I, therefore, take a little new accordion, bought that evening in a bazaar, and, approaching the table and remaining in a standing position, I hold the accordion by one side, resting two fingers upon two keys, in such a way as to permit the air to pass in case the instrument should begin to play.
So held, it is vertically suspended by the stretching out of my right hand to the height of my head, and above the head of the medium. We make sure that her hands are all the time tightly held and that the chain is unbroken. After a short wait of five or six seconds I feel the accordion drawn by its free end, and the bellows is immediately pushed in several times successively; and at the same time the music is heard. There is not the least doubt that a hand, a pair of pincers, or what-not, has hold of the lower end of the instrument. I perceive very well the resistance of this prehensible organ. All possibility of fraud is eliminated; for the instrument is well above Eusapia's head, her hands are firmly held, and I distinctly see the distention of the curtain as far as the instrument. The accordion continues to make itself heard, and is pulled on so strongly that I say to the invisible power, "Well, since you have such a good hold on it, keep it!" I withdraw my hand, and the instrument remains as if glued to the curtain. It is no longer heard. What has become of it? I propose to light a candle to hunt for it. But the general opinion is that, since things are going so well, it is better to make no changes in the environment. While we are talking, the accordion begins to play,—a slight and rather insignificant air. In order to do that, it must be held by two hands. At the end of fifteen or twenty seconds it is brought to the middle of the table (playing all the while). The certainty that hands are playing it is so complete that I say to the Unknown, "Since you hold the accordion so well, you can doubtless take my hand itself." I reach out my arm at the height of my head, rather a little higher. The curtain inflates, and through the curtain I feel a hand (a pretty strong left hand); that is to say, three fingers and the thumb, and these grasp the end of my right hand.
Let us suppose for an instant that the accordion could have been pulled by one of Eusapia's hands, which she had released, lifted up, and screened behind the curtain. It is a very natural hypothesis. Let us say that the two controllers on the right and on the left respectively were cheated by the dexterity of the medium. That is not impossible. But, then, that the instrument might play, our heroine would have had to release her two hands and leave the two controllers at loggerheads with their own hands. It is something not to be thought of.
Apropos of the existence of a third hand, a fluid hand, created on the spur of the moment, with muscles and bones (an hypothesis so bold that one hardly dares to express it), I relate here what we observed during the sitting of November 19.
M. Guillaume de Fontenay, with whom the experiments at Montfort-l'Amaury were made, in 1897, at the home of the Blech family, had come on purpose from the centre of France, with a great profusion of apparatus and of new processes, to try to get some photographs. The medium appeared to be enchanted with them, and toward the middle of the soirée said to us, "You are going to have, this evening, something that you did not expect, something which has never been accomplished by any other medium, and which can be photographed as an unimpeachable record." She then explains to us that I am to lift my hand up, while firmly holding hers by the wrist; that M. Sardou, while holding her left hand, will keep watch over it above the table, and that then her third hand will appear in the photograph, her fluidic hand, holding the violin near her head, at some distance from her right hand, behind her, and against the curtain.
We wait pretty long before anything happens. At length, the medium trembles, sighs, recommends that we breathe deeply and thus aid her, and we feel, rather than see, the moving of the violin through the air, with a slight vibrating noise of the strings. Eusapia cries, "It is time, take the photograph, quick, don't wait, fire!" But the apparatus does not work: the magnesium won't kindle. The medium grows impatient, still holds out, but cries that she cannot hold out much longer. We all vehemently clamor for the photograph. Nothing moves. In the darkness, which is needed in order that the plate in the camera shall not have to be veiled, M. de Fontenay does not succeed in lighting the magnesium, and the violin is heard to fall to the floor.
The medium seems exhausted, groans, laments, and we all regret this check to the proceedings; but Eusapia declares that she can begin again, and asks us to get ready. In fact, at the end of five or six minutes the same phenomena are produced. M. de Fontenay explodes a chlorate of potassium pistol. The light is instantaneous, but feeble. It enables us to see Eusapia's left hand being held upon the table by M. Sardou's right hand, her right hand held in the air by my left hand, and at a distance of about twelve inches in the rear, at the height of one's head, the violin, resting vertically against the curtain. But the photograph gives no picture.
Eusapia now asks for a little light ("poco di luce"). The small hand-lamp is lighted again, and the illumination is sufficient for us to see each other distinctly, including the arms, the head of the medium, the curtain, etc. The chain is formed again. The curtain flares widely out, and M. Sardou is several times touched by a hand which gives him a good whack on the shoulder, making him bend his head forward toward the table. In the presence of this manifestation and of these sensations we have again the impression that there has been a hand there, a hand different from those of the medium (which we continue carefully to hold),—and from ours, because we are holding each other's hands in the chain. Moreover, there is no one near the curtain, which is plainly visible. I thereupon remark, "Since there is a hand there, let it take from me this violin, as it did day before yesterday." I take the violin by the handle and hold it out to the curtain. It is at once taken and lifted, then falls to the floor. I do not for a moment let go the hand of the medium. Yet I grasp this hand with my right hand, for a moment, in order to pick up with my left the violin that has fallen near me. As I stoop down to the floor, I feel an icy breath upon my hand, but nothing more. I take the violin and put it on the table; then I take again with my left hand the hand of the medium, and, seizing the violin with my right, I hold it out again to the curtain. But Mme. Brisson, peculiarly incredulous, asks me to let her take it herself. She does so, holds it out to the curtain, and the instrument is snatched from her, in spite of all the efforts that she makes to retain it. Everybody declares they saw very distinctly this time.
The hands of the medium have not been let go a single minute.
It seems as if this experiment, made under these conditions, in sufficient light, ought to leave no doubt about the existence of a third hand of the medium which acts in obedience to her will. And yet!—