Ever Smaller

by Albert Bleunard

  I also knew that an English scientist of the first rank, M. Crookes, had affirmed that he had obtained photographs of spirits. I had even taken the liberty of writing to him on the subject, but my letter had remained unanswered—from which I concluded that M. Crookes attached little importance to the subject.

  In brief, on leaving M. Varlet’s apartment, I only had a semi-confidence in the experiment. Who could tell? Perhaps M. Varlet had employed the same method as the spirit photographer convicted of fraud.

  Before proceeding with any chemical analysis, therefore, I wanted to photograph the famous blank canvas at home, with my own sensitive plates.

  I live in the Boulevard Saint-Michel, on the top floor of a house whose façade overlooks the Luxembourg Gardens. If I had chosen to lodge so high up, it was not for reasons of economy. Thanks to a inheritance from an uncle, who was not American, I could have inhabited less serene regions, but I had a thirst for air and light. I detest the dust that rises from macadam and the noise of the voices of passers-by. At the height where I float, the boulevard only sends me vague sounds reminiscent of the murmur of an anxious mother. I can distinctly hear the calls of birds in the Luxembourg, some of whom do not disdain to come in each of breadcrumbs on my window-sill.

  In my loft, I’ve installed a little chemistry and photography laboratory. It was there, as soon as I got home, that I immediately set up the frame that had been carefully wrapped in newspaper.

  Without losing a minute, I photographed the canvas again. This time, I was absolutely sure of being safe from any trickery. I had been using my plates for a long time and had never produced any images of spirits. It was, therefore, not permissible to suppose that the one that I was about to use had been prepared in advance.

  I should tell you immediately that the result obtained was exactly the same as in M. Varlet’s apartment. I obtained an admirable head of an old man. The two photographs were identical, feature by feature and shadow by shadow.

  Thus, no doubt was any longer possible; M. Varlet had told me the exact truth. There really was a portrait painted on the blank canvas.

  It only remained for me now to investigate, by means of chemical reagents, what the substance might be that had been used to paint the portrait. That enquiry ought to be easy, chemical analysis having made so much progress in a few years.

  I set to work immediately

  M. Varlet having authorized me to abstract a portion of the canvas for my research, I began by removing it from the frame. That operation was rapidly executed, for the canvas was simply extended by means of a few nails on a vulgar frame of black wood. It was evident that the manufacturer had not lavished much luxury on it.

  When that was done, I used scissors to cut a strip of canvas about ten centimeters broad. I was careful to take it from the bottom of the portrait, so as not to damage the head too much. I had only taken a portion of the neck and the beard.

  I began by subjecting a specimen of the strip to microscopic investigation. That precious instrument ought to be able to reveal the presence of a substance impregnating the fibers of the canvas.

  This was my reasoning: the substance that had been used to paint the portrait was either of mineral or vegetable origin. It was very probable—at least in my opinion—that it was mineral. In that case, the microscope ought to show it to me immediately. The rest of the analysis would then be carried out very rapidly by mean of appropriate reagents.

  I was so convinced that I would see the substance impregnating the fabric appear under the microscope that once the specimen was placed on the platform, brightly lit from above by means of a lens, I brought it into focus approximately, without even making use of the micrometric screw. I could see the fibers of the canvas clearly, but with no trace of the substance that ought to have been impregnating it. Astonished, I then brought it very precisely into focus. It was necessary to yield to the evidence, however; in spite of the powerful magnification, no deposit was visible on the fibers.

  Perhaps, I said to myself, I’ve just happened on a part of the canvas left blank.

  I cut a few other specimens from different parts of the canvas, and this time examined them very minutely with the microscope, but with no more success than with the first specimen.

  I was thus forced to conclude that, in spite of my anticipations, the substance employed by the painter could not be mineral. At any rate, the substance had penetrated the fibers intimately, and become compounded with them.

  I therefore passed on to chemical analysis.

  I spent the whole of the rest of the day making analyses. Still dominated by the thought that I had to discover a mineral, I tried the characteristic reactions of all the metals and metalloids. The conclusive result of my trials was absolutely negative.

  I was covered in sweat, as much because of the muscular work that I was doing as because of the bad humor born of the inanity of my efforts. Discouragement took hold of me, and I went to throw myself into an armchair. Negligently rolling a cigarette, I lit up, and, supporting my forehead in my hand, gave myself over to reflection while launching puffs of smoke into the air.

  After all, I thought, I’ve only accomplished half my task. Since the substance isn’t mineral, it’s now necessary for me to search for organic matter. Except that the difficulties of analysis are singularly increased.

  As night was falling and I had need of daylight to distinguish the colors of reactions competently, I put off the remainder of my research until the next day. I went down to the boulevard and set off to cool my burning head by means of a walk along the quais of the Seine before going to the restaurant.

  “You don’t seem quite yourself today,” said a friend I ran into.

  “Yes,” I replied, “I have a slight headache.”

  I devoted the whole of the following morning to the second phase of my analyses. By midday I had tried, but always in vain, the entire series of solvents: water, alcohol, ether, chloroform, acids and alkalis. I had subjected the canvas to the characteristic reactions of metallic salts, with no more success. Was it, then, necessary to conclude that the canvas was innocent of any paint, mineral or vegetable? Was it necessary to believe in the existence of a spirit, attached to the fabric by the Indian fakir?

  “No—a thousand times no!” I cried, getting carried away. “My reason rebels at such an idea!”

  But what, then, was on that accursed canvas?

  Despairing of the cause, fearing that I had been ignorant or unskillful, I decided to go that very evening to find my chemistry professor, one of the most illustrious scientists in the world.

  The man in question had a prodigious—I might even say miraculous—skill. With the aid of a few glass tubes, a few reagents and a very tiny quantity of material to analyze, he had succeeded, by virtue of habit and a special flair, in discovering the nature of the most complex substances in a very short time.

  He, at least, I said to myself, will be able to find out what has escaped my investigations. Where the disciple has failed pitifully, the master will be able to discover something.

  The master welcomed me as cordially as could be. My family had had occasion to render him some services; recognition and friendship permitted me to count of his collaboration.

  I presented my sample of canvas to him, asking him to try to analyze the substance impregnating the fabric.

  “Why the Devil are you asking me that?” he said. “You know I don’t have any time to waste. Is it important?”

  “Very important,” I replied.

  He understood from my physiognomy that I was telling the truth.

  “What substance do you think it has on it?” he asked me.

  “I know absolutely nothing about it,” I said.

  “What do you want to do with the canvas?”

  That question as embarrassing. I didn’t want to tell him the truth. M. Varlet’s secret did not belong to me, and revealing it to a scientist might have inconvenient consequences. I there had recourse to a lie.

 
“It’s an industrial matter,” I replied, “capable of bringing me considerable benefits.”

  “All right,” he said. “Come back tomorrow evening; I’ll devote myself to your project tomorrow morning.”

  The next day, at the appointed hour, I returned to the chemist’s laboratory, certain that I would finally know the composition of the substance that intrigued me so much.

  On seeing me, the master frowned.

  What can that mean? I asked myself, astonished by such a reception, which I certainly had not expected.

  “You’re just a joker,” he said to me, without any preamble.

  “A joker?” I exclaimed. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’ve given me a piece of hempen canvas to analyze on which there is absolutely nothing.”

  “Go on!” I cried.

  “I repeat, there’s nothing. Take back the fragment and leave me in peace.”

  I was used to such fits of bad temper. What do you expect? Great scientists have their faults, like everyone else.

  I thanked him and left.

  Was it necessary, then, to doubt my professor’s science? No—the man knew everything that humans could know. So, the substance impregnating the canvas escaped the most subtle chemical analysis.

  At least, that was the conclusion at which I had arrived when I got back home. I went back up to my apartment, and picked up the picture—or, rather, what remained of it—and got ready to take it back to M. Varlet. At the same time, I would give him an account of the negative results of my research.

  I went back downstairs, very slowly, for night was falling and the gas had not yet been lit. On the second floor, the darkness was almost complete.

  By chance, the paper wrapping the picture had come loose. I stopped, trying to fix it again with pins, when I thought I perceived a singular phenomenon. In order to be more at ease I had sat down on the top step of the stairway and had placed the picture flat on my knees. Momentarily, the canvas being uncovered, I leaned my head a long way forward in order to get a better view of the place where I had to put the pins. I suddenly noticed that the canvas became faintly luminous every time my respiration projected my moist breath on to it.

  What did that mean?

  Very intrigued by this discovery, I blew on the canvas. Yes, I was not mistaken. I had not been the victim of an illusion; the canvas became phosphorescent under the influence of humid breath.

  I got to my feet abruptly and immediately went back up to my apartment. Before going to see M. Varlet I wanted to study this new and singular property of the magic canvas. I made several trials. Using a bellows to blowing ordinary dry air on to the canvas, I observed that it did not become luminous in the dark.

  Thus, my first assumption was justified: moist air was required.

  A doubt occurred to me, however. Is it really the moisture from my mouth that was the cause of the phosphorescence of the canvas? I asked myself. Might there not rather be a substance capable of producing that phenomenon among the products of pulmonary respiration?

  I resolved to seek immediate verification of the action of humid air produced by other means than my mouth. I detest remaining under the influence of doubt for any length of time; I require certainty as soon as possible. “When you have a scientific idea,” my professor had said to me, “put it into execution immediately. Never wait until tomorrow, for other preoccupations might make you forget the previous day’s idea.”

  I passed the air from the bellows through a quantity of water contained in a flask with two openings, in order to charge the air with humidity.

  The experiment was decisive; moist air definitely had the property of rendering the canvas luminous in the dark. The old man’s head was outlined in luminous streaks on the dark background of the canvas.

  “What if I photographed the canvas in the dark, now?” I thought, abruptly, as soon as I obtained that result.

  Having placed a sensitive plate in the plate-holder, I got ready to bring the image of the frame and its canvas into focus—but I was stopped by a grave difficulty.

  How, I said to myself, am I going to render the canvas phosphorescent with a current of moist air while the posing operation lasts? I need an assistant.

  An assistant? That was impossible, for that would reveal the secret of the canvas.

  I began to reflect, and quickly designed in my mind a little machine for blowing humid air on o the canvas.

  A quarter of an hour later, the machine had been constructed, with the aid of a bag of oxygen for oxyhydric light, a Wolff flask with two apertures and some rubber tubing.{13

  I tested the apparatus. Everything was working as desired.

  I focused, replaced the frosted glass with the plate-holder and put out the lights. I wanted, in fact, to photograph the phosphorescent canvas in darkness. It was shining perfectly adequately under the action of the moist air.

  I uncovered the objective lens.

  Crack! At the same instant, a rubber tube had come loose under the excessive pressure of the air current, and, the latter ceasing abruptly, the canvas had fallen back into the most profound obscurity.

  That really was unlucky.

  What would you have done in my place? You would have started again, wouldn’t you? That’s what I did, which cursing fate. How unjust humans sometimes are to destiny! What followed will soon prove that to you. It wasn’t a fool who said: some bad luck is good.

  I closed the plate-holder. Then, having relit the candles I went back into the darkroom to get a new plate with which to replace the first.

  This time, the operation was as successful as I could have desired. There were no more accidents. A few minutes later, the negative proof was revealed.

  Imagine my stupefaction: the photograph of the old man was as perfect as the one obtained in broad daylight!

  That was unexpected. It was marvelous!

  Perhaps the head stood out even better.

  But no, I’m mistaken. That negative proof doesn’t resemble the one I had obtained the day before. Quickly, it’s there…

  I compare the two. They’re the inverse of one another. What is white on the first is black on the second, and vice versa.

  In daylight, the old man’s features appear in white on a black background. Now, they appear black on a white background!

  That’s amazing!

  While I’m thinking about the strangeness of these results, the crazy idea occurs to me of plunging into the bath of iron oxalate the failed plate—which is to say, the one I had put into the photographic apparatus. But that would be too stupid.

  There can’t be anything on that plate, since the canvas wasn’t luminous, by virtue of the interruption of the humid air current.

  Do it, an interior voice repeats.

  It’s absurd, I say to myself.

  Get on with it, whatever it is that sometimes speaks within us cries.

  Nothing predisposes one to believe in the marvelous like being witness to strange and inexplicable events. Evidently, at that moment, I was under the influence of the mysterious phenomena that the photograph had just revealed to me.

  My reason was vanquished. I immersed the plate in the revelatory liquid.

  Two minutes passed, and nothing had appeared yet.

  Imbecile, I repeated to myself. Why wait any longer? You know that nothing can happen.

  What? Here come the black features! That’s not possible!

  Yes, now I have to yield to the evidence. The old man’s head has appeared with all the desirable clarity.

  At that moment, I don’t know what folly gripped me. I thought I was asleep, under the influence of a nightmare.

  Was I really myself?

  You can laugh—I was afraid. I abandoned my experiments and left the laboratory precipitately. I did not recover my self-possession until I reached the boulevard. The noise of carriages and passers-by and the glare of the lights finally reanimated my spirits. But throughout the rest of the evening, the strange face never ceased to ha
unt me. Whenever I looked at a passer-by, he had the face of my old man. On the walls, in the street-lights, through the windows of shops, I kept seeing his calm features.

  That night, I could not get rid of the vision. He was at the foot of my bed, looking at me mockingly. Finally, after an extremely disturbed slumber, daylight chased the phantom away. I got up and I went to M. Varlet’s home to tell him about the strange things I had discovered the day before.

  IV. In India

  M. Varlet was quite astonished when he learned that the canvas could be photographed in darkness as well as in daylight, and that, moreover, it became luminous when exposed to moist air.

  He was completely unaware of these remarkable properties of the substance that the fakir had used to paint the old man’s head. The English officer, in making him a gift of it, had only revealed the possibility of photographing the painting in daylight. The officer was probably also unaware of what I had discovered by accident.

  M. Varlet wanted to verify the exactitude of the facts I had just made known to him immediately. As he lacked he apparatus necessary to produce the current of moist air, however, I invited him to come home with me. He accepted eagerly.

  I repeated in front of him all that I had done the day before, and I obtained the same results. The canvas was successively photographed, first in complete darkness, then in darkness again but rendered luminous by the influence of moist air. The two proofs obtained were exactly the same, the second perhaps a trifle more distinct than the first.

  “So,” my companion said, when we had concluded our experiments, “it’s necessary to renounce discovering the composition of the substance deposited on the canvas.”

  “I’ve done all that I can,” I replied. “My chemistry professor was unable to discover anything more. The substance evidently escapes chemical analysis; it only reveals itself to us by its physical properties. Humidity is capable of rendering it phosphorescent in darkness, and it possesses the singular property of making an impression on silver bromide by itself, without the aid of light.”