THE SCEPTIC AND THE SPIRITS
It is only youth that has the energy to be bothered with everything. There comes a time when one’s mind is “made up” on all sorts of things that were once matters of inquiry; we have profited by experience; we know that some things are not worth investigating. It is one of the marvellous laws of growth that this increase in wisdom should accompany physical decay. As our teeth and hair start to fall out our judgment grows riper. The law of growth is not really as simple as this, for there are many silly old men and there are one or two wise youths. The rich, mellow, balanced period is never reached by some people: Solomon, on the other hand, was noted for his wisdom while still a young man. There is, it must be admitted, something mechanical about old men’s wisdom. Truth is one, of course, so that we should expect a certain unanimity. The answers of the old can usually be predicted. Wisdom can be simulated; all that one lacks is the conviction, the spirit that animates the letter.
Deep conviction is a very impressive quality, especially to youth, which secretly doubts everything. The man of strong convictions is a cause of optimism in others, for life would appear a sad cheat if the payment for sixty years of it did not include one certainty. Youth’s certainties make as much noise, but everybody detects the bluff. A fearful man shouts to hearten himself, as all the world knows. Between the certainties of youth and age there is scepticism, a fine fleur of brief life, an exquisite tempering of the soul, neither too soft nor too hard, an infinite flexibility. It is a state of intense activity; life lived at this pace cannot long endure; the tired spirit relaxes and one finds rest either in credulity or in dogmatism, accident determining which attitude affords the soundest slumber. It is not always easy to detect the true sceptic; that honourable title has often been wrongly bestowed—Voltaire, for instance, was a dogmatist. Sceptics exist in all ages, but they are more clearly revealed at those periods that see the birth of some new inquiry. It is essential to their indubitable manifestation that the inquiry should be attended by the passionate interest of a large number of people. At the present day a very good test inquiry is spiritualism. It is a very much better test than Free Trade and Tariff Reform, for, owing to its comparative remoteness, the true sceptic of that alternative might live and die in obscurity. But spiritualism is a subject on which no one is genuinely indifferent and towards which hardly anyone is genuinely sceptical. Dispassionate inquiry on this, as on all matters where human interests are strongly engaged, is usually a pretence. We need not suppose that the great ones of the Psychical Research Society are less credulous than the majority of believers or less intolerant than their louder opponents; it is merely that, their traditions being scientific, they have better manners.
Psychical literature, as a whole, is as wearisome as theological literature, as incredible but less amusing than the lives of the saints. We lack the quality, be it faith, hope or charity, which would enable us to share these strange excitements. The “exposers,” on the other hand, are too sturdy in their common sense. We hear the mallet fall, but we are not always sure that the eggshell is broken. It is a situation for the sceptic. In the late Lord Rayleigh’s presidential address to the Psychical Research Society we find that the sceptic has at last appeared. It is merely a record of his own experiences, very plain, very simple, and, like the experiences themselves, singularly elusive. Many years ago, in a friend’s rooms at Cambridge, he witnessed an exhibition of the powers of Madame Card, the hypnotist. When she had completed her passes over the closed eyes of those present she asked them to open their eyes. “I and some others experienced no difficulty; and naturally she discarded us and developed her powers over those—about half the sitters—who had failed or found difficulty.” From hypnotism he passed to spiritualism, his interest aroused by Sir William Crookes’ experiences. He induced the medium, Mrs. Jencken, and her husband, to visit his country house as guests. He describes the results as disappointing:
I do not mean that very little happened, or that what did happen was always easy to explain. But most of the happenings were trifling, and not such as to preclude the idea of trickery. One’s coat-tails would be pulled, paper cutters, etc., would fly about, knocks would shake our chairs, and so on. I do not count messages, usually of no interest, which were spelt out alphabetically by raps that seemed to come from the neighbourhood of the medium’s feet. Perhaps what struck us most were lights which on one or two occasions floated about. They were real enough, but rather difficult to locate, though I do not think they were ever more than six or eight feet away from us.
Another incident was the gradual tipping over of a rather heavy table at which they had been sitting. “Mrs. Jencken, as well as ourselves [i.e. Lady Rayleigh and himself. The husband was not admitted to these séances] was apparently standing quite clear of it.” He found it very difficult to reproduce the phenomenon himself, using both hands. He endeavoured to “improve” the conditions for some experiments. After being shown some writing, “supposed to be spirit writing,” he arranged paper and pencils inside a large glass retort, which he then hermetically sealed. Nothing then appeared on the paper at these séances. “Possibly this was too much to expect. I may add that on recently inspecting the retort I find that the opportunity has remained neglected for forty-five years.”
And so he has left the matter. The experiences were certainly strange, yes, but in his judgment, not strange enough. On the other hand, he is reluctant to believe they were due to fraud, and he is quite convinced that he was not a victim of hallucinations. If Mrs. Jencken were a clever fraud “her acting was as wonderful as her conjuring.” She practically never made an intelligent remark on any occasion. “Her interests seemed to be limited to the spirits and her baby.” In investigating this subject he finds that the attitude of convinced believers makes a difficulty. They “take no pains over the details of evidence on which everything depends.” Others attribute all these phenomena to the devil and will have nothing to do with them. “I have sometimes pointed out that if during the long hours of séances we could keep the devil occupied in so comparatively harmless a manner we deserved well of our neighbours.”
The general disbelief in scientific circles that meteorites really came from outer space occurs to him. This disbelief was due, he points out, to the impossibility of producing the phenomena at pleasure in our laboratories. Nevertheless, the disbelief was unjustified. Spirit manifestations may be, he thinks, just such sporadic phenomena. The situation is made worse by the fact that there has undoubtedly been a great deal of fraud in connection with spiritualist phenomena. Eusapia Palladino, for instance, undoubtedly practised deception, “but that is not the last word.” Telepathy puzzles him. If there is such a means of communication, why should Nature have adopted the laborious method of building up our very complicated senses? An antelope in danger from a lion, for instance, depends on his senses and speed. “But would it not be simpler if he could know something telepathically of the lion’s intention, even if it were no more than vague apprehension warning him to be on the move?” He advises the society to continue their investigations, and mentions that it is quality, not quantity, that is so desirable in evidence. He concludes by saying that he fears his attitude, or want of attitude, will be disappointing to some members of the society. He suggests that after forty-five years of hesitation “it may require some personal experience of a compelling kind to break the crust.” He apologises for this. “Some of those who know me best think that I ought to be more convinced than I am. Perhaps they are right.”
There he leaves us. We do not believe more or disbelieve less, yet we are completely satisfied. His massive sincerity, his obvious competence and, above all, that impression of exquisite balance, have charmed us. So far as present evidence is concerned we feel that while he has said nothing he has also said the last word. That is the function of the sceptic.