Ever Smaller

by Albert Bleunard

  “No, Monsieur. There are, however, bizarre and extraordinary phenomena that science can’t explain, and which ignorant people attribute to spiritualism—a vague doctrine more religious than scientific.”

  “I haven’t seen any of those phenomena,” I told him. “I shall only become a convinced spiritualist on the day when I’ve witnessed one of them.”

  “You have only to visit me at home.”

  “Gladly,” I replied.

  We exchanged cards and separated, after having arranged to meet the following morning.

  II. The Magic Canvas

  The next day, I kept the appointment.

  Monsieur Louis Varlet—for that was the name I had read on the card handed to me the previous evening—lived In one of the streets in the neighborhood of Saint-Sulpice, on the third floor of one of those houses of the last century, with large windows and cracked walls.

  I rang the bell. Monsieur Varlet came to open the door himself.

  After the customary greetings, he took me into his study, a large room containing bookshelves, a big desk covered in books and papers, two chairs and a table. The mantelpiece and the walls were covered with a multitude of trinkets, evidently of Oriental origin. At the first glance I recognized the caskets, idols, weapons and parasols that travelers bring back from India, China and Japan. Evidently, the master of the apartment had visited the land of the rising sun.

  After offering me a seat, he said: “You must excuse me, my dear Monsieur, for not receiving you in a different manner. I’m a bachelor.” He added, with a sigh: “An old bachelor…and this is all I possess. Do you smoke?”

  “A great deal, like all chemists,” I replied.

  “In that case, here’s a collection of pipes, which I place at your disposal. They’re from many different countries.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I only smoke cigarettes.”

  “Like all chemists?” Monsieur Varlet queried. “You’re a chemist, then.”

  “Yes, a former lab assistant—I’m looking for a position with an industrial company.”

  “That’s lucky,” he said. “You might be able to discover the secret that’s introduced me for two years.”

  “Entirely at your service,” I replied. “What is it?”

  While M. Varlet spoke I rolled a cigarette between my fingers and studied my interlocutor.

  He was, as I had already had occasion to observe, a man of about 40, rather thin, slightly over medium height, seemingly very sprightly and vigorous, with black hair and a beard, sprinkled with silver threads. His eyes were very intelligent and extremely mobile. His speech was curt but clear, and got straight to the point. One deduced, in consequence, that he detested hollow and banal remarks. By that sign, I recognized that I was dealing with a learned and serious man, a man of action and perhaps also a thinker. That conclusion gave me pleasure. I had not, therefore, a commonplace innocent before me, ready to believe anything on someone’s word, but a cultivated mind that liked to get to the bottom of things.

  Well, I said to myself, perhaps I’ll finally have the chance to encounter a veritable spiritualist. After so many disappointments with the others, this one will doubtless show me something serious.

  Monsieur Varlet had got to his feet. Going to a cupboard fitted into the wall, he opened it and took out a frame.

  “You see this frame?” he said, coming back to sit next o me.

  “It’s nothing very curious,” I said, taking the object and turning it in all directions. “It’s just an ordinary wooden frame, on which a piece of blank canvas has been mounted.”

  “That’s right. You don’t see anything extraordinary on the blank canvas?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there’s a portrait there.”

  “A portrait!” I exclaimed. “You’re joking. I see absolutely nothing but a blank canvas.”

  “I assure you,” he said, “that there’s a portrait on it.”

  I judged it futile to dispute the matter further. “After all,” I said to him, “perhaps that’s possible. With sympathetic ink, it’s easy to make a portrait appear by warming a piece of white canvas.”

  “Try,” he replied, with a mocking smile.

  I got up and went to the fireplace, where a good coke fire was burning, and heated up the frame. Nothing appeared on the canvas. I heated it again, but with no more success.

  “It’s not sympathetic ink,” I said, “handing the frame back to M. Varlet. But, since you affirm that there really is a portrait there, show it to me.”

  “I ought to have done this first,” he replied, “for nothing obliges you to take my word for it.”

  This time, he went to his desk, opened a door, and brought me a photograph. I took it. It showed the handsome head of an old man, austere and inspired in appearance, who was not a European.

  “It’s the head of an Indian priest,” M. Varlet told me.

  “What connection is there,” I asked, “between the photograph of this Hindu and the portrait which, you claim, exists on the canvas?”

  “It’s quite simple—that’s a photograph of the portrait.”

  “A photograph of the portrait!” I exclaimed. “But since there is no portrait, there can’t be a photograph of it.”

  This time, I wondered whether I might be dealing with a madman. M. Varlet must have divined my reflection, for he hastened to reply to me, while smiling: “I can see that it’s time to explain myself, or you’ll take me for a madman.”

  I shook my head negatively.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Don’t deny it; there’s no need.”

  I made no reply, waiting for an explanation.

  “Since you don’t want to believe that this photograph is that of the portrait painted on the blank canvas,” my interlocutor continued, “there’s a means of convincing you.”

  “Which is,” I added, interrupting him, “to photograph the canvas in front of me.”

  “You have read my thought, my dear Monsieur.” My companion opened a door and invited me to go through. “This is my photographic laboratory,” he told me. “In a few minutes, you’ll no longer doubt my word.”

  I went into the laboratory. It was a spacious, well-lit room, all of whose walls were equipped with shelves. On those shelves I saw mineral specimens, fossils, collections of insects and plants. The inhabitant of the apartment was definitely a naturalist and collector. I made a rapid tour of the room to inspect the collections.

  “I’ve brought all this back from my travels,” M. Varlet told me. They’re precious souvenirs, of which I take a great many. Every stone and every plant reminds me of an adventure, the ascent of a mountain. How many things I could tell you, if we had the time! Look, here’s a flint axe that nearly cost me my life.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s a funny story. If you like, I’ll tell it to you while I’m getting my apparatus ready?”

  “Of course—please do.”

  “Imagine,” M. Varlet said to me, “that I found out about a cave in Styria, in which the peasants of the region affirmed the existence of a great many animal bones. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to dig in a cavern where I might discover vestiges of the Stone Age. Unfortunately, access was very difficult. I was warned that it was necessary to go through a long tunnel, very narrow, through which I would be required o crawl on my belly. I was young then, and that difficulty couldn’t stop me. So, having equipped myself with a guide and candles, I headed for the entrance to the cave. Indeed, behind the brushwood, my guide showed me a cavity just large enough to let a man’s body through—but a man crawling along the ground like a snake.”

  “That’s certainly a subterranean excursion that lacks comfort,” I interjected. “It must have been dangerous too. How could you tell that you weren’t going to meet some dangerous animal on the way—a snake or some wild beast? How could you have defended yourself, in such an inconvenient position?”

  “You’re right—but I was young, headstrong, adventur
ous and driven by an irresistible thirst for the unknown. In brief, my guide went in first, having lit a candle, and I followed him. All went well during the first half of the journey. The tunnel was wide enough to let a man of my corpulence crawl without difficulty.

  “While we went forward I chatted to the guide. ‘Can you imagine, Monsieur,’ he said to me, ‘that last month I accompanied an Englishwoman who was utterly determined to visit this cave. She had even been obliged to take off her skirts to get through…oh, those Englishwomen!’ I uttered an exclamation of surprise. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Monsieur,’ he added, naively. ‘I went first, as I am today with you.’

  “The corridor was getting narrower. I felt the walls compressing my hips. Suddenly, I stopped. I made every effort to go on, but I couldn’t go any further forwards.”

  “Nor backwards?” I said.

  “Nor backwards, indeed, my dear Monsieur. I was caught between the two walls as if in a vice. I immediately alerted the guide to my critical situation. ‘Damn,’ the man replied. ‘I can’t turn round to pull you by the head.’ You can now imagine my anxiety. To call for help was futile; we were so far underground that our voices could never reach the outside. In the nearby village they knew all about our excursion to the grotto, but they also knew that I intended to go further than my guide and not return to the village until after eight o’clock. So, there was no help to be expected from that direction. I was, therefore, condemned to die of hunger in that ridiculous position, playing the role of a cork.

  “I tried to make a joke of it, though. When the guide asked my advice as to the means of getting me out of the difficulty, I replied: ‘Let’s stay here or four or five days; I’ll get so thin that I’ll end up being able to catch up with you and pass through in my turn.’ That response didn’t satisfy the guide, who had no intention of starving.”

  “How did you get out of it, then?” I asked M. Varlet—who, having completed his preparations and set up his apparatus, was now ready to photograph the blank canvas.

  “This, in brief, is the end of my story,” he replied. “The guide continued on his way and reached the cave. Then, retracing his steps in the opposite direction, he scraped the walls of the tunnel, which were made, fortunately, of a soft limestone. After an hour’s work, he succeeded in freeing me. Come on, now that you’ve heard my adventure, let’s pass on to serious matters. Come with me into the darkroom; I want to put a sensitive plate into the plate-holder before your eyes.”

  We went into the little darkroom annexed to the room with the natural history collections. M. Varlet picked up a new box containing a dozen sensitive plates, prepared with silver bromide gel, and opened it in front of me. He introduced one of them into the plate-holder. By the red light of the lantern I was able to ascertain that he acted honestly, and did not attempt any sleight of hand.

  “I intend to prove to you that I’m acting honestly,” he told me.

  “I don’t doubt that,” I replied. “On the contrary, I believe…”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, interrupting abruptly. “In sum, you don’t know me; you don’t know who I am. You have every right to take me for a charlatan, a professional spiritualist, earning a living by performing tricks in front of people entirely disposed to believe in the marvelous, and refusing to let their actions be verified under some pretext or other. Oh, I’ve seen and known many fake spiritualists, ranging from those who make luminous hands appear in the darkness with phosphorated oil, and those who make tables turn with springs hidden in the thickness of the wood, to those who make use of the Davenports’ doctored cupboard{12 and write on slates using conjuring tricks.”

  He put the plate-holder into my hands. “You presumably know how to take a photograph?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’ve done it on many occasions.”

  “So much the better,” he said. “Please do it yourself.”

  We came out of the darkroom. I went to the photographic apparatus; then, the blank canvas having been placed vertically on a stand in front of the objective lens, I took aim at it with the frosted glass. That done, I removed the glass and replaced it with the plate-holder. A minute later, the operation was complete.

  It was now a matter of developing the negative image. We went back into the darkroom and I immersed the sensitive plate in the revelatory solution, composed of iron oxalate.

  I confess that I felt excited. Would anything appear?

  After a few seconds I saw the image of the frame appear clearly in black on the white background of the plate.

  “There’s the frame coming out,” I said to M. Varlet.

  “Yes,” he replied, “it always appears first. Have a little patience. It takes longer for the image on the canvas, but that will come too, in a few minutes.”

  I followed the progress of the revelation on the glass plate curiously. Now the frame could be seen perfectly, with the slightest details, but the middle—which is to say, the image of the white canvas, still remained blank.

  “It’s taking a long time,” I remarked.

  “Patience,” replied M. Varlet.

  Time passes slowly when one is waiting. Finally, I thought I saw a few grey features appear.

  “There!” I exclaimed. “There’s the image coming!”

  I was not mistaken. Little by little, the features became darker, meeting up and ultimately depicting the handsome head of an old man.

  “That’s extraordinary!” I exclaimed, letting the plate fall back into the bath, having examined it transparently in front of the yellow square.

  “Go on, then,” said my companion. “Finish your negative.”

  “There’s no need,” I said. “The proof is now complete.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “but at least you’ll keep a proof of the experiment.”

  “You’re right, my dear Monsieur. I’ll keep a souvenir of you.”

  So I carefully washed the plate with pure water, and immersed it in a bath of sodium hyposulfate to fix the image. Soon, all the silver bromide that had not been attacked by the light was dissolved, and we came out of the darkroom.

  I went to the window and looked at my print. It was perfect. The old man’s features stood out clearly. One could not have asked for a better photograph of an ordinary portrait painted in oils.

  We went back into the study.

  “What do you think?” M. Varlet asked me. “How do you explain that?”

  “But what explanation do you give yourself?” I replied. “Before answering, I’d like to know the origin of this invisible picture.”

  We went to sit down by the fire, for we had got slightly cold in the next room, which was unheated.

  “In brief, this is it,” M. Varlet told me. “Two years ago, during a voyage to India, I made the acquaintance in Calcutta of an English officer who was studying spiritualism with the native fakirs. As he knew what a great interest I had in the subject, he was obliging enough to carry out some experiments in my presence. One day, he had received from another officer, an inhabitant of central India, a collection of pictures similar to this one. His colleague, along with that consignment, had sent him a memoir giving details of the manner of making use of the magical pictures. A few days later, I was recalled to Europe by a telegram informing me of my father’s death, and was obliged to leave India and my friend the officer in a hurry. Before leaving, he pressed me forcefully to take one of his pictures with me. That’s all I know. Since then, I’ve heard no word of the officer. I’ve written to Calcutta, but never received any reply.”

  “Do you see this as a proof of spiritualism?” I asked him.

  “No,” he replied, “in spite of the affirmation of the officer, who claimed to have obtained these pictures from a fakir endowed with the ability to fix the images of spirits on material objects.”

  “According to that explanation, then,” I continued, “I’ve simply photographed an old man whose spirit, thanks to a spell cast by the fakir, will be obliged to remain fixed for all eternity on this canvas
?”

  “That’s absurd,” M. Varlet put in.

  “I was about to make the same remark,” I said. “A serious person ought not to accept such an explanation without debate. Personally, I see it as a phenomenon much more natural.”

  “What?”

  “I think that someone has impregnated this blank canvas with a chemical substance endowed with the property of modifying the light reflected by the canvas, which is, in consequence, capable of producing an image in a photographic apparatus.”

  “That’s also my opinion,” said my companion, “but how can we make sure?”

  “By means of chemical analysis,” I said. “Will you permit me to take this canvas away and subject a small piece of it to reagents in my laboratory?”

  “Certainly,” replied M. Varlet. “I’ll be very happy to know the result of your research.”

  III. An Unexpected Discovery

  The result obtained by photographing the canvas was strange. I must confess, however, that I was not entirely convinced; a doubt remained in my mind.

  Spirit photography is already old. For a long time, certain people, claiming to be endowed with special faculties, who are called mediums, have claimed that, thanks to these faculties, they can fix the image of a spirit on the sensitive plate of a photographic apparatus. In Paris, there has even been a famous trial related to this subject. A spirit photographer was convicted of fraud and sentenced. The means he employed to obtain spirit images was simple; first he took a very faint photograph of a painting depicting some spirit or other, and then used the same plate to photograph the person desirous of seeing his portrait accompanied by that of a spirit. The trick was easy to play. To cap it all, the accused photographer confessed his fraud, and yet a number of people were found at the hearing, each of whom had been photographed with a spirit, to affirm under oath that the spirits perfectly resembled known individuals. One had seen his father therein, another his mother, others their wives or fiancées—which proves the extent to which human intelligence is capable of self-deception every time there is a question of supernatural phenomena.