Chronicles of Dr. Phileas Immanuel Soul Specialist
Bu VICTOR ROUSSEAU
THE CARFAX CURSE
M f acquaintance with Dr. Phi
ie*s Immanuel had begun
prosaically enough. Tlie lit
tle Greek was in America
» kus government's representative
Qw awe international congress, I
ririeti of penologists, at Boston, and
têtbnr lie had withdrawn from it
te dHRUSt he made my house his
ira while he engaged in
•IMScial research work. The ac
ripened so rapidly into
and then into intimacy,
_ the doctor invited me to ac
him to Europe, where he had
engagements to fulfill, I could
: resist the opportunity. My prac
■ eras almost entirely hospital work,
R fortunately I found no difficulty
obtaining a representative to fill
pat daring my absence,
le «nch to explain how we hap
he in England during the glo
of 1911. Immanuel
England to his liking, chiefly, I
because medical men there ex
a more kindly attention to his
t, although I fear he made few
Immanuel's claim that re
in would be found to solve
-—— of the problems of abnormal
■fcÿdHe states could not be expected
Had recruits In a century still dom
ed by Huxley and Haeckel and the
d. materialists. Nowhere, I fancy,
sate find more stubborn, out and
«■octrinaires than among medical
__l But the doctor did not mind.
Ha went blandly about his way, win
Mends, disarming enemies, and,
illy, making cures.
vVh*® Sir John Carfax invited us to
iml a weefk at his fine old mansion
I Buckinghamshire we both accepted
■h considerable satisfaction. Sir
place was one of the historic
_ seats of England. Originally a
r. it had been confiscated from
by Henry VIII. and given to
Carfax, a shrewd lawyer of
i, for services rendered In con
wUh that monarch's marriage
■e Boleyn. From him It had
I down to Sir John, in the direct
nt never through the immediate
This Sir John explained to us
conveyed us from Great Marlow
In his automobile,
itkraed to you, Doctor Imman
my son, my only child, is
____fly ill," he said. "Yes, he's
and I know it, doctor, and there
• power on earth can save him
s yon—" He broke off. "I know
bave accomplished woud^ul
" he continued. "1 can't pjpfend
In what you believe, bfit—"
t ended, for his tongue was
away with him, and the blunt
gentleman was no metaphysi
■ or flatterer, either.
But yon are willing to stake your
Eh against your unbelief," said Doc
> Immanuel cheerfully. "Good! I
iw faith healer, Sir John; I believe
m the most orthodox of my oppo
Ub have never accused me of any
torfhadox methods of practice. My
■■tan. you understand, are the base
I stand to take action. But
hi Hr Tr—why, abuse me as much as
t please, whether I succeed or
sms sure no one could ever abuse
Hafir little man as I saw him ar
g excitedly with Sir John. As I
t said, be disarmed all his enemies.
B was- hard to ask a twentieth
English gentleman to Accept
. can save him, doctor," con*
ir host, "I can only say that
__have my deepest gratitude.
I fear It is hopeless. He will be
test of the liqe, and his mother is
L I shall never marry again."
are you so despondent as to
lility of a cure?" asked Im
John looked at our faces search
"You have never heard of the
curse?" he asked. "Well—
I It Is regarded as an amusing
[tion even in England, among
who have heard of it. But
those who know it is anything
I. jest. Doctor Immanuel, for
y four hundred years the first
son of the Carfaxes has died in
Arthur is seventeen; he
m outlived them all. But he, too,
mg go. I know it. It was prophesied
ffee last prior, Ignatius, as he strode
g of the chapel after his last mass
Trt«*© curses are potent things,"
M Immanuel. "So much I know,
■gr do come true, by reason of the
nag subconscious impression which
eg leave behind, to be transmitted
M generation to generation. Of
—n the curse is nothing. But if a
n begets a son, believing that he
■ sever grow to manhood, and if he
mm bis life upon that theory—why,
gnaerally comes true. But I inter
î last prior, Ignatius, made this
to Francis Carfax, my an
■omewhere about the year
said Sir John Carfax. "That
lory should never descend from
to son through the first-born
priors should come to Carfax
! replace the altar cloth upon
*<* ' ,
"The altar cloth?"
"Yes, a famous relic, said to have
been brought into England by Edward
the Confessor, and reputedly of great
sanctity. The priors are supposed to
have taken it away with them. It was
never found. But now, you see, if the
prophecy has been fulfilled since 1546,
what hope has Arthur?"
"What do the doctors say is the
matter with him?"
Sir John threw up his hands with
a gesture of helplessness. "The doc
tors!" he repeated. "Why—they know.
They know that the hereditary curse
has descended upon the boy. Six
months ago he was taken sick with a
wasting disease. There is nothing or
ganically wrong with him; he is just
wasting away. Day by day he grows
weaker, and his death seems now to
be a matter of a few weeks only. And
the tragic thing is that he knows; he
knows that he must die; and his only
pleasure is in sitting before the dis
mantled altar in the old ruined chapel
and dosing there. He has been afflict
ed with somnambulism since child
hood, and whenever his attendant
misses him from his bed he knows
where he will be found; before the al
tar, fast asleep, and talking to him
The automobile swung off the high
road and into the grounds of a stately
park, through whose vistas of leafy
trees could be seen herds of faltow
deer, peacefully browsing. The road
swung to the right between two rows
of ancient elms, and now we could
see the squarq stone towers of Carfax,
with the dismantled, ruined stone
chapel upon a knoll a little to the
right of it. The chauffeur and butler
were waiting at the door; the former
took the machine to the garage,
while the latter respectfully received
"How is Mr. Arthur?" asked Sir
"He seemB to be better today, sir,"
the butler answered. "He was reading
in the chapel a while ago. Here he
comes now, sir."
A tall, slim, gracefully built young
fellow was coming slowly across the
lawn and, seeing us, he stopped shyly.
His father called him.
"Come here, Arthur," he Baid. "Doc
tor Imamnuel, this is my son about
whom we were speaking." He intro
duced the boy to me also. "How do
you feel today?' he asked, anxiously.
"Better, father," said the boy in an
odd, emotionless tone. As he walked
slowly into the house his father looked
after him and then turned wistfully to
"He knows," he said. "And he
doesn't seem to care. That is the trag
edy of it They all go like that. I re
member my poor brother Walter—he
died in the same way. And yet the
doctors can find nothing wrong with
"Suppose I examine him at once
and let you know the exact condition,'
said Immanuel cheerfully. "If we
can't beat the curse together, with all
the resources of modern science, I
shall be greatly surprised. What
treatment is he receiving?"
"The usual thing. Tonics, beef ex
tracts, iron; the physicians have ta
ken his blood codnt and call it perni
cious anemia. But they don't say how
it arose. And there is nothing organ
ically wrong." The poor fellow seemed
to cling to that one hope.
"There is a new solution of arsenio
which Is used very successfully for
that," said Immanuel. "Then again
there is hypnotism. I don't know
which is better. Perhaps we will try
"Hypnotism!" exclaimed Sir John,
"la that the secret of your cures?"
"It is not exactly a secret," an
swered the doctor. "It is in very com
mon use among physicians today and
based upon known laws and not em
"You mean that you can hypnotise
him into thinking that he is well?"
"Yes. But any other fool could do
that—only it wouldn't make him well.
No, sir, the principle is simply this:
The greater portion of the body func
tions automatically, that is to say
without the consciousness of the
brain. The stomach ( digests whether
we ask it to or not, the heart beats,
the liver secretes, and so on. Now
take the spleen, which seems to be
behaving badly in your son's case. We
can't make our spleens come to order
_no. But under hypnotism we can
get deeper; we can get down to the
consciousness of these half independ
ent organs and tell them to be good.
And then, sometimes under hypnotism
we find ourselves on very interesting
trails which I cannot persuade other
physicians to follow up. We find other
personalities at work, lost memories
flourishing like fungus growth under
smooth mosses and grasses—it is all
very interesting, and some day the
world will come to recognize it But
suppose we go in and I will examine
the lad before dinner."
We were led to oui apartments in a
wing of the old place; two rooms side
by side under low, sloping eaves from
which rain drops *ere falling dismal
ly upon the slate roof of the garage
below. Our host waited outside while
we washed off the grime of the jour
"Ah, my dear Sir John, I know you
will not rest until I have looked at
the boy," said Immanuel cheerfully,
intercepting him as he restlessly
paced the long corridor. "Come, then.
Where shall it be?" He was dangling
his stethoscope from his finger and
"We'd better go into the library,"
answered our host, and led us to a
comfortable room, • furnished in red
morocco, on the main floor. The furni
ture was of old oak. blackened with
age and worm-eaten. Outside the slop
ing lawn ran up to the ivy-covered
base of the chapel.
The boy came in presently and Sir
John rose to go. I had hoped that I
should be asked to remain and assist
at the examination, but Immanuel did
not offer to detain me. He was alone
with him for half an hour and came
out looking quite cheerful, one hand
resting upon Arthur's shoulder.
4 A very intelligent lad," he said, pat
ting him upon the arm affectionately.
"We've talked over lots of matters.
But first let me tell you that he is as
sound as a bell. Nothing wrong at all,
and his blood has as many red cop
puscles as yours or mine. Now, Ar
thur, you've heard my diagnosis. Do
you think you can get well?"
"I think I could if I could stop
dreaming," the lad answered. I saw
his father shoot a swift glance at
"You haven't told anybody else
about your dreaqjs?" asked Immanuel.
"No, doctor. They wouldn't take any
"What do you dream?"
"I don't remember, except that they
leave me dreadfully unhappy and de
pressed and weak, and I always seem
to be worse when I have dreamed."
"And then you wake and find your
THE BOY TREMBLED AND SEEMED TO BE STRUGGLING WITH SOME
OVERWHELMING INTERIOR ENEMY.
self in the chapel?" said Immanuel
The boy was taken by surprise; he
looked at the other quickly. "Yes,
sir," he murmured.
"You see, gentlemen, the dreams
are the immediate cause of his ill
ness," said the Greek. "Two hundred
years ago we should have said that he
was possessed. A hundred years ago
we should have tried to beat the devil
out of him. Fifty years ago we should
have sent him to sea. But today for
the first time in human history we can
treat such cases Intelligently. We can
recall these unknown dreams to him."
"Yes, and can cure the cause.
Freud has shown the Intimate connec
tion between dream life and waking
life. I have shown that there is often
another connection; that in dreams
we live again In dead, past lives, other
wise totally forgotten. That is the
only difference, and it is one of theory,
not of procedure. You can safely in
trust your son's cure to me."
"I do so with all my heart, Imman
uel," exclaimed Sir John, who had
been completely captivated by the lit
tle doctor's graciousness of perso'hal
ity and manner.
"Then, my son, we'll hypnotise you
this evening and find out what you
have been dreaming about," said the
doctor to the boy. "Now you had bet
ter go out into the fresh air for a
while. What do you say to taking us
over to the chapel?"
"An excellent suggestion!" said Sir
John. "Get your hat, Arthur; it is
cool today." When the boy had gone
he turned to the doctor. "Do you tell
your patients what you are going to
do?" he asked.
"Generally—yes. Confidence begets
confidence. Besides, it is difficult to
hypnotise anyone adfclnst his will, ex
cept in certain abnormal conditions.
And your son iB as normal and healthy
as you could wish. It is his dreams
that are'Idling him," he continued.
"There i|(the key that shall unlock
the secret He has been a sleep
walker since childhood?"
"Since he was a baby. But never so
badly as during the last year."
"And you trace his illness from the
time this trouble began to develop?"
"He always goes to the chapel?"
"Then—" began the doctor, but
checked himself. He fell Into a brown
study; he seemed to have made an im
portant deduction. He was still pon
dering when Arthur returned with his
hat and the chapel key, and we left
the house together.
The old ruin rose like some disman
tled hulk out of the long, daisy-stud
ded grass. Sir John Carfax turned the
huge iron key in the old rusted lock
of the oaken door and admitted us in
to a chilly stone chamber, bare of
seats—though the grooves worn by
their iron feet in the stone floor dur
ing centuries still remained. One part
of the roof had fallen, letting in the
light and affording a pleasing canopy
of sky. Moisture dripped from the
moss-grown walls upon the flags, be
tween which clusters of weak grass
sprouted. The ground before the
wooden altar, the only part of the ori
ginal furnishings which remained, was
hollowed by the feet of bygone priors.
Behind it was the remnant of a stone
recess in which the sacred vessels and
garments had been kept; but the
doors had long since gone and only
the blackened bronze hinges re
mained, a tribute to the death-defying
skill of the old artist who had fash
"Here is Arthur's favorite seat—
when he comes to it in his sleep,"
whispered Sir John, pointing to a
stone seat in the rear of the chapel,
immediately beneath the vacant win
dow frame. "There he sits, or else
paces the floor, following the tracks of
the priors along this groove. I have
watched him and seen him," he con
tinued. "One might almost think he
was one of the old priors reborn on
"Ah! You believe in rebirth, then?"
asked Doctor Immanuel.
The other looked confused. "It was
just a simile," he said.
"Say rather an instinctive recogni
tion of what your memory tells you,"
Immanuel answered. "Well, we have
seen it. Let us return."
"I thought," suggested Sir John,
"that you might w ant to hypnotise him
"That," answered Immanuel, "would
be fatal, for it would begin the pro
cedure by placing a suggestion in his
mind and so inhibit the developments
which, if they are to occur, must oc
cur of their own volition. No; in the
library this evening."
Tumble-down though the priory was,
the part in use was admirably fur
nished and adequately maintained.
We four sat down to a semi-feudal
dinner in state, while the butler
poured the wine and the footmen car
ried in the heavy dishes with their sil
ver covers and set them before Sir
John for the carving. And a more ex
cellent meal I never ate. When it was
over we adjourned to the library and
smoked some of our host's choice
"Now, Arthur," said Immanuel,
throwing away the fragrant stump of
his perfecto, "if you are ready we will
begin. You have never been hypno
"No, sir; but I have read about it
and I believe in It."
"It is not necessary to believe in It,
my boy," answered the doctor. "There
is nothing empirical about the pro
cess; it is in daily use in all the large
hospitals of the world. It simply con
sists in putting the upper strata of the
personality to sleep by some me
chanical method. I use a little Instru
ment of my own devising, which an
swers every purpose. Now compose
yourself comfortably in yo\f chtfir and
make your mind a blank, so far as
He drew from his pocket a little in
strument of silver—a sort of egg
timer with a revolving center, and at
tiny pocket battery. Im- 1
" r .
tached it to a
mediately the middle part began to
gyrate at a rapid pace. It was daz
zling to look at,
"Watch this," said Immanuel. Now,
see it revolve. There are between
four and five hundred revolutions a
minute. Yes, blink your eyes as much
as you like, but don't turn them away.
Sir John, will you lower the lamp a
Watch closely," continued the phy- j
sician in a. ^ow and very soothing
tone. "Now—you perceive that your
eyes are becoming tired, and yet the
strain is pleasant. You could not turn
your eyes away now if you tried.
Your consciousness is growing clearer,
but is concentrated on this. You can
not think of anything but this. See
how brightly it spins. Now you may
close your eyes. You cannot open
The boy's eyes closed.
"You are not asleep," continued the
doctor, "but you are in a sleepy con
dition. You must not go to sleep, but
you will go down to where sleep is.
What did you dream about last night?"
He shut off the battery and discon
nected the instrument, replacing both
in his pockets, and moved over to the
boy and placed his hand gently upon
"You dreamed about the chapel," he
continued, "but you must try to re
member. Why did you go to the
"I went to find—"
"To find something that you have
always wanted to find?" asked Doctor
"You have always been greatly dis
tressed because you could not find it.
If you could find It your troubles
would be ended?"
"Yes." „ at.
"It is a dish rag."
"No, it is not a dish rag. Try hard
er. You think it is a dish rag be
cause It is white and coarsely woven.
What is it?"
"It Is a table-cloth."
"No, It Is not. a table-cloth. That
is a better guess, but although it
looks like a table-cloth it is not quite
the same. Do you.know where it is?"
"It is in the chapel."
"Tell me where."
"I don't know."
"O, yes, you know, but you have
forgotten. You must remember,
come, take us to the chapel and find
it. You can open your eyes. But
you will still be asleep, remember.
You must not wake up."
The boy's eyes opened, but stared
vacantly into the air. Apart from this
he might have been in his normal con
dition. Sir John hurried toward him,
but the doctor interposed.
"No, do not touch him," he said.
"He sees nothing, but neither does
one in sleep. Yet he will not hurt
Arthur led us out of the library and
along the passage, moving as surely
as we ourselves. Doctor Immanuel
unbarred —ie great doorB and we all
emerged into the star-lit night and
passed over the lawn toward the
chapel. The door had been left un
locked. Inside the darkness was not
profound, but still none of us moved
as surely as Arthur Carfax.
He walked more slowly, now, and
a little uncertainly, passed the altar
and stopped before his seat beneath
the window frame. There he sat down
and his hands fell to his sides. Doc
tor Immanuel took his seat upon the
bench beside him, and we stood by.
"Now you must sleep more deeply."
said the doctor, stroking the boy's
forehead. "Sleep, sleep—and remem
Arthur Carfax sprang to his feet
and began pacing the grooves worn
in the flags by the feet of the old
priors. He paced slowly at first, then
faster, then feverishly. As our eyes
grew accustomed to the light we could
see that his features were slowly as
suming an extraordinary change: The
boyish look had disappeared and was
succeeded by the look of a man—a
man, too, in a conditio» of almost un
controllable excitement or anger. We
were appalled by this transformation.
"Find it!" hissed the doctor in the
boy's ear, as he paused and turned,
as if irresolutely, toward the altar.
"You know where it is," he added,
"for you hid it yourself."
The boy trembled and seemed to be
struggling with some overwhelming
Interior enemy. Every muscle in his
body was apparently convulsed.
"You won't wake up," cried the doc
tor in agitation. "You can't wake up.
If you do you will have to begin all '
over again. You have sought it for j
Qovnnioon vpars Sl6ep! Slppn f t
Sleep! Find it!"
Suddenly Arthur Carfax darted to
ward the recess in the wall where the
I priests' vessels had been stored. He
: went down upon his knees and, with
out hesitation, began scraping away
the dirt that had accumulated between
the flags. We drew near and watched
him. The boy scraped as though he
heid a trowel, and he ignored entirely
j the drops of blood that began to ooza
from his finger tips.
"No, leave him," said Immanuel, to
his father. "You must not interfere.
Look! He has found It!"
. Under the earth a paving stone had
been disclosed, smaller than the rest
and set slightly awry. Arthur began
hammering with his fists upon one
end. The stone suddenly swung back,
disclosing a little chamber about as
large as a cedar chest. And there
was cedar there, for we could smell
: its fragrance. Even after three cen
turies the odor lasted.
Arthur pushed in his arm and pulled
up a tarred package, apparently of
some coarse linen fabric. The flberB
came apart in his hands. He tore
them and thrust them from him. Then
underneath was disclosed a yellowed
piece of fine linen, a square finely em
« ___! Tho hAtl knl.l U
broidered. The boy held it up,
shook it out. and ran back to the al
tar. on which he deposited it.
"The lqst ultur cloth!" shouted Sir
"Hush!" pleaded Immanuel.
The boy stood there quite calmly
now. All trace of anger was gone
from his features which had assumed
a nobility, a benignance which thrilled
us: We drew nearer He raised his
arms in silence, as though pronounc
ing a blessing on us and on the old
chapel. For a full half minute he
stood thus, immovable; then his anns
fell to his side and he tumbled into
the doctor's arms.
"He's dead!" cried Sir John in an
guish. as he sprang forward.
"Dead tired," answered Immanuel.
"He will sleep like a top for the next
twelve hours and after that he will
remember nothing. But there will be
no more dreams. Come, help me car
ry him in."
Sir John Carfax was a sorely pu*.
zled man that night as we three sat
talking in his library well into the
small hours. Politeness struggled
with skepticism, and yet skepticism
itself was fighting hard with convic
"You say my son Arthur was once
on earth as the Prior Ignatius?" he
"Last on earth," corrected Imman
uel. "He has been here a good many
times before. But unless Ignatius
managed to get a message through by
him—which is a spiritistic supposl
completely skeptical—your sou was
"And Ignatius lived in the sixteenth
oentury," I interposed. "Did you not
tell me once, doctor, that rebirth sel
dom or never occurred before the
lapse of something like eighteen hun
"Yes. But we are now dealing with
abn6rmal cases. I conceive that there
is nothing to hinder a personality
from returning earlier if it chooses,
just as there is nothing to prevent a
healthy man from cutting short his
life by suicide. Indeed there are rei
corded cases of Burmese children who
remember their prior existence as
English army officers fifty years be
"Then the Prior Ignatius commit
ted spiritual suicide?" I asked.
"Something like that. He volun
tarily cut short his bliss In Paradise
in order to atone for his crime."
"The curse?" asked Sir John.
"Yes. And the <*ily way in which
to stop it was to fulfill it per se by
discovering the altar cloth."
"It's very odd," said our host
thoughtfully. "But if you saved my
"I haven't a doubt that he will live
to a ripe old age with such a consti
tution as I discovered this morning."
"I have much to thank you for,"
said Sir John, and there were tears
in his eyes. "I thank you with all
my heart. And I will try to believe."
"Don't strain your conscience, Sir
John," answered the little doctor
cheerily. "It doesn't matter, because
—some day you'll know."
(Copyright, 1917, by W. G. Chapman.)
SECOND WIFE OF NAPOLEON
Austrian Archduchess Never Felt
Much Affection for the Great Man
Who Married Her.
Archduchess Maria Louisa, the Haps
burg princess who was the second
wife of Napoleon, was born 125 years
ago. It was In 1809 that the great
warrior, then at the zenith of his
glory, determined to put aside Jose
phine and to take a new wife. He
loved Josephine, though often unfaith
ful to her, but she had given him no
son to inherit the imperial throne.
Having arrived at that decision Na
poleon proceeded with his customary
ruthlessness. The civil marriage was
speedily dissolved and obsequious
bishops found sufficient reasons for
abrogating the religions marriage.
"The young princess," says Thiers,
"was eighteen years of age, ol^a good
figure, a fair German complexion, and
In the enjoyment of excellent health.
She had been carefully educated, had
some talent and was of a placid dis
position - ; In short, she possessed the
qualities desirable In a mother. She
was surprised and pleased, but far
from being dismayed at going into
that France where, but lately, the,'' v .
monster of the revolution had d<v
voured kings ; and wherfe a conqueror!
mastering the revolutionary monster^*.
' ma( j e kings tremble in his turn. She •
j accepted with becoming reserve, but
t _ • « ...... . ____ . . .
j wit h much delight, the brilliant lot of
fered her. She consented to become
the consort of Napoleon, and mother
to the heir of the greatest empire in
Napoleon had little affection for
Maria Louisa except as the mother of
his son, the ill-fated duke de Reich
stadt. When lie fell she refused to
accompany him to Elba, but retired to
Parma with her son, having obtained,
by treaty with the allied powers, the
duchies of Parma and Placentia, in
Italy. She died at Parma in Decem
Alfred was shown the new' baby,.
After looking her over carefully for » . '
while, he pointed to her tiny closed
fists and said : "Oh, look ! She finks
she has a penny !" v ;
Insurance Doctor—"Any insanity in
your family?" Cholly—"Only—aw—
the pater—thinks he's the head of the
house, ye know."—Boston Globe.
An electrically lighted cross revolves,
on top of a Sun Francisco steeple.
xml | txt