At the next sitting, or the next to that, the living statue begins to wake in its tranced life. The operator holds one hand over the opposite hand of his patient, and makes as if he would draw the patient’s hand upwards, raising his own with short successive jerks, yet not too abrupt. Then the patient’s hand begins to follow his; and, often having ascended some inches, stops in the air catochally. This fixed state is always relieved by transverse brushings with the hand, or by breathing in addition, on the rigid limb. And it is most curious to see the whole bodily frame, over which spasmodic rigidness may have crept, thus thawed joint by joint. Then the first effect shown commonly is this motion, the patient’s hand following the operator’s. At the same sitting he begins to hear, and there is intelligence in his countenance when the operator pronounces his name: perhaps his lips move, and he begins to answer pertinently, as in ordinary sleep-walking. But he hears the operator alone best, and him even in a whisper. _Your_ voice, if you shout, he does not hear: unless you take the operator’s hand, and then he hears _you_ too. In general, however, now the proximity of others seems in some way to be sensible to him; and he appears uneasy when they crowd close upon him. It seems that the force of the relation between the operator and his patient naturally goes on increasing, as the powers of the sleep-walker are developed; but that this is not necessarily the case, and depends upon its being encouraged by much commerce between them, and the exclusion of others from joining in this trance-communion. And now the patient—beginning to wake in trance, hearing and answering the questions of the operator, moving each limb, or rising even, as the operator’s hand is raised to draw him into obedient following—enters into a new relation with his mesmeriser. He _adopts sympathetically every voluntary movement of the other_. When the latter rises from his chair, _he_ rises; when he sits down, _he_ sits down: if he bows, _he_ bows; if he makes a grimace, _he_ makes the same. Yet his eyes are closed. He certainly does not see. His mind has interpenetrated to a small extent the nervous system of the operator; and is in relation with his voluntary nerves and the anterior half of his cranio-spinal chord. (These are the organs by which the impulse to voluntary motion is conveyed and originated.) Further into the other’s being he has not yet got. So he does not _what the other thinks of, or wishes him to do_: but only what the other either does, or goes through the mental part of doing. So Victor sang the air which M. de Puységur only mentally hummed.