Mead G.R.S. - The Vivisectors

At the foot of the mountains of Auvergne on the eastern border of the great plain which stretches through the centre of France, lies a small city renowned for many a stirring scene in history. Not the least of these was the frenzied preaching of the Hermit who wrung from a passion-wrought and ignorant mob the blasphemous shout of “Dieu le veut,” and by his cry “Lo, there was Christ!” announced himself a traitor to that ever-present and living Truth he claimed to serve.

Near the centre of the city stands a small university, of no great renown in itself, but interesting because Pierre Ducharme and Gaston Luguet were some few years ago among the number of its students.

Outwardly they were an ill-assorted couple, for Gaston was handsome and rich, while Pierre was ungainly and ill-featured and dependent on a miserable pittance which an almost bankrupt father grudgingly doled out to him.

It was a strange bond of union that kept these two together. Dissimilar in all other respects, they were both madly impassioned of Science. For them it was everything; it explained all, or at least all that was explainable. If there was a Saviour of the world it was Science; truly a goddess meet to be worshipped, a goddess whose brilliant radiance had put to flight the misty hosts of superstition and poured from her beneficent lap the blessings of civilization on all men. Their sole ambition was to gain a niche in the Temple of Fame among the great discoverers and pioneers who had fought in the battle of Man against Nature. For them Science had nearly covered the ground of possible knowledge. Since Mind had been conclusively demonstrated to be a product of Matter, there was nothing more to say in that direction. Experiments which were being made to perfect our knowledge on the origin of life were nearly successfully completed, so that the evolution of Matter would be proven all along the line.

The lines of study which especially interested them were the splendid achievements of surgery and the important discoveries arrived at by vivisection, particularly the labours of the renowned savants Bernard, Bert and Pasteur.

Gaston who was a fils de famille and was well supplied with money, had spent it freely in the purchase of subjects on which he and Pierre operated in private, taking careful note of the nerves and tissues necessary to life and making elaborate experiments to demonstrate the limitation of environment under which life was supportable. For them, the sacrifice even of the whole animal kingdom was as nothing compared to the addition of one valuable fact to the sum of proved scientific knowledge. The animal was merely a continuation of the vegetable kingdom. Why then have more compunction in cutting up a dog, than in paring an apple? To speak of such valuable experiments as cruel and brutal, was mere sentiment and effeminate squeamishness, the proof of an unscientific mind and weak intellect.

They deplored the soft-hearted public opinion which forbade the vivisection 303of criminals and spoke with enthusiasm of the enlightened government which had once given Science the means of prosecuting so valuable a field of discovery.

Together they had operated on some of the animals which, according to the Haeckelian “Tree,” were most closely related to man, and eagerly yearned to push their investigations into the human kingdom. “Why did not the government,” they cried, “make the proletariat cast lots yearly and so supply a certain number of subjects for their great benefactress Science? Bah, the government was too chicken-hearted now-a-days!”

At this period they were working very hard for an approaching examination. For Pierre this crisis was of the most vital importance. It would make or mar him. Gaston, on the contrary, was spurred on merely by his ambition. Yet so powerful was his love of fame and so assiduously did it keep him to his studies, that his health began to give way and he had to be hurriedly packed off home for a week’s rest.

As the two friends parted at the station, Gaston whispered with suppressed excitement: “But for one miserable subject and we should head the lists by a thousand marks, Pierre! I’ll get one, never fear, old fellow! I swear it.”

Pierre, who was of a less sanguine nature, recognized the impossibility of gratifying their wish in so benighted an age and returned with equal mind to his work. He heard nothing of his friend for a week, and then received a brief note ending in the somewhat alarming sentence: “At last I have my eye on a subject.”

Gaston was evidently off his head, thought Pierre. The old fellow had worked too hard and tired his brain. He would run over to R – and see him.

R – was a town some eight miles distant, where the Luguets lived in an ancient mansion on the quiet main street.

At Pierre’s knock, the servant girl, who knew him well for M. Gaston’s friend, told him that the family were from home but that the young master was in his study. He had particularly asked not to be disturbed, but no doubt would see Monsieur.

Dismissing the girl, Pierre went straight to Gaston’s door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. On turning the handle he found the door was locked.

“Gaston, old man,” he shouted, “it’s I, open up, you sleepy beggar!” Still no response.

Fearing something might be wrong, Pierre placed his shoulder against the door and the lock flew off.

Hastily entering, he drew back with a start of alarm.

There lay Gaston, stripped to the middle, face downwards in a ghastly pool of blood. Swiftly and deftly Pierre raised the dead body of his friend expecting to find a gaping throat wound. But no sooner had he turned the body round than he dropped it with a cry of horror, for the bared trunk, from the mangled flesh of which blood was still oozing, showed signs of careful dissection.

A subject had been found, it was Gaston himself.

Pierre staggered to a chair, prostrated with emotion. As he gazed round the room in a dazed manner, his eye rested on the writing-table.

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What was that bloodstained paper in his friend’s well-known writing? Seizing it with trembling hands, he saw at a glance that it was a detailed account of the whole ghastly operation, every nerve and muscle noted, the writing getting feebler and feebler until a series of small blots marked where the pen had fallen from Gaston’s fainting hand. Pierre’s anxiety to read this valuable record overcame all other thoughts. Sitting down he perused with bated breath and intense interest the minute details of what, from a scientific point of view, he considered a most magnificent operation.

He was laying the paper down with a sigh of disappointment that it ended so abruptly and at a point where the interest was greatest, when his eye was attracted by two or three sentences written at the bottom of the page and which he had not previously noticed. The writing was very minute but yet written firmly and boldly.

Pierre, it ran, we have been mad fools. . . . Matter is delusion. . . . Nothing exists but ideas. . . . Mind is no product of matter, but a thing in itself. . . . Hypnotism; study hypnotism. . . . Farewell!

Surely Gaston was mad! Of course he must have been to kill himself: but here was an additional proof. How fearfully mad the poor fellow must have been to write such stuff! Matter a delusion! Bah! the one reality of science – a delusion! He was as mad as a whole lunatic asylum, surely. Mind not a product of matter! Why every child knew that it was! And had not Gaston himself moreover, written a thesis on the interaction of the molecular movement of the brain and consequent thought-production? He study hypnotism, the hallucination of insufficient observation – absurd! Why Gaston and himself had clearly and completely demonstrated to their mutual satisfaction that it was merely a continued hallucination caused by sustained attention and a consequent partial paralysis or inhibition of the nerve centres. Poor Gaston was mad; most awfully mad.

Carefully folding the paper, he placed it in his pocket-book.

After the funeral, Pierre tried to settle down to his studies again but with poor success. His work always reminded him of Gaston, and Gaston of his tragic self-immolation to science.

From time to time he took out the ghastly record of his friend’s last handiwork, and studied it attentively. He regarded it as a sacred secret and as the most precious souvenir that could be left by one man of science to another.

At first it struck him as somewhat curious that Gaston had penned those last mad sentences so neatly; but he speedily found a satisfactory solution to the difficulty, and placed it securely on a strictly scientific footing. Gaston had evidently fainted from loss of blood; on coming to his senses again, however, his already overwrought brain had given way completely. In this miserable state of mind he had written the concluding sentences, when a second fainting-fit had completely finished him.

As his examination was rapidly approaching, he determined to banish the subject from his mind and work hard; but as he was reading up physiology, he had frequent occasion to refer to his friend’s precious notes, and he finally determined to bring them into his paper by hook or by crook. He accordingly found his mind always dwelling on Gaston and his strange heirloom.

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So much did this recollection haunt him that as he read he could have sworn that he heard Gaston’s voice whispering in the far distance: “Matter is delusion, delusion!” He would wake up at night with the words “Mind is a thing of itself” ringing in his ears. Wherever he went he was pursued by a gentle murmur of “Hypnotism, study hypnotism!”

Maddened to desperation by his inability to banish these thoughts from his mind, he determined to read the subject again, and so prove once more to his own complete satisfaction, by pure reason and science, that hypnotism was nothing but hallucination and a nonsensical and unproductive branch of enquiry.

Still as it would be a pure waste of time to consult the accepted authorities, all of whom he had previously read, he prepared for his amusement and distraction to analyse the unscientific absurdities of the Mesmerists.

With this intention he entered the City Library and taking down Dupotet’s Magie Devoilée, commenced to read it in an absent-minded and contemptuous manner. As he mechanically turned the pages over, he gave a sudden start. Close to his very ear he heard Gaston’s voice distinctly whisper, “Read, Pierre, study hypnotism!”

He was now thoroughly desperate. “Was he too going mad?” he asked himself. Mad! He, Pierre, mad! Bosh, it was all nerves!

Once, however, that he had determined on a task, it was not his habit to leave it unperformed; so that opening the book again, he proceeded to carefully analyse the theories and experiments brought forward by the author.

We must pass over the various changes of mind through which he went during the next few days and the way in which he was gradually forced to admit several of the hypotheses of the followers of Mesmer. The study of these books brought under his notice an entirely new literature, and forced him occasionally to refer for verification of quotations to the writings of the mediæval “Adepts,” such as Paracelsus, Agrippa, Van Helmont, Flamel, Robertus de Fluctibus, etc. In the works of these authors he read contemptuously enough of Magic. Hypnotism, he admitted, had been treated scientifically; there was also a probability that mesmerism could be dealt with in the same manner, but Magic – absurd! That was pure madness and hallucination, if you like.

But hardly had the thought crossed his mind when he heard the well-known voice whisper: “Hallucination! – What is hallucination? . . . . Nothing exists but thought . . . . Study Magic!”

Study Magic! As well tell a Scientist to study Theology! thought Pierre. He was evidently overworked and overwrought and must take a day’s holiday. Suppose he were to go for a long tramp into the mountains and clear away the cobwebs?

With this determination he started off and walked with feverish energy till nightfall, returning footsore and hungry. His walk had done him no good, for all the time his brain was working wildly as he strove with all his power to reason himself back again to his old position.

He was passing through the streets as one in a dream, when suddenly he stopped before an old curiosity shop, and mechanically took up a small dilapidated volume covered with worm-eaten vellum. As he turned over the pages, his attention was riveted by the accursed word, Magic.

It was the Grimoire of Pope Honorius.

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Seeing a probable customer, the old dealer came forward, and noticing the book in his hands, began with the garrulousness of old age to explain how he came by it, pouring forth a voluble story of some Father Leclache, a Jesuit who was found dead in his bed.

Pierre listened without comprehending a word, and mechanically following the garrulous curiosity monger into his sanctum, dreamily watched him rummage out a small dust-covered oak box bound strongly with iron clasps.

The next recollection he had was that of placing the same box with great care on the dissecting table in Gaston’s former laboratory and securely fastening the door.

One who knew him would have declared that it was no longer Pierre Ducharme. Every gesture was altered, an unnatural change had completely transfigured him. He now seemed to be acting with a set purpose and performing a familiar task of which he knew every detail.

Carefully selecting certain herbs, he commenced to pound and mix them together, muttering strange words in rhythmical cadence the while. Two long hours he plied his task, for six different mixtures were to be prepared and all was done deliberately and solemnly and with the greatest possible care.

Next proceeding to the mysterious box and opening it he laid the contents in due order on the table and extinguished the light.

Then taking a handful of one of the mixtures, he turned with strange gestures to the four quarters with reverent mien and placed the incense in a brazier, intoning a prolonged syllable which died away in weird and mysterious whisperings. This he did three times.

With steel and flint he lighted the herbs, and soon dense clouds of smoke were rolling through the apartment. One by one each article from the strong-bound box was passed eight times through the smoke and consecrated with the utmost care. You would have said that the fortunes of a kingdom hung in the balance for each detail of the ceremony.

When all was duly consecrated, with slow and stately steps the Magister moved in silence to the centre of the chamber and there remained motionless, arms folded, closed eyes and bowed head.

It was a strange weird scene, lit only by the unsteady glow of the embers in the brazier. Now and again their fitful light allowed a glimpse of the laboratory-shelves with their glass instruments and furniture, shelves which had so often been the silent witnesses of the excruciating pains and agonized death throes of that torture chamber of science.

Ceasing from his contemplative attitude the operator now traced with great deliberation a circle of some six feet diameter in the centre of the apartment, adding strange cabalistic figures within it. Next he drew a cross the ends of which joined the outer circle and at the points he placed four braziers filled with different perfumes, and in the centre placed a fifth. Setting four tapers within the circle on the arms of the cross, and donning a red vesture reaching to his feet, he girded round his waist a belt inscribed with strange and mystic characters and bound with practised hand a Lamen round his forehead.

Precisely as the clock was striking twelve, with wand and book in hand, the 307now transformed magician stepped within the circle, which now was shrouded round with rolling clouds of incense from the smoking braziers.

Facing the East, in low and solemn tones and with expectant gaze, the red-clad figure pronounced with emphasis a weird and awe-inspiring invocation to the Spirits of Fire. Then from South, North, West, the Spirits of Air, Earth and Water were severally invoked to aid the daring mortal in his task

Denser and denser grew the incense fumes; wreath after wreath curled into strange fantastic shapes and arched into a brooding canopy overhead. And now the hardy summoner of unseen powers lights the centre brazier and springing to his feet with terrible earnestness pronounced the following awful words: –

By the Rulers of the Four Corners of Solid Earth, and by Princes and Powers of Fleeting Air; By Regents and Demons of Running Water and by the bright spirits of Flaming Fire: By all these and by the Great Name of the all-mighty Dragon Bibdabradoft, I summon thee, Gaston Luguet, to appear. Notsag Teugul: Yau tezie kodel y bednu! Appear! Appear!! Appear!!!

Round and round the circle sped the fumes in dizzy swirls with ever-increasing rapidity; but within the charmed surface all was intensely clear and unnaturally still. As the last syllable died away, lambent tongues of flame quivered through the rapid smoke spirals threading them like weavers’ shuttles, until the two motions intermingling, a living wall of whirling atoms hemmed the circle in. Suddenly the motion ceased; and the sphere assumed a dull monotonous glare, as though the bold magician were hemmed in with walls of red hot iron; yet there was no heat but rather the sensation of a cool wind blowing.

Suddenly the blood-coloured envelope split on all sides and disappeared.

Mighty powers what are these; what this horrid spectacle? There on all sides pressing round the circle are standing the wretched victims which had died beneath the ruthless scalpels of the pitiless pair; dissected to the limit of life; in horrible mutilation; piteously gazing at the silent watcher in mute appeal for mercy. Above them was the shade of Gaston, pointing to his self-inflicted wounds. Each gazed upon their summoner in mute appeal; and Gaston gazed at them, with awful looks of undying sorrow and remorse.

With a violent shudder the whole demeanour of the formerly intrepid lord of the circle changed, the previous calm Magister vanished from the scene; the red-clad figure was now Pierre Ducharme himself.

Turn where he would the same awful sight presented itself to his panic-stricken gaze; desperately, with starting eyeballs he turned his eyes upward.

There above his head hovered a grand and noble personage of stern sad gaze. “Mortal,” it seemed to say, “Life is sweet Harmony: but thou hast made of it sad discord. As thou hast sown, so must thou reap. Like unto like; such is the law.”

With a shriek of terror the hapless student tottered backwards and fell outside the circle unconscious.

The morning sun shone brightly on the figure of Pierre Ducharme. There he lay on the floor of the laboratory, dressed in his ordinary clothes, with 308Gaston’s bloodstained notes clasped tightly in his hand. All else had disappeared.

On returning to consciousness, he strove to recollect how he had come to pass the night on the floor, but in vain. He could remember returning from his long walk, tired and faint for want of food. All else was a hopeless blank. He supposed the fit of nervous prostration from which he had been suffering, had culminated in some fit of unconsciousness.

He felt very tired and shattered. Something must be done to pull himself together, a glass of brandy would set him to rights, he thought. Hastily pouring out a glass from a bottle that had been used once for an experiment, he drained it to the last drop; it did him so much good that he poured out another. The second had even a better effect than the first. Pierre had a natural dislike for spirits, but strange to say, in his present queer state, he seemed to derive nothing but benefit from the fiery liquid, and by the time he had finished the bottle felt almost quite his old self.

During the next week or so before his examination he threw himself heart and soul into his work, keeping up his strength by increasing quintities of brandy. He found that he had much to get through, especially as he had to make up for the time lost during what he now regarded as his nervous illness. So occupied however, was he with his other subjects, that it was not until the very morning of the examination that he snatched a hasty glance at Gaston’s notes, which since the night of the crisis of his illness he had kept locked up in a drawer of his desk. In fact he had to finish his reading of them as he hurried down to the examination hall.

Hastily putting them into his breast pocket, he entered the hall and ran his eye over the paper.

“Splendid! Nothing could be better! The very question he wanted! He was a made man!” Such were the mental comments of the delighted Pierre.

On he wrote, cleverly leading up to the point where he could bring in the priceless information that his dead friend had bequeathed to him.

As he more clearly brought the fatal paper and its precious contents before his mind’s eye, the whole sequence of events from the time of Gaston’s suicide, massed themselves and began to rush through his being with ever-increasing intensity. Once more he felt himself carried with wild headlong impulse into the magic circle. And now with lightning rapidity he was a second time brought face to face with the ghastly vision which had been evoked.

With the awful words “such is the law” ringing in his ears, he fell forward heavily over his papers.

Silence reigned in the hushed examination hall. Nothing could be heard but the plying of busy pens; when suddenly the stillness was broken by a demoniacal shout of laughter. Peal after peal rang through the rafters. As the startled students looked up they saw that one of their number was waving his papers frantically over his head and then tearing them with frenzied fingers into fragments. At this terrible sight the awful truth burst upon them. . . . Pierre Ducharme was mad.

G. R. S. Mead, f.t.s.

Footnotes