Scientific Romance

by Brian Stableford

  In Germany, as elsewhere, mores had changed considerably in the last thirty years. The reign of the spiked helmet had finally come to an end. The professors and the scientists had resumed their place in the sun; they no longer trembled before a beardless corporal, and the ancient German customs, honest and peaceful, had succeeded the regime of the saber.

  That was why the noble town of Brunnwald possessed a brilliant university, sumptuous laboratories and excellent professors. Now, none of these masters had more zeal or talent than the celebrated Hermann Bakermann. At an early age he had flung himself impetuously into microbial science; later, having become a professor, he had been able to construct the laboratory of his dreams. It was there that he spent his life. Disdainful of his patrons, he lived amidst his flasks and his culture media, surrounded by the most powerful and most deleterious viruses.1 In order not to be infected by his poisons, however, he had taken all the necessary precautions. By means of a skillfully graduated series of vaccinations, he had eventually rendered himself almost invulnerable, with the result that his health did not suffer at all for that existence passed entirely amid the germs that afflicted poor humankind.

  However, as not everyone in the world was as well-protected as he was, Professor Bakermann had taken care to construct, at the extremity of his laboratory, a special room, to which he jokingly referred as the “infernal chamber,” which he did not permit any other human being to enter at first. This little room, heated and lit by electricity, was equipped with powerful disinfection apparatus, and the prudent Bakermann never came out of it without first purifying himself with the most active antiseptic fumigations.

  As he went home that day, then, Professor Hermann Bakermann was content. The problem that he had sought in vain for such a long time to solve had finally received a simple solution. The means of rendering harmful microbes inoffensive were known, but that was only one aspect of the problem. Bakermann had found a means to render inoffensive microbes harmful.

  When we say “harmful” we do not mean to imply mildly harmful, but terrible, overwhelming and irresistible. The microbes presently known only kill in a day, half a day at the worst, and are also possessed of a fragile vitality. It does not take much to attenuate them or render them harmless. The problem, therefore, was to have a virus powerful enough to kill in an hour, at a dose of a hundredth or a thousandth of a drop, in such a manner that no living creature could survive it. Above all—and this was the most delicate part—the terrible microbe must be very resistant, incapable of allowing itself to be weakened by intemperances of climate or the medications that artful humans were inventing incessantly.

  Gradually, Bakermann had succeeded in making his great discovery. “A microbe,” he said in his course, “is like a human being. We humans need a varied diet. We need soup, sauerkraut, beer, caviar, butter, cakes, mutton, fish, lobster, pâtés, honey, almonds, fruits, sardines, Rhenish wine, champagne, potatoes and kummel. Our health improves as our alimentation becomes more sophisticated and more complicated. Well, microbes have the same needs as we do. Let us give them a very varied and rich nourishment, and we shall make them increasingly vigorous—which is to say, energetically malign, for the vigor of a microbe is proportional to its destructive power.”

  So, all Professor Bakermann’s concern was lavished on the confection of his culture media. In this respect, he could have given tips to the best French chefs. In his latest medium, he had found the means of introducing eighty-seven different alimentary substances, and the microbes within it were developing with a truly prodigious vital intensity.

  We cannot enter into detail here regarding the famous scientist’s scientific techniques. At any rate, thanks to improved culture media and certain electrical procedures that he was still keeping secret, Bakermann had profoundly transformed a vulgar microbe, the microbe that turns butter rancid—very widespread, alas!—by submitting it to a whole series of complicated cultures, and he had made it into an extremely nasty microbe.

  A hundredth of a drop killed a large dog in two and a half hours, and a single drop could kill three thousand rabbits in two hours. It goes without saying that Bakermann had not been able to try it out on such a large quantity of rodents, but he had caused a considerable number to perish, to the great indignation of Frau Bakermann.

  Frau Bakermann? Well yes, there is no life that does not have some secret distress, no fruit that does not conceal a poisonous worm, no rose that does not have an unfortunate thorn. For the illustrious Bakermann, the poisonous worm, the treacherous thorn, was Frau Josepha Bakermann.

  Frau Bakermann had never understood microbial science. Every time the unfortunate scientist tried to talk to her about it, she looked at him suspiciously.

  “What good is all this fuss about futilities that make everyone laugh? Instead of going to the theater or for a walk, you shut yourself up in an unhealthy room with rabbits, toads and pigeons! Is that a job for a man who respects himself and his wife? If only you imitated Dr. Rothbein, who, while being just as much of a scientist as you, makes ten visits a day and is paid twenty marks for every one—but you’re incapable of making a simple pfennig. You’re nothing but a poor man, Bakermann, and it’s me who tells you so; I’m astonished that there’s a single student on your course, for you only know how to tell them the same story over and over again.”

  In brief, Frau Bakermann detested microbes.

  She hated something else too: that was the tavern.

  All the greatest men have their faults, and, on searching hard, one will always find a defect, a stain or a weakness in the best of them. Professor Bakermann had his weakness too; it was the tavern.

  All things considered, Bakermann’s conduct was excusable.

  Drinking tankards of good beer one after another, in a joyful row, with cheerful comrades, while playing a hand of piquet or discussing the condition of Europe and the progress of microbial science, is certainly more agreeable than listening all evening long to bitter recriminations regarding the exorbitant price of rabbits, the high cost of the exquisite foodstuffs that it was necessary to buy to nourish the microbes, the uselessness of delicate thermometers that cost a hundred marks, and the necessity of having a fur cape like Frau Rothbein, or Oriental door-curtains in one’s drawing-room like Frau Scheinbrunn, the president’s wife.

  When Bakermann had succeeded in getting to the door without being seen, he was saved. He only came back very late, with his head a trifle heavy and his face crimson, but quite satisfied, and submitted, without saying a word to an avalanche of bitter words. He even—which is a terrible thing to say—got used to it, ending up only being able to go to sleep to the sound of lamentations and invective.

  This evening, however, as he went home, Bakermann gave no thought to his wife. He was thinking about his terrible microbe.

  “I’ve found it . . . I’ve found it!” he repeated to himself. “Yes, I have it. Oh, the brigand! It’s given me enough trouble! But what shall I call it? It’s necessary to give it a name, for every new microbe must be given a name, and this one is definitely a new microbe. It can almost kill at a distance. Ah! Yes, that’s it! That’s it! Mortifulgurans. Bacillus mortifulgurans. That has a really fine ring to it!”

  “Ah, there you are!” cried Frau Bakermann. “Not bad. Eight o’clock! Did you even look at the time? I thought you weren’t coming back—and that wouldn’t have been any great pity.”

  “Calm down, Frau Bakermann,” said the worthy man. “And get ready to rejoice, for I’m bringing you good news.”

  “Really?”

  “My word, yes—very good news, and very important. You know, my dear, what I’ve been seeking for such a long time, the microbe that kills rabbits in two hours, at a dose of a thousandth of a drop. . . .”

  Poor Bakermann, with a perseverance worthy of a better fate, stubbornly told his wife about all his scientific experiments, and the snubs that he met with every time had not yet discouraged him.

  “If you think I’m going to listen to y
our nonsense! Yet another stupidity! Isn’t it pitiful! At your age!”

  “But Frau Bakermann. . . .”

  “Come on, it’s dinner time—and no tavern today, you know. I know all about your accursed microbes. Every time you claim to have made a discovery—a discovery!—you take advantage of it to spend the night drinking with good-for-nothings like Rodolphe Müller and Cesar Pück. I warn you, though, that I’m not in a patient mood tonight.”

  I can see that, Bakermann thought, sighing.

  Nevertheless, he did not lose all hope, for Frau Bakermann often fell asleep after supper, and Bakermann took cowardly advantage of that respite to get away.

  Bakermann ate with a good appetite, therefore, and paid no heed to Josepha’s threats. She, becoming increasingly irritated, to a greater extent than ever before, told her husband quite bluntly that if he went out, she would cause a scandal; that she would go to his sanctuary—which is to say, his laboratory—and even to the infernal chamber itself, in order to carry out a search.

  “It’s there, I’m sure, that you’re hiding Eliza’s letters.”

  Bakermann contented himself with sighing and raising his eyes to heaven.

  Eliza was a servant girl that Frau Bakermann had once been obliged to sack, for she suspected her husband of kissing the little rogue on the sly. We do not know to what extent the accusation was justified, but it was still the case that, as soon as Eliza’s name was pronounced, Bakermann lowered his head and was unable to make any reply.

  “Yes, Eliza’s letters! That’s certain. What’s become of her now? She hasn’t left the town, and you’re still seeing her. Frau Scheinbrunn told me that she’s been seen in a silk dress and pearl earrings.”

  Bakermann did not breathe a word, and tried to distract himself by repeating: Bacillus mortifulgurans!

  “Guess, Josepha, what name I have given it!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Bacillus mortifulgurans. Eh? It’s a good choice, isn’t it? My colleague Krankwein is capable of making a disease of it!”

  “I’m sure,” Frau Bakermann continued, “that you still write to her. A girl who is always badly coiffed, a liar, a glutton, a debauchee. . . .”

  “Wife!” Bakermann groaned.

  “I’ll go to your accursed laboratory—yes! I’ll go and I’ll search everywhere, and I’ll find the proof of your wretched conduct.”

  “Wife, my dear wife,” Bakermann murmured, “you mustn’t do that. Remember that my mortifulgurans is there, and that I alone can enter the infernal chamber without danger. If you knew all the precautions I take. Think of your health, your precious health, my darling.”

  Deep down, however, he scarcely took any notice of Frau Bakermann’s threats. Almost every evening, there was the same anthem, and thus far, Frau Bakermann had never dared cross the redoubtable threshold of the infernal chamber.

  Later, Frau Bakermann, wearied by quarrelling, dozed off in her armchair.

  My word, Bakermann thought, it’s not far from here to the tavern. I’ll go along to say good evening to Cesar Pück and tell him the great news. I’m anxious to have his advice about the mortifulgurans. Josepha’s well away for an hour, and she’ll still be asleep in the same place when I get back.

  With that, walking on tiptoe and making himself very small, Professor Bakermann went into the hallway, put on his coat and hat, and went out.

  Once he was outside, he uttered a deep sigh of relief, and smiled involuntarily at the thought of the tavern where Cesar Pück awaited him.

  Cesar Pück, Valerian Grossgeld and Rodolphe Müller were, indeed, there, faithful to their posts. They uttered a joyful hurrah on seeing their illustrious friend arrive.

  “I can see that there’s news!” exclaimed Pück. “You’re wearing your finest smile!”

  “Yes, indeed!” cried Bakermann. “Boys, I have my microbe, and I call it mortifulgurans.”

  “Bravo!” said Müller. “I knew that you’d get there in the end. But you mustn’t rest on your victory. Do you know what you ought to look for now?”

  “My word, no!”

  “The bacillus of good humor—and you can try out its effects immediately on Frau Bakermann.”

  “That would, indeed, be a glorious success,” Bakermann murmured. “But we’re here to talk about cheerful things. Come on—a tankard! And let’s get the party started!”

  Beer had never been so exquisite, nor a game of piquet so interesting. With insolent good luck, Bakermann won as often as he could have wished. Aces and kings flooded his hands. In the meantime, tankards were emptied effortlessly, while pipes and laughter kept pace.

  Time passed, though. There was always one last tankard, one last hand, one last pipe, to the extent that Bakermann finally drank to the health of mortifulgurans.

  In the end, he had to leave his friends—but his head was heavy and his gait unsteady. . . .

  Frau Bakermann was in bed, asleep or apparently asleep. He wasted no time in contemplating her, and, without even bothering to get undressed, lay down to sleep the profound sleep of the triumphant.

  About six o’clock in the morning, however, he was forced to prise an eye open. Frau Bakermann was shaking him violently.

  “Hermann!” she was saying, “Hermann!”

  He pretended not to hear—and, in fact, hardly could hear, for the fumes of the beer were still numbing him with their thick shadow.

  “Hermann! Hermann!”

  “Can’t you let me sleep?”

  Frau Bakermann was gripped by atrocious pains. She was sitting up in bed, very pale, with haggard eyes.

  “Ring for Theresa, my darling,” he sighed. He pulled the bell-cord, and then went back to sleep.

  But Frau Bakermann’s suffering was getting worse. Theresa, the chambermaid, was scared when she saw her distraught face. A livid December dawn appeared in the windows.

  “Sir, sir!” Theresa cried. “Madame is very ill! Very ill!”

  This time, Bakermann woke up completely. Yes, truly, Frau Bakermann was very ill.

  “Go fetch Dr. Rothbein immediately,” he said to Theresa, “and go to the pharmacist’s to get morphine and quinine.”

  Frau Bakermann now had very cold hands, a purple face and terribly dilated pupils.

  “Josepha! Josepha!”

  “My love, my love,” she said, in a soft and feeble voice, “forgive me . . . for I sense that I’m going to die, and that I’ve brought it on myself. I’ve been . . . I’ve dared. . . .”

  “What have you done?” demanded the professor, gripped by anguish.

  “You know . . . the infernal chamber! The infernal chamber! Well. . . .”

  “Well? Speak! Speak!”

  She could not say any more. A frightful spasm sealed her lips.

  “The infernal chamber,” murmured Bakermann. “Speak, Josepha, speak, I implore you.”

  But Josepha was no longer able to reply. She had lost consciousness. Spasms of agony were agitating her icy limbs. Then she fell into a profound torpor.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. It was Professor Rothbein, Bakermann’s friend, famous for his irreproachable diagnoses. He examined the sick woman for a few moments, and shook his head despairingly.

  “Well?”

  “Be brave, my friend, be brave.”

  “But what is this frightful malady?” Bakermann ventured to say.

  Rothbein reflected momentarily; then, after a further scrupulous examination, he said: “This is an extremely rare malady, which is almost never seen in Europe. It’s the koussmi-koussmi of Dahomey.”

  “Really!” said Bakermann. In spite of everything, he felt relieved of a great weight, for he felt overwhelmed by a secret terror that he dared not admit to himself.

  “It’s koussmi-koussmi,” Rothbein repeated, firmly. “My dear Hermann, there’s no mistake about it. Everything is there, and the symptoms are obvious: the suddenness of the onset, the pallor of the face, the dilation of the pupils, the spasms, the chill, the torpor. . . .”

  He would have conti
nued in that vein for some time, if Frau Bakermann had not rendered up her soul at that moment.

  It was eight o’clock in the morning. Everyone in the house already knew the disastrous news. Little Theresa, as she went to the pharmacist’s, had not been able to prevent herself from telling the story to two or three of her peers. A crowd had begun to gather, and the cause of the illness was already being discussed.

  As for Bakermann, he was plunged into a profound distress—but his distress was nothing compared to his anxiety. Rothbein’s coolness and self-confidence had diminished a few vague dreads . . . but Josepha had mentioned the infernal chamber. Why?

  Suppose, in a fit of absurd jealousy, in order to search for Eliza’s letters. . . .

  Unable to bear the terrible uncertainty, he ran to the laboratory. . . .

  The door of the infernal chamber was open, and Bakermann perceived, to his horror, that someone had opened the microbe cupboard and rummaged through the flasks! An imprudent hand had even knocked over one of the phials in which the terrible mortifulgurans was growing.

  This time, no further doubt was permissible. Yes, in spite of her husband’s solemn instructions, Frau Bakermann had dared to penetrate this redoubtable refuge, and had knocked over a bottle of mortifulgurans!

  At all costs, it was necessary to avert greater misfortunes. A terrible microbe had taken possession of Frau Bakermann’s body, and now, by a rapid contagion, it was going to reach the entire town. He had nothing to fear himself—he was too thoroughly vaccinated to be affected—but the others . . . the others!