Martyrs of Science

by S. Henry Berthoud

  And yet, from this unknown and poverty-stricken congregation, great discoveries sometimes emerge, some of which have already seen the light of day and attained their rank, but most of which remain in obscurity. Patents cost so much! And the Académie des Sciences is so good at burying, for good or ill, everything that is submitted to its consideration! It appoints a committee to make a report, it’s true, but the committee never makes its report. I can give you too long a list, alas, of inventions and discoveries accepted and applied universally today, but which have been waiting for ten years for a report from the committee nominated by the Institut.

  At the home of one of the pioneers of science I mentioned just now, when the weather outside was freezing, in a little greenhouse heated by means of new and ingenious apparatus in which electricity plays a role, it was given to me to see created, almost at will, the luminous phenomena that certain plants present, which would have amazed Linné and Goethe.

  In the month of July 1762, Elizabeth-Christine Linné, the daughter of the famous naturalist, while taking an evening stroll in a garden, noticed—not without a shock of surprise-little flashes of light springing from the flowers of a clump of Tropoelum majus. Now, are you familiar with the flower that botanists call Tropoelum? It’s the nasturtium—that popular climbing plant, so commonplace that its flower has given its name to a color.

  Elizabeth immediately ran in search of her father and a few friends, who accompanied her and became witnesses, in their turn, to the phenomenon that had astonished her. Shortly afterwards, she published a note on the subject in the Memoirs of the Stockholm Academy.

  It’s not only in the nasturtium, but also in the pot marigold (Calendula officinalis), the tiger lily (Lilium bulbiferum), the African marigold (Tagetes erecta), the Mexican marigold (Tagetes patula), the annual sunflower, a relative of the topinambour, and the oriental poppy, that I and a dozen friends were able to observe such a charming phenomenon.48

  The most complete darkness enveloped the greenhouse. We were sitting facing a large flower-bed in which the plants I’ve just named were assembled, which had been obtained by artificial culture.

  After ten minutes’ wait, an oriental poppy was the first to begin emitting flashes of sufficient magnitude to allow us, not only to see the flower that produced them but also to distinguish its neighbors quite clearly.

  These flashes were repeated several times, and were soon confused with those that the other plants were not long delayed in emitting in their turn, albeit with a lesser density.

  These flashes were sometimes bright, sometimes faint. Pale, almost white, and about eight to ten centimeters long, there is nothing better to compare them to than daylight. On raising the temperature of the greenhouse, and passing a slight electric current through it, the fantastic illumination acquired greater celerity, vivacity and force.

  I think that until now, no one, except for Linné’s daughter and M. Friès,49 the director of the botanical garden in Uppsala, has been witness, as I have been, to a phenomenon still considered dubious by a large number of naturalists. I do not think, above all, that they have seen it produced, in the month of November, almost at will, in an enclosed space.

  Botanists have not admitted these phosphorescent plants at present, and have denied the vegetable kingdom the singular property of spontaneously producing authentic electric sparks—or at least contested the privilege.

  Gesner50 admits that he has seen nothing of this sort in his very rare text entitled De raris et admirandis herbis, sive quod nocte luceant, sive alias ob causas lunariae nominantur. (On a few rare and admirable herbs which, either because they shine by night or for other reasons, are called lunar.) The best-known instance is that presented by rotting wood; the phosphorescence manifested by that material was initially attributed to the presence of Byssus phosphorea, but the observations of Retzius and Humboldt and the more recent ones of M. Bartig (Bot. Zeit., 1855, no.2) have proved that it resides in the ligneous substance itself.51

  Other fragments of vegetation in the process of decomposition can similarly cover themselves with phosphorus. Meyen has seen mushrooms in various stages of decay become luminous in the dark. M. Tulasne, for his part, has studied and carefully described the phosphorescence of dead oak leaves. M. de Martius, in his Voyage au Brésil, has described the vivid light that the milky sap of Euphorbia phosphorea emits at the moment when one squeezes the sap out of the stem. Finally, an analogous observation has been made in Brazil by Mornay, in a liana.52

  Phosphorescence similarly occurs in a few living and fully intact vegetables. The best known example, and the one most frequently studied, is that of Rhizomorpha subterranea, a fungus that develops in the wood of mine-shafts; the extremities of its filaments emit a glow so bright that, according to Meyen, Candolle53 and Humboldt, one can read a book by its light.

  Another fungus remarkable in this respect is the Agaricus crepidotus of southern Europe. Other species from the tropical regions possess the same faculty of becoming luminous in the dark; they include Agaricus gardneri, igneus and noctilucens.54

  A moss, Schistostega osmundacea,55 which grows in grottoes and caverns, emits by day, in certain circumstances, a beautiful emerald-green light. Bridel56 has shown than this light originates from the reflection and refraction of diurnal light by little confervoid57 filaments found under the moss.

  How many marvels equally unknown and equally uninteresting remain to be discovered, with the aid of chance? For human genius consists in drawing certain deductions that drive from facts that hazard presents—facts perhaps observed a thousand times by vulgar minds.

  Since I began with a Chinese story, I shall finish this chronicle with an apologue of the same origin. It is entitled “Of those who only see the surfaces of things” and is part of the Book of a Hundred Parables by Pe-yu-King.

  “There was a Richi58 who had retired to a mountain to try to acquire intelligence (Bodhi). He had obtained the six supernatural faculties and was endowed with a divine sight that penetrated everywhere. He could clearly see all the precious things that were hidden in the bosom of the earth.

  “When the king had been informed of this, he was ravished with delight and said to his minister: ‘How can we make sure that this man remains constantly in my kingdom, going nowhere else, and that my treasure is enriched by a multitude of precious things?’

  “One of the ministers, whose mind was very limited, immediately went to the Richi and plucked out his eyes. He brought them to the king and said: ‘As I have plucked out his eyes, he will not be able to go anywhere, and will remain constantly in this kingdom.’

  “The king said to him: ‘If I desired keenly that the Richi should remain in my kingdom, it was because he could see all the treasures hidden in the depths of the earth. Now that you have plucked out his eyes, what further need have I to make him stay?”

  Alas, many scientists in Europe—I mean official scientists—willingly treat their young rivals in the same fashion that the courtier treated the Richi.

  WHICH SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE AFRAID OF NIGHTMARES

  There are men in Paris who have conquered, by force of merit and hard work, the four honors most envied down here: knowledge, consideration, renown and fortune. Almost all of them were only able to arrive at that goal after having traversed the first phases of maturity. You will doubtless believe that they enjoy those victorious means of wellbeing peacefully, and that, having arrived at the summit of human desire, they have paused there to rest.

  Listen to me carefully: I know one of those men—and it is the same story with almost all of them—who has to get up at four o’clock in the morning in order to find two hours during which he can wrote down the bold and powerful ideas amassed in his brain. If he did not encroach so courageously upon his sleep, on the day when death comes knocking nothing would remain of his science but a name; his immense works would remain lost to his glory; every day people reap the benefits of it without knowing what they owe him. Those two hours, others dis
pute with him, and most of the time, it is necessary for him to give them up.

  Before dawn, often in the middle of the night, people run to his home, wake him up, summon him with loud cries, in tears and in despair. Then he abandons everything, repose and work alike, for where he is summoned there is suffering to soothe and good to be done. So he hurls himself into his carriage, which speeds at the fastest gallop of his admirable horses, to carry relief to the bedside of a dying man. While, with the marvelous diagnostic ability that he owes even more to his superior intellect than to his studies, he is identifying the cause of the illness and indicating means of combating it, several more people come to interrupt and summon him. Other individuals who are suffering require his help. He cannot take a step without everyone knowing where he is coming from and where he is going; he is pursued and demanded everywhere.

  The morning passes thus; when the hour comes for him to go to the hospital of which he is in charge, he has often not yet taken any nourishment. The knowledgeable doctor, who prescribes admirable rules of hygiene, neglects them for himself. No matter! He mops his brow and eats standing up and in haste. While he goes from bed to bed, his pupils follow him, respectfully collecting his slightest words, forever one of them throws a powerful light on surgical science. A Spartan would be astonished by his laconism, which says everything in the fewest words possible. When the round is over he teaches a brief lesson, and, surrounded by people who have come to ask for his help for the sick, he goes across the hospital courtyard followed by a veritable crowd.

  He listens, understands, responds, promises, prescribes, launches himself into his carriage and goes home, where his antechamber, his drawing room and his dining room are overflowing with people anxiously waiting for him. He receives his clients one by one in his study, and, in spite of the strange, diverse, contrasted maladies that arrive in succession to present their multiple and mysterious symptoms to him, his attention never wearies, the clarity of his gaze is never obscured. And yet, here come more people from every direction, asking for him and pulling him away from his consultation.

  He is undisturbed; he is unafraid; he remains calm, patient, serene and lucid. Finally, at four o’clock, he climbs back into his carriage. The team harnessed to the carriage is the third he has worn out since the morning. He begins running all over Paris again. I have never been able to discover when and how he dines; a family, affections and the joy of an evening by the fireside are impossible for him. He is always on the go, incessantly, a Wandering Jew driven by the pitiless hands of science and charity. Midnight is often chiming when he returns home, and he is glad if no one is waiting at the door to say to him: “If you don’t come, Monsieur, my mother will die.”

  Then he feels tears moistening his eyes, for the generosity of his heart equals his immense knowledge. He leaves again with the poor tearful girl and only comes back a long time afterwards, dying of fatigue, worn out, starved of rest and sleep. And as I have told you, his manservant has orders to wake him up at four o’clock in the morning, no matter what time he went to bed, and no matter what complaints the poor sleeper utters. The manservant cannot leave until he has seen the physician out of bed and wrapped in his dressing-gown, before sitting down at his desk opposite the lighted lamp. Then the victim of science recommences his routine, as he did the day before and will do the following day.

  He has friends who love him dearly, who bear him a truly fraternal affection, but he only sees them when they are ill. One day, one of them had recourse to the innocent ruse of a supposed malady in order to spend a quarter of an hour with him. The excellent man laughed at the joke, enjoyed it, had a hasty breakfast during which he amused himself like a child, and said as he left: “Don’t do that again. Give me your word, for if you were to have recourse to it again, doubt would ensure that I wouldn’t be able to come to see you anymore. I belong entirely to those who are suffering.” And he left at the gallop.

  Since that morning—which is to say, for a year—the two friends have not seen one another.

  The other day, the writer was strolling peacefully along the boulevard, dreaming in the sunshine, stopping at shop windows, waxing ecstatic at the charming young women, so elegantly dressed, who were passing by, and mulling over an idea for an article fermenting in his brain, when he suddenly saw a fast-moving carriage coming toward him. He made out its form, its livery, its magnificent horses, and signaled to the coachman to stop. The coachman, recognizing one of his master’s patients, obeyed. The door opened; he climbed in; and the two friends, after shaking hands, sat side by side, exchanging friendly words and cheerfully told one another the thousand trivial things that two people who like one another have to relate when they have not seen one another for a long time.

  The carriage kept going, however, and the writer, astonished that it had covered such a long distance without stopping in front of the house of some invalid, finally asked where he was being taken. “To the Faubourg Saint-Germain, to the lodgings of an American doctor who arrived in Paris a few days ago, who has witnessed some curious experiments on human life carried out in Lancaster. It should interest you. Come along and see.”

  The carriage finally stopped. They went up one of those broad 18th century staircases that one only finds nowadays on the far side of the river, and were introduced into an apartment furnished with exquisite taste. An exceedingly handsome young man with very distinguished manners came to met them; he expressed himself fluently in French, and briefly expressed the enthusiasm that the illustrious physician inspired in him. The latter, however, was impatient to broach the topic of conversation that had caused him to abandon his patients for an hour, and said, with the naïve and brusque curiosity typical of him: “You’ve carried out curious experiments on a condemned man?”

  The American passed his white hand, which a woman would have envied, through the gilded curls of his blond hair, smiled graciously and blushed slightly, but only because of the timidity he experienced in the presence of a glorious master of medical science.

  “Yes, Doctor,” he replied. “The condemned man was named Henry Cobler.59 He was a kind of savage, half redskin and half European. He’d committed sixteen murders, and talked about his crimes with the ease and almost with the satisfaction of a hunter recounting his exploits. Habituated for twenty years to gambling with his own life and those of others, he envisaged death calmly. One couldn’t find a more suitable subject for the studies we had in mind, don’t you think?”

  My friend replied to that rather un-American question with a nod of the head and a monosyllabic murmur.

  The foreigner went on: “It was decided that the execution would take place inside the prison. The sheriff declared that he would give his agreement to any dispositions that were not prohibited by law. A new voltaic battery was brought from the University of Pennsylvania, formed of two hundred plates organized in accordance with the Wollaston method.60 Finally, a committee of twenty-two people was selected, of whom I was one, in order to carry out and supervise the operations.

  “Cobler did not yet know, however, the date of his execution. When the day came I accompanied the chairman of the committee to the condemned man’s cell, and we had a conversation with him regarding trivial matters. He seemed quite placid, and agreed with a good grace to fill a bottle that the chairman gave him with air from his lungs. The chairman sealed the bottle hermetically. Cobler’s pulse, which I took while pretending to give the unfortunate man a handshake, was eighty-four per minute. He complained of a slight headache.

  “‘It’s the lack of exercise in the open air,’ he said, with a forced smile. ‘I’ll be getting some air soon.’

  “When that thought came to mind I felt his pulse-rate rise to a hundred and seventeen. His heart was beating so violently that one could have counted the movements through the fabric of his waistcoat.

  “At that moment, the warder came in, and read Henry Cobler the sheriff’s warrant that fixed his execution for the following day. The condemned man went pale; his f
eatures lost their composure; a convulsive frisson that he tried to repress ran through his limbs; his feet twitched so violently that one of the canvas shoes he was wearing split. All through the night, which he spent in prayer with the minister, an ardent fever devoured him. The next morning, when he appeared on the scaffold, he had aged ten years. The fatal platform fell on the twentieth of December at two seventeen a.m. A few movements resembling efforts were manifest; at two-twenty, Cobler’s soul was before his Creator.”

  The American physician then reported various observations regarding the manner in which the blood congeals in a cadaver that has suffered a violent death. Three minutes after the execution, the pulse was a hundred and forty; then it beat at two hundred and forty for two minutes; in the fifth and sixth minute it reached three hundred; by the seventh it was only a hundred and fifty, and by the eighth it had ceased entirely.

  The American doctor’s two listeners looked at one another fearfully and asked one another with a mute glance how it came about that there were men sufficiently devoted to science to carry out such studies.

  After a brief pause, and with the same composure as if he were speaking of the previous evening’s opera, the foreigner continued: “As for the heart, over four minutes, its sound became muted, but nothing disturbed their rhythm. Then they were heard to recover their force; there was no more appreciable noise by the twelfth minute.”

  It is necessary to apologize to readers to whom this already seems too horrible, but the title has warned them as to what they would find in this chapter; let them be warned, furthermore, that what follows is no less hideous.

  “When the body was taken down from the scaffold, forty-seven minutes after the execution, it was taken into a neighboring room and placed on a table insulated with wax, the spinal cord was cut. By means of a perforation of the trachea, an artificial respiration as established, and the two poles of the electrical battery were placed, the positive on the left of the neck and the negative on the seventh rib on the left side. I shivered with horror, monsieur, for all the organs of respiration quivered: the nose dilated, he chest swelled, the lips opened and stirred. I distinctly heard air going in and out of the lungs.