Take a handful of space, and you have mind.
That is the way I interpret it. That is why mind is always present, ready to respond when it finds in any place a stimulus that incites it, and an organism which permits it to manifest itself.
Let us confess that the problem is complex and that it is good to compare all the hypotheses.[80]
From the numerous papers and documents laid out at this moment upon my writing-desk, I can only select a small number for insertion here, although they all have their special interest. One is overwhelmed by the richness and vastness of the material. However, out of the material acquired in the course of the Inquiry of which I spoke above, let me give here one piece which I should regret not to be able to include within the compass of the present work.
The former governess of the poet Alfred de Musset, Mme. Martelet, née Adèle Colin,—who still lives in Paris and who has just been present (in 1906) at the unveiling of the statue of the poet (although his death dates from the year 1857),—has given the following account, which may be added here to that of movements without contact.
An inexplicable occurrence which my sister, Mme. Charlot, and myself witnessed impressed us most deeply. It took place at the time of the last sickness of M. de Musset. I shall never forget the emotion we felt that evening, and I still have the minutest incidents of the strange occurrence stamped on my memory.
My master, who had taken no rest during all the previous night, had toward the end of the day, fallen into a doze in a large easy-chair. My sister and I had entered the chamber on tip-toe, in order not to trouble this precious rest of his, and we sat quietly down in a corner where we were concealed by the curtains of the bed.
The invalid could not perceive us, but we saw him very well, and I sorrowfully contemplated that suffering face which I knew I could not much longer look upon. And still, even now, when I recall the features of my master, I see them as they appeared to me on that evening,—the eyes closed, his finely shaped head resting upon the easy-chair, and his long, thin, pale hands (the paleness of the dead already upon them), crossed upon his knees in a contracted and shriveled way. We remained motionless and silent, and the chamber, lighted only by a feeble lamp, seemed wrapped in shadows and was filled with that peculiar mournful atmosphere that characterizes the chamber of the dying.
Suddenly we heard a deep sigh. The invalid had waked up and I saw his looks go toward the bell-cord that hung near the fireplace some steps from the easy-chair. He evidently wanted to ring, and I do not know what feeling it was that held me nailed to my place. Still I did not move, and my master, having a horror of solitude and believing that he was alone in his chamber, rose up, stretched out his arm with the evident intention of calling someone; but, already fatigued by this effort, he fell back into the chair without having taken a step. It was at this moment that we had an experience that terrified us. The bell, which the sick man had not touched, rang, and instinctively, at the same moment, my sister and I seized each other's hands, each anxiously interrogating the face of the other.
"Did you hear?"—"Did you see?"—"He did not move from his chair!"