Chapter V: Psycho-Sensory and Intellectual Phenomena (2)

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.

‘Among the facts I have been unable to verify, are the names of Yvonne, Josephine, Sarah, Marguerite, Georges, Clotilde.

‘The chief inexact details are the story of Lucie’s true husband—a Jew (_un gros juif_)—and of the child Lucie and Antoine had, of whose existence hardly any one knew; also the detail of having been wounded during the Commune and his wound having been dressed by my father. I ought also to add that Antoine and Marie B. were at Fontainebleau with their three children. However, for reasons which I will develop further on, these errors have a great interest and merit an attentive examination.

‘When considering these phenomena we must, first of all, rid ourselves of commonplace prejudices. The question is, not whether such or such a phenomenon does or does not concord with recognised ideas, but whether the phenomenon exists or does not exist—always supposing, of course, that it be not in flagrant contradiction with established and verified truths.

‘Therefore every effort of demonstration must be concentrated on this one point: Can we explain the above facts by any known process? For the sake of simplicity let us only take one of the facts, that of the presence—“or of 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.