses were occasioned by a dishonest
cashier. The man was not prosecuted. Notwithstanding the importance of
the sum involved, Antoine was relatively indifferent to the loss, as
was distinctly indicated by Madame X.
‘5. The circumstances of his death are described with striking reality.
I kissed Antoine on the forehead when he was dead. Some little time
before the end, he spoke to me about his health, saying he felt in
great need of rest. He did not look ill, however, and he died, after a
few hours’ illness only, from a cardiac affection: _quelque chose l’a
étouffé à la poitrine_.
‘There is still another item of interest, which I wish to touch upon:
this is, the “message” from Antoine to his wife: _rien de mauvais ne
lui arrivera_. These words were written by Madame X. in one of her
letters to me, with the indication that Antoine had pronounced them
on a certain day. Now, on that very day, Madame B. was delivered of a
still-born child. She was, therefore, in a perilous condition at the
very time Antoine said: “I watch over her, even now; tell her, no evil
will ever befall her.”
‘We have, now, to draw our conclusion. The hypothesis of chance is
absurd; the hypothesis of fraud is absurd; there remains but a third
hypothesis, that of a phenomenon inexplicable by any of the existing
data of our knowledge. It is for this inexplicable phenomenon, that we
are going to try and find an explanation.
‘Two explanations at once present themselves: α, either this
knowledge is entirely due to the intellectual faculties of Madame X.;
or β, some other intelligence intervenes, which manifests itself to
Madame X.
‘α. This hypothesis is rather complicated, for it is not in the
form of abstract knowledge that Madame X. learnt of all these real
facts concerning Antoine, but in the form of Antoine himself. So that,
if it really be only a question of abstract notions, these abstract
notions have taken a concrete form in order to manifest themselves.
They would thus have constituted a sort of error in themselves. It
has been supposed that Antoine himself came into the railway carriage
at Melun, that he accompanied Madame X. in her walks in the forest at
Fontainebleau during the whole month of October 1900, that he related
the story of his life to her; and there is something which shocks us
in the thought that, though the story told to Madame X. be true, there
was no Antoine. At the same time, this objection is not paramount; for
we know so little of the ways in which supernormal knowledge flows into
the mind, that we are unable to make any negation concerning them.
‘Moreover, it is, relatively, more rational, not to suppose the
intervention of another force, since, _à la rigueur_, a human
intelligence, under extraordinary conditions of clairvoyance, may
suffice to explain everything.
‘β. If other personalities intervene, they may be either β´,
the personality of Antoine B. himself, or, β´´, other forces
non-identical with human personalities.
‘β´. Assuredly, the hypothesis that it is the consciousness of
Antoine B. himself who came to Madame X. is the simplest, and at a
first glance, it satisfies us. But then! what a number of objections
such a hypothesis raises! How is it possible for the consciousness
to survive after death? How can intelligences which suffer birth
escape death? A beginning implies an end: Birth implies death, the one
involves the other!
‘β´´. Other forces such as genii, demons, angels, etc., may exist,
as strict logic commands us to admit. There is a certain impertinence
in supposing that, in the Infinite Immensity of Worlds and Forces, man
is the only force capable of thinking. It seems to me necessary to
admit, that there exist intelligent forces in nature, other than man;
forces, which are constituted differently to him, and are consequently
imperceptible to his normal senses; these forces may be called angels,
genii, demons, spirits, no matter the name we give them. It is evident,
however, that this hypothesis of intelligent forces ought not to be
confounded with the hypothesis of human personalities surviving after
death. These are two absolutely distinct hypotheses. Now, I think that
it is not the hypothesis of intelligent forces which is doubtful; what
is extremely doubtful is that these forces can enter into communication
with man. Moreover, as in the case under notice, why should they take
the material appearance of a deceased human being, and declare their
identity with such?
‘We see that all the explanations so far put forth are imperfect, and,
for my part, I find them so imperfect, that I am inclined to believe in
some other hypothesis which I do not know, which I cannot even guess,
but which, nevertheless, I am convinced exists, since here we have real
facts, which not any of the hypotheses heretofore presented can explain
in a satisfactory manner. It is to this hypothesis _X_ that I attach
myself, for the present, recognising, while doing so, that there is a
certain amount of irony in proposing a hypothesis, of which I am unable
to give the formula.
‘In conclusion, we see that this case of Antoine B. involves the whole
problem of spiritism. It appeared to interest you, my friend, and I
have, therefore, related it to you, because the simple and complete
narration of facts ought to precede theories.’
_November 1903._
‘MY DEAR MAXWELL,—The series of phenomena concerning Antoine B. do not
cease with the recital I recently sent you. That recital comports an
epilogue not less extraordinary than itself. I say an “epilogue,” for
most assuredly it has some connection—of a psychological order—with
the preceding recital. I will set it forth as concisely as possible:
‘One evening in May 1903 I was dining with Madame X. and her family.
After dinner we tried for phenomena, but received nothing. Towards the
close of the evening, shortly before I left, Madame X. pronounced the
following words—words which I wrote down among my notes as soon as
I reached home—“I see a woman standing near me; she has grey hair,
she is about fifty years of age, but looks older than she really is.
Her hair is quite grey. I believe it is Madame B.” (Antoine’s widow),
“though I am not quite sure yet. I see the figure 7 with her, which
probably means that she will die in seven months, or on the 7th of some
near month.” Such is the copy of the very brief note I took of Madame
X.’s words. I ought to add that this note is a much abridged account of
Madame X.’s actual words, and that she also said:—“Madame B. is very
ill; she has some sort of chest complaint—perhaps tuberculosis—and she
will die very soon indeed.”
‘What renders this premonition extremely interesting is that Madame
B., at that moment, was only very slightly ill. She was so slightly
indisposed, that not for a moment did the thought ever cross my mind,
that her indisposition might turn into anything serious. Neither I
nor any one in the world suspected any danger whatsoever. But fifteen
days after this prognostication had been made, the apparently slight
bronchial affection from which Madame B. was suffering, and of which I
had, naturally, never said a word to Madame X., remained stationary,
but still the idea that the result might prove fatal never entered into
any one’s head.
‘Nevertheless, the result did prove fatal. Madame B. died, within
seven weeks after Madame X.’s prediction, on Tuesday, 30th June 1903,
after a very sudden and irresistible aggravation of her previously
slight indisposition, which carried her off in four or five days. The
illness turned out to be a sort of pulmonary affection, the nature of
which is still unknown to the doctors who attended her: (tuberculosis?
infectious _grippe_?).
‘An interesting detail: Madame B. had black hair; I, who knew her well,
had never noticed any grey in her hair; I did not know she was grey.
Now a few days before her illness took a serious turn, one of the
members of my family who had just been paying Madame B. a visit, said
to me: “Madame B. does not dye her hair any longer, so that one can now
see how very grey she is!”
‘Here is a veritable premonition. The authenticity of this remarkable
fact cannot be doubted, for it would have been impossible for me, or
for any one else, by means of telepathy, or in any other way, to convey
to Madame X. the idea of a death, in which I did not believe, and which
did not, even for a moment, cross my mind, or any one else’s mind.
‘Such, dear Dr. Maxwell, is the epilogue of the recital I sent you.
Although we cannot state precisely the link uniting the diverse
psychical phenomena exposed in my two letters, I do not think we
can consider them as independent of each other. There are certain
mysterious relations here, which the future, aided by our patience,
will certainly elucidate.—Yours sincerely,
‘CHARLES RICHET.’
_January 1905._
‘DEAR FRIEND,—During the revision of the above pages, whilst I was
showing them to Madame X., the latter told me that “the family B. were
not yet done with” [_tout n’est pas fini encore pour la famille B.!_];
her words conveyed to me the impression of a presentiment of some
misfortune about to fall upon that family. These words were uttered
between 3 and 4 o’clock on the 23rd December 1904.
‘Now, during the night of the 23rd-24th December, towards 11 o’clock,
Louis B. (the son of Antoine B.) narrowly escaped being killed in
a serious railway accident. That he was saved was little short of
a miracle. When, on the morning of the 24th December, I saw by the
newspapers that Louis had escaped, I was struck by the thought that
Madame X.’s prediction [_tout n’est pas fini encore pour la famille
B._] had been on the point of becoming realised.
‘Alas! the presentiment was but too true; for Oliver L., the son of
Madame B.’s second husband, was in the same train as Louis B., and,
though the morning papers did not mention the fact, he was killed
instantaneously.
* * * * *
‘I have another interesting point to mention in connection with this
presentiment. On the 8th July 1903 Madame X. wrote to me saying,
that Madame B.’s death (she had just died) would be soon followed by
another. She added: ‘Some one tells me that one of the sons will soon
die,—before the end of two years. I think it is Jacques B., but they do
not say so.’ [_Quelqu’un me dit qu’un des fils mourra bientôt, avant
deux ans. Je pense que c’est Jacques B., mais on ne le dit pas._]
‘Thus this premonition—somewhat vague it is true—pronounced eighteen
months before, was realised. It will be remarked that Madame X., by
adding her own impression to her auditory perception, committed an
error; whilst the perception itself, though not very explicit, was
correct.—Yours very sincerely,
‘CHARLES RICHET.’
II. MOTOR AUTOMATISM
The observations which I have just laid before my readers, relate to
facts occurring in the domain of sensibility; the motor centres do not
escape automatism, and there is a whole series of motor automatisms,
simple or mixed, to be noticed. For the sake of clearness, I will
divide them into four classes:—
1. Simple muscular automatism:—Typtology; Planchette; and diverse
alphabetic systems, ouija, etc.
2. Graphic muscular automatism:—Automatic script and drawing;
Planchettes, baskets, tables.
3. Phonetic automatism:—Automatic discourses.
4. Mixed automatisms:—Incarnations.
I will remark, first of all, that the word automatism, borrowed from
Myer’s terminology, is not strictly correct. In reality, we can only
speak of automatism when we are in presence of mechanical acts,
excluding intervention of the will. Now this is not the case with the
acts in question; these acts, which appear to be automatic if they are
looked at solely from the point of view of the personal consciousness,
are in reality due to some sort of consciousness, parasitic or
non-parasitic, and offer the characteristic features of voluntary acts.
These reserves made, I will continue, for want of better, to use the
word consecrated by custom.
1. Simple muscular automatism.—I designate thus those acts which
require no association of complicated movements, such as the movements
of writing and language exact. The simplest way of provoking this
automatism is in the ordinary spiritistic process of typtology.
The experimenters sit down round a table, and lay their hands lightly
on it. Sooner or later the table trembles, sways about from side to
side, sometimes turns round, but more often raises one of its feet and
strikes the ground with it. A code of signals is arranged to express
‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘doubtful’—_e.g._ three, two, and four:—the manner in
which the alphabet is to be pointed out is also agreed upon, either the
table will strike the number of the letter’s rank, for example, one for
A, three for C, 15 for O, 20 for T, etc., or it will strike the floor
when the letter desired is pronounced.
I rank this phenomenon with automatisms because, nearly always,
it has appeared to me to be due to involuntary, or unconscious
movements. I do not like this kind of experiment; it does not carry
conviction. Gasparian, and after him, Chevreul have given the correct
interpretation of it.
It is interesting only when the communications obtained reveal facts,
apparently unknown to the experimenters. Then the phenomenon is no
longer explicable by simple automatic action: the muscular movement
is determined by the impersonal consciousness of the sitters or the
medium, and becomes the manner of transmitting the message addressed by
the impersonal consciousness to the personal consciousness. In fact,
we conceive that, if what I said concerning parakinesis be correct,
the movements of the table may be sometimes parakinetic. I have been
present at many seances for typtology, but I have never verified
interesting facts, except the one I related concerning _Touton la
Pipe_. When the experiments are conducted under the conditions which
I consider indispensable, I am careful not to encourage typtological
manifestations.
There exists other means of inducing simple muscular automatism. The
best are instruments after the style of the psychograph. The alphabet,
numbers, and the words ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘I do not know,’ are written on a
dial in the centre of which a needle is placed. The displacements of
this index hand indicate the letters, numbers, etc., like the needle
of the dial of a Bréguet telegraph. These dials are made of different
sizes, and of different materials. It is best, however, to construct
them in the following manner:—take a square piece of white wood,
non-resinous, from seventeen to twenty inches broad. Trace thereon a
circumference of seven to nine inches in diameter, and write around it
the letters of the alphabet, numbers, the words, ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘I do
not know,’ and any other desired indications. Place in the centre of
the circle a bone or ivory pivot, the axis round which the needle will
turn. Make the needle of wood, giving it enough thickness and solidity
for the hands to be able to rest on it. It is not necessary to give
much mobility to the needle if the hands are to rest on it; in this
case, it will suffice to pierce a hole in it, through which the pivot
may pass.[13]
[13] Articles of this nature may be found at Leymarie’s, 42 Rue
Saint-Jacques, Paris; and at the office of _Light_, 110 St.
Martin’s Lane, London.
I have been told of cases where the needle moved of its own accord; but
I have not personally verified this fact. If movements of the needle
without contact be desired, it would be well to give a more perfect
suspension to the needle: this may be accomplished by supporting it on
small movable rollers, like those on the planchettes used for automatic
writing.
I have rarely experimented with psychographs, for the same reasons
which made me shun typtology.
I will say the same thing of another kind of apparatus: the ouija, made
in England. It is a board on which the alphabet and other signs are
written. A small movable planchette supported on three or four feet
is placed on the board; the sitters put their hands on the planchette
which points out the letters, etc., with one of its feet, a process
which is irksome, to say the least of it.
There are yet other means for inducing muscular automatism. I will
point out, as an example, the very ancient method of divination by the
ring. A metal, or better still an ivory ring, is suspended to a hair or
silken thread. The end of the hair or thread is held in the fingers;
the ring is held, thus suspended, in the centre of a small circle of
three or four inches in diameter on which the alphabet is written.
At the end of a certain time, the ring sways about, then strikes the
letters, sometimes spelling out words. By placing the ring in a glass,
it will strike against it, giving indications in this way. I have only
used this method once or twice, for it seemed to me to present very
little interest. This is in reality Chevreul’s exploring pendulum.
2. Automatic script.—Automatic writing is, I think, one of the most
interesting of all phenomena; I have no need to bring to mind the
important studies which Myers, Hodgson, Hyslop, Sidgwick, and others
have made on this phenomena. I have been able to make some observations
of great interest, but the limits of this book do not permit me to
give a detailed report of them. The thorough examination I made of one
particular case of automatic writing—a rather rudimentary case, it is
true—clearly revealed to me the play of the unconscious souvenirs of
the medium.
The methods for obtaining automatic writing are numerous. We can even
make a table write by fixing a pencil to one of its feet; the same
with a hat or basket, etc. More perfect methods exist, of which the
following are the best:—
First of all the planchette; an instrument in the shape of an oval
piece of wood, resting on three movable tiny ivory rollers, with a
small copper setting at one end, in which a lead-pencil may be screwed.
With the planchette two or three persons may write at the same time.
Another equally good method is the following: Fix two, three or four
handles on to a large wooden ball, of about seven inches in diameter.
Fix the pencil in a hole bored through the ball, each handle of which
is held by an experimenter. Place a sheet of paper underneath the
pencil, the latter will then often move and write words and phrases.
Finally, the best method of all is to write naturally, without any
instrument at all. The sensitive sits down with a pencil, as though to
write, and waits.
Whatever the method adopted may be, it is seldom that automatic writing
is manifested at the outset. Generally one or several seances are
passed in illegible scribblings, in making strokes, zigzags, in endless
repetitions of the same letter. But we must not be discouraged; on the
contrary, we must continue experimenting for a certain time, before
concluding to the impossibility of success. Whether we be trying to
obtain collective or ordinary automatic writing, it is a good plan
to consecrate ten or fifteen minutes every day, always at the same
hour, to these trials. The phenomenon takes a long time to evolve, and
people, who have obtained most curious results with automatic writing,
have passed months in developing their faculty.
As I said before, I have chiefly directed my experiments towards the
observation of movements without contact; therefore, I have not sought
very assiduously to obtain automatic writing with my mediums. The
greater number of cases I have observed offer little interest, if we
compare them to the curious visual hallucinations which I related a
little while ago. I will make an exception though for one which I am
in the act of studying, and which makes me conceive some hopes, the
sensitive having written in English, a language which I am positive
he does not know. This medium, like many I have met with, submits
grudgingly to these experiments, and has not yet consented to sit
regularly for automatic writing. I hope I may succeed in persuading him
to do so.
Though my observations present very little relative interest, I will
give some examples of the results I have obtained personally. I will
give them simply as indications, for, none of the facts I have observed
present, so far, any real interest, except the one I was able to
analyse, and even this contains nothing of a transcendental nature.
I myself have often tried to write with the planchette. I obtained
words and incoherent phrases, all extremely commonplace. I wrote
alone or with others; alone, I obtained it with the left as well as
with the right hand. The left hand sometimes gives mirror-writing,
_Spiegelschrift_; with the planchette, the left hand generally writes
in the usual manner from left to right. One point to be noted with
planchette-writing, is the dissociation of the graphic elements. The
letters are as a rule fairly large, varying from an eighth of an
inch to nearly an inch. It is chiefly in capital letters we find the
dissociation curious. The characteristics of my hand-writing are not
altered. I will add that this manifestation does not present much
interest, for I am perfectly conscious of what I write when alone,
and when I write with another person, the movements of the planchette
indicate to me what letters are being formed.
With the ball and handles, of which I gave a description, I once
observed a curious fact. I was experimenting with a lady and her
husband; the former is a medium whose faculties are above the average.
The writing announced the reception of a letter from Hendaye on the
morrow. The letter came; but to demonstrate the premonitory feature
of this fact, I have only the affirmation of my co-experimenters, and
although they are people of unimpeachable probity, their affirmation
alone would be insufficient to establish the reality of the premonition
in a positive manner. Therefore, I only give it as a specimen of the
facts which may be obtained with automatic writing.
I have often observed ordinary writing, but I have never obtained a
veridic paranormal fact in this way. I have, as I said, studied a case
of semi-automatic writing, and was able to analyse its psychological
features thoroughly. The writer was what spiritualists call an
_intuitive_ medium, that is to say, he was conscious of what he wrote.
He was thirty-five years of age, and had never indulged in spiritistic
practices before, though he knew the literature, especially Allan
Kardac’s works. At the time the phenomenon manifested itself with him,
he was mentally overdone through excess of brain work. He occupied an
important official position. Apparently he has no nervous defect, and,
except for frequent headaches, his health is good. I have not been able
to study his reflex movements, nor examine him from a somatic point of
view.
He commenced writing with the planchette; he had a sensation of being
guided, but knew what he wrote and what he was going to write. There
was, therefore, a beginning of dissociation between the mental images,
properly so called, and their motor action. This fact should be noted,
because it seems to me to have an interesting signification, in so far
as it demonstrates that the ideomotor image is not simple, but has
complex elements, and, notably, that elements which are purely ideal
and motor elements can become dissociated. In the example cited, the
sensitive was fully conscious of the _ideas_ which were formed in, or
which presented themselves to, his consciousness. On the contrary,
he was not fully conscious of the movements his hand made. The
stereognostic perception and the muscular sense were intact; only the
consciousness of the origin of the accomplished movement was obscure;
therefore, it was only the sphere of voluntary motor power in the
personal consciousness which was touched.
The first manifestations of pseudo-automatic writing claimed to
emanate from a deceased relation. This relation was quite disposed to
communicate facts known to the sensitive, but manifested very little
eagerness to answer questions which the sensitive’s consciousness
could not answer. Invited to justify his identity, the personality
showed itself incapable of giving the slightest proof.
Meanwhile, the sensitive tried ordinary writing, and obtained
it. It presented the same features as planchette-writing. A new
personification came and assisted the deceased relation—he was nothing
less than a Mahatma from India! At this time the sensitive was
reading the works of Madame Blavatsky and Mr. Sinnett, especially the
latter’s _Occult World_. The communications were signed _Hymaladar_.
This Mahatma presented nothing of transcendental interest, and was
lavish with his promises. He declared he was ready to undertake the
exoteric education of the sensitive, who, in his _naïveté_, yielded to
the Mahatma’s advice. The Mahatma promised to transport him actually
over to India, to precipitate letters, etc. The promises were never
fulfilled.
Other personifications manifested; the sensitive tried to obtain
some proofs of identity, but without success. On the other hand the
personifications were verbose on general topics, and gave proof of a
lively imagination. Here are some specimens of their style and ideas.
A guide, signing himself _Memnon_, expressed the following opinion upon
a certain mystic book:—
‘... Do not allow yourself to be led away by its descriptions: they
apply to all those who, in no matter what religion, devote themselves
to a contemplative life, which is, assuredly, a blessing, but one which
must be won by patience and effort. When the duties common to every man
born of the flesh have been fulfilled, abstention from the imperious
duty of procreation can, and really does, favour the faculty for
projection of the soul, and renders _ecstasy_ easier; but not only is
such a development artificial, it is also reprehensible to arrive at
that contemplative life, without having founded a family in compliance
with the imprescriptible law of nature. Herein lies the original
vice of all religious communities which offend creation’s views; it
would suffice to generalise the doctrine to discover its falseness
immediately. Man has physical as well as moral duties to accomplish: he
is composed of a body and a soul; he is culpable when he subordinates
one of his composing parts to the other. The senses have no more the
right to command the body than the soul has of making the body suffer
in its physical functions. The suppression of any natural function
is criminal, and every religious order does this. This is their
capital error. He who has raised children and satisfied the physical
evolution, he alone has the right to withdraw from the world, to lead
a contemplative life, when the body, worn out by old age, has finished
its active rôle here below. It is only then that preparation is useful.’
The pencil was verbose every time general subjects were broached.
Whenever the sensitive pressed the personification on some given point,
the latter was silent—he disappeared. The questions were written as
well as the replies. There are some amusing conversations, where the
‘spirit’ plays a rôle other than that of simple interlocutor. By way of
specimen, I note the following dialogue:—
Q. Do you see me?
A. Yes, but badly; we do not see matter clearly; a long apprenticeship
is necessary, and we have not been working long with matter.
Q. Is it long since you left your sphere?
A. Eight years.
Q. Who are you?
A. Monsieur A.
Q. And?
A. And Mamie Beaupuyat.
Q. You have known me?
A. Yes, I was one of your college friends.
Q. Where?
A. At N.
Q. What college?
A. Z. College.
Q. Will you write your name again?
A. Maurice B. (here the name of a street).
Q. I do not remember having known you my friend. Remark this, you have
given me two different names, Beaupuyat and B.
A. Many details are forgotten in Paradise (_sic_).
Q. Ah! strange ambassador! You come to see me without letters of credit!
A. Good-bye.
Q. Good-night.
* * * * *
The subconscious excuse for the contradiction pointed out is not
wanting in humour.
Here is another example:—
Q. Are my guides here?
A. We are always at hand to help you, always.
Q. Will you show yourselves to me?
A. Ought you to ask us for anything before giving us tokens?
* * * * *
Q. Is it X. who is influencing me?
A. Yes.
Q. But he is dead?
A. Yes.
Q. But you forbid me to evoke the dead?
A. We are the spirits of dead people.
Q. But you told me you were Mahatmas?
A. We are _Mahatmas_, but _Mahatmas_ are not living.
Q. Is it again a trick of my subliminal?
A. Yes, your subliminal is the will.
Q. Yes, it is true, but the will is chiefly superliminal.
A. You are right.
Q. Why do you always make fun of me?
A. We do so to please the Lord.
Q. This is cruel. I am in earnest, and your lord, if he be just, will
punish you severely for your farces.
A. Yes, he will give us the whip.
Q. I do not like this joking, leave me.
A. Always ... (illegible).
Q. What?
A. Magician.
Q. Am I a magician?
A. Yes.
Q. I did not know it.
A. Always do good, and you will be happy.
Q. Happiness is not so easy to obtain.
A. Good-bye.
Q. Who are you?
A. A friend.
* * * * *
This is simply nonsense. I have quoted these three examples in order
to show the growing analogy found therein with the delirium of dream.
It is scarcely visible in the first quotation, which is coherent,
logical and of fairly elegant form. But the ideas which are expressed
have their sources in subconscious souvenirs: they will be found in
_Spirit Teachings_, _Higher Aspects of Spiritualism_, _Occult World_,
and _Esoteric Buddhism_.
The second quotation reveals decided oneiroscopic associations. The
name Beaupuyat awakens no souvenir; the name of a street having nearly
the same assonance is then substituted for it; this is an illogical
association, formed by phonetic elements. The explanation of the
contradiction between the names given successively is very illogical,
but it is what might be called ‘a good hit.’ This is one of our ways of
reasoning with ourselves in dreams.
The third quotation shows a still more marked degree of incoherence.
The first replies are attempts at conciliation of contradictions
impossible to do away with: they are affirmations which are but echoes
of the questions asked. I do not quite understand the association
between subliminal and will; but the emergence of the idea of will
gives place to a curious phenomenon: the evolution of a parasitical
association of ideas bringing to mind the psychological phenomenon
which A. Pick describes under the name of _Vorbeidenken_. We have
non-expressed stages, from will to ‘God’s will,’ words which are often
associated together in religious language: ‘to do the will of God, to
be agreeable to God.’ The incoherent reply, which consists in saying
that the Mahatmas make fun of the subject in order to be agreeable to
God, is then the last link of a chain of latent associations; this
last link is the only one shown. Also, the incongruous idea of beings
who call themselves spirits and wise men, and declare they must be
whipped, is the result of an evident association between the idea
of being severe consciously expressed, and the idea of severity,
chastisement, whip, average latent terms. The psychological analysis,
therefore, reveals to us mental processes which are known and classed.
It shows us, that the dream character of subconscious messages
does not differ from that observed in the mental operations of the
consciousness, as soon as the latter’s personal and voluntary activity
becomes weakened or gradually gives place to spontaneous ideation.
I think the three examples I have chosen show this progressive
debilitation very well, and also the corresponding accentuation of the
characteristics of dream in the messages obtained. The case I examined
is at the limit of paranormal facts, but the inquisitive reader has at
his disposal the weighty analysis of the transcendental cases published
in the _Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research_, epitomised
by M. Sage in his book _Mrs. Piper et la Société Anglo-Américaine des
Recherches Psychiques_, to verify the accuracy of my conclusion, viz.
that the mental processes in simple cases, as well as in the more
complex cases, are identical.
I return to the case observed by me. The obstinacy of even the best and
most moral of these personalities in refusing to expose themselves to
any control whatsoever, the falsehoods they were imprudent enough to
overlook, and the critical attitude of mind of the sensitive himself,
awakened a spirit of distrust in the latter. He began to observe
himself, and the first result of his observation of the conditions
under which the writing was produced, was the gradual disappearance
of the sensation of impulse which he had felt: his pencil, he told
me, had seemed to follow a magnet. As this sensation weakened and
disappeared, so the personifications affected to be either grievously
pained, or cold and dignified, or frankly insolent; they all deplored
the sensitive’s incredulity. The relation bade him adieu and appeared
no more; Hymaladar himself ceased to be interested in his _chela_. The
sensitive soon saw the futility of his efforts, and the writing ceased
completely to present the peculiarity it had offered during several
weeks.
This case is instructive, because it is on the borderline between
conscious and unconscious phenomena. Thanks to the clear and complete
indications on the part of the sensitive, I was able to reconstitute
the genesis of every personality. That of the relation is easily
explained, but Hymaladar was more rebellious to analysis. Upon
investigation it appeared to me to be the synthesis of the words
Hymalaya and Damodar. The one, which quite naturally evokes the thought
of India, is the dwelling-place of the sages who, it appears, preside
in a very secret manner at the evolution of the theosophical movement;
the disciple or _chela_ of one of them was the guru, the master of
Madame Blavatsky. His name was Damodar. The associated ideas—Blavatsky,
India, Hymalaya, Damodar—lead up to the word _Hymala_ (ya Damo) _dar_;
the genesis of the word is thus quite comprehensible.
At present I am observing a more complex case, in which paranormal
phenomena accompany automatic writing. The sensitive, who is in the act
of developing his medianity, unfortunately gives himself up rather
unwillingly to observation. He does not know English, yet he has
automatically written certain phrases in English. However, we must not
conclude therefrom, that these messages are of transcendental origin.
This sensitive is a well-educated person, and most probably English
words and phrases have fallen under his eyes from time to time; thus
the irruption of English in messages he obtains may be explained by
the emergence of subconscious souvenirs. The tenor of the messages
is still vague; the writing is often difficult to read; no precise
fact capable of being analysed and verified has so far been given. It
appears to me useless, in these circumstances, to give examples of
these messages, but I will point out an interesting peculiarity which
I have observed only with this sensitive. This is the concomitancy of
raps and automatic writing. I have most carefully studied these raps;
they appear to me to occur on a level with the point of the pencil.
The phenomenon is forthcoming in broad daylight, and under excellent
conditions of observation. An attentive examination shows that the
point of the pencil does not leave the paper. The raps are forthcoming
even when I put my finger on the upper end of the pencil, and when
I press the point on the paper. The pencil vibrates, but it is not
displaced. As these raps are very sonorous, I have calculated that it
would be necessary to give rather a strong knock in order to reproduce
them artificially: the necessary movement would require raising the
pencil from the twentieth to the eighth of an inch, according to the
intensity of the raps. Now, the pencil does not appear to be displaced.
Further, when the writing runs quickly the raps succeed one another
with great rapidity, and the close examination of the writing reveals
no stops; the text is unbroken, no trace of pencil dots is perceptible,
there is no thickening of the characters. The conditions of observation
appear to me to exclude the possibility of a trick. I will add that
during this automatic writing the arm and hand of the sensitive are in
a state of anæsthesia.
3. Phonetic and mixed automatisms. I combine these two categories of
automatisms because the automatism is seldom purely phonetic. The
sensitive makes gestures appropriate to the personage he represents,
and the automatism is complicated; the muscles which regulate the
emission of the voice are not the only ones in activity.
This kind of automatism is very easy to observe. It is the basis of
ordinary spiritistic seances; it is called ‘incarnation’ or ‘control,’
and the sensitive, who produces this kind of phenomena, is called a
‘trance medium.’
Its necessary condition is the trance or somnambulistic state. The
sensitive falls asleep spontaneously, or is put to sleep artificially
by passes. After a certain time, more or less long, and after diverse
movements, the most usual of which seem to be muscular contractions of
the face and pharynx, the sensitive enters into somnambulism and passes
into the secondary state. Some subjects fall asleep very quickly. It
is not a rare thing in spiritistic seances, for two or three persons
to enter into a state of somnambulism at the same time. The perfection
of the sensitive’s acting, when personifying diverse individualities,
is most striking when they have known the persons they are imitating.
Observation is extremely interesting. In spiritistic seances these
personalities, naturally, always represent spirits.
I have seen nothing in this order of phenomenon which appeared to me
worth noting. Everything is easily explained by the play of impersonal
memory and by imitation. Many transcendental facts have been related
to me: personally I have observed none. But I have very rarely tried
to provoke trance phenomena. They do not present the same interest to
me as physical phenomena do. The most interesting I have seen, were
given me by Madame Agullana, in private seances. This sensitive’s
most curious personality is that of a doctor, who died about eighty
or a hundred years ago: he has always refused to give any information
concerning his identity; the reason he advances for maintaining his
incognito—the existence of his family, members of whom are living in
the south of France—does not satisfy me; I imagine he is withholding
the best. His medical language is archaic. He calls plants by their
ancient medical names; his diagnosis, accompanied with extra-ordinary
explanations, is generally correct, but the description of the internal
symptoms which he perceives is such as would astound a doctor of
the twentieth century. Matters, fluids, molecules, dance a strange
saraband. Nevertheless, my colleague from beyond the tomb—not at all
loquacious, by the way—retains a serenity, which is proof against
everything, and humbly recognises that there are many things he does
not know. During the ten years I have been observing him, he has not
changed, and presents a logical continuity which is most striking.
Persons, who are not _au courant_ with the features of secondary
personalities, might easily be deceived and believe in his objective
reality. Be he what he says he is, or be he what I suspect him to be,
that is to say, one of the sensitive’s secondary personalities, my
_confrère_ Hippolytus is an interesting interlocutor, and, with his
conversation, one could write a work on clinical medicine which would
be rather out of the common. This is not the place to study him, for
his examination only raises problems of psychological interest. In
these phenomena of mixed automatism, of ‘incarnation,’ we observe the
complete development of _personifications_. These personifications
are the feature common to all psychical phenomena. Raps claim to
emanate from a given personality, paranormal movements have the same
pretension, automatic script assures us of a like origin: ‘incarnation’
or ‘control’ puts forth the claim of being the personality himself, in
full possession of the sensitive’s body, directing and using it as he
pleases.
The problem which these personifications set before us is, perhaps, the
most interesting of all those which are to be met with, in the kind
of study to which this book is consecrated. I have pointed out, that
the general feature of these personifications is to present themselves
as living—or more usually deceased human beings. My observations
do not tend to make me think that this claim is well founded. It
does not come within the scheme of my work to analyse the different
hypotheses, which have been emitted by the different mystic schools.
Occultists profess to see astral shells, in these personifications,
debris—still organised—of the body’s astral double, which the superior
principles have abandoned. Theosophists have about the same theory,
designating these debris by the name of elementals. Spiritists
attribute their phenomena to the spirits of the dead. Roman Catholics
see the intervention of the devil therein, while the greater number of
savants only see fraud or chimera. All these opinions are too absolute.
There is, certainly, something; but I think this something is neither
spirit, shell, elemental nor demon. It is not my province to formulate
in detail my theory: properly speaking, I have not any. I observe
without bias of any kind, and the only indication I can give is the
following:—in almost every case I have studied, I believe I recognised
the mentality of the medium and the sitters in the personification. It
is true, there are certain cases which I cannot explain in this way;
but the spirit hypothesis explains them still less satisfactorily. We
must continue seeking.
The examples I have given of intellectual phenomena show that in every
case of which I have been able to make a thorough analysis, we discover
the action of the impersonal consciousness. This explains itself
naturally, since the personal and voluntary consciousness excludes by
definition the co-existence of a second personality. Nevertheless, this
is not absolutely true. The medium, of whom I have already spoken, he
who produces raps when writing, writes automatically while he speaks,
in quite a natural way, of other things. In fact, he only writes well
when his attention is drawn away from his hand. As soon as he is
conscious of the movement, the writing ceases. Things happen with him,
as though the normal consciousness lost all contact with the motor
centres of the arm and hand. A special consciousness appears to be
developed in these centres.
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF AUTOMATISM
The difficulty, which is raised by the interpretation of facts of
the kind exposed above, is considerable. It is to be remembered,
that the sensitive of whom I have just spoken, does not appear to
suffer any diminution of his normal personality; he converses with
facility, his normal personal souvenirs and his intelligence remain
intact. His arm and hand alone, especially the latter, are withdrawn
from consciousness, and this in the sensitive as well as in the motor
spheres. Janet sees in these facts psychological disaggregation, and
in many cases his explication is the correct one. But it cannot be
applied to the case I am speaking of, for no diminution in the memory,
intelligence or mental activity is perceptible. However, Janet seems
to have only seen one of the phases of these curious phenomena. I
attach so much importance to the establishing of the _point de fait_
that, before all analysis thereof, I desire to state it precisely,
successively with the discussion.
The first circumstance of fact which observation of the case I am
examining reveals, is the one I have just pointed out: an apparent
dissociation of the normal personality, from the cenesthesic
consciousness of which a portion of the body is withdrawn. The second
circumstance is the relative knowledge of English—with correct
orthography excepting one mistake only—which is shown by the apparently
self-governed limb. Note also that I feel sure that this knowledge of
English is probably subconscious, and that I have supposed, although
this has not been proved, that the writer has now and then come across
a few English sentences, containing the phrases written by him. These
two circumstances are, for me, observed facts.
From these facts there results a third fact, the consequence of the
first two: the consciousness, which directs the limb withdrawn from
the personality, appears to have more considerable resources—at least
from a memory point of view—than the normal consciousness. If it be
correct to speak of apparent disaggregation in that which concerns
the conscious normal personality, it seems to me that this expression
ceases to represent the facts, as soon as it can be demonstrated, that
the consciousness manifested by the automatism is more extensive than
the normal consciousness. If we are to attach a precise meaning to
language—and Janet’s language is so clear and simple that we may not
accuse this elegant and remarkable writer of want of precision—the idea
of disaggregation implies the division of the personal consciousness
into elementary parts, according to definition, lesser than the whole.
This phenomenon is frequently observed, _e.g._ when automatic writing
shows itself to be incapable of logical co-ordination, of which I have
given examples; sometimes there is no trace of thought, properly so
called, _e.g._ when the sensitive confines himself to repeating _sine
die_ the same letter, or traces nothing but lines, and strokes, etc.
But can we consider the case as one of veritable disaggregation where
the hand, withdrawn from normal consciousness, appears to dispose of a
greater mass of souvenirs than the normal consciousness does?
Janet himself has verified the fact, and gives some examples of it
in his work, _Névroses et idées fixes_, vol i. After that, is it
not contradictory to say (_Automatisme psychologique_, p. 452): ‘The
result of our studies has been to bring back the diverse phenomena of
automatism to their essential conditions—most of these phenomena depend
upon a state of anæsthesia or abstraction. This state is connected with
the narrowing of the field of consciousness, and this narrowing itself
is due to the feebleness of synthesis and the disaggregation of the
mental compound into diverse groups smaller than they should normally
be. These diverse points are easy to verify; the state of abstraction,
incoherence, of disaggregation, in a word, of suggestible individuals
has often been pointed out.’ How can a group, smaller than the mental
compound of which it forms one of the parts, be more considerable
than that compound? How can a part be greater than its whole? This
is, nevertheless, a fact easily verifiable in the domain of memory
and sometimes in that of intelligence. Janet’s theory explains only
some of the observable facts; it is only partially true. It suffices
to compare the quotation I have just given with what he says in his
work, _Névroses et idées fixes_, vol. i. p. 137: ‘The souvenir even in
somnambulism only exists if the patient be oblivious to everything and
replies automatically to questions, by the mechanical association of
ideas without reflection, without the personal perception of what he is
doing.
‘... The souvenir, in a word, is only manifested unknown to the person:
it disappears when the person has to speak or write in his own name,
conscious of what he is doing.’ For Janet this is the sign of mental
disaggregation.
The quotations I have just given define sharply Janet’s opinion,
and show up his mistake and his contradiction. That which becomes
disaggregated is the _personality_, the _personal consciousness_.
But it does not become resolved into groups smaller than they ought
normally to be, since these groups often show themselves to be more
comprehensive than the mental compound. It is, therefore, illogical to
consider them as a part which has become dissociated from the whole.
I have already had occasion to express my manner of thinking in other
writings: nevertheless, perhaps I may be permitted to indicate the
direction which psychological interpretation should take in order to
avoid an encounter with facts.
The personal consciousness is only one of the modalities of the general
consciousness. Clinical observation reveals that, in a great many
cases, it has been proved, that the souvenirs stored up in the general
consciousness are infinitely more numerous, than those which the
personal consciousness has at its free disposition. Myers has expressed
these ideas most happily in the following words (‘The Subliminal
Consciousness,’ _Proceedings, S. P. R._, vii. p. 301):—
‘I suggest, then, that the stream of consciousness in which we
habitually live is not the only consciousness which exists in
connection with our organism. Our habitual or empirical consciousness
may consist of a mere selection from a multitude of thoughts and
sensations, of which some at least are equally conscious with those
that we empirically know. I accord no primacy to my ordinary waking
self, except that among my potential selves this one has shown itself
the fittest to meet the needs of common life. I hold that it has
established no further claim, and that it is perfectly possible
that other thoughts, feelings, and memories, either isolated or in
continuous connection, may now be actively conscious, as we say,
‘within me’—in some kind of co-ordination with my organism, and forming
some part of my total individuality. I conceive it possible that at
some future time, and under changed conditions, I may recollect all; I
may assume these various personalities under one single consciousness,
in which ultimate and complete consciousness the empirical
consciousness which at this moment directs my hand may be only one
element out of many.’
He appears to me to be nearer the truth than Janet is: I do not know if
we shall ever arrive at that complete consciousness which Myers hopes
for, but it seems to me probable, that our personal consciousness is
only one element of our general consciousness. This latter becomes
concrete and definite, but also grows less by becoming personal.
The apparent supremacy of the personal consciousness may be only an
effect of the circumstances in which we are evolving; if Darwin’s
ideas are true, we can understand that the necessities of life may
have favoured the development of the active, voluntary, personal
consciousness; we can imagine other conditions—which the monastic life
sometimes realises—where the active and voluntary phases of the general
consciousness may be less evolved than its receptive and passive
phases. Therefore, the psychologist finds the study of hagiography
teeming with information.
Janet’s disaggregation is but the weakening of the sentiment of the
conscious and voluntary personal activity, of what I called the
sentiment of the personal participation in intercurrent psychological
phenomena. It is no veritable disaggregation; it is a disappearance of
one modality of the consciousness, of one of its _limited expressions_,
so to speak. However, I recognise, with Janet, that this mode of
expression of the consciousness is the necessary basis of our activity
in _ordinary life_, and that it is legitimate to consider as invalids,
those persons in whom it is normally wanting. But the fact itself
of its disappearance has more the features of an _integration_ than
of a _disintegration_, since upon an attentive examination, the
personal consciousness is revealed as a limitation and a special
determination of the general consciousness of which it is, in a way,
a dismemberment. If I dared to use metaphysical language, I would say
that rational and voluntary activity is in reality a disaggregation;
personality is only a contingent and limited manifestation of the
being, or rather of individuality. This latter, to use the expression
of an eminent philosopher, would be superior to reason itself, and of
irrational essence, an idea which contains the first principles of a
new philosophy. I make this incursion into metaphysics merely to show
how narrow Janet’s theories are, and what different consequences result
from such a professional manner of thinking as his is, and from a
more general conception of that, of which his manner of thinking only
concerns one particular case.
The facts, moreover, condemn Janet’s theory. I have too high an opinion
of the distinguished man whose ideas I criticise, but whose works
I admire sincerely, not to be convinced that he has only observed
undeveloped subjects. What demonstrates this in my eyes is his timid
affirmation, that ‘nearly always (I do not say always in order not to
prejudice an important question) these mediums are neurotics, when
they are not downright hysterics.’ It is difficult to discuss an
opinion expressed with so much reserve, and I can only commend him for
his circumspection, for my personal observations contradict his. I
have seen many mediums: the best were not _neurotics_ in the medical
sense of the word. The finest experiments I have made have been with
persons appearing to present none of the stigmæ of hysteria. Up to
the present Janet seems to have operated with invalids only, and I
am not surprised, therefore, that he should assimilate the automatic
phenomena of sensitives with those of his hysterical patients. It would
be surprising were it otherwise. I am not going to defend spiritistic
mediums; they appear to me to present very poor interest—at least in
ordinary seances—but my duty is to protest against the generality of
the judgment which Janet brings to bear upon automatic phenomena. Those
facts, which are worthy of careful observation, differ essentially
from those which ordinary hysterics present. They indicate no _misère
psychologique_—quite the contrary, and I will state the reasons why.
The discussion, in order to be clear, must be divided:
1. The phenomena observable with good mediums are not those we observe
in hysterical patients. I said I had obtained raps and movements
without contact under conditions of control, which appeared to me to
be convincing. I added that I had obtained by raps, or by the rappings
of a table without contact, words and phrases which were extremely
coherent. This is not quite the kind of phenomena to which hospital
patients have accustomed us. What does Janet say on this point?
‘The essential point of spiritism is indeed, we believe, the
disaggregation of psychological phenomena, and the formation beyond
the personal perception of a second series of thoughts detached from
the first. As for the means which the second personality employs to
manifest itself unknown to the first—movements of tables, automatic
writing or speaking, etc....—this is a secondary question (_sic_).
Where do those sounds come from which are heard on tables and walls
in answer to questions? Is it from a movement of the toes, of that
contraction of the tendon supposed by Jobert de Lamballe...? Is it from
a contraction of the stomach and from a veritable ventriloquism as
Gros. Jean supposes, or from some other physical action yet unknown?
Are they produced by the automatic movements of the medium himself, or,
indeed, as appears to me most likely in some cases, _in the obscurity
demanded by the spirits_(!) by the subconscious actions of one of the
assistants, who deceives others and himself at the same time, and who
becomes an accomplice without knowing it? It does not matter very much.’
That is not my opinion. I think, on the contrary, it matters a great
deal. I am positive that every sincere and patient experimenter will
observe, as I have done, in broad daylight, and not in obscurity,
sounds and movements which will not appear to be explicable by any
known cause. Those who, like myself, have verified these facts, will
not dream of attributing them to unconscious or involuntary movements,
to the cracking of a tendon, to ventriloquism. The cases observed by me
will not admit of this explanation. Things happen as though some force
or other were produced by the medium and the assistants, and could act
beyond the limits of the body. If this fact be correct, can we consider
it as secondary and without importance? On the contrary, does it not
open to the psychology of the future the road of direct observation
and experimentation, if, as I have tried to show, this force preserves
certain relations with our general consciousness? Does this not make
one think of those words of Proclus when speaking of souls:—
Τρίτη δὲ αὐταῖς πάρεστιν ἡ κατὰ τὴν ἰδίαν ὕπαρξιν ἐνέργεια, κινητικὴ
μὲν ὕπάρχουσα τῶν φύσει ἑτεροκινήτων. Souls have a third force
inherent to their essence, that of moving things which by their very
nature are put into movement by an energy foreign to themselves.
Has not Janet a singular way of reasoning? He makes a reserve on
the existence of another ‘physical action yet unknown,’ but quickly
forgets it, and reasons as though that action were perfectly well
known. ‘That action, whatever it may be, is _always_ an involuntary and
unconscious action of some one or other: the involuntary word from the
intestines(!) is not more miraculous than is the involuntary word from
the mouth; it is the psychological side of the problem which is the
most interesting, and which ought to be the most studied.’
I am sure that those of my readers, whose patience has not been
too severely tested by my long analysis of facts observed, will not
consider my distinguished colleague’s conclusion as acceptable. The
most interesting side of the phenomenon is, I think, the one which
reveals to us an apparently new mode of action of the nervous influx
upon matter.
2. These phenomena, again, are not the indication of a _misère
psychologique_, as Janet thinks.
Let us discuss the cases observed by me. To follow my reasoning, it
will be necessary to be familiar with the works of Gurney, Podmore,
Sidgwick, Myers, Barrett, Hodgson, Lodge, Hyslop, du Prel, Perty,
Hellenbach, Aksakow, Richet, de Rochas. To-day, it is no longer
possible to shun the work of such savants, (when dealing with a
question of such a nature as that which engrossed Janet) by simply
saying as he did ‘that he had not had occasion to read the _Philosophie
der Mystik_ of a man like du Prel.’ He should have read that book ...
and many more.
It seems to me to be now quite an established fact, that the
impersonal consciousness is capable of perceiving accurate impressions
independently of the senses. It translates these impressions in diverse
ways in order to transmit them to the personal consciousness, but these
translations are concrete and symbolical. It is a hallucination visual,
auditory, or tactile. The form of _subliminal_ messages, to use one of
Myers’ expressions, is always the same, be the fact thus transmitted
true or false, be it a reminiscence or a premonition. This is already a
psychological ascertainment of great importance, for it puts us on the
road we must follow, in order to discover the mental process of this
psychological phenomenon. But there is something else. The hysteric
who automatically simulates a drunkard, a general, a child, offers us
a very different spectacle to the one offered us by the sensitive who
telepathically sees an event happening afar off, or who predicts the
future, or reveals facts unknown to himself and the assistants. There
are thousands of examples of these facts; I have given a few which were
observed by myself or related to me first-hand.
Is it possible to consider this extraordinary faculty as a
‘disaggregation’? Is it possible to class phenomena of this kind with
the commonplace phenomena of somnambulism and ‘incarnation,’ the only
ones Janet has observed? It suffices to put the question to receive
the answer immediately. The psychological mechanism of these facts, so
unlike one to the other, is probably the same, but the cause of the
apparent automatism, motor or sensory, is certainly not the same. The
sensitive, of whom I spoke, who sees in the mirror twenty-four hours
beforehand, the very scenes she actually sees the next day, presents
to us a phenomenon of considerable importance. It intimates that time
and space are forms of the personal thought and consciousness, but
that probably they have not the same signification for the impersonal
consciousness. It is a phenomenon which, if it be true, demonstrates
experimentally that Kant’s theory upon the contingency of these
‘categories’ necessary to all conscious and personal perception is
exact.
I am quite aware of the nature of the reply I shall meet with: my
observations have been defective; and all those who before me affirmed
the existence of the same facts were also deceived. This simplifies
the discussion. The history of science offers us many an example of
the manner in which facts are received, when they contradict current
ideas. Kant said more than a hundred years ago, in his _Traüme eines
Geistersehers_, 1, i.: ‘Das methodische Geschwätz der hohen Schulen ist
oftmals nur ein Einverständniss durch veränderliche Wortbedeutungen
eine schwer zu lösenden Frage auszuweichen, weil das bequeme und
mehrentheils vernünftige, “Ich weiss nicht,” auf Akademien nicht
leichtlich gehört wird.’[14]
[14] The methodical idle prattle of the high schools is
often only an understanding to elude, by words of variable
acceptation, a question difficult of solution, for we do
not often hear in academies such convenient and ordinarily
intelligent words as ‘I do not know.’
The discussion on Janet recalled to my mind these words of Kant’s. His
expression, _misère psychologique_ is one of those words of double
meaning, true, if we consider only a part of the facts and one aspect
only of the phenomenon, that which concerns the personal consciousness;
inexact, if we study the facts in their totality and the phenomenon
they reveal in its generality. The being who would be capable of
perceiving at a distance, by looking into space and into time, would
have faculties superior to the normal; he would not be the inferior
being imagined by Janet.
An attentive and patient observation will show him, I am sure,
the reality of the facts which I point out; may he not deny this
possibility without putting himself under the requisite conditions for
observing these facts.
It belongs to the future to decide the question, and I have no doubt
whatever upon the nature of the verdict.[15]
[15] See Appendix A.
To sum up, an attentive observation of the facts shows, that in
psychical phenomena we observe the emergence of personifications
which may be secondary personalities, but which in really clear cases
present particular features, and seem to possess information which
is inaccessible to the normal personality. They may co-exist with
the latter, without any disorder manifesting itself in the sensitive
or motor spheres; in other cases, they encroach upon the normal
personality, which may either lose the use and sensation of one member,
or be deprived of several members. Finally, the personification can
invade the whole of the organism and end in incarnation or ‘control,’
a phenomenon of apparent possession. When it reaches this maximum
development, the personification manifests a remarkable autonomy, and
appears to be much less suggestible than in the intermediate stages of
its evolution.
What are these personifications? I do not know. The problem they raise
in some cases is extremely difficult to solve. I can only say that
they do not appear to me to be what they claim to be. Is it collective
consciousness? Is it self-deception? Is it a spirit? Everything is
possible, to me nothing is certain save one thing, namely, that we must
not put our trust in them.
I say this for the benefit of spiritists, who have a tendency to
believe blindly everything their good spirits tell them. These
‘spirits’ may make mistakes, though they may not wish to deceive
you. Never abandon yourself or submit the conduct of your life and
affairs to their guidance: submit only to the rule of reason and sound
judgment. Be not over-credulous.[16]
[16] See Appendix C.