The Second Life of Doctor Albin
by
Raoul Gineste
translated, annotated and introduced by
Brian Stableford
A Black Coat Press Book
CONTENTS
Introduction
THE SECOND LIFE OF DOCTOR ALBIN
FRENCH SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY COLLECTION
Introduction
La Seconde vie du docteur Albin by “Raoul Gineste,” here translated as The Second Life of Doctor Albin, was originally published by the Librairie des Mathurins in 1902, and reprinted several times in rapid succession as it achieved a success that was, alas, to prove meteoric. It was the author’s first novel, following two collections of poetry associated with the Félibrige—a movement launched in the 1850s by a group of Provençal writers desirous of reviving the Occitan language—although he published more poems in French than in Occitan, and was also been associated with the Parnassians.
Born in 1849 according to the Bibliothèque Nationale, 1852 according to other sources, “Gineste,” whose real name was Adolphe Augier, came rather late to the Félibrige, and La Seconde vie du docteur Albin was a rather belated debut as a novelist, but the success of that first venture led him to follow it up with several more novels before his death in 1914, as well as a volume of mildly satirical reminiscences, Soirs de Paris [Parisian Evenings] (1903). As the subject-matter of the novel suggests, Augier had spent most of his life working as a physician in Paris, although he also frequented the Bohemian literary milieu of the Latin Quarter, being acquainted with Théodore Banville, José-Maria de Heredia, Charles Leconte de Lisle, Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, among others; his memoir attests that he was well acquainted with the milieu of “café concerts” described in the novel. Seen in association with his second novel, Le Nègre de Paris [The Negro of Paris] (1903), La Seconde vie du docteur Albin also suggests that he might well have felt something of an outsider, if not an actual outcast, in all the sectors of Parisian society except for “Bohemia.”
As a contribution to the tradition of roman scientifique, La Seconde vie du docteur Albin belongs to a set of fictions that explore the supposed psychology typical of scientists with considerable analytical intensity. The tradition in question had begun in the 1840s in the “fantaisies scientifiques” of S. Henry Berthoud, an archetypal exercise in that vein being the striking “Voyage au ciel” (1841; tr. as “A Heavenward Voyage”), which Berthoud followed up with such further examples as “Le Maître de temps” (1844; tr. as “The Master of the Weather”) and “Le Second Soleil” (periodical publication uncertain; book version 1862; tr. as “The Second Sun”).1 That groundwork had been laid for some time before the phrase roman scientifique—used since the 18th century to refer to scientific theories considered too fanciful by the user—was adapted in the 1870s as a description of a kind of fiction, primarily with reference to the works of Jules Verne, whose fictional scientists closely resembled the model developed extensively by Berthoud in terms of their supposedly distinctive psychological quirks
In the same decade, however, the term was also adopted by a number of critics, led by Édouard Rod, to apply to the “Naturalist” fiction then being ardently promoted by Émile Zola and his followers, on the grounds that Zolaesque examination of human character was a quasi-scientific exercise, a kind of analytic psychology in itself. That label inevitably took on a particularly strong connotation when Zola and other writers in that vein focused their attention of protagonists who were scientists, as in Zola’s Le Docteur Pascal (1893; tr. as Doctor Pascal). Whereas Zola and the first generation of Naturalists tended to focus on supposed hereditary and social determinants of character, the second generation, led by Paul Bourget’s example, took far more inspiration from rapid developments in psychological theory, and their work became more probing as well as more clinical, in such determined analysis of the “scientific mind” as André Beaunier’s L’Homme qui a perdu son moi (1911; tr. as The Man Who Lost Himself), which might conceivably have taken some inspiration from Raoul Gineste’s quintessential account of self-loss.
One of the central planks of the model of the scientific mind—or, or more accurately of scientific genius—constructed by the early writers of roman scientifique who followed where Berthoud led is the notion that a true love of science is essentially incompatible with, and perhaps antithetical to, love between the sexes. It would almost be possible to write “the love of women,” because almost all the scientists represented in roman scientifique are male, but there are female examples, like Geneviève Gasquin in Jean Richepin’s L’Aile (1911)2 and Jeanne Fortin in Félicien Champsaur’s Homo-Deus: Le Satyre invisible (1924),3 whose separation from amorous experience is even more dramatic. Moral tales such as René de Pont-Jest’s “La Tête de Mimer” (1863)4 make much of the supposed incompatibility in question, to the point, in that particular case, of representing the lure of science as a literal diabolical temptation, tragically freezing the heart against the author’s preferred version of true love.
Many scientists featured in roman scientifique are, of course, married, but it is almost invariably taken for granted that they neglect their wives, often to the latter’s chagrin, and always prioritize their work when any conflict of interest arises; sometimes, that neglect became an ironic central theme, as in “Le Microbe de Professeur Bakermann” (1890)5 by “Charles Epheyre” (the physiologist Charles Richet). Often, the scientists of roman scientifique love their daughters far more, the love in question demanding a far less complex reciprocity. It is not necessarily the case that the typical genius of roman scientifique does not love his wife—the protagonist of Berthoud’s “Voyage au ciel,” for instance, loves his wife very dearly and makes considerable sacrifices in her favor—but their love is invariably somehow unorthodox; its truth, when it is true, is not the same truth as that of the traditional poetic image of true love.
Although it is not the only feature of the psychology of scientific genius brought into close and intense focus in La Seconde vie du docteur Albin, the protagonist’s involvements with sexual love are a leading feature of the plot, and perhaps the most interesting one. The novel provides what is perhaps the most searching analysis of that allegedly-perverse emotional involvement to be found in the genre, and, although it is not necessarily accurate—indeed, the fundamental model might be nothing more than a bizarre myth—it is certainly thorough, in terms of the detail of the protagonist’s thought-processes. From a “poetic” viewpoint, its thoroughness might make it seem one of the most damning such analyses—René de Pont-Jest would probably have thought so—but Gineste was a scientist himself as well as a poet, and his attitude is far more balanced than some, infused with a genuine puzzlement and exploratory curiosity as well as a sense of inevitable tragedy.
Other repetitive themes of roman scientifique crop up in Gineste’s novel in various ways, mostly marginally, and to draw up a full list here would constitute a spoiler in one vital instance, but the novel has other interesting features, and has the enormous advantage of setting up a genuinely intriguing situation, whose development maintains a considerable dramatic suspense throughout a long and complex series of events. That dramatic quality is exaggerated to the extent of relentless toying with the elements and clichés of melodrama: a play which is to some extent deliberate teasing but also has a considerable depth of sincere feeling. As in many melodramas, the plot makes use of outrageous coincidences, whose accumulation eventually reaches such proportions that the reader, like the protagonist, will surely come to the conclusion that they cannot be the product of chance, and that Dr. Albin’s alter egos really are being actively pursued by a malevolent fate intent on punishing him
for the sin that he initially considers to be venial, but whose cardinality he learns to his cost. The novel remains, however, conscientiously Naturalistic, even taking the trouble to include a digression arguing the nonsensicality of the idea of the supernatural.
The story’s elements of speculative science remain stubbornly marginal; the two significant inventions made by the protagonist are only employed momentarily as inconsequential plot levers, and we are never told what Dr. Albin’s theory of biological chemistry actually asserts, what it crucial flaw is, and how its repair might be effected; that absence is a trifle frustrating, although it is perhaps more honest than the more common science-fictional technique of filling such conceptual gaps with gobbledygook. The story could not refer to an actual theory—all the more so as it begins more than a quarter of a century before its publication date—so the one that it invokes is necessarily symbolic, and the author presumably felt that its symbolic quality made detailed information unnecessary as well as impractical. One consequence of the omission is that, in spite of the tight focus the narrative has on the protagonist’s thought and feelings, the one thing we never overhear him thinking about is the science he loves so dearly—but all fiction of this kind is, and has to be, more interested in the side-effects of a true love of science rather than the object of the amour itself.
Some readers might feel that the absence from the narrative of any detailed scientific or pseudoscientific rhetoric is a flaw, others might think the same about its over-reliance on coincidence, and some might consider that its account of the protagonist’s ten-year odyssey through hell on earth contains too many digressions, but none of these aspects of the text are mistakes, and they have their virtues as well as their irritating aspects. In sum, the book is a bold and original venture whose originality reflects considerable intellectual and literary acumen as well as a certain winning audacity—something the original readers responsible or its initial success evidently realized. It is certainly highly readable, and maintains its dramatic tension to the end.
This translation was made from the copy of the second printing of the Librairie des Mathurins edition reproduced on the Bibliothèque Nationale’s gallica website.
Brian Stableford
THE SECOND LIFE OF DOCTOR ALBIN
Chapter I
The first event that troubled the quietude, so profound until then, of Dr. Albin, the illustrious author of Biological Chemistry, occurred in the spring of the year 18**. His only daughter, his adored Jeanne, whose beauty was emerging more radiantly every day from the uncertain forms of childhood, died of typhoid fever at the age of fifteen.
All the leading medical lights in Paris, combined with all knowledge and all devotion, were unable to avert the fatal conclusion. Intoxication, secret troubles or intellectual overexertion? What did it matter? The disease had defied all remedies; death, as if to affirm its invincible power, had struck, in his pride as a healer, in his future projects, and in his dearest affection, the man who had made a game of snatching away its prey.
So, the man whose miracles were proclaimed by renown, the artist of reliable diagnosis, the scientist always guided by logic and prudence, victorious in so many reputedly desperate cases, was unable to save from death the one being he loved with all his heart. The death that he had chased from so many dwellings had settled coldly that day, ironically and implacably, in his own hearth. Why?
He had not found himself in the presence of an incurable disease, a devastating attack, or an irredeemably worn-out organism. Is human science so uncertain that it becomes impotent just at the moment when it is most necessary?
For a long time, the desolate father had before his eyes the drawn features, the ashen lips, and the feverish and imploring gaze of the dying girl. For a long time, as if nursing a rancor against the science that had, so to speak, betrayed and abandoned him, he deserted the school and the amphitheater; then, begged by his admirers and those near to him, solicited by all wishes, he was finally seen—somber of expression, to be sure, with silver threads in his long black hair—to emerge from his solitude, resume his chair and once again hold hundreds of young men from all over the world under the spell and authority of his instruction.
Should not the ardent and positive convictions of Dr. Albin have been above a personal tragedy? No, science was not responsible for his woe; the only true guilty party was him, who, to avoid too heavy a responsibility, had appealed to the enlightenment of others. Why that sentimental weakness? Why had he not cared for his poor Jeanne himself, and alone?
Briefly, the learned professor had thought that his wife, who was much younger than him, would help him to overcome his chagrin; but there were so many misunderstandings between them, so many points of friction, insignificant in appearance but in reality profound, so much divergences in the fashion of envisaging wellbeing, that he had quickly returned to his initial state of conjugal indifference. Madame Albin, a simultaneously worldly and pious Parisienne, an elegant doll who divided her time between the concerns of toilette and works of charity, a quintessential product of an honest but futile bourgeois education, was too distant from her husband for a catastrophe, terrible as it was, to be able to bring them together definitively.
Furthermore, a painful observation had come to offend his self-esteem. His favorite pupil, his protégé, the Dr. Larmezan he had once chosen for his daughter and received into his intimacy, was overtly courting his wife, and appeared to be paid in return. To what degree were they culpable? The certainty of their sin would only have caused him scorn, for the one who had betrayed his confidence and the other who had betrayed her duty. But there was in their attitude, replete with frankness, a kind of reproach for his blind indifference, and a kind of affirmation of the right to amour that wounded his vanity without rekindling the sentiments of old. Their apparent loyalty seemed to legitimate their passion, and the fear of ridicule, and the consciousness of his own faults, obliged him to suffer it.
Gradually resuming the noble occupations of his past life, therefore, he plunged more ardently than ever into the arduous studies that had edified his glorious reputation.
To crown his endeavors, he wanted, before dying, to leave the scientific world a general history of chemistry that would summarize all the doctrines of the past.
Previously, he had judged anterior efforts in accordance with more or less documentary accounts. His need to create, his overly exclusive admiration for the modern era, had caused him to neglect the treasures accumulated over so many centuries. Now that he had to attribute to everyone his just share of genius, he found himself obliged to return to the most distant sources. It was thus that he was led, logically and naturally, to undertake a profound study of the alchemists of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.
Arrested to begin with by the symbolic language that hid their works from the intelligence of the vulgar, forced to comprehend and initiate himself into the occult sciences, he was soon astonished and seduced by the profundity of the vision of certain traditional theories. Those first endeavors, veritably conscientious, had the immediate result of causing him to abandon all prejudice. Soon, the corners of the veil were torn. Applying to the study of Alchemy the rectitude and power of modern experimentation, he embarked on a new and fecund path, the horizon broadened, unknown stars shone in his eyes, and inviolate formulae delivered their secrets to him.
Encouraged, he redoubled his efforts.
In the wing of the old princely town house that he had transformed into a laboratory, in the midst of alembics, furnaces, retorts and apparatus; among jars and bottles of every color and form; surrounded by anatomical preparations and folio volumes; equipped with his glass mask, interrogating with his anxious gaze the seething of his crucibles and the effervescence of his phials, he spent the greater part of his time discovering the laws and affinities that link inert and living matter.
His Great Work was not to transmute base matter into pure gold; it was the cell that he wanted to animate, and movement, the secret of God
, that he wanted to learn.
That was the enthusiastic work that elevated his soul and scarred over his dolor—and it was that incessant and loyal search for the Truth that caused the second, irreparable, misfortune.
On the eighteenth of June 18**, a decisive experiment, repeated and concluded a hundred times, came to destroy from top to bottom the scientific scaffolding that had won him so much prestige and renown, Dr. Albin’s Biological Chemistry, the capital work that had provoked so much polemic and caused his name to resound in all the universities of the world. The victorious doctrine that had provided the basis of present knowledge, in the name of which he had denied principles and broken opposition, the glorious monument that he had believed would be transmitted indestructibly to posterity, was built on a false—completely false—principle.6
Ingenious deductions, indisputably true relativities, had emerged from it, but the bronze colossus rested on feet of clay, and it was Dr. Albin himself, the creator of the false god, who had discovered it!
Alternately dejected and enthused by that revelation, sometimes wanting to proclaim it and overturn his work, sometimes envisaging fearfully the inconveniences that would ensue, caught between his love of the Truth and his legitimate pride as a venerated scientist, arrested by the memory of ardent struggles and vanquished rivalries, pushed by the voice of his conscience, Dr. Albin was tossed for some time by cruel hesitations. Was there, after all, any first principle that was truly demonstrated? Were not all sciences based on hypotheses? Who could boast of having found the great X, the absolute? A chimera: what did the point of departure matter if the deductions were fecund, if humanity benefited therefrom?
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