uncle, it would be better if
I
broke in. The worst he could do is dismiss me, assuming he was still alive; and if he was dead, well, it would avoid any complications ...’
It struck me as I made the offer that I was being rather reckless, but Magnus thanked me so warmly that it would have seemed churlish to retract. There we left the matter for the time being, and went out into the chill night air to walk the few hundred yards up to my house.
I had grown unused to company, but Magnus drew me out that night; I found myself speaking of Phoebe and Arthur as I had not done in years, and of the great darkness of spirit that had followed their deaths. I spoke, too, of the strange loss of facility that had followed the painting of
Wraxford Hall by Moonlight
, and of how, in my efforts to outflank the inhibition – or curse, as I sometimes thought of it – I had abandoned first oils, then watercolours, and eventually confined myself to pencil and charcoal, as if relinquishing all but the plainest of techniques might somehow break its grip.
‘I am sure you are on the right track,’ said Magnus. ‘Indeed, I have had similar thoughts about my own profession. For all our talk of progress, I cannot see that medicine has advanced very far since the time of Galen. We can inoculate against smallpox, or remove a gangrenous limb in thirtyseconds; but when it comes to many diseases we are no better equipped than an old village woman with a cupboard full of simples. And we – that is to say, the majority of my colleagues – seem positively to spurn any treatment, however effective, for which we cannot account in material terms.
‘Consider mesmerism, for example: all the rage twenty years ago; now dismissed by many in the profession as no more scientific than spirit-rapping; yet it offers incalculable benefits in the relief of pain, and quite possibly in the cure of chronic illness, including heart disease. I have had remarkable results with some of my patients, yet I would hesitate to describe them in print. I am regarded as quite enough of a mountebank as it is.’
We had taken our coffee and brandy into the study – Magnus, like myself, did not smoke – and settled ourselves in armchairs by the fire. Two candles burned on the mantelpiece; the rest of the room was in darkness.
I asked him how mesmerism could help in curing disease.
‘Consider,’ he said, ‘that your mind influences the action of your heart, whether or not you are aware of the effect. If you are possessed by fearful thoughts, for instance, your pulse accelerates; your breathing becomes shallower and more rapid. We are accustomed to think of such reactions as involuntary, but cause and effect are here reversible: you could conjure up a fearful scene
in order
to accelerate your pulse. The fakirs of India have extended this control – as we may call it – a great deal further, so that all the bodily processes we regard as autonomous can be brought under conscious command: not only the action of heart and lungs, but digestion, sensation, the temperature of the body, and so on. Thus a Hindu monk can walk unharmed over a bed of red-hot coals; or place himself in a state akin to hibernation, remain buried alive for hours, or even days, and emerge unscathed, where you or I would suffocate within a few minutes.
‘Consider, too, that a mesmerised subject can be commanded not to feel pain, and will feel none: it is often done on stage, and can be just as effective in surgery. Now it does not seem so fanciful, does it, to suppose that if I suggest to a subject that his blood will circulate more freely
after
he wakes from the trance, a real improvement will follow? Indeed I seeno reason why, on the same principle, a malignant tumour could not be commanded to shrink, as happens spontaneously from time to time.’
‘But if this is true,’ I exclaimed, ‘and you say that you have had remarkable results with your patients, you have made a great discovery. Why is it
I
broke in. The worst he could do is dismiss me, assuming he was still alive; and if he was dead, well, it would avoid any complications ...’
It struck me as I made the offer that I was being rather reckless, but Magnus thanked me so warmly that it would have seemed churlish to retract. There we left the matter for the time being, and went out into the chill night air to walk the few hundred yards up to my house.
I had grown unused to company, but Magnus drew me out that night; I found myself speaking of Phoebe and Arthur as I had not done in years, and of the great darkness of spirit that had followed their deaths. I spoke, too, of the strange loss of facility that had followed the painting of
Wraxford Hall by Moonlight
, and of how, in my efforts to outflank the inhibition – or curse, as I sometimes thought of it – I had abandoned first oils, then watercolours, and eventually confined myself to pencil and charcoal, as if relinquishing all but the plainest of techniques might somehow break its grip.
‘I am sure you are on the right track,’ said Magnus. ‘Indeed, I have had similar thoughts about my own profession. For all our talk of progress, I cannot see that medicine has advanced very far since the time of Galen. We can inoculate against smallpox, or remove a gangrenous limb in thirtyseconds; but when it comes to many diseases we are no better equipped than an old village woman with a cupboard full of simples. And we – that is to say, the majority of my colleagues – seem positively to spurn any treatment, however effective, for which we cannot account in material terms.
‘Consider mesmerism, for example: all the rage twenty years ago; now dismissed by many in the profession as no more scientific than spirit-rapping; yet it offers incalculable benefits in the relief of pain, and quite possibly in the cure of chronic illness, including heart disease. I have had remarkable results with some of my patients, yet I would hesitate to describe them in print. I am regarded as quite enough of a mountebank as it is.’
We had taken our coffee and brandy into the study – Magnus, like myself, did not smoke – and settled ourselves in armchairs by the fire. Two candles burned on the mantelpiece; the rest of the room was in darkness.
I asked him how mesmerism could help in curing disease.
‘Consider,’ he said, ‘that your mind influences the action of your heart, whether or not you are aware of the effect. If you are possessed by fearful thoughts, for instance, your pulse accelerates; your breathing becomes shallower and more rapid. We are accustomed to think of such reactions as involuntary, but cause and effect are here reversible: you could conjure up a fearful scene
in order
to accelerate your pulse. The fakirs of India have extended this control – as we may call it – a great deal further, so that all the bodily processes we regard as autonomous can be brought under conscious command: not only the action of heart and lungs, but digestion, sensation, the temperature of the body, and so on. Thus a Hindu monk can walk unharmed over a bed of red-hot coals; or place himself in a state akin to hibernation, remain buried alive for hours, or even days, and emerge unscathed, where you or I would suffocate within a few minutes.
‘Consider, too, that a mesmerised subject can be commanded not to feel pain, and will feel none: it is often done on stage, and can be just as effective in surgery. Now it does not seem so fanciful, does it, to suppose that if I suggest to a subject that his blood will circulate more freely
after
he wakes from the trance, a real improvement will follow? Indeed I seeno reason why, on the same principle, a malignant tumour could not be commanded to shrink, as happens spontaneously from time to time.’
‘But if this is true,’ I exclaimed, ‘and you say that you have had remarkable results with your patients, you have made a great discovery. Why is it
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