and boy—the one with his terror of the flaming iron, and the other with his memory of the child's gentleness and helplessness, and his dread of seeing forever the blackened, empty sockets under the smooth boyish forehead—and going to his grave with the smell of searing flesh in his nostrils. It is no wonder Hubert’s voice shook as he answered the Prince's question,
"Is there no remedy?
Hubert: None, but to lose your eyes.
Arthur: O, heaven! that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain of dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible!"
It is easy to be brutal at a distance—but to hurt something small and helpless is enough to make a man detest himself.
Let me not hold my tongue! Let me not, Hubert,
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. O spare mine eyes!"
I have never seen the play on the stage, but I can imagine the sigh of relief that flutters over an audience when Hubert breaks down and exclaims, "I will not touch thine eyes!" And the boy's reply comes like a benediction, "Ah, now you look like Hubert! All this while you were disguised!"
I had forgotten Murtha and everything in fact but Prince Arthur—when suddenly the reading stopped. Lifting the galvanometer lid Murtha removed the disc of paper, on which was scratched a wavering line.
A Discussion of the Result of the Test
"See," he said as he took several similar discs from a table drawer. "Here are some pictures of sympathy. You know, I suppose, that the body's resistance to electricity varies with its emotional state? I couldn't let you know I was planning a test or you'd have been on your guard—but the light current I sent through you while I was reading made a chart which tells how responsive you are to appeals of this sort."
I stared at him, uncertain whether to laugh or be irritated at his casual trespass on the emotional privacy of a stranger, his guest. This was science with a vengeance! But he laid the last record beside the others, carefully noting my name and the date, and went on placidly, "Here is President Archer's reaction to that same passage—" evidently I was not alone!—"and this is Cardy's—and this is De Grasse's. Notice the excitable Latin temperament in that sharp down-swing. This one I got from the boy who cleans up my laboratory. By the way, come and let me show you the place I've fixed up to work in."
What could I say? He was so simple, so naive about it all! I tried a question as I rose to follow him, "Have you ever tested yourself, Murtha? What does that passage mean to you? Nothing more than material for an experiment?"
"No one could test himself that way—an emotion alters when you try to watch it. I like the scene well enough. It's a fine piece of writing. Perhaps I do seem pretty cold-blooded about it, but that is because I've been over it so often and I know it all so well. Now here is my work table, with water and gas and electrical connections, and this is a small lathe—" and he was off on the subject of his work-room.
It was an admirable place—light, clean, well-equipped. There were sinks and tables, glass cabinets full of glittering instruments, a hood with a fan for exhausting gases. In one corner, on a pedestal, was a life-sized head and bust in wax-work—which I took to be one of those cheerful models anatomists and psychologists have to indicate the structure of the head, brain, and the muscular and nervous systems. Beside it an electrical transformer gave him a wide range of voltages; dark shades and a battery of powerful lights with reflectors and color screens put the lighting in his control. There was even an operating table rolled against the wall. I was impressed, and said so; and he was very evidently pleased.
But as I left, I wondered about a man who could traffic thus in his associates' personal feelings with such scant apology, and who could think that that terrible scene was merely fine writing. I agreed with Page in the Department of History, who said to me next day, "The man's too damned scientific for my tastes. He told me life was simply another form of energy. I've met men who said they were mechanists, but I never met one who acted the part as thoroughly as Murtha!" I related my experience of the night before, and Page grinned. "That is just what Archer said—and Cardy—and several more. He's impartial, anyway."
He was. He treated us all alike, and all rather as if we were laboratory animals. He sought me out and set himself to cultivate me with earnest thoroughness; but he had no idea of how to go about it. I could not help realizing that he wanted me near him mainly for what I knew of the electrical science he required. He had none of the tact or intuition which might have concealed his selfishness; he hardly knew how to make his contacts agreeable. As a human being, I never touched him.
More About Professor Murtha, the Strange Scientist
I tried to. Having seats for a symphony concert, I invited him to go with Mrs. Harvey and myself, but he excused himself—and when we came home we saw the lights burning late in his laboratory. I took him around to one of the Wednesday evening bridge gatherings of the men of the faculty, at the club; but he pleaded ignorance of the game, escaped early, and never came again. He even avoided the baseball games. Perhaps it was partly from shyness, and a fear of human contacts; partly from pride, and an arrogant exclusiveness; but chiefly, I think, from a genuine enthusiasm for his research.
I learned a little of his history while we worked together. He had been sent to medical school by a wealthy uncle—had gained the love of scientific investigation, and had accomplished enough in his ordinary classes to gain his degree—had spent several miserable years as a general practitioner in the country, paying as little attention as possible to his patients, and heartily disliked by most of them—and had suddenly come into wealth on the death of the uncle. Freedom and leisure he turned to account, and he was already a man of note when
