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| Introduction | vii | ||||
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| Preface | xxi | ||||
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1 | (37) | |||
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38 | (31) | |||
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69 | (53) | |||
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122 | (47) | |||
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169 | (74) | |||
| Bibliography | 243 |
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Chapter One
FOR A SECRET OFFENSE, SECRET REVENGE
Dr. Max v. Forschung, Professor Ordinarius at the University of Würzburg, Geheimrath , member of the Phys. und Med. Gesellschaft , fortunate author of brilliant physiological and bacteriological discoveries, lived as happily as scientists can live who are disquieted and kept awake at night by the devouring fever of investigation and the desire to emulate glorious reputations. At fifty, he was tall, lean, and red-haired, with green eyes full of goodness. He had thin lips that expressed irony and formed simple, precise words, for he was accustomed to conveying the truth without veils or rhetorical artifices. Seen in profile, he exhibited one of those long, hammer-shaped heads that seem expressly made to beat obstinately on the facts until they emit some sparks of light. Slightly bent in the shoulders and thin in the arms and legs, he looked like a grapevine in winter. Like the vine, he offered a dry, harsh exterior, but when the warmth of thought came upon him, he produced beautiful, savory fruits. In sum, our scientist was gawky and plain enough--without actually being deformed or physically repugnant--that he did not make love, which for most men is the perennial preoccupation in life.
Forschung now found himself in the season of true scientific productivity. Every six months he discovered a pathogenic microbe, and on those rare occasions when he found nothing new, he knew how to demonstrate point for point that the microbes described by rival bacteriologists were miserable discredited or false bacilli, and therefore incapable of playing any pathogenic role in man or animals. Needless to say, such an attitude did not please the great master's adversaries, who would have preferred to find deadly germs capable of bringing desolation on half of humanity.
For half a century, Forschung had remained celibate because he had had no time to make women fall in love with him, nor had it entered into his calculations to complicate his life with the care of a wife and children. Undoubtedly, he would have remained single forever--and probably quite happy--if that rogue Cupid, scheming stealthily against Minerva, had not inoculated him with the terrible toxin of love.
Miss Emma Sanderson, a twenty-four-year-old American, fresh, blonde, appetizing, and a doctor of philosophy and medicine from the University of Berlin to boot, was the one charged by destiny to awaken the rather drowsy impulses toward the preservation of the species in that naive scientist.
Let us excuse this fifty-year-old lover. In his place, who would not have done the same? When life is half over, laboratories grow so cold, and friends so self-centered! Besides, there were extenuating circumstances. In addition to being an orphan (which no one can deny is an excellent condition), and possessing a healthy, sparkling, captivating beauty, the aforementioned Emma had the truly diabolical impulse to make herself the professor's private assistant. Perhaps her goal--this is what was said, at least--was to study and gain a command of Forschung's precious methods of investigation, so that she could later export them to the free, Saxon land of America.
How else could it have ended? Forschung passionately longed to acquaint himself with a new field about which he had only vague, very outdated information. For her part, Emma ended up persuading herself that it was no mean bargain to become the wife of a prince of science, a Geheimrath who earned 50,000 marks a year and used the aristocratic von in front of his glorious name ... And so, leaving preambles and prudishness aside, she accepted the scientist's hand.
Let us be impartial. Let us admit, with generosity, that the bold American was far from being a vulgar gold digger. In two years of daily scientific cohabitation and intimate spiritual communion, Emma fell in love with--or at least believed herself to have fallen in love with--the prestigious master. Glory fascinates enlightened, cultivated spirits, and the pleasant doctor, who had perfumed incubators and autoclaves, microscopes and swan-neck flasks with her beauty, came to feel an affection for that microbial Eden, where the lofty fiat lux of scientific creation had so often sounded.
One must admit--and we say it with envy--that the protagonist of this story succeeded in this rare opportunity granted by fortune. What a great stroke of luck to unite, in a single body, wife and helper, spiritual and sensual confidante, shrewd counselor, capable of understanding the shudderings of the soul (in those agonizing times when the microscope seems like a dark well and the incubator, a Pandora's box), and faithful, rapid executor of experimental intuitions! But let us not distract ourselves from the matter at hand.
Once married, the couple took great care to avoid the horrid vulgarity--and who could blame them?--of spending their honeymoon in Paris or Switzerland, like any other ordinary bourgeois newlyweds. They likewise rejected the commis voyageur , which provides tickets à moitié prix for a honeymoon trip. On the contrary, they decided to exploit the enthusiastic ardor of their first months together to carry out an interesting, fruitful scientific exploration. And so, equipped with their instruments, they traversed Greece and Egypt, Syria and Persia, and had the good fortune to discover and cultivate several virulent microbes. Among them was one undocumented bacillus responsible for the severe dermatosis one encounters in sleepy eastern villages.
When they returned, they continued their investigations of the new parasite's etiology with even greater eagerness and fervor, if such a thing is possible. They discovered a serum that successfully counteracted its effects, and they published a long, luminous report, illustrated with splendid chromolithographs, in the Zeitschrift für Hygiene und Bakteriologie .
Just about the time that this interesting communication appeared, Forschung's brave, gallant collaborator brought to light another microbe, that is to say, a strong, beautiful baby boy, incubated under the fiery sun of Palestine ... Needless to say, this new sprout received the name of Max; and the microbe, bacillus Sandersoni , in honor of the winsome assistant.
Dr. Forschung had achieved his highest aspirations. Four things now bore his name: a pathogenic microbe (not to be confused with the recently discovered one), a son, an attractive woman, and a street in the city's new district, the elegant Forschungstrasse , lined with thick-topped linden trees just like the renowned Unter den Linden in Berlin.
Who could ask for more? To have people who envied him? There were dozens. Ferocious enemies? There was no shortage. His glory lacked nothing ... except for misfortune. And the good scientist came to know it ... Yes, he suffered the same disappointment in love as any vulgar, prosaic philistine abandoned by his hysterical, uncomprehending wife. He came to roar with jealousy and desperation just like any novice in love ... But let us not anticipate events or change the order of narration.
Three years after his expedition to the East, the scientist fell into a deep depression. He became involved in scientific polemics full of acrimony and personal attacks, initiated by insolent challengers who could not pardon him for having relegated their mediocre minds to the background. Profound meditation and persistent experiments to gain control over the intoxicating state of things had undermined his health and embittered his character. The devouring fever for new truth, the desire to discover some decisive fact that would redeem his theory and crush his enemies, gradually became an agonizing obsession. In comparison to that, what did other feelings matter? And so, as is wont to happen, the fire in his mind stole all the fuel from the burnt offerings of love.
One must recognize that when one is fifty-three years old and has a pretty young wife, devoting oneself excessively to science can be a little dangerous ... At great expense, Forschung learned this sad truth. But let us recount the facts in an orderly fashion.
Gradually, our scientist began to notice that the loving feeling of his home had changed for him. The thing is that, in the face of the doctor's indifference, Emma had reacted in her own way. Her impetuous flights of feeling had given way to a coolness and reserve that deeply disturbed the scientist. A certain disquieting conjecture was appearing, then disappearing in his mind--weak and hesitant at first; then, more emphatic and colorful; and at last, agonizingly strong, painfully shaking the most intimate fibers of his being.
In vain he tried to cast it aside. His efforts, though, only helped the empty shade to fill his surroundings with accusations, to coagulate into human flesh and acquire a vibrant reality. Finally, as if fantasy and reason had finished their creative work, and his will, now tamed, had entirely adapted itself to the distressing vision, he exclaimed bitterly:
"There's no doubt about it! Some man has cast a shadow over my wife's soul ... And this man can be none other than Mosser, my romantic, scatter-brained assistant ..."
Doctor Heinrich Mosser, Privatdozent at the university and laboratory assistant to Professor Forschung, was the very epitome of the southern type so admired by the pale, prudish daughters of the north. A very tall man with a bizarre countenance, he had lusterless, dark skin and an aquiline nose. His huge, enflaming, fascinating black eyes offered the attraction of an abyss and the provocation of an irresistible don Juan. With its shadowy, mysterious depths, his entire swarthy, arrogant figure seemed expressly made to set off the bright, rosy highlights of blond, Saxon flesh. To complete this portrait, let us mention his head of curly, jet-black hair, an excellent decorative frame for an impeccable bust. His curled, pointed, well-trimmed beard gave his face some indefinable priestly, majestic air reminiscent of those proud, correct, solemn heads of Assyrian rulers on the bas-reliefs of Nineveh. Without a doubt, Mosser must have been known among his friends down at the brasserie as the Terrible Ashurbanipal .
Perhaps time, which dissolves all things, and scientific worries, which are the best product of afflicted souls, would finally have erased that disquieting conjecture from Forschung's mind. But Providence, which likes to disguise itself as random chance, brought the infamous traitor to light ... Who was responsible for this? In the laboratory, who else could it be but the terrible microscope ?
One day, working alone in his laboratory, the doctor spied something on the opaline crystal that underlay his preparations and brought them into focus. Much to his astonishment, he saw two long hairs: one, straight and blond; the other, curly and black, entwined in an intimate, passionate embrace ...
The fact in itself, of course, was hardly worthy of note. Every day that laboratory was visited by students sporting hairs of many different colors. The surprising, disconcerting thing for poor Forschung was that, when viewed under the microscope, the black hair had exactly the dimensions, color, and length of his assistant Mosser's, while the blond one perfectly matched the splendid gold filaments of Emma's crown. If any doubt remained as to the origin of these fibers, a microchemical analysis resolved it. The dark one revealed a few minuscule droplets of bergamot, Mosser's favorite shaving lotion. On the blond one, he could see traces of essence of oregano, Emma's perfume of choice. Both compounds could be found in the laboratory, where, as is known, they are used to prepare histological sections.
But what astounded the unhappy scientist was the accusing posture, the intimate relationship of those two hairs. Bitter, overwhelming suspicions passed through Forschung's mind, shaking him with terrible fits of trembling! Now there could be no doubt! The entwining and wriggling of those two microscopic organs was more than symbolic. In reality, it represented the faithful image of other, macroscopic entwining and wriggling, which the doctor could not even imagine without feeling his heart pound with rage!
"Good God!" exclaimed poor Forschung, once his agitated nerves had calmed themselves a little. "To what depths of intimacy and criminal abandon can those disloyal heads and bodies have sunk, that their hairs have entwined themselves so inextricably?"
Assuming a facial expression somewhere between bitterness and irony, in which there glittered a sparkle of the scientist's inquisitive passion, he added:
"Now, here's a deep, psycho-physiological problem that I must resolve without losing an instant. My outraged honor demands it. The continual attacks on my scientific work also require it, for the paralysis of my research would bring my unjust adversaries the greatest possible satisfaction ... Anything is better than living shrouded in darkness ... anything, even disillusionment with love and trust. And I shall avenge myself secretly, avoiding the scandal and taunts of the world at large ... I will do it through original scientific procedures, which will remain unknown even to their victims ..."
As one can see, even in Forschung's fits of indignation, the investigator predominated over the husband. The idea of stooping to vulgarity, of avenging this outrage to his marital honor according to the muscular formula of stone-age man--of falling back on violent motor reactions that he shared with all other animals--infinitely pained his self-love.
A scientist, you see, has an eminently aristocratic mind. Those who know him only by his works--poor, innocent souls--believe that he labors for the good of humanity! Such is not the case: he works for his own pride! The investigator loves progress ... the progress that he brings about himself. When the press notes the appearance of a new truth triumphing over distance, pain or death, the world prostrates itself before the genius, intoning clamorous hosannas. Only the men in laboratories applaud coldly, mutedly, ... taking care to play down the value or originality of the invention, if they are not--as is also often the case--maintaining their sepulchral silence.
Yet still, if we disregard the private, egotistical driving force that moves the investigative spirit and focus exclusively on the social impact of each discovery, the scientist's claim to altruism is affirmed. His inventions really do benefit humanity. The apparent contradiction dissolves when we remember that in science, as in love, the protagonist is deceived by Nature. By virtue of an irremediable illusion, the scientist and lover believe--as far as their own respective functions are concerned--that they are working pro domo sua , when in reality, they are only working for the good and glory of the species. Oh, what supreme inventions, what powerful forces for progress are imbecilic pride and the vain desire for glory!
But, leaving aside all cumbersome digressions, let us again take up the thread of our tale. When we left off, the aggrieved Forschung was doubting his wife's loyalty. Deeply disturbed by his feverish imagination (the renowned imagination of the scientist), he was beginning to take these images of the lewdest, most criminal pleasures for reality. Yet with all of this happening, one must confess that the jealous husband had nothing but glimmers and inklings ... no decisive proof of Emma's dishonesty. Finally he came to recognize this and conceded that, before carrying out his terrible premeditated vengeance, it was absolutely necessary to convert these vague signs into flagrant, accusing proof.
Unfortunately, scrupulous new explorations of the laboratory furniture yielded data of great importance.
One day, when Forschung was using a magnifying glass to examine the chaise longue in the library adjacent to the lab, he discovered new pairs of accusing hairs and other highly significant tokens. Silken threads from Emma's blouse were consorting intimately with woolen filaments from his assistant's gray suit. What is more, one could detect unusual depressions, molds, and chaffings in the couch's stuffing, suggesting how that weary piece of furniture had creaked in time to the spirited movements of passion it had contained. What desecration! To dishonor that comfortable divan whose soft, cool velvet had so often soothed the scientist's agitation when, after interminable hours of mental fatigue, he had anxiously sought--in the refuge of meditation--an explanation for unexpected results in the day's experiments!
Eager to know the whole truth, our scientist decided to persist with his investigations, but to carry them out without arousing the suspicions of the happy lovers. Like microbes cultivated on a slide, they swam and refreshed themselves prettily, far from realizing they were the target of persistent observation.
To obtain the critical evidence, he set up four Marey receptors under the feet of the aforementioned piece of furniture so that they were hidden by the carpet. These were linked via rubber tubes to a receiving device he had installed inside a cabinet. Operated by electricity, the mechanism was rigged in such a way that it could only be activated when two people whose combined weight exceeded 225 pounds settled onto the couch. With things arranged in this fashion, he waited tranquilly, like a camouflaged hunter, to take a shot at the turtledoves. Soon they would be denounced, personally and unwittingly, by the writing of the machine.
Several days passed, and the smoky paper remained untouched. But, ah! One night, when Forschung had just returned from the Royal Academy of Physical and Natural Sciences where he had delivered a lengthy paper, he saw, with growing amazement, that two people had been resting on that piece of furniture ... or, rather, more accurately, that they had not modestly limited themselves to resting ...
Stupefied, the good man studied the long, graphic printout, as eloquent and explicit as any scientific document. Instead of accusing the traitors in vague, general terms, it marked out, with cruel pleasure, every phase of the repugnant crime. The graphic record began with subtle inflections, but minutes later, the curves seemed to have been seized by a sudden fit of illness, exhibiting great mountains and valleys. The rhythm then assumed an unwonted liveliness, which became a gradual crescendo until, at last, the allegro movement came--a bold, extremely high, and valiantly sustained plateau. After a magnificent pause, the inscription came to an end, returning languidly and meekly to its primitive state of repose ... to the straight line, perhaps, of disillusion and fatigue ...
Now there could be no room for doubt! His ungrateful wife, the one who claimed to be in love with the scientist, the one who had vowed to devote her life to enhancing the glorious investigator's precious existence, had forgotten her sense of decency and sullied the immaculate honor of the prince of science! Ah! Such an outrage called for revenge ... terrible revenge!
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