by F. R. Tallis
Only two opportunities arose where I could attempt the electrical resuscitation of humans. Both were patients with epilepsy whose vital functions ceased during particularly violent seizures. The first of these, a middle-aged man, never regained consciousness; the second, a young woman, ‘awoke’ in a delirium that lasted for thirty minutes before she fell into a coma and passed away. Even so, I was not discouraged. The results of my experiments on animals were very promising, and I had in mind some procedural modifications that I was eager to test on human subjects.
I continued to visit Bazile, and my research was a frequent topic of conversation. He was usually excited by news of any developments, however, one evening, his reaction was somewhat muted.
He chewed the stem of his pipe and seemed ill at ease. It is not possible to know the mind of God and I would not presume to do so. Be that as it may, it seems to me that the finality of death communicates something of His purpose. If He had meant there to be traffic between this world and the next, then would He have troubled to erect so great a partition?’
‘That is a problematic argument,’ I replied, ‘because if you apply it consistently to all natural phenomena, you arrive in great difficulty. Take illness, for example. If God had meant us to be in good health, then he wouldn’t have permitted diseases. It follows, therefore, that the practice of medicine must be irreligious. No one, however, would endorse such a view. Indeed, healing the sick was fundamental to Christ’s ministry.’
‘But death seems so . . .’ Bazile paused, searching for an appropriate word, ‘decisive! To reanimate a dead body, to snatch a departed soul back from eternal rest, might seem to many Christians to be something,’ he winced before adding, ‘unnatural.’
‘When holy men perform miracles they are made into saints. What is a miracle, if not unnatural? The Church has always rewarded the violation of natural laws!’
‘Resuscitation is indeed miraculous, but it may not be miraculous in quite the same way, as, let us say, the feeding of the five thousand.’
I smiled mischievously. ‘Perhaps not, though surely it bears comparison with the raising of Lazarus. And are we not told, even as children, to learn from Christ’s example?’
Bazile conceded the point, but I could see that he was still uneasy.
Months passed, autumn became winter, and I received a letter from a surgeon at the Hôtel Dieu (at that time, this the oldest hospital in Paris was being rebuilt, and the new building – situated next to the cathedral – was nearing completion). He had recently read my review of the literature on electrical resuscitation – the one I had co-authored with Duchenne – and there were several technical matters that he wished to discuss with me. These were too numerous to be addressed by post, so I agreed to meet Monsieur Soulignac at a private dining room above a restaurant on the Boulevard Saint-Germain.
The man who greeted me was in his mid-forties and immaculately dressed. He had blond hair which glistened with a generous application of pomade, blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. His questions were not difficult to answer and the next few hours passed agreeably. By the time the brandy and cigars arrived, we were in our shirtsleeves and feeling very much at ease.
Soulignac spoke candidly: ‘Surgeons have been slow to take advantage of electrical devices. The old methods of resuscitation are still favoured by nearly all of my colleagues. Inflate the lungs, apply pressure to the abdomen, and then start praying!’ He exhaled a cloud of yellow smoke and shook his head. ‘I have been using batteries for nearly a year now, and without doubt, more of my patients survive crises as a consequence. I have been able to revive patients whose hearts were barely beating and would otherwise almost certainly have died. But I have yet to save a single patient whose heart was already stopped. And I have tried on many occasions.’
‘Perhaps you should acquire a more powerful battery,’ I suggested. ‘Duchenne used to swear by his volta-faradic apparatus. It was heavy and cumbersome, but could still be carried in an emergency, and its graduating tubes could measure the weakest doses as exactly as the strongest.’ I told Soulignac about my animal experiments and the cat I had returned to life after four minutes. He declared the result ‘extraordinary’.
The atmosphere in the room became hazy with cigar smoke, almost conspiratorial, and I found myself talking about my father and that long ago day in Brittany when he showed me the Dance of Death and I had resolved to become a doctor. It transpired that Soulignac had had a similar epiphany when he was much the same age, coinciding with the tragic and horribly premature death of his mother.
One of my patients told me something. . .’ said Soulignac. He seemed to become lost in deep introspection.
‘Oh?’ I responded, reminding him of my presence.
‘A civil servant . . . I really thought there was no hope. He wasn’t breathing, but I detected a faint beat – not even that, a murmur – an undertone. I stimulated his heart, his pulse returned, and, remarkably, he regained consciousness a few minutes later. He was very feeble, but he reached out, gripped my arm and was insistent that I listen to him. “It’s all true,” he said, “all true,” and he proceeded to describe a visionary experience.’
The account that followed corresponded exactly with the testimony of Duchenne’s case number six. As Soulignac described the tunnel, the light and the sublime being, I was, at once, both excited and disturbed.
‘Now, I do realize,’ Soulignac continued, ‘that the whole thing could have been the product of a brain starved of oxygen and nutrients, but I can’t bring myself to believe that. Perhaps you will consider me foolish, but I think there was more to it. You see, this gentleman, he was a down-to-earth fellow. During his convalescence, I visited him many times, and we discussed his vision in minute detail. He said that what he had experienced was nothing like a dream. Indeed, he maintained that it was the very opposite – a more immediate and vital reality. He confessed that prior to his resuscitation he had been a lifelong atheist. Yet, when he was discharged, he went directly to a monastery with the intention of dedicating his life to Christ.’
I did not respond and Soulignac mistook my silence for disapproval.
‘You will say it was a hallucination,’ he added, somewhat embarrassed.
‘Not at all,’ I said plainly. One of Duchenne’s patients, a woman resuscitated after carbonic oxide asphyxia, reported something very similar.’ I told him of my mentor’s deathbed confession. When the waiter appeared, more to impress upon us the lateness of the hour than to be of service, we ignored his dyspeptic expression and ordered more cigars.
It became clear to me, as the night wore on, that Soulignac’s interest in electrical resuscitation was as much motivated by spiritual curiosity as a desire to advance medicine, and that our ultimate purpose was identical: the provision of scientific evidence for the existence of the soul and its survival after bodily death. We both recognized that, by combining our resources, this objective could be realized more readily. I, a neurologist and erstwhile assistant of the great Duchenne, had access to a variety of batteries and was already embarked upon an impressive programme of animal experiments. Soulignac, a surgeon habituated to the frequent loss of patients in the operating theatre, had ample opportunity to test the new procedures I was developing. Those successfully brought back to life could be asked about their experiences, and we might, over time, collect their testimonies together for publication. The appearance of such an article in a respected professional journal would cause a sensation. When we finally made our way downstairs and out onto the deserted street, we did so flushed with alcohol and exhilarated by the audacity of our ambition.
Three months after our initial meeting, an amputee whose heart had stopped for almost a minute was resuscitated by Soulignac using the chloride of silver battery I had been using on my stray cats. The man awoke from his temporary extinction and informed Soulignac that he had been to a world of brilliant light and while there he had conversed with his dead wife. The man died two days later,
but not without having first provided his surgeon with a comprehensive account of an astounding voyage to the frontier of eternity.
The first time I saw Thérèse Courbertin was at one of Charcot’s soirées. We were introduced and exchanged only a few words before Henri Courbertin, an associate professor, swept her away, keen to show off his pretty new wife to the other guests. His behaviour occasioned some mischievous comments the following day. Courbertin was a decent man – artless, amiable, with a cheery bedside manner – but he was ageing badly. Thin strands of hair, raked across his crown and fixed by unguents, did little to disguise the fact that he was almost bald, and his bulging waistcoat struggled to contain a hefty paunch.
Courbertin had returned to his home town in order to find a wife, and, I imagine, by backwater standards, he must have cut an impressive figure: the distinguished and prosperous physician from the big city. One could appreciate how his reputation, generosity and solid virtues might appeal to a certain type of woman, eager to escape the tedium of provincial life.
After an initial burst of social activity, Thérèse Courbertin was seen less and less, and once the Courbertins’ son Philippe was born she wasn’t seen at all. When questioned about his wife’s health, Courbertin replied that she was well and enjoying motherhood. In fact, she was suffering from depression, but this – I would later discover – was something that Courbertin found difficult to come to terms with. I suspect that he blamed himself (rather than a post-partum disturbance of metabolism) for his wife’s unhappiness. Doctors are notoriously bad at coping with illness when it arises in their own homes.
Several years passed before Thérèse Courbertin started to appear in public again. The Charcots had crossed the Seine and now occupied a wing of the Hôtel de Chimay, a mansion on the Quai Malaquais. I can remember watching Madame Charcot as she guided a tall, elegant woman around the parlour, drawing her attention to particular pieces of art, and suddenly realizing that this fine lady was none other than Thérèse Courbertin. It was remarkable how much she had changed.
On a subsequent visit to the Hôtel de Chimay, somewhat bored by the company, I excused myself and found a solitary spot by one of the full-length windows where I could look out and enjoy a view of the river. I became absorbed by the play of light on the water and was startled when I heard a female voice say, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ I turned, and there was Thérèse Courbertin, standing right next to me. We began a conversation but I have only the vaguest recollection of what was said. I can only recall the smoothness of her skin and the luminosity of her eyes.
We tended to seek each other out at Charcot’s soirées, and if we found ourselves standing apart from the others, our talk soon became peculiarly intense. She had become interested in spiritualism and frequently referred to the seances she had attended. I was sceptical, but curious, and always encouraged her to tell me more. She spoke of ectoplasm, objects materializing out of thin air, and messages from the dead. We were once overheard by Courbertin, who moved closer and said, with strained affection, ‘Thérèse, my darling, Monsieur Clément isn’t interested in such things.’
Oh, but I am,’ I protested. ‘The great questions of life and death are endlessly fascinating.’
Courbertin laughed, slapped me on the back and said, ‘I hope she hasn’t made a convert of you!’ He steered me away and whispered in my ear, ‘Thank you for humouring her, Clément, you’re a good chap.’ He then urged me towards an imposing gentleman surrounded by a group of bespectacled young doctors. ‘Now,’ he continued, pausing to catch his breath. ‘Let me introduce you to Monsieur Braudel. His recent article on hereditary ataxia is set to cause quite a stir – a man worth knowing.’ It was Courbertin’s way of showing gratitude. He was relieved that someone was willing to keep his wife ‘amused’.
One sunny afternoon, I saw Thérèse Courbertin in the Luxembourg Gardens. She was sitting on a bench and little Philippe was playing at her feet. I approached, and when she saw me, she stood and waved.
‘Where is the professor?’ I asked, looking around.
‘At his club,’ she replied, a note of irritation sounding in her voice.
We began a conversation which became increasingly intimate. She spoke of feeling dissatisfied, unfulfilled and, although these remarks arose in the context of some broader point she was making concerning the human condition, it was obvious to me that she was really talking about her marriage. When we parted, she offered me her hand and allowed my lips to linger.
At the next Charcot soirée, I thought that it would be wise to avoid Thérèse Courbertin. I feared that if we spoke, our mutual attraction would be so obvious that others would notice. It is ironic, therefore, that as I was preparing to leave, Courbertin approached me with Thérèse on his arm.
‘What, going already?’ he said jovially. ‘We’ve hardly had a chance to speak.’
I can’t remember how it came about, but a few minutes later we were talking about music. The Courbertins were supposed to be going to a concert the following evening, a rather refined affair at the home of Le Coupey, a professor at the conservatoire. The performer was a young woman called Cécile Chaminade and the programme was to include a selection of her own piano works and songs. Courbertin was lamenting the fact that he could no longer go, on account of Charcot, who had just informed him of an impromptu committee meeting which he was obliged to attend. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes widened and he exclaimed, ‘Just a minute! If you’re fond of music, why don’t you take my place?’
Oh, I couldn’t,’ I replied.
Of course you could.’ He turned to face Thérèse. ‘There you are, my darling. That is the solution. Clément will be your chaperone.’
‘We cannot impose on Monsieur Clément in this way,’ said Thérèse.
‘Nonsense,’ said Courbertin. ‘He wants to go. Don’t you, Clément?’
I made a submissive gesture. ‘You are too kind.’
‘There. You see?’ Courbertin chuckled. ‘That’s settled then.’
The concert was delightful. Chaminade – who was much younger than I expected, barely in her twenties, in fact – had short curly hair and soft, rounded features. She looked a little like a milkmaid, albeit a very serious one. When her hands touched the keyboard, she produced enchanting music, although its spell was never powerful enough to make me forget Thérèse Courbertin, whose closeness had become a kind of torment. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress of black silk, striped with satin and faille. At one point, she changed position and her hem rose up, revealing a sparkling stocking of peacock blue and a petticoat trimmed with cream lace.
After the concert, I hailed a cab and we sat, side by side, talking mostly about Chaminade, with whom Thérèse was well acquainted. They had met at a seance and had since become friends. I was informed that the young composer was a strict vegetarian, preferred to work at nights and was much more interested in music than suitors. As Thérèse told me these things I began to feel light-headed with desire. I seemed to enter some altered state of being in which every detail of the world was magnified: a dewy reflection on her lips, the powder on her cheeks, flecks embedded in the green transparency of her eyes; suddenly, restraint was no longer possible, and she was in my arms, submitting to my kisses.
That was the start of it: the secret notes, the deep-laid plots and ‘accidental’ meetings in the Luxembourg Gardens, the play-acting, the lies and deceit, all leading to a shabby little hotel in Montmartre, where we finally consummated our passion.
As I watched a droplet of perspiration evaporating from her body, I said, ‘I want you to leave him.’
She sighed. ‘I can’t.’
‘Because of Philippe?’ I enfolded her in my arms and she nestled into my chest. ‘Then what are we to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. After a lengthy, thoughtful pause, she was only able to repeat the same, disappointing words.
Soulignac and I continued to question patients who had survived resuscitation. After a year, we had
collected five accounts similar to the one given to Duchenne by his case number six. Of our five cases, I was responsible for resuscitating only one, a stable boy who had sustained a serious head injury. He was surprisingly eloquent and his description of communing with the infinite was deeply affecting. Sadly, his recovery was fragile and he died later from a brain haemorrhage. There were other patients, returned to consciousness from serious illness, whose breathing had slowed and whose hearts had almost – but not quite – fallen silent; however, none of this group said anything about tunnels or light. Most reported nothing, and a few described vivid dreams. Some of these dreams were religious in nature and featured radiant angelic beings, but Soulignac and I were never tempted to confuse them with what we now recognized as authentic contact with the numinous. A simple rule was emerging: the greater the loss of vital signs, and the longer the duration of their absence, the more likely it was that a resuscitated patient would subsequently report a spiritual experience.
Shortly after Thérèse and I became lovers, I told her about the research I was undertaking with Soulignac. She was amazed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘There was never the opportunity.’
‘But we have always discussed matters of the spirit.’ ‘Yes, at the Hôtel de Chimay, where anyone might have overheard what I was saying.’
‘And what if they had?’
‘As far as my colleagues are concerned, I am trying to refine electrical resuscitation techniques and nothing more. If Charcot knew what I was really embarked upon I would probably be dismissed. He is a staunch anticleric, a low materialist.’
‘But isn’t your project scientific? I thought that was its purpose: to prove, beyond doubt, that death is not the end.’