Martyrs of Science

by S. Henry Berthoud

  “We would have perished!” the latter replied.

  Without paying the slightest attention to the delight of the crowd that surrounded the two courageous voyagers and lavished applause upon them, without replying to members of the Hamburg Academy, who were imploring him to write a memoir on what he had observed and experienced, without even shaking the hand of his companion in peril, Ludwig drew away silently, climbed back on his horse, and rode back to Altona without stopping.

  There, he bought large quantities of gummed fabric, loaded his purchases on to the rump of his horse, and shut himself up in his little house in Oltenzen, from which he did not emerge for an entire month. No one was able to see him during that retreat—not the farm laborers, nor a deputation from the Academy of Hamburg, nor even the village pastor. He did not even deign to reply to them though the door, which he refused to open. Were it not for the walk he took with his wife toward nightfall, and a few purchases of food, he might have been thought to be lying dead in his house.

  Needless to say, this mysterious retreat gave rise to many strange suppositions. Some favored the hypothesis that Ludwig had lost his reason during his aerial excursion, others that he was devoting himself to a work of magic. The latter belief was not entirely implausible, for it was eventually discovered that Klopstock was building a strangely-shaped machine, which resembled a fish armed with large oars similar to fins; they were moved by means of a mechanism of cogwheels that was both simple and admirable.

  That judgment became possible one morning when the inhabitants of Oltenzen saw Ludwig in mid-air, seated on his huge fish, maneuvering it more easily than a horseman guides a docile horse. In spite of the violence of contrary winds, he steered it to the right and the left, forwards and backwards, up and down. He finished by descending into his courtyard, so tightly that the two ends of the machine almost touched the sides.

  The pastor, a learned man, in his admiration and at the risk of being indiscreet, went to knock on Klopstock’s door , and begged him so insistently to open it that the scientists gave in. He took the pastor into his courtyard. At the first glace it was easy to see that Ludwig had found the secret of steering balloons.

  “Your name is immortal, my friend!” cried the minister. “The entire universe will repeat it with enthusiasm! What glory will be yours!”

  “Earth! Glory!” Ludwig repeated, disdainfully. “What does that matter to me? It’s the heavens I want! No one has been able to go higher than eight thousand meters; I shall go to twenty thousand! I shall go to two hundred thousand! I shall go into the realm of other worlds! I shall go to the other worlds! I shall go beyond! I shall study nature! The immensity and the unknown will belong to me. I’ve found the means of steering my aerostat. That was an easy problem to resolve. But I’ve done better. The hydrogen gas that my machine contains expands or contracts as I dictate, without loss. These canisters contain the means of procuring me vital air, even in places where it is impossible to breathe. Cold itself, I have vanquished; it will be unable to hurt me!”

  The pastor stood there, astounded by so much genius and madness at the same time.

  “Farewell,” said Ludwig. “Here is my will. If I fail in my enterprise, or if I no longer deign to return to the Earth, I leave it to you to look after that poor woman. Farewell!”

  Without paying any heed to the remonstrations of the worthy churchman, he climbed into his balloon. He was about to take off when Ebba suddenly ran toward him, gazing at him with haggard eyes, clung on to the machine and shouted: “Don’t go! Don’t go!”

  “You’re right,” said the scientist, after a moment’s reflection. “Come! You shall share my fortune and my joy.”

  He picked her up. He seated her next to him. He waved to the pastor, and flew off into the sky.

  The minister watched him for some time, maneuvering his machine easily, which ended up rising rapidly, soon appearing as nothing more than a black dot that gradually melted away into the azure of the heavens.

  The worthy cleric awaited Ludwig Klopstock’s return with great anxiety.

  Ludwig Klopstock never returned.

  THE MASTER OF THE WEATHER

  Scientists, like poets, tend to have a sweet tooth. One of the most illustrious members of the Académie des Sciences, when he comes out of the weekly meeting on Mondays, never fails to go into the pâtissier’s shop on the Rue Guénégaud, where he comforts himself for the fatigues of the debate by devouring more gateaux than he has destroyed arguments. As for our celebrated poets, Félix and Rollet, those two rival glories are counted among the most assiduous clients of the patisserie.29 Often, the galette-seller at the Gymnase has recognized, among the hands that extend mysteriously from the crowd toward his firm dough, the yellow glove of an Academician poet, and the opulent coupe-toujours in the Boulevard Saint-Martin salutes with a smile that is both discreet and conspiratorial the author of the most beautiful odes in modern literature.

  Charles-Louis Knebel was both a poet and a scientist. I leave it to you to imagine how he faced up to a good meal, and whether he had an ineffable affection for the desserts that his wife loved to prepare with her dainty white hands with the pink fingernails.

  One can cite Knebel as one of the privileged individuals for whom renown, fortune and happiness only have smiles. Born into a social position that did not impose upon him any of the rude proofs of poverty and isolation, he saw his first literary endeavors welcomed with enthusiasm by the Prince of Ehringen-Wallerstein, of whom his father was the chancellor. As soon as he had heard about young Charles brilliant debuts, the Margrave of Anspach recruited him as a privy councilor. Finally, Prince Frederick of Prussia offered him a lieutenancy in the regiment of his guards.

  The épée and the epaulette are charms for a young and ardent heart. Knebel accepted military life joyfully, but soon became disgusted with the idle servitude of his new position, and surrendered without reserve to his penchant for literature. For many years, he accumulated more renown than his poetry assuredly merited, not ungraceful as it was. Influential at court, the possessor of a large fortune, a friend of Jean Paul, Griesbach, Hegel, Fichte, Schutz, Woos, Wollmann and Jacob, he was the absolute sovereign arbiter of all literary questions; no success was possible unless he deigned to confirm it. The age of fifty-six arrived for him without old age having deadened the vivacity of his imagination or afflicted his unalterable youth; thus, he inspired a violent love in Mademoiselle Louise Richdorff, a young Pomeranian of great beauty, who married him and gave him two sons.

  Initiated into the ineffable pleasures of family life, he retired from the agitations of literary life, renounced the court and settled into a delightful retreat in Ilmenau. There, entirely absorbed by the joys and ecstasies of fatherhood, he devoted himself entirely to the education of his sons, composed the freshest and most delightful of his verses (Flowers of That Year), wrote a tragedy (Saul) that obtained an unparalleled success at Weimar and devoted himself passionately to the study of geology and physics. Mineralogy and the history of fossils owed important discoveries to him; he produced papers on the weight of the air and published scientific experiments on the influence of electricity on atmospheric variations.

  Every year, a family fête brought Knebel’s intimate friends together at Ilmenau. The feast in question was held on the anniversary of his marriage, which was also, by a singular hazard, the anniversary of his own birth. In 1816, Weber, Hoffmann and Schuter were among the guests.

  During the serious part of the meal—which is to say, during the first courses—the conversation was rarely occupied by anything other than marvels and secrets of natural history obtained from nature. Hoffmann, in particular, never wearied of hearing accounts of the amours and affinities of gases for one another; the description of fantastic animals that the antediluvian strata of the earth contained caused him to utter cries of joy. Knebel delighted in recounting marvels; his voice expressed itself with warm enthusiasm, his eyes sparkled, a generous flush animated his cheeks and colored his no
ble visage. He talked about his projects and his endeavors, his desires and his hopes.

  “Oh,” he said, “if only I could attach my name to some great discovery in science! What a joy, what a pride would cause my heart to beat faster, if it were given to me to reveal one of the great mysteries of nature, as Franklin has done for the lightning-conductor, Montgolfier for balloons, Papin and Fulton for the power of steam and the mechanical application of that force!” And he added; “Yes, yes, I’d exchange my renown as a poet, and even my happiness as the father of a family, for the glory of such fame, such endurance!”

  “Bah!” exclaimed Louise. “Don’t say such blasphemous things, Charles! What would become of you, poor scientist, if you were not able, every morning, to kiss the fresh cheeks of your two sons? If your wife were not there to surround you with tender concern and relieve you of all the cares of material life? Who, without me, would attend to your slightest whims? Here, ingrate, serve yourself this jam from France; I ordered it especially from Paris, from the Fidèle-Berger, because you expressed a desire for that treat the other day. Taste it, and then, if you still dare, say that you’d exchange your happiness for a little scientific renown—you, one of the greatest poets in Germany!”

  The sight of the jar of jam and Louise’s affectionate words had an immediate effect on Knebel’s conversation. He fell back from the heights of ambition into the sweetness of reality, and no longer paid any heed to anything except taking the top off the jar of jam and savoring its delightful treasures. He examined the red color of the brilliant paste, which he compared, as a geologist, to rubies, and as a physicist to the luminous traces left in the sky by the aurora. When he had consumed it in the manner of a chemist, in small doses, and had analyzed the taste—an unparalleled mixture of redcurrant juice, the perfumes of quince, the savor of sugar and the aromas of vanilla—he verified the Parisian origin of the porcelain jar while interrogating the color and analyzing the texture, smooth and firm at the same time, not without a dissertation on the different nature of French and German flints. After which, he passed on to the printed label of the Fidèle-Berger, a certificate that attested the superiority of the jam, as the name of Michelangelo at the base of a statue attests the superiority of a work of art.

  Suddenly, Knebel’s friends saw him go red and pale at the same time. He was turning the enveloped of parchment that had covered the jar over and over in his fingers, moistening the label and scratching it with precaution in order to lift it off without tearing it, succeeding in discovering the characters inscribed on the piece of vellum. When he had reached the end his attention was redoubled; he had stopped listening to the questions that were addressed to him, and no longer replied to anyone. An imperious and absolute preoccupation had taken possession of him. Sweat was streaming on his brow; a convulsive movement agitated his hands; his lips were stammering inconsequential words; both ecstasy and despair were legible in his facial expression.

  “Horses!” he cried, finally. “Horses! I need to leave for Weimar right away—for it’s in Weimar that you bought this jam, isn’t it, Louise?”

  “I asked Schermaker the confectioner to order them from Paris.”

  “Go find me horses,” he repeated to his manservant. “Hurry up. A moment’s delay might cost me eternal regret.” He looked at the precious parchment again. “Dear God! You wouldn’t put me so close to the accomplishment of my most ardent desire, only to cause me a disappointment that would destroy my happiness forever?”

  “What’s the matter with you, Charles? Your agitation is frightening me, my love. What motive is so imperious as to make you desert your friends, who have come to celebrate your birthday, in this manner? And your family, for whom you want to change the celebration into a day of isolation and widowhood?”

  “What’s the matter with me?” he replied, excitedly. “What’s the matter! I can’t say, for I wouldn’t confide this secret now to my own mother, if she were still alive. What’s the matter! If you knew, perhaps you’d become traitors to me, you whose friendship is so tender, so faithful, so well-proven. Here’s the horses—let’s go! Adieu! See you soon!”

  Without kissing his wife and children, without shaking his friends’ hands, he launched himself into the post-chaise that had been harnessed in haste, and shouted to the postillion: “A triple tip! A gold piece if you hurry!”

  The carriage departed with lightning rapidity, leaving Louise and her guests stupefied.

  Rapidly as the caleche flew along the road, and in spite of the postillion’s ardor in urging the horses on, Knebel was restless, as if to hasten, by his own movements, the agility of the wheels. He got up, he sat down, he pestered the driver, he despaired of the slowness of his progress. Several times, Frantz, the old manservant who had followed his mater without being ordered to do so, wondered whether the worthy scientist’s reason had not been disturbed.

  Finally, they arrived at Weimar. As soon as the walls of the city appeared on the horizon, Knebel shouted to the postillion: “Go straight to the confectioner Schermaker’s shop and don’t stop until you’re at the door.”

  In fact, a few minutes later, the confectioner saw a post-chaise arrive impetuously outside his shop. The horses were covered in foam, and it was necessary to throw water over the wheels to prevent them from catching fire. With a single bound, Knebel launched himself into the shop with the sprightliness of a young man.

  “Where are the jars of jam that you ordered from France?” he demanded, without any other preamble, and in a voice so troubled that the confectioner was disturbed, and wondered privately whether it might not be a matter of some misfortune.

  “I sent for six, in addition to the three Madame ordered.”

  “Where are the jars?”

  “Here are four of them. The other two have been sold.”

  Knebel looked at the four jars, tore off the parchment that covered them, and threw everything out into the street with an energetic surge of anger.

  “Where are the other two?”

  “I’ve already had the honor of informing the councilor that I’ve sold them.”

  “To whom?”

  “To Herr Goethe.”

  “To Goethe?” cried Knebel, despairingly. “To my rival? To the man who disputes the throne of poetry and science with me? May God curse you and the Devil strangle you!”

  He leapt into his carriage and ordered the postillion to drive to Goethe’s house

  Goethe and Knebel had fallen out a long time ago. You can imagine the surprise of the former when he saw the poet come into his house in extreme distress, and say to him, as soon as he saw him: “In the name of Heaven, my dear Goethe, you haven’t opened the two jars of jam that you bought from Schermaker’s, have you? If they’re still intact, please let me have them, and you’ll find in me a devoted friend and enthusiastic admirer.”

  “All the jam-jars in my pantry at are your disposal,” Goethe replied, who did not know whether he was dealing with a sane man or a lunatic. “I’ll summon my housekeeper; if it would be agreeable to you, she’ll not only give you the jam she bought, but the jam she made herself.”

  Without thanking Goethe, and without even replying, Knebel ran to the pantry, searched for the two jars from the Fidèle-Berger in the midst of the old woman’s provisions, found them, and tore off the envelopes as he had done at the confectioner’s.

  “Nothing,” he murmured. “Nothing! To come so nearly within sight of the goal and not to reach it! Oh, that’s frightful!”

  He wiped away a tear that as running down his cheek, shook Goethe’s hand and stood there, immobile, somber and pensive.

  Suddenly, it was as if he woke up with a start.

  “Two jars! My wife still has another two jars! Just as long as she hasn’t served them to my guests! As long as she hasn’t thrown away the envelopes! Quickly, fresh horses for the carriage, and let’s get back to Ilmenau!”

  At daybreak the following morning, Louise saw her husband arrive, pale and covered in mud. His carr
iage had broken down on the road.

  “Are you hurt, my love?” the young woman asked, anxiously.

  Where are the other two jars of jam you bought in Weimar?”

  “Here, in this cupboard.”

  “Intact?”

  “Intact.”

  “Intact—thank God!”

  He ran to the cupboard, opened it and snatched up the jars; they no longer had any covers.

  “What have you done with the parchment that as wrapped around these jars? Louise, I need that parchment! I need it right now, at any price!”

  “I gave it to the children yesterday. They asked me for it in order to make puppets.”

  “Where are the children?” Knebel stammered, who had not given them a thought thus far. “I want to see them! They have to give me the puppets they’ve made. They have to bring me the slightest clippings. If the little wretches have lost even the smallest fragment, I’ll wring their necks.”

  The children were woken up. Their father did not kiss them; he was unconcerned anything but finding the scraps of parchment, and finding them intact.

  When they were brought to him, and he had looked at them one by one, he threw them away disdainfully, and collapsed into an armchair.

  With his head in his hands, he meditated for a long time, despairing, overwhelmed by grief.

  Louise came to kneel bedside him, gently uncovered the face that he was keeping hidden, and put her lips to her husband’s cheeks. She found them bathed in tears.

  “What’s wrong, Charles? What anxiety, what chagrin, is causing you to suffer so? Are our fortune, our honor and the future of our children under threat? If you only knew how it affects me to see you in this state of agitation! This is the first mystery you’ve presented me with, my love, the first secret you’ve kept to yourself! I wouldn’t complain if I weren’t seeing you unhappy, but your suffering belongs to me, and I want my share of it.”

  “Louise,” he replied, “I have to leave for France.”