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DYSTOPIA:
A N AT U RA L HIST O R Y
Dystopia: A Natural
History
A Study of Modern Despotism,
Its Antecedents, and
Its Literary Diffractions
GREGORY CLAEYS
1
3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© Gregory Claeys 2017
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First Edition published in 2017
Impression: 1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics
rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016943110
ISBN 978–0–19–878568–2
Printed in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
In Memoriam,
István Hont (1947–2013)
an abundance of warmth and light
Acknowledgements
Readers may recall Orwell’s observation that ‘Writing a book is a horrid, exhausting
struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness’ (‘Why I Write’, 1946). Thankfully
I have had some skilled intellectual physicians to help me through the moments
when I thought I might succumb to this one. In particular, a very special thanks is
due to Artur Blaim, Michael Levin, Lyman Tower Sargent, and Dan Stone, who
made invaluable comments on parts of the manuscript and have greatly improved
the final version. I am also grateful to Antonis Balasopoulos; Mosab Bajaber; David
Bradshaw; Brentford FC and its fans for helping me see how the beautiful game is
like war but so much better; Justin Champion; Janice Cullen; Zsolt Czigányik; José
Maria Perez Fernandez; Justyna Galant; Diletta Gari; Sam Hirst; Anna Hont;
Thomas Horan; Jessie Hronesova; Mark Jendrysik; Marta Komsta; Tom Moylan;
Duncan Kelly; Andrew Milner; the Museum for the Political History of Russia,
St Petersburg; Patrick Parrinder; Mark Preslar; Emine Şentürk; James Somper;
Sandy Stelts at Penn State University Library; Henry Tam; Fátima Vieira; Luisa
Hodgkinson and the interlibrary loan team at Royal Holloway, University
of London; the London Library; the British Library; and the Orwell Archive,
University College London, especially Mandy Wise. In Cambodia I am particularly
grateful to the staff of the Documentation Center of Cambodia (DC-Cam),
including its director, Youk Chhang, and Deputy Director, Eng Kok-Thay, and
Dalin Lorn; and at the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, Keo Lundi. Parts of the
argument have been presented at conferences or seminars at Budapest, Cambridge,
Durham, Granada, Grand Forks, Krakow, Lisbon, London, Montreal, Newcastle,
Oxford, Pittsburgh, Prague, Sewanee, the European University, St Petersburg, São
Paulo, the University of Sussex, and Timişoara. I am grateful to audiences for their
feedback, and especially to members of the Utopian Studies Society (Europe) and
the Society for Utopian Studies (North America). The support of the Leverhulme
Trust was indispensable. I am thankful to the Salem Press for permission to reprint
passages from ‘Huxley and Bolshevism’, in M. Keith Booker, ed., Aldous Huxley’s
Brave New World: New Critical Essays (Salem Press, 2014), pp. 91–107. At Oxford
University Press I am grateful to Cathryn Steele and Hollie Thomas. Elizabeth
Stone was an astute and helpful copy-editor. As always, my wife and family have
been supportive and endlessly patient. Finally, thanks to Christopher Duggan,
whose life was cut short tragically before the book was finished, for twenty years of
friendship and encouragement.
Table of Contents
List of Illustrations xi
P A R T I . T H E TH E O R Y A N D P R E - H I S T O R Y
OF DYSTO PIA
1. Rethinking the Political Dystopia: The Group and the Crowd 3
Introduction: Rethinking Dystopia 3
Group Psychology and Dystopia 18
P A R T I I I. T H E L I T E RA R Y R E V O L T
AGAINST COLLECTIVISM
Introduction to Part III 269
x Table of Contents
The USA, 1880–1914: Bellamy and His Critics 316
Britain and the USA: Dystopia Turns towards Science Fiction 333
Anti-Bolshevism and Anti-Fascism, 1918–1940 337
Conclusion: The Contours of the Literary Dystopia, 1792–1945 355
Bibliography 503
Index 543
List of Illustrations
2.1. Indian monsters c.1550. © Mary Evans Picture Library 10038329. 64
2.2. The Deluge (1633 engraving). © INTERFOTO/Sammlung Rauch/Mary
Evans 10446662. 66
2.3. St George killing a dragon. © Mary Evans Picture Library 10067761. 68
2.4. Hell, Hieronymus Bosch, c.1500. © Mary Evans/Interfoto Agentur 10226987. 85
2.5. Witches kiss the Devil’s ass. © Mary Evans Picture Library 10017826. 97
2.6. Inquisition: questioning. © Mary Evans Picture Library 10037552. 101
3.1. Crowd tramples bourgeois, 1919. © Mary Evans Picture Library 10012144. 131
3.2. ‘Death to the Bourgeoisie’, Sergey Petrovich Melgounov, The Red Terror in
Russia ( J. M. Dent, 1926). 135
3.3. Leon Trotsky as enemy, 1928. © Mary Evans Picture Library 10081705. 140
3.4. Keep Your Tongue Behind the Teeth! (1941 Soviet poster). 168
4.1. ‘Jews Not Wanted’. © Everett Collection/Mary Evans 11000408. 189
4.2. Gas chamber, Majdanek concentration camp. © Gregory Claeys. 205
4.3. Gas chamber complex (destroyed) Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp.
© Gregory Claeys. 205
4.4. Tuol Sleng prisoners. © Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. 230
5.1. Ruins of London, Gustav Doré, 1870. © Mary Evans Picture
Library 10022798. 312
5.2. Robot from Čapek play, 1929. © Mary Evans Picture Library 10006107. 336
PART I
T H E TH E O R Y A N D
PRE-HISTORY OF DYSTOPIA
1
Rethinking the Political Dystopia
The Group and the Crowd
I NT RO DU C T I O N: RE T H I NKI N G D Y S TOP I A
The word ‘dystopia’ evokes disturbing images. We recall ancient myths of the
Flood, that universal inundation induced by Divine wrath, and of the Apocalypse
of Judgement Day. We see landscapes defined by ruin, death, destruction. We
see swollen corpses, derelict buildings, submerged monuments, decaying cities,
wastelands, the rubble of collapsed civilizations. We see cataclysm, war, lawless-
ness, disorder, pain, and suffering. Mountains of uncollected rubbish tower over
abandoned cars. Flies buzz over animal carcases. Useless banknotes flutter in the
wind. Our symbols of species power stand starkly useless: decay is universal.
Or: we see miles of barbed wire broken by guard towers topped with machine
guns and searchlights; the deathstrips and minefields; the snarling guard dogs; the
eyes of the haunted gaunt faces of the skeletal half-dead staring out of deep sockets
aghast at their ill-deserved fate; corpses piled up like logs, grimacing skulls frozen in
the last moment of madness.
1 Quoted in Stephen Wilson, The Magical Universe: Everyday Ritual and Magic in Pre-Modern
Or: grim streets dominated by giant portraits of the Leader witness lengthy
queues for food of weary ill-clad workers as revolutionary announcements of norms
exceeded in the production plan blare out from a thousand loudspeakers.
Or: a proliferation of mushroom clouds indicates humanity’s end through
nuclear war.
Or: roaring planes fly overhead dropping bombs which burst among us, as men
in gas masks stride over mangled corpses to stick bayonets into us or incinerate us
with flamethrowers.
Or: human society resembles an ant heap in which mammoth cities are domin-
ated by vast teeming slums and immense skyscrapers which are separated by walls
from elite compounds guarded by menacing security forces.
Now the black and white newsreels give way to colour: dystopia’s is blood-red.
Violent explosions interspersed by screams of terror deafen us and rock the earth: this
is the sound of dystopia. Burning flesh, cordite, sweat, vomit, urine, excrement,
rotting garbage: this is the stench of dystopia. But what really reeks is stark naked
barbarism: the perfumed scents of civility are but a distant memory. We have reverted
to savagery, animality, monstrosity. And then, perhaps mercifully, the end comes.
* * * *
Visions of the apocalypse are at least as old as 1000 BC, when, in Norman Cohn’s
rendering, the triumph of chaos over order defined the Egyptian ‘Prophecies of
Neferti’, which foretold of the complete breakdown of society. The ‘great no longer
rule the land’, the ‘slaves will be exalted’. Crime, robbery, and murder are rampant.
The desert encroaches. The Nile turns blood-red by the corpses floating in it.2 The
Greek term, apokalypsis, unveiling or uncovering, indicates the revelation of man-
kind’s destiny.3 Many variations on it come down to us through the ages. Once
they were the preserve of millennialists who heralded the final punishment of sin
and the dawning of a new Divine era. Now such nightmarish scenarios occupy an
increasingly prominent position in our vocabulary and our mental world, but
without the hopeful outcome promised by theology.
Most of what we associate with ‘dystopia’ is thus a modern phenomenon,
wedded to secular pessimism. The word is derived from two Greek words, dus and
topos, meaning a diseased, bad, faulty, or unfavourable place. It first probably
appeared in the mid-eighteenth century, but was not widely used until the twentieth.
It has some awkward cousins, like Jeremy Bentham’s ‘cacotopia’, or ‘evil place’. In
common parlance, the word functions as the opposite of ‘utopia’, the bad place versus
what we imagine to be the good place, the secular version of paradise.
Yet it is readily apparent that such a stark juxtaposition leaves much to be desired.
Utopianism, in Lyman Tower Sargent’s well-known description, has three ‘faces’, the
2 Norman Cohn, Cosmos, Chaos, and the World to Come: The Ancient Roots of Apocalyptic Faith (Yale
University Press, 1993), pp. 19–20; The ‘Admonitions of Ipu-Wer’, as described in Robert Gnuse,
‘Ancient Near Eastern Millennialism’, in Catherine Wessinger, ed., The Oxford Handbook of
Millennialism (Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 236–7.
3 Cohn, Cosmos, Chaos and the World to Come, p. 163.
Rethinking the Political Dystopia 5
4 Lyman Tower Sargent, ‘The Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited’, Utopian Studies, 5 (1994), 1–37.
5 Ruth Levitas, The Concept of Utopia (Syracuse University Press, 1990), p. 195.
6 Thus Michael Geyer, for instance, writes of the ‘utopian’ and ‘dystopian’ dimensions of Nazi
ideology (Geyer and Sheila Fitzpatrick, Beyond Totalitarianism: Stalinism and Nazism Compared
(Cambridge University Press, 2009), p. 36), while Maurice Meissner writes of the ‘utopian and
dystopian elements’ in Maoism: Marxism, Maoism and Utopianism (University of Wisconsin Press,
1982), pp. 184–211, and contrasts ‘Mao’s utopia’ to ‘Mao’s dystopia’ (p. 209). Norman M. Naimark
writes of Hitler’s ‘racial dystopia’ (Stalin’s Genocides (Princeton University Press, 2010), p. 5).
7 An early instance of this trend is noted in David Riesman’s The Lonely Crowd (Yale University
Press, 1950).
8 Steven Rosefielde, Red Holocaust (Routledge, 2010), pp. 14, 246, 257. Here the term is
specifically linked to the idea of an ‘anti-utopia’, and described as first being denominated a dystopia
by John Stuart Mill (p. 16). Pol Pot’s regime is also described as a ‘dystopia’ (p. 118), and his methods,
indeed, as ‘dystopicide’, meaning ‘the unpremeditated, but nonetheless culpable consequence of
blindly trying to “storm heaven” ’ (p. 119).
6 Dystopia: A Natural History
9 It is commonly described as isolated, ‘a lonely island somewhere in the vast expanse of the ocean’
(Gerhard Ritter, The Corrupting Influence of Power (Tower Bridge Publications, 1952), p. 70): the
reverse is the case.
10 Thomas More, Utopia, ed. David Wootton (Hackett Publishing Co., 1999), p. 103.
11 Ibid., p. 108. 12 Ibid., p. 147.
13 Quoted in Frank Manuel, ed., French Utopias (Schocken Books, 1971), p. 100.
14 In Morelly’s case, all property aside from that required for daily needs, pleasure, and work was to
be public, and all citizens were to be maintained and employed by the public, contributing according to
their strength, talents, and age.
Rethinking the Political Dystopia 7
are regulated and inequalities of wealth and distinction are minimized. Needs,
vanity, and emulation are restrained, often by prizing equality and holding riches in
contempt. The desire for public power is curbed. Marriage and sexual intercourse
are often controlled: in Tommaso Campanella’s The City of the Sun (1623), the first
great literary utopia after More’s, relations are forbidden to men before the age of
twenty-one and women before nineteen. Communal child-rearing is normal; for
Campanella this commences at age two. Greater simplicity of life, ‘living according
to nature’, is often a result: the desire for simplicity and purity are closely related.
People become more alike in appearance, opinion, and outlook than they often
have been. Unity, order, and homogeneity thus prevail at the cost of individuality
and diversity. This model, as J. C. Davis demonstrates, dominated early modern
utopianism.15 And utopian homogeneity remains a familiar theme well into the
twentieth century.
Given these considerations, it is not unreasonable to take as our starting point
here the hypothesis that utopia and dystopia evidently share more in common than
is often supposed. Indeed, they might be twins, the progeny of the same parents.
Insofar as this proves to be the case, my linkage of both here will be uncomfortably
close for some readers. Yet we should not mistake this argument for the assertion
that all utopias are, or tend to produce, dystopias. Those who defend this propos-
ition will find that their association here is not nearly close enough. For we have
only to acknowledge the existence of thousands of successful intentional commu-
nities in which a cooperative ethos predominates and where harmony without
coercion is the rule to set aside such an assertion. Here the individual’s submersion
in the group is consensual (though this concept is not unproblematic). It results not
in enslavement but voluntary submission to group norms. Harmony is achieved
without, in the Millian sense, harming others.16
Readers whose interest is chiefly literary may not in any case share these
anxieties. They will rightly assume that the most common use of ‘dystopia’ is
synonymous with the ‘dystopian novel’, which portrays an extremely negative or
evil fictional state usually dominated by fear. Here George Orwell’s great work,
Nineteen Eighty-Four, remains paradigmatic. This is treated in Part III. But
Orwell’s presence can be detected throughout this book. One of his chief mes-
sages, the value of a dialogue between history and literature, is central to my effort
here to synthesize the literary and historical approaches to the concept. Part I also
takes up another central Orwellian theme, the threat to individuals posed by
groups, in demonstrating the centrality to dystopia of approaches drawn from
group psychology, sociology, and the history of religion. These are presented here
with a brief overview of the prehistory of the modern dystopia.
* * * *
To place groups at the centre of our analysis as such is to recognize the proximity of
some types of utopia to some types of dystopia. Both utopia and dystopia conceive
15 J. C. Davis, Utopia and the Ideal Society: A Study of English Utopian Writing 1516–1700
17 See my ‘News from Somewhere: Enhanced Sociability and the Composite Definition of Utopia
individual personality, and which dominates everyday life, sometimes for decades
or longer. It is exacerbated by perceived failures to achieve the norms of self-
sacrifice. These processes, in turn, are often linked with dystopia’s obsession with
enemies, and its determination to eliminate them, or at least neutralize their threat,
while simultaneously creating them anew as a means of justifying the power of the
regime. This, at least, is the hypothesis with which we can commence.
* * * *
In the twentieth century, such a condition of universalized fear was certainly
intensified by the immense destructiveness of overly rapid modernization, or so
several prominent examples in Part II—the USSR, China, Cambodia—suggest.
But as a psychological state, dystopia may also be conceived to be humanity’s starting
point. We may view ourselves as a mentally fragile species today. But many of us have
far less to fear than our ancestors. This book is subtitled ‘a natural history’ in part
because it is often concerned with the emotional substrata of behaviour, and how the
relationship between a few key emotions and the types of society we live in evolves. It
suggests that we collectively progress from natural to socially compounded forms of
fear. At first all the natural world is populated by threatening gods, monstrous beings,
and malevolent spirits; hence our attention in Chapter 2 to monsters, the primordial
symbols of evil both without and within. Many of these gradually disappear. Others
are reinvented, or rediscovered as inner monstrosity, or replaced in later modernity by
fear of the science and technology we have created, of the recreation of our selves in
the image of our machines, and of their eventual domination over us. But the fear
remains constant, if fluctuating, even if its objects vary.
Anthropology is thus a logical starting point here. Our ‘natural’, original psychic
state is one of constant mental anxiety. A materially defined world is broadly
predictable. A magical one is fraught with contingency. At our peril we fail to respect
and propitiate the powers which lie in forests, dells, and springs, or to safeguard from
evil spirits, by blessings, amulets, and sacrifices, our seed, crops, animals, and houses.
In Ernest Crawley’s words, ‘in the thought of many peoples man’s whole environ-
ment is more or less full of the agencies or influences of evil’.19 To Lucien Lévy-Bruhl,
‘primitives’ attribute causation to the operation of unseen powers.20 Plants, trees,
stones, animals are all conceived as ‘endued with mystic attributes’ and linked by a
single spiritual principle. The differentiation between humans and animals is slight,
and many animals are assumed to take human form, and vice versa. Animism, the
belief in spirit beings, is pervasive in the early stages of humanity. ‘Primitives’
have no sense of the ‘miraculous’ or the ‘impossible’. Illnesses, death, and injuries
are never ‘natural’, and are often blamed on witchcraft, or on the displeasure of
the dead, who are usually conceived as still living in ethereal form (as they also are
in More’s Utopia).
19 Ernest Crawley, The Mystic Rose: A Study of Primitive Marriage and of Primitive Thought in Its
would include Europeans and other ‘civilized’ peoples until quite recently.
10 Dystopia: A Natural History
21 Freud’s great concern here was in the proximity of taboo prohibitions and neurosis: Totem and
Taboo: Some Points of Agreement between the Mental Lives of Savages and Neurotics (Routledge & Kegan
Paul, 1960), p. 26.
22 Bronisław Malinowski, Magic, Science and Religion and Other Essays (Free Press, 1948), pp. 1, 7.
23 Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, How Natives Think (George Allen & Unwin, 1926), pp. 65, 263–301;
Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, The ‘Soul’ of the Primitive (George Allen & Unwin, 1928), pp. 232–60, 254.
24 Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, Primitives and the Supernatural (George Allen & Unwin, 1936), pp. 5, 20–1,
120. For a revised assessment, see Susanne Kuehling, Dobu: Ethics of Exchange on a Massim Island,
Papua New Guinea (University of Hawaii Press, 2005).
Rethinking the Political Dystopia 11
founder, Lycurgus, Sparta’s citizens were nominally equal, dining together, dis-
daining trade and luxury, gold and silver (like Utopia’s inhabitants), and using only
iron money. Their raison d’être was conquest, the earliest form of organized sadism.
According to Plutarch, ‘All their education was directed toward prompt obedience
to authority, stout endurance of hardship, and victory or death in battle.’28 Feeble
infants were abandoned to die on the hillsides. Children were raised in common.
Young males were given only one cloak a year to wear, slept on beds of rushes, and
were taught to steal food. They were also subjected to annual ritual public beatings,
and were forbidden to practise inferior trades, cultivation being left to their slaves,
the helots. Foreigners were banned from the country. The numbers involved here
were remarkably small, perhaps 9,000 citizens with an army of 6,000 in Lycurgus’
time.29 The time frame of Sparta’s greatness (fifth–third century BC) was relatively
brief. But Spartan equality provided a vital precedent for Plato, More, Harrington,
Rousseau, Robespierre, and many other later writers.
A second prototype for the collectivist dystopia is slavery. Like war, slavery has
been ubiquitous throughout history. The ancient Chinese, Indians, Babylonians,
Assyrians, Persians, Egyptians, Greeks (c.15–40 per cent of the population), Romans
(30–40 per cent in the early Christian era), and Nordic and Teutonic peoples all had
large slave populations. Millions of slaves were created in the Spanish, Portuguese,
Dutch, French and British conquest of the ‘New World’, and almost as quickly killed
off. (In the Spanish Americas, for example, as many as half the slaves working the
Potosí silver mines died during an average week’s work.)30 Perhaps 20 million
Africans—as much as a fifth of the continent’s population—were seized to cultivate
the southern American Spanish and Portuguese and northern American British
colonies, and then the United States prior to the Civil War (when about one-third
of the South’s population were slaves). East Africa was another active slaving region.
In the late nineteenth century, the immense African Congo, where as many as
10 million may have died, was held as a private rubber-plantation slave fiefdom by
the Belgian King, Leopold. Here, extreme brutality, beating, and severing hands as
punishment were common, as was the taking of hostages to secure rubber supplies.
Nazi Germany and the USSR under Stalin, as well as several other modern regimes,
can be described as slave states, even as consciously reintroducing the principle.31
‘State slavery’ has thus been seen as ‘one of the characteristic features of 20th-century
totalitarianism’.32
Thirdly, political despotisms, a lamentably common form of regime, are key
antecedents for totalitarian dictatorship. Their governing principle is usually de-
scribed as fear or terror.33 Aristotle first proposed the juxtaposition of regimes based
1997), p. 91.
31 Eugene Victor Walter, Terror and Resistance: A Study of Political Violence (Oxford University
Press, 1969), p. 5.
32 Jules Monnerot, Sociology of Communism (George Allen & Unwin, 1953), p. 13.
33 See Corey Robin, Fear: The History of a Political Idea (Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 27–160.
12 Dystopia: A Natural History
on friendship to those rooted in fear and estrangement which we will adopt here.
He recognized that, ‘in tyranny there is little or no friendship’, and that despotism
involved inverting friendship and adopting ‘every means for making every subject
as much a stranger as possible to every other’.34 In the early modern period,
Machiavelli advised princes that it was better to be feared than loved. Hobbes
described the use of fear as an instrument of control as well as of social bonding.
He also viewed the state of nature—here another dystopian model—as one of
‘continual fear and danger of violent death’, which vindicated the necessity of
despotism to keep the peace.35 Bodin believed the threat of violence underlay the
masses’ subservience to the privileged.36 Montesquieu was the first prominent
eighteenth-century theorist to define terror as the ruling principle of despotism.37 In
the later nineteenth century, Herbert Spencer would conclude that fear of the living
was the root of all political control, and fear of the dead of all religious control.38
Classical despotism was the rule of a single tyrant. The prototype of modern
despotism, we will see in Chapter 3, came when, under the ‘Terror’ of Robespierre
and Saint-Just in 1793–4, the word ‘terror’ came to be understood as embodying a
legitimate instrument of the defence of the general will or popular sovereignty, of
the many rather than the few. The terror of ‘the people’ came quickly to be seen as
more all-encompassing and psychologically demanding than that of the single
autocrat. But it is also much more justifiable, resistance to the vast majority seeming
more perverse, unreasonable, and insulting than resistance to a tyrant. Many would
thus associate ‘popular’ terror with totalitarianism. But a soft form of an analogous
pressure to conform seemed also to emerge naturally in democracies. Alexis de
Tocqueville in Democracy in America (1836–40) thus saw the mass of individuals in
a democracy as succumbing to a ‘tyranny of the majority’ in matters of opinion in
particular.39 John Stuart Mill agreed that, ‘even in what people do for pleasure,
conformity is the first thing thought of; they like in crowds’.40 Here it was not the
threat of punishment by the state but rather a constant but moderate anxiety, mostly
respecting the disapproving opinions of others, which provided a social rudder. The
extreme and moderate forms of fear thus oscillate across the modern period. More
recently, we seem to be swinging back in the former direction; Joanna Bourke claims
that fear has become ‘the emotion through which public life is administered’.41 The
language of the ‘War on Terror’ constantly brings this message home to us.
34 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1161b; Robert Conquest, Reflections on a Ravaged Century (John
pp. 262–5.
40 John Stuart Mill, On Liberty (1859; 3rd edn, Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts & Green,
1864), p. 110.
41 Joanna Bourke, Fear: A Cultural History (Virago, 2005), p. x.
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1420. In what languages then, I asked, are you able to make me
write? In the languages which I spoke on earth, as the Valaque and
Russian, and those which you speak. The Pater, thus written, I had
the honour to present it personally to Monseigneur the Archbishop of
Paris, by his request. Having mentioned this, I was advised to
request my spirit friend to write something in Valaque, and have it
submitted to some one acquainted with that language, in order to
determine the fact of its being so; which proposal I willingly
accepted.
1421. But, returned to my house, the idea occurred to me to make
an experiment to control my familiar spirit myself. I wrote on a piece
of paper a phrase in French, and took a separate copy of it on
another piece of paper. I read this phrase to my spirit, and requested
him to render it in Valaque. The spirit, having made some lines, told
me by writing that the translation was already made. I requested
him to do the same with it in Spanish, Italian, and Latin, and it was
done. Requesting him further to write the same in English, he
replied it could not be done, as I did not speak that language.
Allowing a few minutes to pass, I took the copy of the phrase, and
requested the spirit to do the same with it that he had done with the
original. The spirit having caused me to write, as he professed, the
same phrase in the same languages as he had caused me to write it
in previously, I hastened to compare the two translations; but what
was my surprise when finding the Spanish, Italian, and Latin
translations of the copy like those of the original; I found the
Valaque translation of the original and that of the copy not at all
alike!
1422. “Convinced, then, that my spirit did not understand the
Valaque, which proved to me, according to the ritual, that it was not
a devil, (un démon,) but that notwithstanding he had deceived me, I
gave him a severe reprimand, treating him as an infamous cheat,
and driving him from my presence. At this juncture, my hand was
caused to tremble excessively, which terminated by writing in large
characters: ‘I am the devil, and you are a bad preacher that seeks to
find out the secrets of God!’ Very well, I said; your proclamation in
large letters that you are the devil, is no reason why I should believe
it. The devil, according to the ritual, speaks all languages, and you
do not speak the Valaque nor English, and therefore you are not the
devil. If I am a bad preacher, that does not concern you. It is God
who will judge me, and I submit to his holy will. Could I see you as I
feel you, I would fix you well; but as it is, I decline any further
correspondence with you.
1423. “Scarcely had I expressed these words, when my hand,
being influenced, wrote as follows: ‘Pardon! pardon! I am not the
devil. If I said so, it was to frighten you, because you continued to
plague me with your questions; but I see you are a man that fears
nothing. You are not a bad preacher, but a great thinker. Continue
then to experiment with me, and I will always tell you the truth!’
1424. “Very well, I pardon you, and request you to say, without
deceiving me, what languages you do speak? ‘I speak no other
languages than those which you speak, and if I did otherwise, it was
for amusement.’ Then what are the languages which the spirits
speak? ‘Those of the communing person, and no others.’[33] And this
ended the meeting.
1425. “Wishing still to test what had been said to me by my spirit,
I went to the house of a writing medium, like myself, and begged
him to try some experiments in writing. In the midst of our
experiments, I wrote the following words on a small piece of paper
in Spanish: Como té llamos? and without making their signification
known to the medium in French, requested him to read them to the
spirit friend. This was done, but the spirit was silent. The medium,
however, insisting on an answer, was impressed by the spirit to write
the word malheur, (misfortune.) The reply not agreeing with the
question, I told the medium to say to his spirit that he had badly
replied. Then the spirit made the medium write as follows: ‘If I have
not complied with your request, it is because I do not understand
that language.’
1426. As the medium did not understand what had been read to
the spirit, which in French would mean, Comment vous appelez-
vous? (What is your name?) I perceived that if the spirit did not
reply to the Spanish, it was because the medium neither spoke nor
understood that tongue; which agreed with what my spirit had told
me. Then I requested the medium to ask his spirit to make me write.
On the affirmative response of the spirit, I took the pen, and
addressing the same question to him: Como te llamos? he replied in
Spanish—Benito. Answer me in French—Benoit. In Latin—
Benedictus.
1427. This experiment confirming what my spirit had told me, that
the spirits could produce only the language of those with whom they
communed, was a new proof for me of the non-intervention of the
devil; seeing, according to the ritual, that he is master of all
languages, and that mediums only write those they understand, and
have previously learnt.[34] If M. de Mirville desires to make some
such experiments with me, it will afford me great pleasure to do so.
1428. Nota bene: What merits particular regard in the information
received from my spirit friend as to the language used by spirits in
communing with men is, that the same was said one hundred and
five years since by the ecstatic Swedenborg. See No. 236 of his
Treatise on Heaven and Hell, by Le Boys des Guays.
1429. This will suffice for the present for M. de Mirville. It remains
for him to explain the facts we have reported, and to reconcile them
with his Pneumatology: in expectation I proceed to notice the
Supernatural in General of M. de Gasparin.”
Second Part.
Koons’s Establishment.
1508. The spirit room is built of logs, as well as the house in which
Mr. Koons resides; it is situated at the end of his dwelling-house, and
six feet from it. It is twelve by sixteen feet square, and seven feet
high inside; there is a tight floor, and the ceiling above is of rough
boards, laid close edge to edge; in the garret above, there is less
than three feet clear room to the peak of the roof, and up here are
stowed old shoes and other old trumpery. There is a door in the
front, near the centre of the building, and a small window on each
side of it, and one window in the back side; the windows have each
close shutters outside to exclude the light. Across the back end of
the room are three rough board shelves. Two feet in front of these,
stands the spirit table, three feet wide and six feet long. In front of
this, and setting against it, is a common fall-leaf table, about three
and a half feet square, which extends to within one foot of the
stove; and across the back end of the room are two rough benches
for spectators to sit upon, and the front one comes within one foot
of the stove. Then, on each end of the table is room for three or four
chairs, all of which fills the room so full that there is no room to get
around. Mr. Koons’s seat is at the left of the table, where he sits and
plays the fiddle. Nahum, his son, sits on the left of the table; he is a
lad eighteen years old, and the principal medium; and his mother
sits next to him.
1509. The spirit table has a frame or rack standing on it, and
extended from one end to the other; this rack sustains a tenor drum
at one end and a brass drum at the other, attached to it by means of
wires; there are wires also passing in various directions about the
rack, and sustaining some small bells, some images of birds cut out
of copper plate, &c.; there are two fiddles, a guitar, banjo,
accordeon, French harp, tin horn, tea bell, triangle, and tamborine,
either hanging up or on the tables. The room will hold eighteen or
twenty persons besides the mediums, and when filled, as it usually
is, there is no room to pass around or between the people and the
table or stove.
1510. Some phosphorus is always placed on the table between
wet sheets of paper, for the exhibition of the hand.