GUESS WHO'S BACK?!
The Female Hypnotist – Donald K Hartman (editor)
Yes, that’s right! Donald K Hartman is back! His latest compilation of hypnotic short stories is out now and, excitingly, includes a foreword by me – aka moi – aka Amy (wife of Kev Sheldrake, who our bazillions of readers worship as a demi-god). Rather than rehash my praise for what is admittedly a tremendously niche book for this tremendously niche blog, below is my verbatim contribution to what I believe is a valuable piece of popular cultural history. Find the book on Amazon here.
It has been my pleasure and privilege to make a study of hypnotism, past and present, since 2019. Prior to that, hypnosis – and, specifically, the art and science of blending suggestion with ‘fascination’ – has been a feature of my lifelong passions for writing, communication, and human potential; both wittingly and unwittingly.
I say ‘unwittingly’ because, as a woman, I could not initially see why I was drawn to ‘hypnosis’ as a modern field, vocation or community. Women practitioners dominate the ‘hypnotherapy’ scene, but from beneath a mostly male clique of trainers, gurus, and – yes – charlatans, who propagate a flawed knowledge-base and narrative. The academic science of hypnotism, meanwhile, is my husband’s specialty, with male researchers far exceeding names such as Judith Pintar and Amanda Barnier. And, whatever their gender, I prefer to see considered professionals – rather than giddy, misguided amateurs – perform stage, screen, and street entertainment hypnosis.
For me, there instead seemed to be a nascent space between the showmen, myths, and misconceptions of hypnosis as it was and is, and my written fictions and fantasies of what it could be. The fin de siècle was a pivotal time for hypnotism (and magnetism/mesmerism) as a social construct and cultural phenomenon, with Franco-British writer George du Maurier’s (1834-1896) novel Trilby sparking a publishing sensation. The somnambulistic passivity of the tragic titular heroine may be all but forgotten (aside from as a style of hat). Yet Svengali as a sinister hypnotic ‘puppet-master’ lives on as both a common noun, and as a recurring reference and aesthetic for modern ‘hypnotist’ entertainers, such as British “psychological illusionist” Derren Brown.
This cliched power dynamic between hypnotist and subject prevailed in the parlour and public hypnotic demonstrations that swept Britain, Europe, and the US during the Victorian and Edwardian eras. Women were amenable subjects and/or loyal fans; a few were vocal pundits or critics; vanishingly fewer were practitioners themselves. Women became, to me, a homogeneous backdrop to the white male prestige of The Hypnotist role. Only tragical female figures from fiction and reality – say, Trilby or the ‘professional hysterics’ of medical mesmerists John Elliotson or Jean-Martin Charcot – glinted behind the luminary male mesmerists of mid-1800s to early 1900s. Alexis Didier, Chauncy Hare Townshend, Wilkie Collins, and Charles Dickens spring to mind.
That’s why I was so grateful to discover the work of Donald K Hartman. His three prior works on hypnotism in the Victorian and Edwardian eras – Death by Suggestion, The Hypno-Ripper, and The Hypnotic Tales of Rafael Sabatini – are treasure troves of contemporary short stories and novellas featuring female characters and plots. But this latest collection, The Female Hypnotist, is my favourite yet. The 14 tales of female hypnotists and women wielding hypnotic powers are penned by both male and female authors; some famed, some forgotten. What binds them is the foreboding sense that a woman hypnotist is – to contemporary minds – taboo; that such outliers are a scourge upon ‘good’, ‘legitimate’ male mesmerists to be stamped out; that women who ‘use their eyes’, and tongues, to persuade, seduce, and deceive are, essentially, witches.
So, whether you came upon this book as a researcher or simply as a curious reader of works concerning hypnotism, I’m sure you’ll relish the women hypnotist characters within. Most are mad, bad, and dangerous to know! Many are clever, ambitious, and innovative… if morally vacant. Some are depicted as ‘evil’ only by dint of their cool independence, or the crude ‘exotic’ (ie, racist/antisemitic) or ableist stereotypes of the times. All, however, are more than a match for the male protagonists and antagonists drawn into their hypnotic, psychotic webs, schemes, and crimes.
In that respect, this book provides ample inspiration beyond the vacuous ‘innocence’ of Trilby and ‘Trilbyana’. These 14 tales also feature, for instance, favourable female characters who are able conversationalists – experts, even – on the topic of hypnosis within male company, while a lady-gambler-cheat’s knowing ‘diss’ of Charcot’s methods spooks her male confederate. Such devilish details capture, for me, the reality behind the fiction: of the anxiety and allure of women possessing not just ‘forbidden’ knowledge – but superior forbidden knowledge.
Perhaps that is the ‘Pandora’s Box’ that du Maurier ultimately opened? His friend, Felix Moscheles (1833-1917) – a keen mesmerist upon whom Svengali was based – reflected in 1896 on the young woman who partly inspired Trilby. Moscheles and du Maurier formed a close, flirtatious bond with ‘Carry’, the daughter of a respectable Malines widow, during their time in French Bohemia. Moscheles – or ‘Mephistopheles’, as du Maurier dubbed him – would play mesmeric tricks on customers while Carry worked in her mother’s tobacco shop, which had been bought using a provision left by her church organist husband. Moscheles particularly remembers Carry taking pleasure in the imagined pain of a young man holding a ‘red hot’ key in one demonstration of his hypnotic prowess. Moscheles implies that mesmerism corrupted her. “[I]t was not without concern that we noticed in her a certain restlessness and a growing tendency to discuss with the serpent questions relating to the acquisition of prohibited apples,” he writes in his memoir. “She tasted of the apple her friend the serpent had told her so much about. Then […] she tried another; such a bad one unfortunately. It was a wonder it didn’t poison her, body and soul, but it didn’t.” Whatever her despair or disgrace, Carry was cut off from Moscheles and du Maurier on their return to Britain, and then married off to a Parisian doctor. Moscheles named his dog in her memory.
That women must be protected, policed, and prohibited from harnessing the powers of hypnosis underscores all the stories that Hartman has collected into this quartet of books. The most malevolent imagined misuse of this dark magic seems, though, to be ‘mesmerising mesmerists’, and hypnotic women treating men with the same indifference – or predatory playfulness – that Moscheles manifests for Carry. The first tale in this book, written by a woman, is the perfect introduction to this slippery moral slope that preoccupied Victorian and Edwardian minds during this hypnotic heyday. A neglected new wife uses her ‘magic eyes’ and guiles to win her painter-husband’s love for his art for herself… or to destroy him for valuing art over devotion. That readers of such stories could cast conventional wives, lovers, ladies, and visitors in the role of villainous hypnotist must have made for thrilling reading.
“Never teach a woman the power of hypnotism again,” one repentant mesmeric mistress, who you’re soon to meet, implores her male hypnotist mentor. “You place a dangerous weapon in the hands of the most irresponsible possessors in the world.” A delicious ambiguity in many of these stories is whether women can resist using their hypnotic powers for their inherently ‘wicked’ purposes, or if the sin is simply in using their ‘feminine’ words and wiles full stop? A recurring theme is that ‘good’ men must act as gatekeepers to protect society against ‘magic’ women; but, thankfully, such outmoded patriarchal sentiments and moral panics no longer stand in a woman’s way.
My own study of hypnotism has given me a taste for friendly snakes and bad apples, and I feel great affinity with Carry and the myriad characters she inspired. So here’s to hypnotism’s original sinners, whatever their gender! Enjoy Hartman’s superb book!
