“So, is it over?” he asked, circling her waist.
“Listen, darling,” she replied, giving him the divinest of kisses, “throw that hat away; the other one’s much nicer.”
AN ALEXANDRIAN TALE
Chapter I
AT SEA
“WHAT, MY DEAR STROIBUS? Impossible! No one will ever believe that giving a man mouse blood to drink could turn him into a mouser or a thief.”
“First of all, Pythias, you are forgetting one important condition: the mouse must perish under the surgeon’s scalpel for the blood to retain its fundamental essence. This condition is, one could say, essential. Secondly, since you have chosen the example of a mouse, I’ll have you know that I’ve already experimented on one, and did indeed manage to produce a thief . . .”
“A genuine thief?”
“A month later, he stole my cloak, but left me the greatest happiness in the world: the proof that my theory is correct. What did I lose? A scrap of coarse cloth. And what did the universe gain? An immortal truth. Yes, my dear Pythias, this is an eternal truth. The constituent elements of the thief are contained in the blood of mice, those of the patient man in the ox, those of the bold in the eagle—”
“And those of the wise man in the owl,” interrupted Pythias, smiling.
“No, the owl is merely an emblem, but if we could transfer spider’s blood to a man, it would give that man the rudiments of geometry and musical sensibility. With a flock of storks, swallows, or cranes, I’ll make a stay-at-home into a wanderer. The essence of marital fidelity is to be found in the blood of turtledoves, that of infatuation in peacock blood . . . In short, the gods put the essence of all human feelings and abilities into the beasts of the earth, water, and sky. Animals are the random letters of the alphabet; man is the syntax. This is my latest philosophy; this is what I shall reveal at the court of the great Ptolemy.”
Pythias shook his head and stared out to sea. The ship was sailing to Alexandria with its precious cargo of two philosophers, carrying the fruits of enlightened reason to that haven of learning. They were friends, both widowed, and in their fifties. Their particular specialty was metaphysics, but they were also acquainted with physics, chemistry, medicine, and music; one of them, Stroibus, had become an excellent anatomist, having read the treatises of Herophilos many times. Their native land was Cyprus, but, since no one is ever a prophet in his own country, Cyprus did not accord the two philosophers the honor they deserved. On the contrary, it scorned them; street urchins would even jeer at them. This was not, however, the reason that had prompted them to leave their homeland. One day, returning from a journey, Pythias proposed to his friend that they go to Alexandria, where the arts and sciences were held in high esteem. Stroibus agreed, and they boarded ship. Only now, having set sail, did the inventor of the new doctrine reveal it to his friend, along with all his recent thoughts and experiments.
“All right,” said Pythias, looking up. “I can neither confirm nor deny anything, but I will study your new theory, and if I find it to be true, I will develop it further and reveal it to the world.”
“Long live Helios!” exclaimed Stroibus. “I can say that you are my disciple.”
Chapter II
EXPERIMENT
The urchins of Alexandria did not treat the two sages with the same scorn as their Cypriot brethren. Egypt was as grave as the ibis perched on one leg, as pensive as the Sphinx, as circumspect as the mummies, and as austere as the pyramids; it had neither time nor inclination to laugh. Both city and court, well acquainted with the reputations of our two friends, gave them a royal welcome, demonstrated knowledge of their writings, discussed their ideas, and sent them many gifts: papyri, crocodiles, zebras, and cloth of finest purple. They refused everything, however, saying simply that philosophy was all a philosopher needed, and that superfluous possessions were corrosive to the soul. Such a noble response filled everyone with admiration, from the wise men and leaders to the common people. “After all,” said the wisest among them, “what else could one expect from two such excellent men, who in their magnificent treatises—”
“We have something even better than those treatises,” said Stroibus, interrupting the speaker. “I have brought with me a theory that will very soon govern the universe; I intend nothing less than the reconstitution of both men and nations by redistributing their talents and virtues.”
“Is that not the work of the gods?” objected one of them.
“I have penetrated the secret of the gods,” replied Stroibus. “Mankind is the syntax of nature, and I have discovered the laws of divine grammar.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Later. First I must experiment. When my theory is complete, I will reveal it as the greatest gift mankind could ever receive from a man.”
Just imagine the public expectation and the other philosophers’ curiosity, although they found it hard to believe that this newly proclaimed truth could come to displace those which they themselves held dear. Nevertheless, they all waited patiently. The two guests were pointed at in the street, even by little children. A son pondered the possibility of reversing his father’s parsimony, a father his son’s prodigality, a lady her gentleman’s indifference, a gentleman his lady’s follies—because Egypt, from the pharaohs to the Ptolemies, was the land of Potiphar and Potiphar’s wife, and Joseph’s coat of many colors, and all the rest. Stroibus became the hope of the city and the world.
Having studied the theory, Pythias went to see Stroibus and told him:
“Metaphysically speaking, your theory is nonsense, but I am prepared to allow one experiment, as long as it proves decisive. There is only one way, my dear Stroibus, for this to work. You and I, as much because of our steadfast characters as our cultivation of reason, would be most resistant to the vice of theft. So if you manage to instill this vice in us, you will have proved your theory; if you do not (and believe me, you won’t, because it is utterly absurd), you will abandon all such ideas and we will return to our old, familiar meditations.”
Stroibus accepted the proposal.
“My sacrifice is all the more painful,” he said, “since I am sure of the result; but how can one deny the truth? Truth is immortal; man is but a brief moment.”
The Egyptian mice, had they known of this accord, would have imitated the ancient Hebrews and fled into the desert rather than accept the new philosophy. And it would, without a doubt, be disastrous. Science, like war, has its imperative necessities, and since the ignorance and weakness of mice, combined with the mental and physical superiority of the two philosophers, gave such material advantages to the forthcoming experiment, it behooved them not to waste so excellent an opportunity to find out if the essence of each human passion and virtue was indeed to be found among the various species of animals, and if it was possible to transmit that essence to humans.
Stroibus placed the mice in cages; then, one by one, he put them to the knife. First, he tied a strip of cloth around the patient’s snout and paws; then he tied its legs and neck to the operating table with a cord. Having done this, he made the first incision in the chest, slowly going deeper and deeper in until the scalpel touched the heart, for it was his opinion that instantaneous death would contaminate the blood and destroy its essence. As a skilled anatomist, he wielded the knife with an expertise worthy of his scientific intent. Anyone less dexterous than he would have stopped and started many times, because the mouse so writhed about in its pain and agony that this made holding the scalpel very difficult; but therein lay Stroibus’s superiority, for he had a practical and magisterial command of his subject.
Standing beside him, Pythias collected the blood and helped with the work, restraining the patient’s convulsive movements and carefully watching its eyes to study the progression of its death throes. The observations of both men were recorded on sheets of papyrus, and the benefit to science was thus twofold. At times, when their assessments differed, they were obliged to dissect more mice than would otherwise have been neces
sary. However, they put this to good use, for the blood from the extra mice was set aside and swallowed later. Just one such incident will demonstrate the care with which they proceeded. Pythias had observed that the color of the dying mouse’s retina changed to light blue, while according to Stroibus’s observations the final color at the point of death was hazel. It was their final experiment of the day, but it was a point worth investigating and, despite their tiredness, they carried out a further nineteen experiments without reaching a definitive conclusion; Pythias insisted on blue, Stroibus on hazel. The twentieth mouse nearly brought agreement, but Stroibus realized, with great perspicacity, that he had changed his stance while at the table. He corrected this, and they dissected twenty-five more. Of these, the first one still left them in doubt, but the other twenty-four proved to them that the final color was neither hazel nor blue, but a pale shade of violet.
Exaggerated accounts of the experiments caused some alarm among the more sentimental of the city’s inhabitants and aroused the loquacity of several sophists, but the grave Stroibus (gently, so as not to further aggravate a characteristic proper to the human soul) replied that the truth was worth all the mice in the universe, indeed not only mice, but also peacocks, goats, dogs, nightingales, and so on. In the case of mice, both science and the city gained through a reduction in the scourge of so destructive an animal; and, if the same considerations did not apply to other animals—such as turtledoves and dogs, for instance, which they would also be dissecting in due course—this in no way diminished the rights of the truth. “Nature should not only furnish the dining table,” he concluded with an aphorism, “but also the table of science.”
And they carried on extracting the blood and imbibing it. They drank it diluted in an infusion of cinnamon, acacia sap, and balsam, which completely masked its original taste. They took tiny, daily doses, and therefore had to wait a long time for the effect to manifest itself. Pythias, impatient and incredulous, mocked his friend.
“So? Still nothing?”
“Wait,” said Stroibus. “Just wait. Growing a vice is not like stitching a pair of sandals.”
Chapter III
VICTORY
Finally, Stroibus triumphed! The experiment proved his theory to be correct. And Pythias was the first to show signs that the effect was real, by attributing to himself no less than three ideas he had heard from Stroibus himself. The latter, in retaliation, stole from Pythias four comparisons and a theory about the wind. What could be more scientific? Other people’s ideas, precisely because they aren’t bought and sold on the street corner, have a certain air of commonality, and so it is only natural to begin with them before moving on to borrowed books, hens, forgeries, provinces, and so on. The term “plagiarism” is an indication that people understand the difficulty of confusing this embryonic form of thievery with the fully fledged variety.
It’s a hard thing to say, but the truth is that both Stroibus and Pythias cast all their metaphysical baggage into the Nile and, in no time at all, became inveterate pilferers. They would prepare carefully in advance and go after cloaks, bronzes, amphoras of wine, merchandise from the port, and trusty old drachmas. They stole so silently that no one caught on, but even if someone had, how would he have convinced anyone else of this? Ptolemy had, by that time, already gathered together in his library many rare treasures and, wishing to catalogue them, he had designated five grammarians and five philosophers to do the job, among them our two friends. Pythias and Stroibus worked with singular dedication, being the first to arrive and the last to leave, often working by lamplight late into the night, deciphering, compiling, and classifying. Ptolemy was delighted, and planned to give them the very highest-ranking positions.
Some time later, serious gaps began to be noticed: a copy of Homer, three rolls of Persian manuscripts, and two Samaritan scrolls, a superb collection of Alexander’s original letters, copies of Athenian laws, the second and third books of Plato’s Republic, etc. The authorities set up a vigil, but a mouse’s cunning, transferred to a superior organism, was naturally greater, and the two illustrious thieves ran rings around the spies and guards. They went so far as to establish the philosophical precept of never leaving the library empty-handed; they always took something, even if it was only a fable. Finally, when there was a ship about to set sail for Cyprus, they took their leave of Ptolemy with a promise to return, then sewed the books inside hippopotamus hides, put false labels on the outside, and attempted to flee. But the envy of other philosophers did not slumber; the magistrates’ suspicions were aroused and the theft was discovered. Stroibus and Pythias were taken for impostors masquerading under those two illustrious names; Ptolemy handed them over to the judicial authorities with orders to proceed straight to execution. It was then that Herophilos, the father of anatomy, intervened.
Chapter IV
PLUS ULTRA!
“My lord,” he said to Ptolemy, “until now I have limited myself to dissecting corpses. But while a corpse gives me structure, it does not give me life. It gives me the organs, but not their functions. I need functions and I need life.”
“What are you saying?” replied Ptolemy. “Do you want to disembowel Stroibus’s mice?”
“No, sir. I do not want to disembowel mice.”
“Dogs? Geese? Hares?”
“None of those. I am asking for living men.”
“Living? Impossible.”
“I will demonstrate that it is not only possible, but legitimate and necessary. The prisons of Egypt are full of criminals, and criminals occupy a very lowly rung on the human ladder. They are no longer citizens and cannot even call themselves men, because in violating law and morality they have lost both reason and virtue, which are the two principal human characteristics. Furthermore, given that they must atone for their crimes through death, is it not fair that they should render some service to truth and to science? Truth is immortal; it is worth not only all the mice in the universe, but also all the wrongdoers.”
Ptolemy could find no fault with this reasoning, and ordered the criminals to be delivered to Herophilos and his disciples. The great anatomist thanked him for such an illustrious favor, and began dissecting the culprits. The populace was horrified, but, apart from a few verbal protests, there were no public demonstrations against the measure. Herophilos repeated what he had said to Ptolemy, adding that subjecting delinquents to anatomical experiments even amounted to an indirect method of promoting morality, since fear of the scalpel would, in itself, deter the commission of many crimes.
Upon coming out of prison, none of the criminals suspected the scientific destiny that awaited them. They left prison one by one, or sometimes in twos or threes. Many of them, stretched out and strapped to the operating table, still suspected nothing; they assumed it was some new method of summary execution. Only when the anatomists had decided upon the day’s scientific objective, lifted their scalpels, and made the first incisions, did the poor wretches become truly conscious of their predicament. Those who remembered hearing about the experiments on mice suffered doubly, because their imaginations added past events to present pain.
In order to reconcile the interests of science with the impulses of compassion, the prisoners were not dissected within sight of each other, but one after the other. When they came in twos or threes, those waiting their turn were placed where they could not hear the other patient’s screams. Although the screams were often muffled with various devices, they weren’t entirely suppressed, and, in certain cases, the whole purpose of the experiment required unhindered vocal expression. Sometimes the experiments were simultaneous, but, in those cases, they were performed a suitable distance apart.
Around fifty prisoners had been dissected when it came to Stroibus’s and Pythias’s turn. When brought out of prison, they presumed they were to be executed, and commended themselves to the gods. On the way they stole some figs, and justified this theft by pleading hunger; farther on, however, they purloined a flute, and for this they were unable to give
a satisfactory explanation. Still, a thief’s cunning knows no bounds, and, to justify his action, Stroibus tried to get some notes out of the instrument, filling the bystanders with compassion, for they were not unaware of the fate awaiting the two philosophers. News of these two new offenses was reported by Herophilos, and shocked all of his disciples.
“Truly,” said the master surgeon, “it is an extraordinary case and a beautiful one too. But before we get to the nub of our inquiry, let us first examine the other point . . .”
The other point was to find out whether the seat of larceny lay in the palm of the hand or the tips of the fingers; this problem had been suggested by one of the disciples. Stroibus was the first to be experimented upon. He understood everything from the moment he entered the operating theater; and, as human nature has a very base, obsequious streak, he begged them humbly to spare the life of a philosopher. But Herophilos, with his great powers of dialectic, said to him something along these lines: “Either you are an impostor, or you’re the real Stroibus. In the first instance, you have here before you the only means of atoning for the crime of deceiving an enlightened ruler, so submit yourself to the scalpel. In the second instance, you must not be unaware that the philosopher’s duty is to serve philosophy, and that, compared to knowledge, the body is nothing.”
Having said this, they began with their experiment on the hands, which produced excellent results that were collated in books later lost with the fall of the Ptolemies. The hands of Pythias were also torn apart and minutely examined. The wretched pair screamed, wept, and begged for mercy, but Herophilos again calmly reminded them that the philosopher’s duty is to serve philosophy, and that, for scientific purposes, they were worth even more than the mice, since it was infinitely better to draw conclusions about humans from humans, rather than from mice. And, for a whole week, he continued to dissect them fiber by fiber. On the third day, he plucked out their eyes, so as to disprove in practice a theory regarding the internal structure of that particular organ. I won’t go into the removal of both men’s stomachs, for it involved issues that were of somewhat secondary importance and which, in any event, had already been studied and resolved in five or six individuals dissected previously.
The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis Page 63
