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Criminal Psychology: a manual for judges, practitioners, and students | ||
TITLE A. THE CONDITIONS OF TAKING EVIDENCE.
Topic I. METHOD.
Section I. (a) General Considerations.
SOCRATES, dealing in the Meno with the teachability of virtue, sends for one of Meno's slaves, to prove by him the possibility of absolutely certain a priori knowledge. The slave is to determine the length of a rectangle, the contents of which is twice that of one measuring two feet; but he is to have no previous knowledge of the matter, and is not to be directly coached by Socrates. He is to discover the answer for himself. Actually the slave first gives out an incorrect answer. He answers that the length of a rectangle having twice the area of the one mentioned is four feet, thinking that the length doubles with the area. Thereupon Socrates triumphantly points out to Meno that the slave does as a matter of fact not yet quite know the truth under consideration, but that he really thinks he knows it; and then Socrates, in his own Socratic way, leads the slave to the correct solution. This very significant procedure of the philosopher is cited by Guggenheim[1] as an illustration of the essence of a priori knowledge, and when we properly consider what we have to do with a witness who has to relate any fact, we may see in the Socratic method the simplest example of our task. We must never forget that the majority of mankind dealing with any subject whatever always believe that they know and repeat the truth, and even when they say doubtfully: "I believe.— It seems to me," there is, in this tentativeness, more meant than meets the ear. When anybody says: "I believe that—" it merely means that he intends to insure himself against the event of being contradicted by better informed persons; but he certainly has not
Generally statements are made without such reservations and, even if the matter is not long certain, with full assurance. What thus holds of the daily life, holds also, and more intensely, of court-witnesses, particularly in crucial matters. Anybody experienced in their conduct comes to be absolutely convinced that witnesses do not know what they know. A series of assertions are made with utter certainty. Yet when these are successively subjected to closer examinations, tested for their ground and source, only a very small portion can be retained unaltered. Of course, one may here overshoot the mark. It often happens, even in the routine of daily life, that a man may be made to feel shaky in his most absolute convictions, by means of an energetic attack and searching questions. Conscientious and sanguine people are particularly easy subjects of such doubts. Somebody narrates an event; questioning begins as to the indubitability of the fact, as to the exclusion of possible deception; the narrator becomes uncertain, he recalls that, because of a lively imagination, he has already believed himself to have seen things otherwise than they actually were, and finally he admits that the matter might probably have been different. During trials this is still more frequent. The circumstance of being in court of itself excites most people; the consciousness that one's statement is, or may be, of great significance increases the excitement; and the authoritative character of the official subdues very many people to conform their opinions to his. What wonder then, that however much a man may be convinced of the correctness of his evidence, he may yet fail in the face of the doubting judge to know anything certainly?
Now one of the most difficult tasks of the criminalist is to hit, in just such cases, upon the truth; neither to accept the testimony blindly and uncritically; nor to render the witness, who otherwise
Section 2. (b) The Method of Natural Science.[1]
If now we ask how we are to plan our work, what method we are to follow, we must agree that to establish scientifically the principles of our discipline alone is not sufficient. If we are to make progress, the daily routine also must be scientifically administered. Every sentence, every investigation, every official act must satisfy the same demand as that made of the entire juristic science. In this way only
Yet the scientific quality is right to hand. We need only to take hold of the method, that for nearly a century has shown itself to us the most helpful. Since Warnkönig (1819)[3] told us, "Jurisprudence must become a natural science," men have rung changes upon this battle cry (cf. Spitzer[4]). And even if, because misunderstood, it led in some directions wrongly, it does seem as if a genuinely scientific direction might be given to our doctrines and their application. We know very well that we may not hurry. Wherever people delayed in establishing the right thing and then suddenly tried for it, they went in their haste too far. This is apparent not only in the situations of life; it is visible, in the very recent hasty conclusions of the Lombrosists, in their very good, but inadequate observations, and unjustified and strained inferences. We are not to figure the scientific method from these.[5] It is for us to gather facts and to study them. The drawing of inferences we may leave to our more fortunate successors. But in the daily routine we may vary this procedure a little. We draw there particularinferences from correct and simple observations. "From facts to ideas," says Öttingen.[6] "The world has for several millenniums tried to subdue matter to preconceptions and the world has failed. Now the procedure is reversed." "From facts to ideas"—there lies our road, let us for once observe the facts of life without prejudice, without maxims built on preconceptions; let us establish them, strip them of all alien character. Then finally, when we find nothing more in the least doubtful, we may theorize about them, and draw inferences, modestly and with caution.
Every fundamental investigation must first of all establish the
When the real issue is defined the essentially modern and scientific investigation begins. Ebbinghaus,[8] I believe, has for our purpose defined it best. It consists in trying to keep constant the complex of conditions demonstrated to be necessary for the realization of a given effect. It consists in varying these conditions, in isolating one from the other in a numerically determinable order, and finally, in establishing the accompanying changes with regard to the effect, in a quantified or countable order.
I can not here say anything further to show that this is the sole correct method of establishing the necessary principles of our science. The aim is only to test the practicality of this method in the routine of a criminal case, and to see if it is not, indeed, the only one by which to attain complete and indubitable results. If it is, it must be of use not only during the whole trial—not only in the testing of collected evidence, but also in the testing of every individual portion thereof, analyzed into its component elements.
Let us first consider the whole trial.
The effect is here the evidence of A's guilt. The complex conditions for its establishment are the collective instruments in getting evidence; the individual conditions are to be established by means of the individual sources of evidence—testimony of witnesses, examination of the premises, obduction, protocol, etc.
The constantification of conditions now consists in standardizing the present instance, thus: Whenever similar circumstances are given, i. e.: the same instruments of evidence are present, the evidence of guilt is established. Now the accompanying changes with regard to the effect, i. e.: proof of guilt through evidence, have to
Of greatest importance and most difficult is the variation of conditions and the establishment of the changes thereby generated, with regard to the effect,—i. e.: the critical interpretation of the material in hand. Applied to a case, the problem presents itself in this wise: I consider each detail of evidence by itself and cleared of all others, and I vary it as often as it is objectively possible to do so. Thus I suppose that each statement of the witness might be a lie, entirely or in part; it might be incorrect observation, false inference, etc.—and then I ask myself: Does the evidence of guilt, the establishment of an especial trial, now remain just? If not, is it just under other and related possible circumstances? Am I in possession of these circumstances? If now the degree of apparent truth is so far tested that these variations may enter and the accusation still remain just, the defendant is convicted: but only under these circumstances.
The same procedure here required for the conduct of a complete trial, is to be followed also, in miniature, in the production of particulars of evidence. Let us again construe an instance.
This procedure, adopted in the preparation and judgment of each new piece of evidence, excludes error as far as our means conceivably permit. Only one thing more is needful—a narrow and minute research into that order of succession which is of indispensable importance in every natural science. "Of all truths concerning natural phenomena, those which deal with the order of succession are for us the most important. Upon a knowledge of them is grounded every intelligent anticipation of the future" (J. S. Mill).[9] The oversight of this doctrine is the largest cause of our failures. We must, in the determination of evidence, cleave to it. Whenever the question of influence upon the " effect" is raised, the problem of order is found invariably the most important. Mistakes and impossibilities are in the main discovered only when the examination of the order of succession has been undertaken.
In short: We have confined ourselves long enough to the mere study of our legal canons. We now set out upon an exact consideration of their material. To do this, obviously demands a retreat to the starting-point and a beginning we ought to have made long ago; but natural sciences, on which we model ourselves, have had to do the identical thing and are now at it openly and honestly. Ancient medicine looked first of all for the universal panacea and boiled theriac; contemporary medicine dissects, uses the microscope, and experiments, recognizes no panacea, accepts barely a few specifics. Modern medicine has seen the mistake. But we lawyers boil our theriac even nowadays and regard the most important study, the study of reality, with arrogance.
H. Spitzer: Über das Verhältnis der Philosophie zu den organischen Naturwissenschaften. Leipzig 1883.
Topic II. PSYCHOLOGIC LESSONS.
Section 3. (a) General Considerations.
Of the criminalist's tasks, the most important are those involving his dealings with the other men who determine his work, with witnesses, accused, jurymen, colleagues, etc. These are the most pregnant of consequences. In every case his success depends on his skill, his tact, his knowledge of human nature, his patience, and his propriety of manner. Anybody who takes the trouble, may note speedily the great differences in efficiency between those who do and those who do not possess such qualities. That they are important to witnesses and accused is undoubted. But this importance is manifest to still others. The intercourse between various examining judges and experts is a matter of daily observation. One judge puts the question according to law and expects to be respected. He does not make explicit how perfectly indifferent the whole affair is to him, but experts have sufficient opportunity to take note of that fact. The other narrates the case, explains to the experts its various particular possibilities, finds out whether and what further elucidation they demand, perhaps inquires into the intended manner and method of the expert solution of the problem, informs himself of the case by their means, and manifests especial interest in the difficult and far too much neglected work of the experts. It may be said that the latter will do their work in the one case as in the other, with the same result. This would be true if, unfortunately, experts were not also endowed with the same imperfections as other mortals, and are thus far also infected by interest or indifference. Just imagine that besides the examining magistrate of a great superior court, every justice and, in addition, all the chiefs and officials manifested equal indifference! Then even the most devoted experts would grow cool and do only what they absolutely had to. But if all the members of the same court are actuated by the same keen interest and comport themselves as described, how different the affair becomes! It would be impossible that even the indifferent, and perhaps least industrious experts, should not be carried out of themselves by the general interest, should not finally realize the importance of their position, and do their utmost.
The same thing is true of the president, the jurymen and their fellow-judges. It is observable that here and there a presiding justice succeeds in boring all concerned during even criminal cases interesting
That knowledge of human nature is for this purpose most important to the criminalist will be as little challenged as the circumstance that such knowledge can not be acquired from books. Curiously enough, there are not a few on the subject, but I suspect that whoever studies or memorizes them, (such books as Pockel's, Herz's, Meister's, Engel's, Jassoix's, and others, enumerated by Volkmar) will have gained little that is of use. A knowledge of human nature is acquired only (barring of course a certain talent thereto) by persevering observation, comparison, summarization, and further comparison. So acquired, it sets its possessor to the fore, and makes him independent of a mass of information with which the others have to repair their ignorance of mankind. This is to be observed in countless cases in our profession. Whoever has had to deal with certain sorts of swindlers, lying horsetraders, antiquarians, prestidigitators, soon comes to the remarkable conclusion, that of this class, exactly those who flourish most in their profession and really get rich understand their trade the least. The horsedealer is no connoisseur whatever in horses, the antiquarian can not judge the value nor the age and excellence of antiquities, the cardsharp knows a few stupid tricks with which, one might think, he ought to be able to deceive only the most innocent persons. Nevertheless they all have comfortable incomes, and merely because they know their fellows and have practiced this knowledge with repeatedly fresh applications.
I do not of course assert that we criminalists need little scholarly knowledge of law, and ought to depend entirely upon knowledge of men. We need exactly as much more knowledge as our task exceeds
Section 4. (b) Integrity of Witnesses.
One of the criminal judge's grossest derelictions from duty consists in his simply throwing the witness the question and in permitting him to say what he chooses. If he contents himself in that, he leaves to the witness's conscience the telling of the truth, and the whole truth; the witness is, in such a case, certainly responsible for one part of the untruthful and suppressed, but the responsibility for the other, and larger part, lies with the judge who has failed to do his best to bring out the uttermost value of the evidence, indifferently for or against the prisoner. The work of education is intended for this purpose,—not, as might be supposed, for training the populace as a whole into good witnesses, but to make that individual into a good, trustworthy witness who is called upon to testify for the first, and, perhaps, for the last time in his life. This training must in each case take two directions—it must make him want to tell the truth; it must make him able to tell the truth. The first requirement deals not only with the lie alone, it deals with the development of complete conscientiousness. How to face the lie itself can not be determined by means of training, but conscientious answers under examination can certainly be so acquired. We are not here considering people to whom truth is an utter stranger, who are fundamentally liars and whose very existence is a libel on mankind. We consider here only those people who have been unaccustomed to speaking the full and unadulterated truth, who have contented themselves throughout their lives with "approximately," and have never had the opportunity of learning the value of veracity. It may be said that a disturbingly large number of
These persons are characterized by the event that whenever one has seen their loitering and puts the matter to them with just anger, they either get frightened or say carelessly, "Oh, I thought this was not so accurate." This famine of conscience, this indifference to truth, does far-reaching damage in our profession. I assert that it does immensely greater harm than obvious falsehood, because, indeed, the unvarnished lie is much more easily discoverable than the probable truth which is still untruth. Moreover, lies come generally from people with regard to whom one is, for one reason or another, already cautious, while these insinuating approximations are made by people who are not mistrusted at all.[1]
The lack of conscientiousness is common to all ages, both sexes, and to all sorts and conditions of men. But it is most characteristically frequent and sharply defined among people who have no real business in life. Whoever romances in the daily life, romances when he ought to be absolutely truthful. The most dangerous of this class are those who make a living by means of show and exhibition. They are not conscienceless because they do nothing worth while; they do nothing worth while because they are conscienceless. To this class belong peddlers, street merchants, innkeepers, certain shop-keepers, hack-drivers, artists, etc., and especially prostitutes (cf. Lombroso, etc., etc.). All these people follow a calling perhaps much troubled, but they do no actual work and have chosen their profession to avoid regular, actual work. They have much unoccupied time, and when they are working, part of the work consists of gossip, part of loafing about, or of a use of the hands that is little more. In brief,—since they loiter about and make a profit out of it, it is no wonder that in giving evidence they also loaf and bring to light only approximate truth. Nor is it difficult to indicate analogous persons in the higher walks of life.
The most hateful and most dangerous of these people are the congenital tramps—people who did not have to work and faithfully pursued the opportunity of doing nothing. Whoever does not
Section 5. (c) The Correctness of Testimony.
The training of the witness into a capacityfor truth-telling must be based, (1) on the judge's knowledge of all the conditions that affect, negatively, correct observations and reproductions; (2) on his making clear to himself whether and which conditions are operative in the case in question; and (3) on his aiming to eliminate this negative influence from the witness. The last is in many cases difficult, but not impossible. That mistakes have been made is generally soon noted, but then, "being called and being chosen" are two things; and similarly, the discovery of what is correct and the substitution of the essential observations for the opinionative ones, is always the most difficult of the judge's tasks.
When the witness is both unwilling to tell the truth and unable to do so, the business of training may be approached from a few common view-points. Patience with the witness is perhaps the most important key to success. No doubt it is difficult to be patient where there is no time; and what with our contemporary overtasking, there is no time. But that must be altered. Justice must have strength to keep everybody's labor proportional to his task. A nation whose representatives do not grant money enough for this purpose must not expect satisfactory law courts—"no checkee no washee;" no money no justice. People who have time will acquire patience.
Patience is necessary above all while taking evidence. A great many witnesses are accustomed to say much and redundantly, and again, most criminal justices are accustomed to try to shut them off and to require brief statements. That is silly. If the witness is wandering on purpose, as many a prisoner does for definite reasons of his own, he will spread himself still more as he recognizes that his examiner does not like it. To be disagreeable is his purpose. He is never led by impatience beyond his introduction, and some piece of evidence is lost because almost every accused who speaks
The patience required for taking testimony is needful also in
Pathological conditions, if at all distinct, are easily recognizable, but there is a very broad and fully occupied border country between pathological and normal conditions. (Cf. O. Gross: Die Affeklage der Ablehnung. Monatschrift für Psychiatrie u. Neurologie, 1902, XII, 359.)
Section 6. (d) Presuppositions of Evidence-Taking.
One of the most important rules of evidence-taking is not to suppose that practically any witness is skilled in statement of what he remembers. Even of child training, Fröbel[1] says, "Men must be drawn out, not probed." And this is the more valid in jurisprudence, and the more difficult, since the lawyers have at most only as many hours with the individual as the teacher has years. However, we must aim to draw the witness out, and if it does not work at first, we must nevertheless not despair of succeeding.
The chief thing is to determine the witness's level and then meet him on it. We certainly can not succeed, in the short time allowed us, to raise him to ours. "The object of instruction" (says Lange[2]) "is to endow the pupil with more apperceptive capacity, i. e., to
This necessary preliminary is not so difficult if the second of the above-mentioned rules is observed and the "funded thought" of the witness is studied out. It may be said, indeed, that so long as two people converse, unaware of each other's "funded thought," they speak different languages. Some of the most striking misunderstandings come from just this reason. It is not alone a matter of varying verbal values, leading to incompatible inferences; actually the whole of a man's mind is involved. It is generally supposed to be enough to know the meaning of the words necessary for telling a story. But such knowledge leads only to external and very superficial comprehension; real clearness can be attained only by knowing the witness's habits of thought in regard to all the circumstances of the case. I remember vividly a case of jealous murder in which the most important witness was the victim's brother, an honest, simple, woodsman, brought up in the wilderness, and in every sense far-removed from idiocy. His testimony was brief, decided and intelligent. When the motive for the murder, in this case most important, came under discussion, he shrugged his shoulders and answered my question—whether it was not committed on account of
The discovery of the "funded thought" is indubitably not easy. But its objective possibility with witness and accused is at least a fact. It is excluded only where it is most obviously necessary— in the case of the jury, and the impossibility in this case turns the institution of trial by jury into a Utopian dream. The presiding officer of a jury court is in the best instances acquainted with a few of the jurymen, but never so far as to have been entrusted with their "funded thought." Now and then, when a juryman asks a question, one gets a glimpse of it, and when the public prosecutor and the attorney for the defence make their speeches one catches something from the jury's expressions; and then it is generally too late. Even if it be discovered earlier nothing can be done with it. Some success is likely in the case of single individuals, but it is simply impossible to define the mental habits of twelve men with whom one has no particular relations.
The third part of the Fröbelian rule, "To presuppose as little as possible," must be rigidly adhered to. I do not say this pessimistically, but simply because we lawyers, through endless practice, arrange the issue so much more easily, conceive its history better and know what to exclude and what, with some degree of certainty, to retain. In consequence we often forget our powers and present the unskilled laity, even when persons of education, too much of the material. Then it must be considered that most witnesses are uneducated, that we can not actually descend to their level, and their unhappiness under a flood of strange material we can grasp only with difficulty. Because we do not know the witness's point of view we ask too much of him, and therefore fail in our purpose. And if, in some exceptional case, an educated man is on the stand, we fail again, since, having the habit of dealing with the uneducated,
In the same way too much attention and interest are often presupposed, only to lead later to the astonishing discovery of how little attention men really pay to their own affairs. Still less, therefore, ought knowledge in less personal things be presupposed, for in the matter of real understanding, the ignorance of men far exceeds all presuppositions. Most people know the looks of all sorts of things, and think they know their essences, and when questioned, invariably assert it, quite in good faith. But if you depend
As often as any new matter is discussed with a witness, it is necessary, before all, to find out his general knowledge of it, what he considers it to be, and what ideas he connects with it. If you judge that he knows nothing about it and appraise his questions and conclusions accordingly, you will at least not go wrong in the matter, and all in all attain your end most swiftly.
At the same time it is necessary to proceed as slowly as possible. It is Carus[4] who points out that a scholar ought not to be shown any object unless he can not discover it or its like for himself. Each power must have developed before it can be used. Difficult as this procedure generally is, it is necessary in the teaching of children, and is there successful. It is a form of education by examples. The child is taught to assimilate to its past experience the new fact, e. g.: in a comparison of some keen suffering of the child with that it made an animal suffer. Such parallels rarely fail, whether in the education of children or of witnesses. The lengthy description of an event in which, e. g., somebody is manhandled, may become quite different if the witness is brought to recall his own experience. At first he speaks of the event as perhaps a "splendid joke," but as soon as he is brought to speak of a similar situation of his own, and the two stories are set side by side, his description alters. This exemplification may be varied in many directions and is always useful. It is applicable even to accused, inasmuch as the performer himself begins to understand his deed, when it can be attached to his fully familiar inner life.
The greatest skill in this matter may be exercised in the case of the jury. Connect the present new facts with similar ones they already know and so make the matter intelligible to them. The difficulty here, is again the fact that the jury is composed of strangers and twelve in number. Finding instances familiar to them all and familiar in such wise that they may easily link them with the case under consideration, is a rare event. If it does happen the success is both significant and happy.
It is not, however, sufficient to seek out a familiar case analogous to that under consideration. The analogy should be discovered for each event, each motive, each opinion, each reaction, each appearance, if people are to understand and follow the case. Ideas, like
Section 7. (e) Egoism.
It is possible that the inner character of egoism shall be as profoundly potent in legal matters as in the daily life. Goethe has experienced its effect with unparalleled keenness. "Let me tell you something," he writes (Conversations with Eckermann. Vol. 1). "All periods considered regressive or transitional are subjective. Conversely all progressive periods look outward. The whole of contemporary civilization is reactionary, because subjective.... The thing of importance is everywhere the individual who is trying to show off his lordliness. Nowhere is any mentionable effort to be found that subordinates itself through love of the whole."
These unmistakable terms contain a "discovery" that is applicable to our days even better than to Goethe's. It is characteristic of our time that each man has an exaggerated interest in himself. Consequently, he is concerned only with himself or with his immediate environment, he understands only what he already knows and feels, and he works only where he can attain some personal advantage. It is hence to be concluded that we may proceed with certainty only when we count on this exaggerated egoism and use it as a prime factor. The most insignificant little things attest this. A man who gets a printed directory will look his own name up, though he knows it is there, and contemplate it with pleasure; he does the same with the photograph of a group of which his worthy self is one of the immortalized. If personal qualities are under discussion, he is happy, when he can say,—"Now I am by nature so."— If foreign cities are under discussion, he tells stories of his native city, or of cities that he has visited, and concerning things that can interest only him who has been there. Everyone makes an effort to bring something of his personal status to bear,—either the conditions of his life, or matters concerning only him. If anybody announces that he has had a good time, he means without exception, absolutely without exception, that he has had an opportunity to push his "I" very forcefully into the foreground.
Lazarus[1] has rightly given this human quality historical significance: "Pericles owed a considerable part of his political dictatorate to the circumstance of knowing practically all Athenian citizens by name. Hannibal, Wallenstein, Napoleon I, infected
Daily we get small examples of this egoism. The most disgusting and boresome witness, who is perhaps angry at having been dragged so far from his work, can be rendered valuable and useful through the initial show of a little personal interest, of some comprehension of his affairs, and of some consideration, wherever possible, of his views and efficiency. Moreover, men judge their fellows according to their comprehension of their own particular professions. The story of the peasant's sneer at a physician, "But what can he know when he does not even know how to sow oats?" is more than a story, and is true of others besides illiterate boors. Such an attitude recurs very frequently, particularly among people of engrossing trades that require much time,—e. g., among soldiers, horsemen, sailors, hunters, etc. If it is not possible to understand these human vanities and to deal with these people as one of the trade, it is wise at least to suggest such understanding, to show interest in their affairs and to let them believe that really you think it needful for everybody to know how to saddle a horse correctly, or to distinguish the German bird-dog from the English setter at a thousand paces. What is aimed at is not personal respect for the judge, but for the judge's function, which the witness identifies with the judge's person. If he has such respect, he will find it worth the trouble to help us out, to think carefully and to assist in the difficult conclusion of the case. There is an astonishing difference between the contribution of a sulking and contrary witness and of one who has become interested and pleased by the affair. Not only quantity, but truth and reliability of testimony, are immensely greater in the latter case.
Besides, the antecedent self-love goes so far that it may become very important in the examination of the accused. Not that a trap is to be set for him; merely that since it is our business to get at the truth, we ought to proceed in such proper wise with a denying accused as might bring to light facts that otherwise careful manipulation would not have brought out. How often have anonymous or pseudonymous criminals betrayed themselves under examination just because they spoke of circumstances involving their capital I, and spoke so clearly that now the clue was found, it was no longer difficult to follow it up. In the examination of well-known criminals, dozens of such instances occur—the fact is not new, but it needs to be made use of.
A similar motive belongs to subordinate forms of egoism— the obstinacy of a man who may be so vexed by contradiction as to drive one into despair, and who under proper treatment becomes valuable. This I learned mainly from my old butler, a magnificent honest soldier, a figure out of a comedy, but endowed with inexorable obstinacy against which my skill for a long time availed nothing. As often as I proposed something with regard to some intended piece of work or alteration, I got the identical reply—"It won't do, sir." Finally I got hold of a list and worked my plan—"Simon, this will now be done as Simon recently said it should be done,— namely." At this he looked at me, tried to think when he had said this thing, and went and did it. And in spite of frequent application this list has not failed once for some years. What is best about it is that it will serve, mutatis mutandis, with criminals. As soon as ever real balkiness is noted, it becomes necessary to avoid the least appearance of contradictoriness, since that increases difficulties. It is not necessary to lie or to make use of trickery. Only, avoid direct contradiction, drop the subject in question, and return to it indirectly when you perceive that the obstinate individual recognizes his error. Then you may succeed in building him a golden bridge, or at least a barely visible sidedoor where he can make his retreat unnoticed. In that case even the most difficult of obstinates will no longer repeat the old story. He will repeat only if he is pressed, and this although he is repeatedly brought back to the point. If, however, the matter is once decided, beware of returning to it without any other reason, save to confirm the settled matter quite completely,—that would be only to wake the sleeper to give him a sleeping powder.
Speaking generally, the significant rule is this: Egoism, laziness and conceit are the only human motives on which one may unconditionally depend. Love, loyalty, honesty, religion and patriotism, though firm as a rock, may lapse and fall. A man might have been counted on for one of these qualities ten times with safety, and on the eleventh, he might collapse like a house of cards. Count on egoism and laziness a hundred or a thousand times and they are as firm as ever. More simply, count on egoism—for laziness and conceit are only modifications of egoism. The latter alone then should be the one human motive to keep in mind when dealing with men. There are cases enough when all the wheels are set in motion after a clue to the truth, i. e., when there is danger that the person under suspicion is innocent; appeals to honor, conscience, humanity and
Section 8. (f) Secrets.
The determination of the truth at law would succeed much less frequently than it does if it were not for the fact that men find it very difficult to keep secrets. This essentially notable and not clearly understood circumstance is popularly familiar. Proverbs of all people deal with it and point mainly to the fact that keeping secrets is especially difficult for women. The Italians say a woman who may not speak is in danger of bursting; the Germans, that the burden of secrecy affects her health and ages her prematurely; the English say similar things still more coarsely. Classical proverbs have dealt with the issue; numberless fairy tales, narratives, novels and poems have portrayed the difficulty of silence, and one very fine modern novel (Die Last des Schweigens, by Ferdinand Kürnberger) has chosen this fact for its principal motive. The universal difficulty of keeping silence is expressed by Lotze[1] in the dictum that we learn expression very young and silence very late. The fact is of use to the criminalist not only in regard to criminals, but also with regard to witnesses, who, for one reason or another, want to keep something back. The latter is the source of a good deal of danger, inasmuch as the witness is compelled to speak and circles around the secret in question without touching it, until he points it out and half reveals it. If he stops there, the matter requires consideration, for "a half truth is worse than a whole lie." The latter reveals its subject and intent and permits of defence, while the half truth may, by association and circumscriptive limitations, cause vexatious errors both as regards the identity of the semi-accused
As for his own silence, this must be considered in both directions That he is not to blab official secrets is so obvious that it need not be spoken of. Such blabbing is so negligent and dishonorable that we must consider it intrinsically impossible. But it not infrequently happens that some indications are dropped or persuaded out of a criminal Judge, generally out of one of the younger and more eager men. They mention only the event itself, and not a name, nor a place, nor a particular time, nor some even more intimate matter— there seems no harm done. And yet the most important points have often been blabbed of in just such a way. And what is worst of all, just because the speaker has not known the name nor anything else concrete, the issue may be diverted and enmesh some guiltless person. It is worth considering that the effort above mentioned is made only in the most interesting cases, that crimes especially move people to disgusting interest, due to the fact that there is a more varied approach to synthesis of a case when the same story is repeated several times or by various witnesses. For by such means extrapolations and combinations of the material are made possible. By way of warning, let me remind you of an ancient and much quoted anecdote, first brought to light by Boccaccio: A young and much loved abbé was teased by a bevy of ladies to narrate what had happened in the first confession he had experienced. After long hesitation the young fellow decided that it was no sin to relate the confessed sin if he suppressed the name of the confessor, and so he told the ladies that his first confession was of infidelity. A few minutes later a couple of tardy guests appeared,—a marquis and his charming wife. Both reproached the young priest for his infrequent visits at their home. The marquise exclaimed so that everybody heard, "It is not nice of you to neglect me, your first confessée." This squib is very significant for our profession, for it is well known how, in the same way, "bare facts," as "completely safe," are carried further. The listener does not have to combine them, the facts combine themselves by means of others otherwise acquired, and finally the most important official matters, on the concealment of which much may perhaps have depended, become universally known. Official secrets have a general significance, and must therefore be guarded at all points and not merely in detail.
The second direction in which the criminal justice must maintain
There is still another great danger which one may beware of, optima fide,—the danger of knowing something untrue. This danger also is greatest for the greatest talent and the greatest courage among us, because they are the readiest hands at synthesis, inference, and definition of possibilities, and see as indubitable and shut to contradiction things that at best are mere possibilities. It is indifferent to the outcome whether a lie has been told purposely or whether it has been the mere honest explosion of an over-sanguine temperament. It is therefore unnecessary to point out the occasion for caution. One need only suggest that something may be learned from people who talk too much. The over-communicativeness of a neighbor is quickly noticeable, and if the why and how much of it are carefully studied out, it is not difficult to draw a significant analogy for one's own case. In the matter of secrets of other people, obviously the thing to be established first is what is actually a secret; what is to be suppressed, if one is to avoid damage to self or another. When an actual secret is recognized it is necessary to consider whether the damage is greater through keeping or through revealing the secret. If it is still possible, it is well to let the secret
The chief rule is not to be overeager in getting at the desired secret. The more important it is, the less ought to be made of it. It is best not directly to lead for it. It will appear of itself, especially if it is important. Many a fact which the possessor had set no great store by, has been turned into a carefully guarded secret by means of the eagerness with which it was sought. In cases of need, when every other means has failed, it may not be too much to tell the witness, cautiously of course, rather more of the crime than might otherwise have seemed good. Then those episodes must be carefully hit on, which cluster about the desired secret and from which its importance arises. If the witness understands that he presents something really important by giving up his secret, surprising consequences ensue.
The relatively most important secret is that of one's own guilt, and the associated most suggestive establishment of it, the confession, is a very extraordinary psychological problem.[2] In many cases the reasons for confession are very obvious. The criminal sees that the evidence is so complete that he is soon to be convicted and seeks a mitigation of the sentence by confession, or he hopes through a more honest narration of the crime to throw a great degree of the guilt on another. In addition there is a thread of vanity in confession—as among young peasants who confess to a greater share in a burglary than they actually had (easily discoverable by the magniloquent manner of describing their actual crime). Then there are confessions made for the sake of care and winter lodgings: the confession arising from "firm conviction" (as among political criminals and others). There are even confessions arising from nobility, from the wish to save an intimate, and confessions intended to deceive, and such as occur especially in conspiracy and are made to gain time (either for the flight of the real criminal or for the destruction of compromising objects). Generally, in the latter case, guilt is admitted only until the plan for which it was made has succeeded; then the judge is surprised with well-founded,
Although this list of explicable confession-types is long, it is in no way exhaustive. It is only a small portion of all the confessions that we receive; of these the greater part remain more or less unexplained. Mittermaier[4] has already dealt with these acutely and cites examples as well as the relatively well-studied older literature of the subject. A number of cases may perhaps be explained through pressure of conscience, especially where there are involved hysterical or nervous persons who are plagued with vengeful images in which the ghost of their victim would appear, or in whose ear the unendurable clang of the stolen money never ceases, etc. If the confessor only intends to free himself from these disturbing images and the consequent punishment by means of confession, we are not dealing with what is properly called conscience, but more or less with disease, with an abnormally excited imagination.[5] But where such hallucinations are lacking, and religious influences are absent, and the confession is made freely in response to mere pressure, we have a case of conscience,[6]—another of those terms which need explanation. I know of no analogy in the inner nature of man, in which anybody with open eyes does himself exclusive harm without any contingent use being apparent, as is the case in this class of confession. There is always considerable difficulty in explaining these cases. One way of explaining them is to say that their source is mere stupidity
The making of a confession, according to laymen, ends the matter, but really, the judge's work begins with it. As a matter of caution all statutes approve confessions as evidence only when they agree completely with the other evidence. Confession is a means of proof, and not proof. Some objective, evidentially concurrent support and confirmation of the confession is required. But the same legal requirement necessitates that the value of the concurrent evidence shall depend on its having been arrived at and established independently. The existence of a confession contains powerful suggestive influences for judge, witness, expert, for all concerned in the case. If a confession is made, all that is perceived in the case may be seen in the light of it, and experience teaches well enough how that alters the situation. There is so strong an inclination to pigeonhole and adapt everything perceived in some given explanation, that the explanation is strained after, and facts are squeezed and trimmed until they fit easily. It is a remarkable phenomenon, confirmable by all observers, that all our perceptions are at first soft and plastic and easily take form according to the shape of their predecessors. They become stiff and inflexible only when we have had them for some time, and have permitted them to reach an equilibrium. If, then, observations are made in accord with certain notions, the plastic material is easily molded, excrescences and unevenness are squeezed away, lacunæ are filled up, and if it is at all possible, the adaptation is completed easily. Then, if a new and quite different notion arises in us, the alteration of the observed material occurs as easily again, and only long afterwards, when the observation has hardened, do fresh alterations fail. This is a matter of daily experience, in our professional as well as in our ordinary affairs. We hear of a certain crime and consider the earliest data. For one reason or another we begin to suspect A as the criminal The result of an examination of the premises is applied in each detail
Now if this is possible with evidence, written and thereby unalterable, how much more easily can it be done with testimony about to be taken, which may readily be colored by the already presented confession. The educational conditions involve now the judge and his assistants on the one hand, and the witnesses on the other.
Concerning himself, the judge must continually remember that his business is not to fit all testimony to the already furnished confession, allowing the evidence to serve as mere decoration to the latter, but that it is his business to establish his proof by means of the confession, and by means of the other evidence, independently. The legislators of contemporary civilization have started with the proper presupposition—that also false confessions are made,— and who of us has not heard such? Confessions, for whatever reason,—because the confessor wants to die, because he is diseased,[7] because he wants to free the real criminal,—can be discovered as false only by showing their contradiction with the other evidence. If, however, the judge only fits the evidence, he abandons this means of getting the truth. Nor must false confessions be supposed to occur only in case of homicide. They occur most numerously in cases of importance, where more than one person is involved. It happens, perhaps, that only one or two are captured, and they assume all the guilt, e. g., in cases of larceny, brawls, rioting, etc. I repeat: the suggestive power of a confession is great and it is hence really not easy to exclude its influence and to consider the balance of the evidence on its merits,—but this must be done if one is not to deceive oneself.
Dealing with the witness is still more ticklish, inasmuch as to the difficulties with them, is added the difficulties with oneself. The simplest thing would be to deny the existence of a confession, and
Very intelligent witnesses (they are not confined to the educated classes) may be dealt with constructively and be told after their depositions that the case is to be considered as if there were no confession whatever. There is an astonishing number of people— especially among the peasants—who are amenable to such considerations and willingly follow if they are led on with confidence. In such a case it is necessary to analyze the testimony into its elements. This analysis is most difficult and important since it must be determined what, taken in itself, is an element, materially, not formally, and what merely appears to be a unit. Suppose that during a great brawl a man was stabbed and that A confesses to the stabbing. Now a witness testified that A had first uttered a threat, then had jumped into the brawl, felt in his bag, and left the crowd, and that in the interval between A's entering and leaving, the stabbing occurred. In this simple case the various incidents must be evaluated, and each must be considered by itself. So we consider—Suppose A had not confessed, what would the threat have counted for? Might it not have been meant for the assailants of the injured man? May his feeling in the bag not be interpreted in another fashion? Must he have felt for a knife only? Was there time enough to open it and to stab? Might the man not have been already wounded by that time? We might then conclude that all the evidence about A contained nothing against him—but if we relate it to the confession, then this evidence is almost equal to direct evidence of A's crime.
But if individual sense-perceptions are mingled with conclusions, and if other equivalent perceptions have to be considered, which occurred perhaps to other people, then the analysis is hardly so simple, yet it must be made.
In dealing with less intelligent people, with whom this construction cannot be performed, one must be satisfied with general rules. By demanding complete accuracy and insisting, in any event, on the ratio sciendi, one may generally succeed in turning a perception, uncertain with regard to any individual, into a trustworthy one with regard to the confessor. It happens comparatively seldom that untrue confessions are discovered, but once this does occur, and the trouble is taken to subject the given evidence to a critical comparison, the manner of adaptation of the evidence to the confession may easily be discovered. The witnesses were altogether unwilling to tell any falsehood and the judge was equally eager to establish the truth, nevertheless the issue must have received considerable perversion in order to fix the guilt on the confessor. Such examinations are so instructive that the opportunity to make them should never be missed. All the testimony presents a typical picture. The evidence is consistent with the theory that the real confessor was guilty, but it is also consistent with the theory that the real criminal was guilty, but some details must be altered, often very many. If there is an opportunity to hear the same witnesses again, the procedure becomes still more instructive. The witnesses (supposing they want honestly to tell the truth) naturally confirm the evidence as it points to the second, more real criminal, and if an explanation is asked for the statements that pointed to the "confessor," the answers make it indubitably evident, that their incorrectness came as without intention; the circumstance that a confession had been made acted as a suggestion.[8]
Conditions similar to confessional circumstances arise when other types of persuasive evidence are gathered, which have the same impressive influence as confessions. In such cases the judge's task is easier than the witness's, since he need not tell them of evidence already at hand. How very much people allow themselves to be influenced by antecedent grounds of suspicion is a matter of daily observation. One example will suffice. An intelligent man was attacked at night and wounded. On the basis of his description
Cf. the extraordinary confession of the wife of the "cannibal" Bratuscha. The latter had confessed to having stifled his twelve year old daughter, burned and part by part consumed her. He said his wife was his accomplice. The woman denied it at first but after going to confession told the judge the same story as her husband. It turned out that the priest had refused her absolution until she "confessed the truth." But both she and her husband had confessed falsely. The child was alive. Her father's confession was pathologically caused, her mother's by her desire for absolution.
We must not overlook those cases in which false confessions are the results of disease, vivid dreams, and toxications, especially toxication by coal-gas. People so poisoned, but saved from death, claim frequently to have been guilty of murder (Hofman. Gerichtliche Medizin, p. 676).
Section 9. (g) Interest.
Anybody who means to work honestly must strive to awaken and to sustain the interest of his collaborators. A judge's duty is to present his associates material, well-arranged, systematic, and exhaustive, but not redundant; and to be himself well and minutely informed concerning the case. Whoever so proceeds may be certain in even the most ordinary and simplest cases, of the interest of his colleagues,—hence of their attention; and, in consequence, of the best in their power. These are essentially self-evident propositions. In certain situations, however, more is asked with regard to the experts. The expert, whether a very modest workman or very renowned scholar, must in the first instance become convinced of the judge's complete interest in his work; of the judge's power to value the effort and knowledge it requires; of the fact that he does not question and listen merely because the law requires it, and finally of the fact that the judge is endowed, so far as may be, with a definite comprehension of the expert's task.
However conscientiously and intensely the expert may apply himself to his problem, it will be impossible to work at it with real interest if he finds no co-operation, no interest, and no understanding among those for whom he, at least formally, is at work. We may be certain that the paucity of respect we get from the scientific representatives of other disciplines (let us be honest,—such is the case) comes particularly from those relations we have with them as experts, relations in which they find us so unintelligent and so indifferent with regard to matters of importance. If the experts
The most difficult problem in interest, is arousing the interest of witnesses—because this is purely a matter of training. Receiving the attention is what should be aimed at in rousing interest, inasmuch as full attention leads to correct testimony—i. e., to the thing most important to our tasks. "No interest, no attention," says Volkmar.[1] "The absolutely new does not stimulate; what narrows appreciation, narrows attention also." The significant thing for us is that "the absolutely new does not stimulate"— a matter often overlooked. If I tell an uneducated man, with all signs of astonishment, that the missing books of Tacitus' "Annals" have been discovered in Verona, or that a completely preserved Dinotherium has been cut out of the ice, or that the final explanation of the Martian canals has been made at Manora observatory,— all this very interesting news will leave him quite cold; it is absolutely new to him, he does not know what it means or how to get hold of it, it offers him no matter of interest.[2] I should have a similar experience if, in the course of a trig case, I told a man, educated, but uninterested in the case, with joy, that I had finally discovered the important note on which the explanation of the events depended. I could not possibly expect interest, attention, and comprehension of a matter if my interlocutor knows nothing about the issue or the reason of the note's importance. And in spite of the fact that everything is natural and can be explained we have the same story every day. We put the witness a definite question that is of immense importance to us, who are fully acquainted with the problem, but is for the witness detached, incoherent, and therefore barren of interest. Then who can require of an uninterested witness, attention, and effective and well-considered replies?[3] I myself heard a witness answer a judge who asked him about the weather on a certain day, "Look here, to drag me so many miles to this place in order to discuss the weather with me,—that's—." The old man was quite right because the detached question had no particular purpose. But when it was circumstantially explained to him that the weather was of uttermost significance in this case, how it was related thereto, and how important his answer would be, he went at the question eagerly,
Now, if one is already himself endowed with keen interest and resolved to awaken the same in the witnesses, it is necessary carefully to consider the method of so doing and how much the witness is to be told of what has already been established, or merely been said and received as possibly valuable. On the one hand it is true that the witness can be roused to attention and to more certain and vigorous responses according to the quantity of detail told him.[4] On the other, caution and other considerations warn against telling an unknown witness, whose trustworthiness is not ascertained, delicate and important matters. It is especially difficult if the witness is to be told of presuppositions and combinations, or if he is to be shown how the case would alter with his own answer. The last especially has the effect of suggestion and must occur in particular and in general at those times alone when his statement,
How and when the witness is to be told things there is no rule for. The wise adjustment between saying enough to awaken interest and not too much to cause danger is a very important question of tact. Only one certain device may be recommended—it is better to be careful with a witness during his preliminary examination and to keep back what is known or suspected; thus the attention and interest of the witness may perhaps be stimulated. If, however, it is believed that fuller information may increase and intensify the important factors under examination, the witness is to be recalled later, when it is safe, and his testimony is, under the new conditions of interest, to be corrected and rendered more useful. In this case, too, the key to success lies in increase of effort—but that is true in all departments of law, and the interest of a witness is so important that it is worth the effort.
E. Wiersma and K. Marbe: Untersuchungen über die sogenannten Aufmerksamkeitsschwankungen. Ztseh. f. Psych. XXVI, 168 (1901).
Topic III. PHENOMENOLOGY: STUDY OF THE OUTWARD
EXPRESSION OF MENTAL STATES.
Section 10.
Phenomenology is in general the science of appearances. In our usage it is the systematic co-ordination of those outer symptoms occasioned by inner processes, and conversely, the inference from the symptoms to them. Broadly construed, this may be taken as the study of the habits and whole bearing of any individual. But essentially only those external manifestations can be considered that refer back to definite psychical conditions, so that our phenomenology may be defined as the semiotic of normal psychology. This science is legally of immense importance, but has not yet assumed the task of showing how unquestionable inferences may be drawn from an uncounted collection of outward appearances to inner processes. In addition, observations are not numerous
Section 11. (a) General External Conditions.
"Every state of consciousness has its physical correlate," says Helmholtz,[1] and this proposition contains the all in all of our problem. Every mental event must have its corresponding physical event[2] in some form, and is therefore capable of being sensed, or known to be indicated by some trace. Identical inner states do not, of course, invariably have identical bodily concomitants, neither in all individuals alike, nor in the same individual at different times. Modern methods of generalization so invariably involve danger and incorrectness that one can not be too cautious in this matter. If generalization were permissible, psychical events would have to be at least as clear as physical processes, but that is not admissible for many reasons. First of all, physical concomitants are rarely direct and unmeditated expressions of a psychical instant (e. g., clenching a fist in threatening). Generally they stand in no causal relation, so that explanations drawn from physiological, anatomical, or even atavistic conditions are only approximate and hypothetical. In addition, accidental habits and inheritances exercise an influence which, although it does not alter the expression, has a moulding effect that in the course of time does finally so recast a very natural expression as to make it altogether unintelligible. The phenomena, moreover, are in most cases personal, so that each individual means a new study. Again the phenomena rarely remain constant; e. g.: we call a thing habit,—
A remarkable case of this kind was that of a suspect of child murder. The girl told that she had given birth to the child all alone, had washed it, and then laid it on the bed beside herself. She had also observed how a corner of the coverlet had fallen on the child's face, and thought it might interfere with the child's breathing. But at this point she swooned, was unable to help the child, and it was choked. While sobbing and weeping as she was telling this story, she spread the fingers of her left hand and pressed it on her thigh, as perhaps she might have done, if she had first put something soft, the corner of a coverlet possibly, over the child's nose and mouth, and then pressed on it. This action was so clearly significant that it inevitably led to the question whether she hadn't choked the child in that way. She assented, sobbing.
Similar is another case in which a man assured us that he lived very peaceably with his neighbor and at the same time clenched his fist. The latter meant illwill toward the neighbor while the words did not.
It need not, of course, be urged that the certainty of a belief will be much endangered if too much value is sanguinely set on such and similar gestures, when their observation is not easy. There is enough to do in taking testimony, and enough to observe, to make it difficult to watch gestures too. Then there is danger (because of
It is to be recommended here, also, not to begin one's studies with murder and robbery, but with the simple cases of the daily life, where there is no danger of making far-reaching mistakes, and where observations may be made much more calmly. Gestures are especially powerful habits and almost everybody makes them, mainly not indifferent ones. It is amusing to observe a man at the telephone, his free hand making the gestures for both. He clenches his fist threateningly, stretches one finger after another into the air if he is counting something, stamps his foot if he is angry, and puts his finger to his head if he does not understand—in that he behaves as he would if his interlocutor were before him. Such deep-rooted tendencies to gesture hardly ever leave us. The movements also occur when we lie; and inasmuch as a man who is lying at the same time has the idea of the truth either directly or subconsciously before him, it is conceivable that this idea exercises much greater influence on gesture than the probably transitory lie. The question, therefore, is one of intensity, for each gesture requires a powerful impulse and the more energetic is the one that succeeds in causing the gesture. According to Herbert Spencer[4] it is a general and important rule that any sensation which exceeds a definite intensity expresses itself ordinarily in activity of the body. This fact is the more important for us inasmuch as we rarely have to deal with light and with not deep-reaching and superficial sensations. In most cases the sensations in question "exceed a certain intensity," so that we are able to perceive a bodily expression at least in the form of a gesture.
The old English physician, Charles Bell,[5] is of the opinion, in his cautious way, that what is called the external sign of passion is only the accompanying phenomenon of that spontaneous movement required by the structure, or better, by the situation of the body. Later this was demonstrated by Darwin and his friends to be the indubitable starting point of all gesticulation:—so, for example,
Hence, the only proper point of view to take is that from which we set aside as too bold, all daring and undemonstrated assertions on these matters. But we will equally beware of asserting without further consideration that far-reaching statements are unjustified, for we shall get very far by the use of keener and more careful observation, richer material, and better instruments.
How fine, for example, are the observations made by Herbert Spencer concerning the importance of the "timbre" of speech in the light of the emotional state—no one had ever thought of that before, or considered the possibilities of gaining anything of importance from this single datum which has since yielded such a rich collection of completely proved and correctly founded results. Darwin knew well enough to make use of it for his own purposes.[8] He points out that the person who is quietly complaining of bad treatment or is suffering a little, almost always speaks in a high tone of voice; and that deep groans or high and piercing shrieks indicate extreme pain. Now we lawyers can make just such observations in great number. Any one of us who has had a few experiences, can immediately recognize from the tone of voice with which a new
But these various timbres of the voice especially contain a not insignificant danger for the criminalist. Whoever once has devoted himself to the study of them trusts them altogether too easily, for even if he has identified them correctly hundreds of times, it still may happen that he is completely deceived by a voice he holds as "characteristically demonstrative." That timbres may deceive, or simulations worthy of the name occur, I hardly believe. Such deceptions are often attempted and begun, but they demand the entire attention of the person who tries them, and that can be given for only a short time. In the very instant that the matter he is speaking of requires the attention of the speaker, his voice involuntarily falls into that tone demanded by its physical determinants: and the speaker significantly betrays himself through just this alteration. We may conclude that an effective simulation is hardly thinkable.
It must, however, be noticed that earlier mistaken observations and incorrect inference at the present moment—substitutions and similar mistakes—may easily mislead. As a corroborative fact, then, the judgment of a voice would have great value; but as a means in itself it is a thing too little studied and far from confirmed.
There is, however, another aspect of the matter which manifests itself in an opposite way from voice and gesture. Lazarus calls attention to the fact that the spectators at a fencing match can not prevent themselves from imitative accompaniment of the actions of the fencers, and that anybody who happens to have any swinging object in his hand moves his hand here and there as they do. Stricker[9] makes similar observations concerning involuntary movements performed while looking at drilling or marching soldiers. Many other phenomena of the daily life—as, for example, keeping step with some pedestrian near us, with the movement of a pitcher who with all sorts of twistings of his body wants to guide the ball correctly when it has already long ago left his hand; keeping time to music and accompanying the rhythm of a wagon knocking on cobblestones; even the enforcement of what is said through appropriate gestures when people speak vivaciously—naturally belong to the same class. So do nodding the head in agreement and shaking it in denial; shrugging the shoulders with a declaration of ignorance. The expression by word of mouth should have been enough and have needed no reinforcement through conventional gestures, but the last are spontaneously involuntary accompaniments.
On the other hand there is the converse fact that the voice may be influenced through expression and gesture. If we fix an expression on our features or bring our body into an attitude which involves passional excitement we may be sure that we will be affected more or less by the appropriate emotion. This statement, formulated by Maudsley, is perfectly true and may be proved by anybody at any moment. It presents itself to us as an effective corroboration of the so well-known phenomenon of "talking-yourself-into-it." Suppose you correctly imagine how a very angry man looks: frowning brow, clenched fists, gritting teeth, hoarse, gasping voice, and suppose you imitate. Then, even if you feel most harmless and order-loving, you become quite angry though you keep up the imitation only a little while. By means of the imitation of lively bodily changes you may in the same way bring yourself into any conceivable emotional condition, the outer expressions of which appear energetically. It must have occurred to every one of us how often prisoners present so well the excitement of passion that their earnestness is actually believed; as for example, the anger of a guiltless suspect or of an obviously needy person, of a man financially ruined by his trusted servant, etc. Such scenes of passion happen
Now this exciting gesticulation can be very easily observed, but the observation must not come too late. If the witness is once quite lost in it and sufficiently excited by the concomitant speeches he will make his gestures well and naturally and the artificial and untrue will not be discoverable. But this is not the case in the beginning; then his gestures are actually not skilful, and at that point a definite force of will and rather notable exaggerations are observable; the gestures go further than the words, and that is a matter not difficult to recognize. As soon as the recognition is made it becomes necessary to examine whether a certain congruity invariably manifests itself between word and gesture, inasmuch as with many people the above-mentioned lack of congruity is habitual and honest. This is particularly the case with people who are somewhat theatrical and hence gesticulate too much. But if word and gesture soon conform one to another, especially after a rather lively presentation, you may be certain that the subject has skilfully worked himself into his alarm or whatever it is he wanted to manifest. Quite apart from the importance of seeing such a matter clearly the interest of the work is a rich reward for the labor involved.
In close relation to these phenomena is the change of color to
Paling depends, as is well known, on the cramp of the muscles of the veins, which contract and so cause a narrowing of their bore which hinders the flow of blood. But such cramps happen only in cases of considerable anger, fear, pain, trepidation, rage; in short, in cases of excitement that nobody ever has reason to simulate. Paling has no value in differentiation inasmuch as a man might grow pale in the face through fear of being unmasked or in rage at unjust suspicion.
The same thing is true about blushing.[11] It consists in a sort of transitory crippling of those nerves that end in the walls of small arteries. This causes the relaxation of the muscle-fibers of the blood vessels which are consequently filled in a greater degree with blood. Blushing also may be voluntarily created by some individuals. In that case the chest is fully expanded, the glottis is closed and the muscles of expiration are contracted. But this matter again has no particular value for us since the simulation of a blush is at most of use only when a woman wants to appear quite modest and moral. But for that effect artificial blushing does not help, since it requires such intense effort as to be immediately noticeable. Blushing by means of external assistance, e. g., inhaling certain chemicals, is a thing hardly anybody will want to perform before the court.
With regard to guilt or innocence, blushing offers no evidence whatever. There is a great troop of people who blush without any
The matter is interesting even though we know nothing about the intrinsic inner process which leads to the influence on the nervous filaments. Blushing occurs all the world over, and its occasion and process is the same among savages as among us.[12] The same events may be observed whether we compare the flush of educated or uneducated. There is the notion, which I believed for a long time, that blushing occurs among educated people and is especially rare among peasants, but that does not seem to be true. Working people, especially those who are out in the open a good deal, have a tougher pigmentation and a browner skin, so that their flush is less obvious. But it occurs as often and under the same conditions as among others. It might be said for the same reason that Gypsies never blush; and of course, that the blush may be rarer among people lacking in shame and a sense of honor is conceivable. Yet everybody who has much to do with Gypsies asserts that the blush may be observed among them.
Concerning the relation of the blush to age, Darwin says that early childhood knows nothing about blushing. It happens in youth more frequently than in old age, and oftener among women than among men. Idiots blush seldom, blind people and hereditary albinos, a great deal. The somatic process of blushing is, as Darwin
In this notion, "you blush, therefore you have lied; you did it!" lie many sins the commission of which is begun at the time of admonishing little children and ended with obtaining the "confessions" of the murderous thief.
Finally, it is not to be forgotten that there are cases of blushing which have nothing to do with psychical processes. Ludwig Meyer[14] calls it "artificial blushing" (better, "mechanically developed blushing"), and narrates the case of "easily-irritated women who could develop a blush with the least touch of friction, e. g., of the face on a pillow, rubbing with the hand, etc.; and this blush could not be distinguished from the ordinary blush." We may easily consider that such lightly irritable women may be accused, come before the court without being recognized as such, and, for example, cover their faces with their hands and blush. Then the thing might be called "evidential."
A. Lehmann: Die körperliche Äusserungen psychologischer Zustände. Leipsig Pt. I, 1899. Pt. II, 1901.
Section 12. (b) General Signs of Character.
Friedrich Gerstäcker, in one of his most delightful moods, says somewhere that the best characteristicon of a man is how he wears his hat. If he wears it perpendicular, he is honest, pedantic and boresome. If he wears it tipped slightly, he belongs to the best and most interesting people, is nimble-witted and pleasant. A deeply tipped hat indicates frivolity and obstinate imperious nature. A hat worn on the back of the head signifies improvidence, easiness, conceit, sensuality and extravagance; the farther back the more dangerous is the position of the wearer. The man who presses his hat against his temples complains, is melancholy, and in a bad way. It is now many years since I have read this exposition by the much-traveled and experienced author, and I have thought countless times how right he was, but also, how there may be numberless similar
Lazarus has rightly called to mind what is told by the pious Chr. von Schmidt, concerning the clever boy who lies under a tree and recognizes the condition of every passer-by according to what he says. "What fine lumber,"—"Good-morning, carpenter,"— "What magnificent bark,"—Good-morning, tanner,"—"What beautiful branches,"—"Good-morning, painter." This significant story shows us how easy it is with a little observation to perceive things that might otherwise have been hidden. With what subtle clearness it shows how effective is the egoism which makes each man first of all, and in most cases exclusively, perceive what most concerns him as most prominent! And in addition men so eagerly and often present us the chance for the deepest insight into their souls that we need only to open our eyes—seeing and interpreting is so childishly easy! Each one of us experiences almost daily the most instructive things; e. g. through the window of my study I could look into a great garden in which a house was being built; when the carpenters left in the evening they put two blocks at the entrance and put a board on them crosswise. Later there came each evening a gang of youngsters who found in this place a welcome playground. That obstruction which they had to pass gave me an opportunity to notice the expression of their characters. One ran quickly and jumped easily over,—that one will progress easily and quickly in his life. Another approached carefully, climbed slowly up the board and as cautiously descended on the other side— careful, thoughtful, and certain. The third climbed up and jumped down—a deed purposeless, incidental, uninforming. The fourth ran energetically to the obstruction, then stopped and crawled boldly underneath—disgusting boy who nevertheless will have carried his job ahead. Then, again, there came a fifth who jumped,— but too low, remained hanging and tumbled; he got up, rubbed his
Well, all this is just a game, and no one would dare to draw conclusions concerning our so serious work from such observations merely. But they can have a corroborative value if they are well done, when large numbers, and not an isolated few, are brought together, and when appropriate analogies are brought from appropriate cases. Such studies, which have to be sought in the daily life itself, permit easy development; if observations have been clearly made, correctly apprehended, and if, especially, the proper notions have been drawn from them, they are easily to be observed, stick in the memory, and come willingly at the right moment. But they must then serve only as indices, they must only suggest: "perhaps the case is the same to-day." And that means a good deal; a point of view for the taking of evidence is established, not, of course, proof as such, or a bit of evidence, but a way of receiving it,—perhaps a false one. But if one proceeds carefully along this way, it shows its falseness immediately, and another presented by memory shows us another way that is perhaps correct.
The most important thing in this matter is to get a general view of the human specimen—and incidentally, nobody needs more to do this than the criminalist. For most of us the person before us is only "A, suspected of x." But our man is rather more than that, and especially he was rather more before he became "A suspected of x." Hence, the greatest mistake, and, unfortunately, the commonest, committed by the judge, is his failure to discuss with the prisoner his more or less necessary earlier life. Is it not known that every deed is an outcome of the total character of the doer? Is it not considered that deed and character are correlative concepts, and that the character by means of which the deed is to be established cannot be inferred from the deed alone? "Crime is the product of the physiologically grounded psyche of the criminal and his environing external conditions." (Liszt). Each particular deed is thinkable only when a determinate character of the doer is brought in relation with it—a certain character predisposes to
If we grant the correctness of what we have said we gain the conviction that we can proceed with approximate certainty and conscientiousness only if we speak with the criminal, not alone concerning the deed immediately in question, but also searchingly concerning the important conditions of his inner life. So we may as far as possible see clearly what he is according to general notions and his particular relationships.
The same thing must also be done with regard to an important witness, especially when much depends upon his way of judging, of experiencing, of feeling, and of thinking, and when it is impossible to discover these things otherwise. Of course such analyses are often tiring and without result, but that, on the other hand, they lay open with few words whole broadsides of physical conditions, so that we need no longer doubt, is also a matter of course. Who wants to leave unused a formula of Schopenhauer's: "We discover what we are through what we do?" Nothing is easier than to discover from some person important to us what he does, even though the discovery develops merely as a simple conversation about what he has done until now and what he did lately. And up to date we have gotten at such courses of life only in the great cases; in cases of murder or important political criminals, and then only at externals; we have cared little about the essential deeds, the smaller forms of activity which are always the significant ones. Suppose we allow some man to speak about others, no matter whom, on condition that he must know them well. He judges their deeds, praises and condemns them, and thinks that he is talking about them but is really talking about himself alone, for in each judgment of the others he aims to justify and enhance himself; the things he praises he does, what he finds fault with, he does not; or at least he wishes people to believe that he does the former and avoids the
The word pleasure must of course be used in the loosest way, for one man finds his pleasure in sitting beside the stove or in the shadow, while another speaks of pleasure only when he can bring some change in his work. I consider it impossible not to understand a man whose pleasures are known; his will, his power, his striving and knowing, feeling and perceiving cannot be made clearer by any other thing. Moreover, it happens that it is a man's pleasures which bring him into court, and as he resists or falls into them he reveals his character. The famous author of the "Imitation of Christ," Thomas à Kempis, whose book is, saving the Bible, the most wide-spread on earth, says: "Occasiones hominem fragilem non faciunt, sea, qualis sit, ostendunt." That is a golden maxim for the criminalist. Opportunity, the chance to taste, is close to every man, countless times; is his greatest danger; for that reason it was great wisdom in the Bible that called the devil, the Tempter. A man's behavior with regard to the discovered or sought-out opportunity exhibits his character wholly and completely. But the chance to observe men face to face with opportunity is a rare one, and that falling-off with which we are concerned is often the outcome of such an opportunity. But at this point we ought not longer to learn, but to know; and hence our duty to study the
There is another group of conditions through which you may observe and judge men in general. The most important one is to know yourself as well as possible, for accurate self-knowledge leads to deep mistrust with regard to others, and only the man suspicious with regard to others is insured, at least a little, against mistakes. To pass from mistrust to the reception of something good is not difficult, even in cases where the mistrust is well-founded and the presupposition of excellent motives among our fellows is strongly fought. Nevertheless, when something actually good is perceivable, one is convinced by it and even made happy. But the converse is not true, for anybody who is too trusting easily presupposes the best at every opportunity, though he may have been deceived a thousand times and is now deceived again. How it happens that self-knowledge leads to suspicion of others we had better not investigate too closely—it is a fact.
Every man is characterized by the way he behaves in regard to his promises. I do not mean keeping or breaking a promise, because nobody doubts that the honest man keeps it and the scoundrel does not. I mean the manner in which a promise is kept and the degree in which it is kept. La Roche-Foucauld[3] says significantly: "We promise according to our hopes, and perform according to our fears." When in any given case promising and hopes and performance and fears are compared, important considerations arise,— especially in cases of complicity in crime.
When it is at all possible, and in most cases it is, one ought to concern oneself with a man's style,—the handwriting of his soul. What this consists of cannot be expressed in a definite way. The style must simply be studied and tested with regard to its capacity for being united with certain presupposed qualities. Everybody knows that education, bringing-up, and intelligence are indubitably expressed in style, but it may also be observed that style clearly expresses softness or hardness of a character, kindness or cruelty, determination or weakness, integrity or carelessness, and hundreds of other qualities. Generally the purpose of studying style may be achieved by keeping in mind some definite quality presupposed and by asking oneself, while reading the manuscript of the person in question, whether this quality fuses with the manuscript's form and with the individual tendencies and relationships that occur in the
Certain small apparently indifferent qualities and habits are important. There are altogether too many of them to talk about; but there are examples enough of the significance of what is said of a man in this fashion: "this man is never late," "this man never forgets," "this man invariably carries a pencil or a pocket knife," "this one is always perfumed," "this one always wears clean, carefully brushed clothes,"—whoever has the least training may construct out of such qualities the whole inner life of the individual. Such observations may often be learned from simple people, especially from old peasants. A great many years ago I had a case which concerned a disappearance. It was supposed that the lost man was murdered. Various examinations were made without result, until, finally, I questioned an old and very intelligent peasant who had known well the lost man. I asked the witness to describe the nature of his friend very accurately, in order that I might draw from his qualities, habits, etc., my inferences concerning his tendencies, and hence concerning his possible location. The old peasant supposed that everything had been said about the man in question when he explained that he was a person who never owned a decent tool. This was an excellent description, the value of which I completely understood only when the murdered man came to life and I learned to know him. He was a petty lumberman who used to buy small wooded tracts in the high mountains for cutting, and having cut them down would either bring the wood down to the valley, or have it turned to charcoal. In the fact that he never owned a decent tool, nor had one for his men, was established his
But the judge requires attention and appropriate conservation of his own observations. Whoever observes the people he deals with soon notices that there is probably not one among them that does not possess some similar, apparently unessential quality like that mentioned above. Among close acquaintances there is little difficulty in establishing which of their characteristics belong to that quality, and when series of such observations are brought together it is not difficult to generalize and to abstract from them specific rules. Then, in case of need, when the work is important, one makes use of the appropriate rule with pleasure, and I might say, with thanks for one's own efforts.
One essential and often useful symbol to show what a man makes of himself, what he counts himself for, is his use of the word we. Hartenstein[4] has already called attention to the importance of this circumstance, and Volkmar says: "The we has a very various scope, from the point of an accidental simultaneity of images in the same sensation, representation or thought, to the almost complete circle of the family we which breaks through the I and even does not exclude the most powerful antagonisms; hatred, just like love, asserts its we." What is characteristic in the word we is the opposition of a larger or smaller group of which the I is a member, to the rest of the universe. I say we when I mean merely my wife and myself, the inhabitants of my house, my family, those who live in my street, in my ward, or in my city; I say we assessors, we central-Austrians, we Austrians, we Germans, we Europeans, we inhabitants of the earth. I say we lawyers, we blonds, we Christians, we mammals, we collaborators on a monthly, we old students' society, we married men, we opponents of jury trial. But I also say we when speaking of accidental relations, such as being on the same train, meeting on the same mountain peak, in the same hotel, at the same concert, etc. In a word we defines all relationships from the
It is so conceivable that man as a social animal seeks companionship in so many directions that he feels better protected when he has a comrade, when he can present in the place of his weak and unprotected I the stronger and bolder we; and hence the considerable and varied use of the word. No one means that people are to be caught with the word; it is merely to be used to bring clearness into our work. Like every other honest instrument, it is an index to the place of the man before us.
Section 13. (c) Particular Character-signs.
It is a mistake to suppose that it is enough in most cases to study that side of a man which is at the moment important—his dishonesty only, his laziness, etc. That will naturally lead to merely one-sided judgment and anyway be much harder than keeping the whole man in eye and studying him as an entirety. Every individual quality is merely a symptom of a whole nature, can be explained only by the whole complex, and the good properties depend as much on the bad ones as the bad on the good ones. At the very least the quality and quantity of a good or bad characteristic shows the influence of all the other good and bad characteristics. Kindliness is influenced and partly created through weakness, indetermination, too great susceptibility, a minimum acuteness, false constructiveness, untrained capacity for inference; in the same way, again, the most cruel hardness depends on properties which, taken in themselves, are good: determination, energy, purposeful action, clear conception of one's fellows, healthy egotism, etc. Every man is the result of his nature and nurture, i. e. of countless individual conditions, and every one of his expressions, again, is the result of all of these conditions. If, therefore, he is to be judged, he must be judged in the light of them all.
For this reason, all those indications that show us the man as a whole are for us the most important, but also those others are valuable which show him up on one side only. In the latter
We ask, for example, what kind of man will give us the best and most reliable information about the conduct and activity, the nature and character, of an individual? We are told: that sort of person who is usually asked for the information—his nearest friends and acquaintances, and the authorities. Before all of these nobody shows himself as he is, because the most honest man will show himself before people in whose judgment he has an interest at least as good as, if not better than he is—that is fundamental to the general egoistic essence of humanity, which seeks at least to avoid reducing its present welfare. Authorities who are asked to make a statement concerning any person, can say reliably only how often the man was punished or came otherwise in contact with the law or themselves. But concerning his social characteristics the authorities have nothing to say; they have got to investigate them and the detectives have to bring an answer. Then the detectives are, at most, simply people who have had the opportunity to watch and interrogate the individuals in question,—the servants, house-furnishers, porters, corner-loafers, etc. Why we do not question the latter ourselves I cannot say; if we did we might know these people on whom we depend for important information and might put our questions according to the answers that we need. It is a purely negative thing that an official declaration is nowadays not unfrequently presented to us in the disgusting form of the gossip of an old hag. But in itself the form of getting information about people through servants and others of the same class is correct. One has, however, to beware that it is not done simply because the gossips are most easily found, but because people show their weaknesses most readily before those whom they hold of no account. The latter fact is well known, but not sufficiently studied. It is of considerable importance. Let us then examine it more closely: Nobody is ashamed to show himself before an animal as he is, to do an evil thing, to commit a crime; the shame will increase very little if instead of the animal a complete idiot is present, and if now we suppose the intelligence and significance of this witness steadily to increase, the shame of appearing before him as one is increases in a like degree. So we will control ourselves most before people
There is besides another reason for allowing subordinate or indifferent people to see one's weaknesses. The reason is that we
In most instances it will be possible to make certain distinctions as to when objectively too much and subjectively too little is said. That is to say, the craftsman will exaggerate with regard to all
There is still another thing to be observed. A good many people who are especially efficient in their trades desire to be known as especially efficient in some other and remote circle. It is historic that a certain regent was happy when his very modest flute-playing was praised; a poet was pleased when his miserable drawings were admired; a marshal wanted to hear no praise of his victories but much of his very doubtful declamation. The case is the same among lesser men. A craftsman wants to shine with some foolishness in another craft, and "the philistine is happiest when he is considered a devil of a fellow." The importance of this fact lies in the possibility of error in conclusions drawn from what the subject himself tries to present about his knowledge and power. With regard to the past it leads even fundamentally honest persons to deception and lying.
So for example a student who might have been the most solid and harmless in his class later makes suggestions that he was the wildest sport; the artist who tried to make his way during his cubhood most bravely with the hard-earned money of his mother is glad to have it known that he was guilty as a young man of unmitigated nonsense; and the ancient dame who was once the most modest of girls is tickled with the flattery of a story concerning her magnificent flirtations. When such a matter is important for us it must be received with great caution.
To this class of people who want to appear rather more interesting than they are, either in their past or present, belong also those who
These people are not to be confused with those specific men of power who, in the attempt to show what they can do, go further than in truth they should. There are indeed persons of talent who are efficient, and know it, whether for good or evil, and they happen to belong both to the class of the accused and of the witness. The former show this quality in confessing to more than they are guilty of, or tell their story in such a way as to more clearly demonstrate both their power and their conceit. So that it may happen that a man takes upon himself a crime that he shares with three accomplices or that he describes a simple larceny as one in which force had to be used with regard to its object and even with regard to the object's owner; or perhaps he describes his flight or his opponents' as much more troublesome than these actually were or need have been. The witness behaves in a similar fashion and shows his defense
These people are mainly recognizable by their mode of life, their habitual appearance, and its expression. Once that is known their conduct in court is known. In the matter of individual features of character, the form of life, the way of doing things is especially to be observed. Many an effort, many a quality can be explained in no other way. The simple declaration of Volkmar, "There are some things that we want only because we had them once," explains to the criminalist long series of phenomena that might otherwise have remained unintelligible. Many a larceny, robbery, possibly murder, many a crime springing from jealousy, many sexual offenses become intelligible when one learns that the criminal had at one time possessed the object for the sake of which he committed the crime, and having lost it had tried with irresistible vigor to regain it. What is extraordinary in the matter is the fact that considerable time passes between the loss and the desire for recovery. It seems as if the isolated moments of desire sum themselves up in the course
The same relationship exists in the cases of countless criminals whose crimes seem at bottom due to apparently inconceivable brutality. In all such cases, especially when the facts do not otherwise make apparent the possible guilt of the suspect, the story of the crime's development has to be studied. Gustav Strave asserts that it is demonstrable that young men become surgeons out of pure cruelty, out of desire to see people suffer pain and to cause pain. A student of pharmacy became a hangman for the same reason and a rich Dutchman paid the butchers for allowing him to kill oxen. If, then, one is dealing with a crime which points to extraordinary cruelty, how can one be certain about its motive and history without knowing the history of the criminal?
This is the more necessary inasmuch as we may be easily deceived through apparent motives. "Inasmuch as in most capital crimes two or more motives work together, an ostensible and a concealed one," says Kraus,[3] "each criminal has at his command apparent motives which encourage the crime." We know well enough how frequently the thief excuses himself on the ground of his need, how the criminal wants to appear as merely acting in self-defense during robberies, and how often the sensualist, even when he has misbehaved with a little child, still asserts that the child had seduced him. In murder cases even, when the murderer has confessed, we frequently find that he tries to excuse himself. The woman who poisons her husband, really because she wants to marry another, tells her story in such a way as to make it appear that she killed him because he was extraordinarily bad and that her deed simply freed the world of a disgusting object. As a rule the psychological aspect of such cases is made more difficult, by the reason that the subject has in a greater or lesser degree convinced himself of the truth of his statements and finally believes his reasons for excuse altogether or in part. And if a man believes what he says, the proof that the story is false is much harder to make, because psychological arguments that might be used to prove falsehood are then of no use. This is an important fact which compels us to draw a sharp line between a person who is obviously lying and one who does believe what he says. We have to discover the difference, inasmuch as the self-developed conviction of the truth of a story is never so
Once this fine hearing distinguishes the individual who really believes in the motive he plausibly offers the court, there is another indication (obviously quite apart from the general signs of deceit) that marks him further, and this comes to light when one has him speak about similar crimes of others in which the ostensible motive actually was present. It is said rightly, that not he is old who no longer commits youthful follies but he that no longer forgives them, and so not merely he is bad who himself commits evil but also he who excuses them in others. Of course, that an accused person should defend the naked deed as it is described in the criminal law is not likely for conceivable reasons—since certainly no robbery-suspect will sing a paean about robbers, but certainly almost anybody who has a better or a better-appearing motive for his crime, will protect those who have been guided by a similar motive in other cases. Every experiment shows this to be the case and then apparent motives are easily enough recognized as such.
(d) Somatic Character-Units.
Section 14. (1) General Considerations.
When we say that the inner condition of men implies some outer expression, it must follow that there are series of phenomena which especially mold the body in terms of the influence of a state of mind on external appearance, or conversely, which are significant of the influence of some physical uniqueness on the psychical state, or of some other psycho physical condition. As an example of the first kind one may cite the well known phenomenon that devotees always make an impression rather specifically feminine. As an example of the second kind is the fact demonstrated by Gyurkovechky[1] that impotents exhibit disagreeable characteristics. Such conditions find their universalizing expression in the cruel but true maxim
All this is popularly known and is abnormally believed in, so that we often discover that the deformed are more frequently suspected of crime than normal people. Suspicion turns to them especially when an unknown criminal has committed a crime the accomplishment of which required a particularly evil nature and where the deed of itself called forth general indignation. In that case, once a deformed person is suspected, grounds of suspicion are not difficult to find; a few collect more as a rolling ball does snow. After that the sweet proverb: "Vox populi, vox dei," drives the unfortunate fellow into a chaos of evidential grounds of suspicion which may all be reduced to the fact that he has red hair or a hump. Such events are frightfully frequent.[2]
V. Gyurkovechky: Pathologie und Therapie der männlichen Impotenz. Vienna, Leipzig 1889.
Section 15. (2) Causes of Irritation.
Just as important as these phenomena are the somatic results of psychic irritation. These latter clear up processes not to be explained by words alone and often over-valued and falsely interpreted. Irritations are important for two reasons: (1) as causes of crime, and (2) as signs of identification in examination.
In regard to the first it is not necessary to show what crimes are committed because of anger, jealousy, or rage, and how frequently terror and fear lead to extremes otherwise inexplicable—these facts are partly so well known, partly so very numerous and various, that an exposition would be either superfluous or impossible. Only those phenomena will be indicated which lie to some degree on the borderland of the observed and hence may be overlooked. To this class belong, for example, anger against the object, which serves as explanation of a group of so-called malicious damages, such as arson, etc. Everybody, even though not particularly lively, remembers instances in which he fell into great and inexplicable rage against an object when the latter set in his way some special difficulties or caused him pain; and he remembers how he created considerable ease for himself by flinging it aside, tearing it or smashing it to pieces. When I was a student I owned a very old, thick Latin lexicon, "Kirschii cornu copia," bound in wood covered with pigskin. This respectable book flew to the ground whenever its master was vexed, and never failed profoundly to reduce the inner stress. This "Kirschius" was inherited from my great-grandfather and it did not suffer much damage. When, however, some poor apprentice tears the fence, on a nail of which his only coat got a bad tear, or
How far the perversity of the inanimate can lead I saw in a criminal case in which a big isolated hay-stack was set on fire. A traveler was going across the country and sought shelter against oncoming bad weather. The very last minute before a heavy shower he reached a hay-stack with a solid straw cover, crept into it, made himself comfortable in the hay and enjoyed his good fortune. Then he fell asleep, but soon woke again inasmuch as he, his clothes, and all the hay around him was thoroughly soaked, for the roof just above him was leaking. In frightful rage over this "evil perversity," he set the stack on fire and it burned to the ground.
It may be said that the fact of the man's anger is as much a motive as any other and should have no influence on the legal side of the incident. Though this is quite true, we are bound to consider the crime and the criminal as a unit and to judge them so. If under such circumstances we can say that this unit is an outcome natural to the character of mankind, and even if we say, perhaps, that we might have behaved similarly under like circumstances, if we really cannot find something absolutely evil in the deed, the criminal quality of it is throughout reduced. Also, in such smaller cases the fundamental concept of modern criminology comes clearly into the foreground: "not the crime but the criminal is the object of punishment, not the concept but the man is punished." (Liszt).
The fact of the presence of a significant irritation is important for passing judgment, and renders it necessary to observe with the most thorough certainty how this irritation comes about. This is the more important inasmuch as it becomes possible to decide whether the irritation is real or artificial and imitated. Otherwise, however, the meaning of the irritation can be properly valued only when its development can be held together step by step with its causes. Suppose I let the suspect know the reason of suspicion brought by his enemies, then if his anger sensibly increases with the presentation of each new ground, it appears much more natural
The collective nature of somatic phenomena in the case of great excitement has been much studied, especially among animals, these being simpler and less artificial and therefore easier to understand, and in the long run comparatively like men in the expression of their emotions. Very many animals, according to Darwin, erect their hair or feathers or quills in cases of anxiety, fear, or horror, and nowadays, indeed, involuntarily, in order to exhibit themselves as larger and more terrible. The same rising of the hair even to-day plays a greater rôle among men than is generally supposed. Everybody has either seen in others or discovered in himself that fear and terror visibly raise the hair. I saw it with especial clearness during an examination when the person under arrest suddenly perceived with clearness, though he was otherwise altogether innocent, in what great danger he stood of being taken for the real criminal. That our hair rises in cases of fear and horror without being visible is shown, I believe, in the well known movement of the hand from forehead to crown. It may be supposed that the hair rises at the roots invisibly but sensibly and thus causes a mild tickling and pricking of the scalp which is reduced by smoothing the head with the hand. This movement, then, is a form of involuntary scratching to remove irritation. That such a characteristic movement is made during examination may therefore be very significant under certain circumstances. Inasmuch as the process is indubitably an influence of the nerves upon the finer and thinner muscle-fibers, it must have a certain resemblance to the process by which, as a consequence of fear, horror, anxiety, or care, the hair more or less suddenly turns white. Such occurrences are in comparatively large numbers historical; G. Pouchet[2] counts up cases in which hair turned white suddenly, (among them one where it happened while the poor sinner was being led to execution). Such cases do not interest us because, even if the accused himself turned grey over night, no evidence is afforded of guilt or innocence. Such an occurrence can be evidential only when the hair changes color demonstrably in the case of a witness. It may then be certainly believed that he had experienced something terrible and aging. But whether he had really experienced this, or merely believed that he had experienced it, can as yet not be discovered, since the
Properly to understand the other phenomena that are the result of significant irritation, their matrix, their aboriginal source must be studied. Spencer says that fear expresses itself in cries, in hiding, sobbing and trembling, all of which accompany the discovery of the really terrible; while the destructive passions manifest themselves in tension of the muscles, gritting of the teeth, extending the claws: all weaker forms of the activity of killing. All this, aboriginally inherited from the animals, occurs in rather less intense degrees in man, inclusive of baring the claws, for exactly this movement may often be noticed when somebody is speaking with anger and vexation about another person and at the same time extends and contracts his fingers. Anybody who does this even mildly and unnoticeably means harm to the person he is talking about. Darwin indeed, in his acutely observing fashion, has also called attention to this. He suggests that a man may hate another intensely, but that so long as his anatomy is not affected he may not be said to be enraged. This means clearly that the somatic manifestations of inner excitement are so closely bound up with the latter that we require the former whenever we want to say anything about the latter. And it is true that we never say that a man was enraged or only angry, if he remained physically calm, no matter how noisy and explicit he might have been with words. This is evidence enough of the importance of noticing bodily expression. "How characteristic," says Volkmar[3] "is the trembling and heavy breathing of fear, the glowering glance of anger, the choking down of suppressed vexation, the stifling of helpless rage, the leering glance and jumping heart of envy." Darwin completes the description of fear: The heart beats fast, the features pale, he feels cold but sweats, the hair rises, the secretion of saliva stops, hence follows frequent swallowing, the voice becomes hoarse, yawning begins, the nostrils tremble, the pupils widen, the constrictor muscles relax. Wild and very primitive people show this much more clearly and tremble quite uncontrolled. The last may often be seen and may indeed be established as a standard of culture and even of character and may help to determine how far a man may prevent the inner irritation from becoming externally noticeable. Especially he who has much to do with Gypsies is aware how little these people can control themselves. From this fact also spring the numerous
Concerning the characteristic influence of timidity see Paul Hartenberg.[5]
Especially self-revealing are the outbreaks of anger against oneself, the more so because I believe them always to be evidence of consciousness of guilt. At least, I have never yet seen an innocent man fall into a paroxysm of rage against himself, nor have I ever heard that others have observed it, and I would not be able psychologically to explain such a thing should it happen. Inasmuch as scenes of this kind can occur perceivably only in the most externalized forms of anger, so such an explosion is elementary and cannot possibly be confused with another. If a man wrings his hands until they bleed, or digs his finger-nails into his forehead, nobody will say that this is anger against himself; it is only an attempt to do something to release stored-up energy, to bring it to bear against somebody. People are visibly angry against themselves only when they do such things to themselves as they might do to other people; for example, beating, smashing, pulling the hair, etc. This is particularly frequent among Orientals who are more emotional than Europeans. So I saw a Gypsy run his head against a wall, and a Jew throw himself on his knees, extend his arms and box his ears with both hands so forcibly that the next day his cheeks were swollen. But other races, if only they are passionate enough, behave in a similar manner. I saw a woman, for example, tear whole handfuls of hair from her head, a murdering thief, guilty of more or fewer crimes, smash his head on the corner of a window, and a seventeen year old murderer throw himself into a ditch in the street, beat his head fiercely on the earth, and yell, "Hang me! Pull my head off!"
The events in all these cases were significantly similar: the crime was so skilfully committed as conceivably to prevent the discovery of the criminal; the criminal denied the deed with the most glaring
Such expressions of anger against oneself often finish with fainting. The reason of the latter is much less exhaustion through paroxysms of rage than the recognition and consciousness of one's own helplessness. Reichenbach[6] once examined the reason for the fainting of people in difficult situations. It is nowadays explained as the effect of the excretion of carbonic acid gas and of the generated anthropotoxin; another explanation makes it a nervous phenomenon in which the mere recognition that release is impossible causes fainting, the loss of consciousness. For our needs either account of this phenomenon will do equally. It is indifferent whether a man notices that he cannot voluntarily change his condition in a physical sense, or whether he notices that the evidence is so convincing that he can not dodge it. The point is that if for one reason or another he finds himself physically or legally in a bad hole, he faints, just as people in novels or on the stage faint when there is no other solution of the dramatic situation.
When anger does not lead to rage against oneself, the next lower stage is laughter.[7] With regard to this point, Darwin calls attention to the fact that laughter often conceals other mental conditions than those it essentially stands for—anger, rage, pain, perplexity, modesty and shame; when it conceals anger it is anger against oneself, a form of scorn. This same wooden, dry laughter is significant, and when it arises from the perception that the accused no longer sees his way out, it is not easily to be confused with another form of laughter. One gets the impression that the laugher is trying to tell himself, "That is what you get for being bad and foolish!"
Section 16. (3) Cruelty.
Under this caption must be placed certain conditions that may under given circumstances be important. Although apparently without any relations to each other they have the common property of being external manifestations of mental processes.
In many cases they are explanations which may arise from the observation of the mutative relations between cruelty, bloodthirstiness, and sensuality. With regard to this older authors like Mitchell,[1] Blumroder,[2] Friedreich,[3] have brought examples which are still of no little worth. They speak of cases in which many people, not alone men, use the irritation developed by greater or lesser cruelty for sexual purposes: the torturing of animals, biting, pinching, choking the partner, etc. Nowadays this is called sadism.[4] Certain girls narrate their fear of some of their visitors who make them suffer unendurably, especially at the point of extreme passion, by biting, pressing, and choking. This fact may have some value in criminology. On the one hand, certain crimes can be explained only by means of sexual cruelty, and on the other, knowledge of his habits with this regard may, again, help toward the conviction of a criminal. I recall only the case of Ballogh-Steiner in Vienna, a case in which a prostitute was stifled. The police were at that time hunting a man who was known in the quarter as "chicken-man," because he would always bring with him two fowls which he would choke during the orgasm. It was rightly inferred that a man who did that sort of thing was capable under similar circumstances of killing a human being. Therefore it will be well, in the examination of a person accused of a cruel crime, not to neglect the question of his sexual habits; or better still, to be sure to inquire particularly whether the whole situation of the crime was not sexual in nature.[5]
In this connection, deeds that lead to cruelty and murder often involve forms of epilepsy. It ought therefore always to be a practice to consult a physician concerning the accused, for cruelty, lust, and psychic disorders are often enough closely related. About this matter Lombroso is famous for the wealth of material he presents.
Section 17. (4) Nostalgia.
The question of home-sickness is of essential significance and must not be undervalued. It has been much studied and the notion has been reached that children mainly (in particular during the period of puberty), and idiotic and weak persons, suffer much from home-sickness, and try to combat the oppressive feeling of dejection
When such nostalgiacs confess their deed they never, so far as I know, confess its motive. Apparently they do not know the motive and hence cannot explain the deed. As a rule one hears, "I don't know why, I had to do it." Just where this begins to be abnormal, must be decided by the physician, who must always be consulted when nostalgia is the ground for a crime. Of course it is not impossible that a criminal in order to excite pity should explain his crime as the result of unconquerable home-sickness—but that must always be untrue because, as we have shown, anybody who acts out of home-sickness, does not know it and can not tell it.
Section 18. (5) Reflex Movements.
Reflex actions are also of greater significance than as a rule they are supposed to be. According to Lotze,[1] "reflex actions are not
A closer examination of reflex action requires consideration of certain properties, which in themselves cannot easily have criminal significance, but which tend to make that significance clearer. One is the circumstance that there are reflexes which work while you sleep. That we do not excrete during sleep depends on the fact that the faeces pressing in the large intestine generates a reflexive action of the constrictors of the rectum. They can be brought to relax only through especially powerful pressure or through the voluntary relaxation of one's own constrictors.
The second suggestive circumstance is the fact that even habitual reflexes may under certain conditions, especially when a particularly weighty different impression comes at the same time, not
This fact suggests that the sole activity of the spinal cord does not suffice for reflexes, since if it did, those would occur even when the brain is otherwise profoundly engaged. As they do not so occur the brain also must be in play. Now this distinction is not indifferent for us; for if we hold that the brain acts during reflexes we have to grant the possibility of degrees in its action. Thus where brain activity is in question, the problem of responsibility also arises, and we must hold that wherever a reflex may be accepted as the cause of a crime the subject of the degree of punishment must be taken exceptionally into account. It is further to be noted that as a matter of official consideration the problem of the presence of reflexes ought to be studied, since it rarely occurs that a man says, "It was purely a reflex action." He says, perhaps, "I don't know how it happened," or, "I couldn't do otherwise," or he denies the whole event because he really was not aware how it happened. That the questions are here difficult, both with regard to the taking of evidence, and with regard to the judgment of guilt, is obvious,— and it is therefore indifferent whether we speak of deficiency in inhibition-centers or of ill-will[5] and malice.
Section 19. (6) Dress.
It is easy to write a book on the significance of a man's clothes as the expression of his inner state. It is said that the character of a woman is to be known from her shoe, but actually the matter reaches far beyond the shoe, to every bit of clothing, whether of one sex or the other. The penologist has more opportunity than any one else to observe how people dress, to take notes concerning the wearer, and finally to correct his impressions by means of the examination. In this matter one may lay down certain axioms. If we see a man whose coat is so patched that the original material is no longer visible but the coat nowhere shows a hole; if his shirt is made of the very coarsest and equally patched material but is clean; and if his shoes are very bad but are whole and well polished, we should consider him and his wife as honest people, without ever making an error. We certainly see very little wisdom in our modern painfully attired "sports," we suspect the suggestively dressed woman of some little disloyalty to her husband, and we certainly expect no low inclinations from the lady dressed with intelligent, simple respectability. If a man's general appearance is correct it
Section 20. (7) Physiognomy and Related Subjects.
The science of physiognomy belongs to those disciplines which show a decided variability in their value. In classical times it was set much store by, and Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Pythagoras were keenly interested in its doctrines. Later on it was forgotten, was studied in passing when Baptista Porta wrote a book about human physiognomy, and finally, when the works of Lavater
The right of physiognomies to the status of an independent science is to some degree established in the oft-repeated dictum that whatever is valid in its simplest outline must be capable of extension and development. No man doubts that there are intelligent faces and foolish ones, kind ones and cruel ones, and if this assertion is admitted as it stands it must follow that still other faces may be distinguished so that it is possible to read a certain number of spiritual qualities from the face. And inasmuch as nobody can indicate the point at which this reading of features must cease, the door is opened to examination, observation and the collection of material. Then, if one bewares of voluntary mistakes, of exaggeration and unfounded assertion, if one builds only upon actual and carefully observed facts, an important and well-grounded discipline must ensue.
The exceptionally acute psychiatrist Meynert shows[11] how physiognomics depends on irradiation and parallel images. He shows what a large amount of material having physiognomical contents we keep in mind. Completely valueless as are the fixed forms by which mankind judges the voluntary acts of its individual members, they point to the universal conclusion that it is proper to infer from the voluntary acts of a person whose features correspond to those of another the voluntary acts of the other. One of Hans Virchow's very detailed physiognomical observations concerning the expression of interest in the eyes by means of the pupil, has very considerable physiognomical value. The pupil, he believes, is the gate through which our glance passes into the inner life of our neighbor; the psychical is already close at hand with the word "inner." How this occurs, why rather this and not another muscle is innervated in the development of a certain process, we do not know, but our ignorance does not matter, since ultimately a man might split his head thinking why we do not hear with our eyes and see with our ears. But to some extent we have made observable progress in this matter. As far back as 1840 J. Müller[12] wrote: "The reasons are unknown why various psychoses make use of different groups of nerves or why
As subjects for study he recommends children because they permit forms of expression to appear vigorously and without constraint; lunatics, because they are subject to strong passions without control; galvanized persons, in order to facilitate the muscles involved, and finally, to establish the identity of expression among all races of men and beasts. Of these objects only children are important for our purpose. The others either are far removed from our sphere of activity, or have only theoretic value. I should, however, like to add to the subjects of observation another, viz., the simple unstudied persons, peasants and such otherwise unspoiled individuals whom we may believe innocent of all intention to play a comedy with us. We can learn much from such people and from children. And it is to be believed that in studying them we are studying not a special class but are establishing a generally valid paradigm of the whole of mankind. Children have the same features as adults only clearer and simpler. For, suppose we consider any one of Darwin's dicta,—e. g., that in the expression of anger and indignation the eyes shine, respiration becomes more rapid and intense, the nostrils are somewhat raised, the look misses the opponent,— these so intensely characteristic indices occur equally in the child and the adult. Neither shows more or fewer, and once we have defined them in the child we have done it for the adult also. Once the physiognomy of children and simple people has been studied,
Darwin posits three general principles on which most expressions and gestures are to be explained. They are briefly:
I. The principle of purposeful associated habits.
II. The principle of contradication.
III. The principle of the direct activity of the nervous system.
With regard to the first. When, in the course of a long series of generations, any desire, experience, or disinclination, etc., has led to some voluntary action, then, as often as the same or any analogous associated experience is undergone, there will arise a tendency to the realization of a similar action. This action may no longer have any use but is inherited and generally becomes a mere reflex.
This becomes clearer when one notices how often habit facilitates very complex action:—the habits of animals; the high steps of horses; the pointing of pointers; the sucking of calves, etc. It is difficult for us in falling to make opposite movements to stretching out the arms, even in bed; we draw on our gloves unconsciously. Gratiolet says: "Whoever energetically denies some point, etc., shuts his eyes; if he assents he nods and opens his eyes wide. Whoever describes a terrible thing shuts his eyes and shakes his head; whoever looks closely raises his eye-brows. In the attempt to think the same thing is done or the eye-brows are contracted— both make the glance keener. Thence follows the reflex activity."
With regard to the second. Dogs who are quarrelling with cats assume the appearance of battle—if they are kindly-minded they do the opposite, although this serves no purpose. M. Taylor[14] says, that the gesture language of the Cistercians depends considerably on antithesis; e. g., shrugging the shoulders is the opposite of firmness, immovability.
With regard to the direct activity of the nervous system, examples are paling, trembling (fear, terror, pain, cold, fever, horror, joy), palpitation of the heart, blushing, perspiring, exertion of strength, tears, pulling the hair, urinating, etc. With these subdivisions it will be possible to find some thoroughfare and to classify every phenomenon.
We want to discuss a few more particulars in the light of Darwin's
We must grant that, with the exception of such cases, the phenomena are significant during examinations, as when we show the accused a very effective piece of evidence, (e. g.: a comparison of hand-writings which is evidential,) and he closes his eyes. The act is then characteristic and of importance, particularly when his words are intended to contest the meaning of the object in question. The contradiction between the movement of his eyes and his words is then suggestive enough. The same occurs when the accused is shown the various possibilities that lie before him—the movement of the examination, the correlations and consequences. If he finds them dangerous, he closes his eyes. So with witnesses also; when one of them, e. g., deposes to more, and more harmfully, than according to our own notion he can explain, he will close his eyes, though perhaps for an instant only, if the inevitable consequences of his deposition are expounded to him. If he closes his eyes he has probably said too much, and the proper moment must not be missed to appeal to his conscience and to prevent more exaggerated and irresponsible assertions.
This form of closing the eyes is not to be confused with the performances of persons who want to understand the importance of their depositions and to collect their senses, or who desire to review
In a similar way there is significance in the sudden closing of the mouth by either the accused or the witness. Resolution and the shutting of the mouth are inseparable; it is as impossible to imagine a vacillating, doubting person with lips closely pressed together, as a firm and resolute person with open mouth. The reason implies Darwin's first law: that of purposeful associated habits. When a man firmly resolves upon some deed the resolution begins immediately to express itself in movements which are closely dependent upon bodily actions. Even when I suddenly resolve to face some correctly-supposed disagreeable matter, or to think about some joyless thing, a bodily movement, and indeed quite an energetic one, will ensue upon the resolution—I may push my chair back, raise my elbows, perhaps put my head quickly between my hands, push the chair back again, and then begin to look or to think. Such actions, however, require comparatively little bodily exertion; much more follows on different types of resolutions—in short, a firm resolution requires a series of movements immediately to follow its being made. And if we are to move the muscles must be contracted. And it is, of course, obvious that only those muscles can be set in action which are, according to the immediate situation of the body, free to move. If we are sitting down, for example, we can not easily make our feet conform to the movement of a march forward; nor can we do much with the thighs, hence the only muscles we can use are those of the face and of the upper limbs. So then, the mouth is closed because its muscles are contracted, and with equal significance the arms are thrust outward sharply, the fist clenched, and the fore-arm bent. Anybody may try the experiment for himself by going through the actions enumerated and seeing whether he does not become filled
If, then, we observe in any person before us the signs of resolution we may certainly suppose that they indicate a turn in what he has said and what he is going to say. If they be observed in the accused, then he has certainly resolved to pass from denial to confession, or to stick to his denial, or to confess or keep back the names of his accomplices, the rendezvous, etc. Inasmuch as in action there is no other alternative than saying or not saying so, it might be supposed that there is nothing important in the foregoing statement; the point of importance lies, however, in the fact that a definite resolution has been reached of which the court is aware and from which a departure will hardly be made. Therefore, what follows upon the resolution so betrayed, we cannot properly perceive; we know only that it in all likelihood consists of what succeeds it, i. e. the accused either confesses to something, or has resolved to say nothing. And that observation saves us additional labor, for he will not easily depart from his resolution.
The case is analogous with regard to the witness who tells no truth or only a part of the truth. He reveals the marks of resolution upon deciding finally to tell the truth or to persist in his lying, and so, whatever he does after the marks of resolution are noted, we are saved unnecessary effort to make the man speak one way or another.
It is particularly interesting to watch for such expressions of resolution in jurymen, especially when the decision of guilt or innocence is as difficult as it is full of serious consequences. This happens not rarely and means that the juryman observed is clear in his own mind as to how he is going to vote. Whatever testimony may succeed this resolution is then indifferent. The resolved juryman is so much the less to be converted, as he usually either pays no more attention to the subsequent testimony, or hears it in such prejudiced fashion that he sees everything in his own way. In this case, however, it is not difficult to tell what the person in question has decided upon. If the action we now know follows a very damaging piece of testimony, the defendant is condemned thereby; if it follows excusive testimony he is declared innocent. Anybody who studies the matter may observe that these manifestations are
Correlated with the signs of resolution are those of astonishment. "The hands are raised in the air," says Darwin, "and the palm is laid on the mouth." In addition the eyebrows are regularly raised, and people of not too great refinement beat their foreheads and in many cases there occurs a slight, winding movement of the trunk, generally toward the left. The reason is not difficult to find. We are astonished when we learn something which causes an inevitable change in the familiar course of events. When this occurs the hearer finds it necessary, if events are simple, properly to get hold of it. When I hear that a new Niebelungen manuscript has been discovered, or a cure for leprosy, or that the South Pole has been reached, I am astonished, but immediate conception on my part is altogether superfluous. But that ancient time in which our habitual movements came into being, and which has endured longer, incomparably longer than our present civilization, knew nothing whatever of these interests of the modern civilized human being.
In law these stigmata are significant when the person under examination ought to be astonished at what is told him but for one reason or another does not want to show his astonishment. This he may hide in words, but at least one significant gesture will betray him and therefore be of considerable importance in the case. So, suppose that we present some piece of evidence from which we expect great results; if they do not come we may perhaps have to take quite another view of the whole case. It is hence important not to be fooled about the effect, and that can be accomplished only through the observation of the witnesses' gestures, these being much more rarely deceptive than words.
Scorn manifests itself in certain nasal and oral movements. The nose is contracted and shows creases. In addition you may count the so-called sniffing, spitting, blowing as if to drive something away; folding the arms, and raising the shoulders. The action seems to be related to the fact that among savage people, at least, the representation of a worthless, low and despicable person is brought into relation with the spread of a nasty odor: the Hindoo still says of a man he scorns, "He is malodorous." That our ancestors thought similarly, the movement of the nose, especially raising it and blowing and sniffing, makes evident. In addition there is the raising of the shoulders as if one wanted to carry the whole body out of a disgusting atmosphere—the conduct, here, is briefly the conduct of the proud. If something of the sort is observable in the behavior of a witness it will, as a rule, imply something good about him: the accused denies thereby his identity with the criminal, or he has no other way of indicating the testimony of some damaging
The case is similar when a witness so conducts himself and expresses scorn. He will do the latter when the defendant or a false witness for the defense accuses him of slander, when indelicate motives are ascribed to him, or earlier complicity with the criminal, etc. The situations which give a man opportunity to show that he despises anybody are generally such as are to the advantage of the scorner. They are important legally because they not only show the scorner in a good light but also indicate that the scorn must be studied more closely. It is, of course, naturally true that scorn is to a great degree simulated, and for that reason the gestures in question must be attentively observed. Real scorn is to be distinguished from artificial scorn almost always by the fact that the latter is attended by unnecessary smiling. It is popularly and correctly held that the smile is the weapon of the silent. That kind of smile appears, however, only as defense against the less serious accusations, or perhaps even more serious ones, but obviously never when evil consequences attendant on serious accusations are involved. If indubitable evil is in question, no really innocent person smiles, for he scorns the person he knows to be lying and manifests other gestures than the smile. Even the most confused individual who is trying to conceal his stupidity behind a flat sort of laughter gives this up when he is so slandered that he is compelled to scorn the liar; only the simulator continues to smile. If, however, anybody has practiced the manifestation of scorn he knows that he is not to smile, but then his pose becomes theatrical and betrays itself through its exaggeration.
Not far from scorn are defiance and spite. They are characterized by baring the canine teeth and drawing together the face in a frown when turning toward the person upon whom the defiance or spite is directed. I believe that this image has got to be variously filled out by the additional fact that the mouth is closed and the breath several times forced sharply through the nostrils. This arises from the combination of resolution and scorn, these being the probable sources of defiance and spite. As was explained in the discussion of resolution, the mouth is bound to close; spite and defiance are not thinkable with open mouth. Scorn, moreover, demands, as we have shown, this blowing, and if the blowing is to be done while the mouth is closed it must be done through the nose.
Derision and depreciation show the same expressions as defiance
Real rage, unfortunately, is frequent. The body is carried erect or thrown forward, the limbs become stiff, mouth and teeth closely press together, the voice becomes very loud or dies away or grows hoarse, the forehead is wrinkled and the pupil of the eye contracted;
There is also something in the guilty sparkle of the eye. The sparkle in the eyes of beauty, the glance of joy, of enthusiasm, of rapture, is not so poetical as it seems, inasmuch as it is no more than intensified secretion of tears. The latter gets its increase through nervous excitation, so that the guilty sparkle should also be of the same nature. This may be considered as in some degree a flow of tears in its first stages.
An important gesture is that of resignation, which expresses itself especially as folding the hands in one's lap. This is one of the most obvious gestures, for "folding the hands in the lap" is proverbial and means there is no more to be done. The gesture signifies, therefore, "I'm not going to do any more, I can't, I won't." Hence it must be granted that the condition of resignation and its gesture can have no significance for our own important problem, the problem of guilt, inasmuch as the innocent as well as the guilty may become resigned, or may reach the limit at which he permits everything to pass without his interference. In the essence and expression of resignation there is the abandonment of everything or of some particular thing, and in court, what is abandoned is the hope to show innocence, and as the latter may be real as well as merely pleaded, this gesture is a definite sign in certain cases. It is to be noted among the relations and friends of a defendant who, having done everything to save him, recognize that the evidence of guilt is irrefutable. It is again to be noticed among courageous lawyers who, having exerted all their art to save their clients, perceive the failure of their efforts. And finally, the defendants show it, who
The contraction of the brow occurs in other cases besides those mentioned. Before all it occurs when anything is dealt with intensively, increasing with the increase of the difficulty of the subject. The aboriginal source of this gesture lies in the fact that intensive activities involve the need of acuter vision, and this is in some degree acquired by the contraction of the skin of the forehead above the eyebrows; for vision is clarified in this way. Intensive consideration on the part of a defendant or a witness, and the establishment of its reality or simulation, are significant in determining whether he himself believes the truth of what is about to be explained. Let us suppose that the issue involves proving an alibi on a certain definite, rather remote day, and the defendant is required to think over his whereabouts on that day. If he is in earnest with regard to the establishment of his alibi, i. e. if he really was not there and did not do the thing, it will be important for him to remember the day in question and to be able to name the witnesses of his whereabouts then. Hence he will think intensively. But if he has claimed an alibi dishonestly, as is frequent with criminals, in order to make people conclude that nobody has the right to demand where and for how long a time he was on such and such a day, then there is no need of thinking closely about something that has not happened. He exhibits in such cases a kind of thoughtfulness, which is not, however, earnest and profound: and these two adjectives describe real consideration. The same observations are to be made in regard to dishonest witnesses who, when pressed to think hard, only simulate doing so. One is compelled at the very least to look closely after the witness who simply imitates intensive
A rather different matter is that blank expression of the eyes which only shows that its possessor is completely lost in his thoughts —this has nothing to do with sharp recollection and demands above all things being let alone or the belief of being so. In this case no distinguishing gestures are made, though the forehead, mouth or chin may be handled, only, however, when embarrassment occurs— i. e. when the man observes that he is being watched, or when he discovers that he has forgotten the presence of other people. It is supposed that this does not occur in court, but it does happen not infrequently when, for example, the judge, after some long discussion with the accused, is about to dictate what has been said. If this takes rather a long time, it may chance that the witness is no longer listening but is staring vacantly into the distance. He is then reviewing his whole life or the development and consequences of his deed. He is absorbed in a so-called intuitive thought, in the reproduction of events. Intensive consideration requires the combination of particulars and the making of inferences; hence the form of thinking we have just been speaking of is merely spiritual sightseeing. It is when this takes place that confessions are most easy to get, if only the judge keeps his eyes properly open.
That contraction of the brow signifies a condition of disgust is well known, but there is yet, as I believe, a still other use of this contraction—i. e. its combination with a smile, indicating disbelief. How this union occurred seems comparatively undiscoverable— perhaps it results from the combination of the smile of denial with the frown of sharp observation. But the gesture is, in any event, reliable, and may not easily stand for anything but disbelief and doubt. Hence it is always a mistake to believe that anybody who makes that expression believes what he has heard. If you test it experimentally you will find that when you make it you say involuntarily to yourself: "Well now, that can't be true," or "Look here, that's a whopper!" or something like that. The expression occurs most frequently in confronting witnesses with defendants and especially witnesses with each other.
The close relation of the contraction of the brow with its early stage, a slight elevation of the eyebrows, is manifest in the fact that it occurs under embarrassment—not very regularly but almost always upon the perception of something foreign and inexplicable, or upon getting twisted in one's talk; in fact, upon all such conditions
Further to study the movements of the features will require an examination into the reasons for the action of these, and not other muscles, as accompaniments of the psychical states. Piderit holds it is due to the fact that the motor nerves which supply these muscles rise right next to the purely psychical centers and hence these muscles are the supports of the organs of sense. The latter is no doubt correct, but the first statement is rather doubtful. In any event it is evident that the features contain an exceptionally large number
We may take it as a general rule that all joyous and uplifting emotions (even astonishment) are succeeded by the raising of the skin of the forehead, the nostrils, the eyes, the eyelids, while sad and oppressing emotions have the contrary effect. This simple and easy rule renders immediately intelligible many an otherwise obscure expression which we find important but concerning the meaning of which we are in doubt. The development of a movement in any face goes, according to Harless,[16] in this fashion: "The superior motor nerve is the oculomotorius. The stimulation reaches this one first—the mildest alteration of emotion betrays itself most rapidly in the look, the movement and condition of the pupil of the eye. If the impulse is stronger it strikes the roots of the motor end of the trigeminus and the movement of the muscles of mastication occur; then the intensified affection spreads through the other features." Nobody will, of course, assert that even a completely developed physiognomical science will help us over all our difficulties, but with a little attention it can help us to a considerable degree. This help we do need, as La Rochefoucauld points out, with even contemporary correctness, "It is easier to know men than to know a particular man."
J. K. Lavater: Physiognomische Fragmente zur Beförderung des Menschenkentniss und Mensehenliebe. Leipzig 1775.
F. J. Gall: Introduction au Cours du Physiologie du Cerveau. Paris 1808. Recherches sur la système nerveux. Paris 1809.
Le Brun: Conferences sur l'Expression. 1820. Reich: Die Gestalt des Menschen und deren Beziehung zum Seelenleben. Heidelberg 1878. P. Mantegazza. Physiognomik u. Mimik. Leipzig 1890. Duchenne: Mechanismus des Menschlichen Physiognomie. 1862. Skraup: Katechismus der Mimik. Leipzig 1892. H. Magnus: Die Sprache der Augen. Gessmann: Katechismus der Gesichtslesekunst. Berlin 1896. A. Sehebest: Rede u. Geberde. Leipzig 1861. Engel: Ideen zu einer Mimik. Berlin 1785. G. Schneider: Die tierische Wille. 1880. K. Michel: Die Geberdensprache. Köl 1886. Wundt: Grundzüge, etc. Leipzig 1894. C. Lange: Über Gemutsbewegungen. 1887. Giraudet: Mimique, Physiognomie et Gestes. Paris 1895. A. Mosso: Die Furcht. 1889. D. A. Baer: Der Verbrecher. Leipzig 1893. Wiener. Die geistige Welt. Lotze. Medizinische Psychologie. Th. Waitz. Anthropologie der Naturvölker. Leipzig 1877. Lelut: Physiologie de la Pensée. Monro: Remarks on Sanity. C. F. Heusinger: Grundriss der physiologischen u. psychologischen Anthropologie. Eisenach 1829. Herbart: Psychologische Untersuchung. Göttingen 1839. Comte: Systeme de Philosophie Positive. Paris 1824. T. Meynert: Mechanik der Physiognomik. 1888. F. Goltz: Über Moderne Phrenologie. Deutsche Rundschau Nov. -Dec. 1885. H. Hughes: Die Mimik des Menschen auf Grund voluntarischer Psychologie Frankfurt a. M. 1900. A. Borée: Physiognom. Studien. Stuttgart 1899.
Section 21. (8) The Hand.
The physiognomy of the hand stands close to that of the face in significance and is in some relations of even greater importance, because the expression of the hand permits of no, or very slight, simulation. A hand may be rendered finer or coarser, may be rendered light or dark, the nails may be cared for or allowed to develop into claws. The appearance of the hand may be altered, but not its physiognomy or character. Whoever creases his face in the same way for a thousand times finally retains the creases and receives from them a determinate expression even if this does not reveal his inner state; but whoever does the same thing a thousand times with his hand does not thereby impress on it a means of identification. The frequent Tartuffian rolling of the eyes finally gives the face a pious or at least pietistic expression, but fold your hands in
Whoever studies the hand psychologically gains in the course of time a great deal of faith in what the hand tells him. And finally he doubts it only when chirognomy conflicts with physiognomy. If in such cases it is observed that the hand is more likely to be correct than the face, and that inferences from the hand more rarely show themselves to be false, one is reminded of the dictum of Aristotle, "The hand is the organ of organs, the instrument of instruments in the human body." If this is correct, the favored instrument must be in the closest kind of relation with the psyche of the owner, but if this relation exists there must be an interaction also. If the hand contained merely its physical structure, Newton would never have said, "Other evidence lacking, the thumb would convince me of God's existence."
How far one ought to establish fundamental propositions in this matter, I can not easily say. Perhaps it would be scientifically most correct to be satisfied for the time with collecting the carefully and keenly observed material and getting the anatomists, who are already in need of material for professional investigations, to take the matter up; in collecting photographs of hands belonging to persons whose characters are well known and in getting a sufficient number of properly equipped persons to make the collection. If we had enough material to draw fundamental principles from, much that has been asserted by Bell, Carus, D'Arpentigny, Allen, Gessmann, Liersch, Landsberg,[1] etc., might be proved and tested. But their statements
However true this classification may be, the establishment and description of the various significatory signs is very difficult, especially because the forms named rarely appear in clear and sharply defined subdivisions. The boundaries are fluid, like the characters themselves, and where the properties of one group pass almost directly into the other, both description and recognition are difficult. If, then, we can not depend upon a systematic, and at present remote treatment, we still may depend on well-founded observations which appear as reliable presuppositions in the light of their frequent repetition.
Not essentially psychological but of importance for the criminalist are the inferences we may draw from Herbert Spencer's assertion that people whose ancestors have worked with their hands possess heavy hands. Conversely, people whose ancestors have not worked hard with their hands possess small and fine hands. Hence the small delicate hands of Jews, the frequent perfection of form and invariable smallness of the hands of Gypsies, who have inherited their hands from high-cast Hindoos, and the so-called racial hands of real aristocrats. That hard work, even tumbling, piano playing, etc., should alter the form of a hand is self-evident, since muscles grow stronger with practice and the skin becomes coarser and drawn through friction, sharp wind and insufficient care. As is well known, physical properties are hereditary and observable in any study of races; is it any wonder that a skilled glance at a man's hand may uncover a number of facts concerning the circumstances of his life? Nobody doubts that there are raw, low, sensual, fat hands. And who does not know the suffering, spiritual, refined, and delicate
And this is remarkable because we are not fooled through a well cared for, fine and elegant hand. Everybody, I might say, knows the convincing quality that may lie in the enormous leathery fist of a peasant. For that, too, is often harmoniously constructed, nicely articulated, appears peaceful and trustworthy. We feel that we have here to do with a man who is honest, who presents himself and his business as they are, who holds fast to whatever he once gets hold of, and who understands and is accustomed to make his words impressive. And we gain this conviction, not only through the evidence of honest labor, performed through years, but also through the stability and determination of the form of his hands. On the other hand, how often are we filled with distrust at the sight of a carefully tended, pink and white hand of an elegant gentleman— whether because we dislike its condition or its shape, or because the form of the nails recalls an unpleasant memory, or because there is something wrong about the arrangement of the fingers, or because of some unknown reason. We are warned, and without being hypnotised, regularly discover that the warning is justified. Certain properties are sure to express themselves: coldness, prudence, hardness, calm consideration, greed, are just as indubitable in the hand as kindness, frankness, gentleness, and honesty.
The enchantment of many a feminine hand is easily felt. The surrender, the softness, the concession, the refinement and honesty of many a woman is so clear and open that it streams out, so to speak, and is perceivable by the senses.
To explain all this, to classify it scientifically and to arrange it serially, would be, nowadays at least, an unscientific enterprise. These phenomena pass from body to body and are as reliable as inexplicable. Who has never observed them, and although his attention has been called to them, still has failed to notice them, need not consider them, but persons believing in them must be warned against exaggeration and haste. The one advice that can be given is to study the language of the hand before officially ignoring it; not to decide immediately upon the value of the observations one is supposed to have made, but to handle them cautiously and to test them with later experiences. It is of especial interest to trace
The masculine hand is generally too heavy and slow, clearly to exhibit the more refined movements; these are fully developed only in the feminine, particularly in the hands of vivacious, nervous, and spiritually excitable women. The justice who observes them may read more than he can in their owner's words. The hand lies in the lap apparently inert, but the otherwise well concealed anger slowly makes a fist of it, or the fingers bend characteristically forward as if they wished to scratch somebody's eyes out. Or they cramp together in deep pain, or the balls of the four other fingers pass with pleasure over the ball of the thumb, or they move spasmodically, nervously, impatiently and fearfully, or they open and close with characteristic enjoyment like the paws of cats when the latter feel quite spry.
Closer observation will show that toes reveal a great deal, particularly among women who wear rather fine shoes and hence can move their feet with greater ease. In anger, when they cannot, because it would be suggestive, stamp their feet, the women press their toes closely to the ground. If they are embarrassed they turn the sole of their shoe slightly inwards and make small curves with the point on the ground. Impatience shows itself through alternating and swinging pressure of heel and toe, repeated with increasing rapidity; defiance and demand through raising the toes in such a way that the sole is directly forward and the foot rests only on the heel. Sensuality is always indicated when the foot is put forward and the shin bone lightly stretched out, when all the toes are drawn in toward the sole just as the cat does when she feels good. What women do not say in words and do not express in their features and do not indicate in the movement of their hands, they say with their feet; the inner experience must express itself externally and the foot most betrays it.
In conclusion it ought to be kept in mind that the hands of all
C. Bell: The Human Hand. London 1865. K. G. Carus: Über Grund u. Bedeutung der verschiedenen Hand. Stuttgart 1864. D'Arpentigny: La Chirognomie. Paris 1843. Allen. Manual of Cheirosophy. London 1885. Gessman: Die Männerhand, Die Frauenhand, Die Kinderhand. Berlin 1892, 1893, 1894. Liersch. Die linke Hand. Berlin 1893. J. Landsberg: Die Wahrsagekunst aus der Menschlichen Gestalt. Berlin 1895.
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