IV
The city of magic was to become to Martin neither a city nor any sort of magic but merely a route: their flat, the subway, the Institute, a favorite inexpensive restaurant, a few streets of laundries and delicatessens and movie theaters. But tonight it was a fog of wonder. They dined at the Brevoort, of which Gustaf Sondelius had told him. This was in 1916, before the country had become wholesome and sterile, and the Brevoort was a tumult of French uniforms, caviar, Louis, dangling neckties, Nuits St. Georges, illustrators, Grand Marnier, British Intelligence officers, brokers, conversation, and Martell, V.O.
“It’s a fine crazy bunch,” said Martin. “Do you realize we can stop being respectable now? Irving Watters isn’t watching us, or Angus! Would we be too insane if we had a bottle of champagne?”
He awoke next day to fret that there must be a trick somewhere, as there had been in Nautilus, in Chicago. But as he set to work he seemed to be in a perfect world. The Institute deftly provided all the material and facilities he could desire—animals, incubators, glassware, cultures, media—and he had a thoroughly trained technician—“garçon” they called him at the Institute. He really was let alone; he really was encouraged to do individual work; he really was associated with men who thought not in terms of poetic posters or of two-thousand-dollar operations but of colloids and sporulation and electrons, and of the laws and energies which governed them.
On his first day there came to greet him the head of the Department of Physiology, Dr. Rippleton Holabird.
Holabird seemed, though Martin had found his name starred in physiological journals, too young and too handsome to be the head of a department: a tall, slim, easy man with a trim mustache. Martin had been reared in the school of Clif Clawson; he had not realized, till he heard Dr. Holabird’s quick greeting, that a man’s voice may be charming without effeminacy.
Holabird guided him through the two floors of the Institute, and Martin beheld all the wonders of which he had ever dreamed. If it was not so large, McGurk ranked in equipment with Rockefeller, Pasteur, McCormick, Lister. Martin saw rooms for sterilizing glass and preparing media, for glass-blowing, for the polariscope and the spectroscope, and a steel-and-cement-walled combustion-chamber. He saw a museum of pathology and bacteriology to which he longed to add. There was a department of publications, whence were issued the Institute reports, and the American Journal of Geographic Pathology, edited by the Director, Dr. Tubbs; there was a room for photography, a glorious library, an aquarium for the Department of Marine Biology, and (Dr. Tubbs’s own idea) a row of laboratories which visiting foreign scientists were invited to use as their own. A Belgian biologist and a Portuguese biochemist were occupying guest laboratories now, and once, Martin thrilled to learn, Gustaf Sondelius had been here.
Then Martin saw the Berkeley-Saunders centrifuge.
The principle of the centrifuge is that of the cream-separator. It collects as sediment the solids scattered through a liquid, such as bacteria in a solution. Most centrifuges are hand- or water-power contrivances the size of a large cocktail-shaker, but this noble implement was four feet across, electrically driven, the central bowl enclosed in armor plate fastened with levers like a submarine hatch, the whole mounted on a cement pillar.
Holabird explained, “There’re only three of these in existence. They’re made by Berkeley-Saunders in England. You know the normal speed, even for a good centrifuge, is about four thousand revolutions a minute. This does twenty thousand a minute—fastest in the world. Eh?”
“Jove, they do give you the stuff to work with!” gloated Martin. (He really did, under Holabird’s handsome influence, say Jove, not Gosh.)
“Yes, McGurk and Tubbs are the most generous men in the scientific world. I think you’ll find it very pleasant to be here, Doctor.”
“I know I will—shall. And Jove, it’s awfully nice of you to take me around this way.”
“Can’t you see how much I’m enjoying my chance to display my knowledge? There’s no form of egotism so agreeable and so safe as being a cicerone. But we still have the real wonder of the Institute for to behold, Doctor. Down this way.”
The real wonder of the Institute had nothing visible to do with science. It was the Hall, in which lunched the staff, and in which occasional scientific dinners were given, with Mrs. McGurk as hostess. Martin gasped and his head went back as his glance ran from glistening floor to black and gold ceiling. The Hall rose the full height of the two floors of the Institute. Clinging to the soaring wall, above the dais on which lunched the Director and the seven heads of departments, was a carved musicians’-gallery. Against the oak paneling of the walls were portraits of the pontiffs of science, in crimson robes, with a vast mural by Maxfield Parrish, and above all was an electrolier of a hundred globes.
“Gosh—Jove!” said Martin. “I never knew there was such a room!”
Holabird was generous. He did not smile. “Oh, perhaps it’s almost too gorgeous. It’s Capitola’s pet creation—Capitola is Mrs. Ross McGurk, wife of the founder; she’s really an awfully nice woman but she does love Movements and Associations. Terry Wickett, one of the chemists here, calls this ‘Bonanza Hall.’ Yet it does inspire you when you come in to lunch all tired and grubby. Now let’s go call on the Director. He told me to bring you in.”
After the Babylonian splendor of the Hall, Martin expected to find the office of Dr. A. DeWitt Tubbs fashioned like a Roman bath, but it was, except for a laboratory bench at one end, the most rigidly businesslike apartment he had ever seen.
Dr. Tubbs was an earnest man, whiskered like a terrier, very scholarly, and perhaps the most powerful American exponent of cooperation in science, but he was also a man of the world, fastidious of boots and waistcoats. He had graduated from Harvard, studied on the Continent, been professor of pathology in the University of Minnesota, president of Hartford University, minister to Venezuela, editor of the Weekly Statesman and president of the Sanity League, finally Director of McGurk.
He was a member both of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and of the Academy of Sciences. Bishops, generals, liberal rabbis, and musical bankers dined with him. He was one of the Distinguished Men to whom the newspapers turned for authoritative interviews on all subjects.
You realized before he had talked to you for ten minutes that here was one of the few leaders of mankind who could discourse on any branch of knowledge, yet could control practical affairs and drive stumbling mankind on to sane and reasonable ideals. Though a Max Gottlieb might in his research show a certain talent, yet his narrowness, his sour and antic humor, kept him from developing the broad view of education, politics, commerce, and all other noble matters which marked Dr. A. DeWitt Tubbs.
But the Director was as cordial to the insignificant Martin Arrowsmith as though Martin were a visiting senator. He shook his hand warmly; he unbent in a smile; his baritone was mellow.
“Dr. Arrowsmith, I trust we shall do more than merely say you are welcome here; I trust we shall show you how welcome you are! Dr. Gottlieb tells me that you have a natural aptitude for cloistered investigation but that you have been looking over the fields of medical practice and public health before you settled down to the laboratory. I can’t tell you how wise I consider you to have made that broad preliminary survey. Too many would-be scientists lack the tutored vision which comes from coordinating all mental domains.”
Martin was dazed to discover that he had been making a broad survey.
“Now you’ll doubtless wish to take some time, perhaps a year or more, in getting into your stride, Dr. Arrowsmith. I shan’t ask you for any reports. So long as Dr. Gottlieb feels that you yourself are satisfied with your progress, I shall be content. Only if there is anything in which I can advise you, from a perhaps somewhat longer career in science, please believe that I shall be delighted to be of aid, and I am quite sure the same obtains with Dr. Holabird here, though he really ought to be jealous, because he is one of our youngest workers—in fact I call him my enfant terrible—but you, I believe, are only thirty-three, and you quite put the poor fellow’s nose out!”
Holabird merrily suggested, “Oh, no, Doctor, it’s been put out long ago. You forget Terry Wickett. He’s under forty.”
“Oh. Him!” murmured Dr. Tubbs.
Martin had never heard a man disposed of so poisonously with such politeness. He saw that in Terry Wickett there might be a serpent even in this paradise.
“Now,” said Dr. Tubbs, “perhaps you might like to glance around my place here. I pride myself on keeping our card-indices and letter-files as unimaginatively as though I were an insurance agent. But there is a certain exotic touch in these charts.” He trotted across the room to show a nest of narrow drawers filled with scientific blueprints.
Just what they were charts of, he did not say, nor did Martin ever learn.
He pointed to the bench at the end of the room, and laughingly admitted:
“You can see there what an inefficient fellow I really am. I keep asserting that I have given up all the idyllic delights of pathological research for the less fascinating but so very important and fatiguing cares of the directorship. Yet such is the weakness of genus homo that sometimes, when I ought to be attending to practical details, I become obsessed by some probably absurd pathological concept, and so ridiculous am I that I can’t wait to hasten down the hall to my regular laboratory—I must always have a bench at hand and an experiment going on. Oh, I’m afraid I’m not the moral man that I pose as being in public! Here I am married to executive procedure, and still I hanker for my first love, Milady Science!”
“I think it’s fine you still have an itch for it,” Martin ventured.
He was wondering just what experiments Dr. Tubbs had been doing lately. The bench seemed rather unused.
“And now, Doctor, I want you to meet the real Director of the Institute—my secretary, Miss Pearl Robbins.”
Martin had already noticed Miss Robbins. You could not help noticing Miss Robbins. She was thirty-five and stately, a creamy goddess. She rose to shake hands—a firm, competent grasp—and to cry in her glorious contralto, “Dr. Tubbs is so complimentary only because he knows that otherwise I wouldn’t give him his afternoon tea. We’ve heard so much about your cleverness from Dr. Gottlieb that I’m almost afraid to welcome you, Dr. Arrowsmith, but I do want to.”
Then, in a glow, Martin stood in his laboratory looking at the Woolworth Tower. He was dizzy with these wonders—his own wonders, now! In Rippleton Holabird, so gaily elegant yet so distinguished, he hoped to have a friend. He found Dr. Tubbs somewhat sentimental, but he was moved by his kindness and by Miss Robbins’s recognition. He was in a haze of future glory when his door was banged open by a hard-faced, redheaded, soft-shirted man of thirty-six or -eight.
“Arrowsmith?” the intruder growled. “My name is Wickett, Terry Wickett. I’m a chemist. I’m with Gottlieb. Well, I noticed the Holy Wren was showing you the menagerie.”
“Dr. Holabird?”
“Him … Well, you must be more or less intelligent, if Pa Gottlieb let you in. How’s it starting? Which kind are you going to be? One of the polite birds that uses the Institute for social climbing and catches him a rich wife, or one of the roughnecks like me and Gottlieb?”
Terry Wickett’s croak was as irritating a sound as Martin had ever heard. He answered in a voice curiously like that of Rippleton Holabird:
“I don’t think you need to worry. I happen to be married already!”
“Oh, don’t let that fret you, Arrowsmith. Divorces are cheap, in this man’s town. Well, did the Holy Wren show you Gladys the Tart?”
“Huh?”
“Gladys the Tart, or the Galloping Centrifuge.”
“Oh. You mean the Berkeley-Saunders?”
“I do, soul of my soul. Whajuh think of it?”
“It’s the finest centrifuge I’ve ever seen. Dr. Holabird said—”
“Hell, he ought to say something! He went and got old Tubbs to buy it. He just loves it, Holy Wren does.”
“Why not? It’s the fastest—”
“Sure. Speediest centrifuge in the whole Vereinigten, and made of the best toothpick steel. The only trouble is, it always blows out fuses, and it spatters the bugs so that you need a gas-mask if you’re going to use it … And did you love dear old Tubbsy and the peerless Pearl?”
“I did!”
“Fine. Of course Tubbs is an illiterate jackass but still, at that, he hasn’t got persecution-mania, like Gottlieb.”
“Look here, Wickett—is it Dr. Wickett?”
“Uh-huh … M.D., Ph. D., but a first-rate chemist just the same.”
“Well, Dr. Wickett, it seems to me a shame that a man of your talents should have to associate with idiots like Gottlieb and Tubbs and Holabird. I’ve just left a Chicago clinic where everybody is nice and sensible. I’d be glad to recommend you for a job there!”
“Wouldn’t be so bad. At least I’d avoid all the gassing at lunch in Bonanza Hall. Well, sorry I got your goat, Arrowsmith, but you look all right to me.”
“Thanks!”
Wickett grinned obscenely—redheaded, rough-faced, wiry—and snorted, “By the way, did Holabird tell you about being wounded in the first month of the war, when he was a field marshal or a hospital orderly or something in the British Army?”
“He did not! He didn’t mention the war!”
“He will! Well, Brer Arrowsmith, I look forward to many happy, happy years together, playing at the feet of Pa Gottlieb. So long. My lab is right next to yours.”
“Fool!” Martin decided, and, “Well, I can stand him as long as I can fall back on Gottlieb and Holabird. But—The conceited idiot! Gosh, so Holabird was in the war! Invalided out, I guess. I certainly got back at Wickett on that! ‘Did he tell you about his being a jolly old hero in the blinkin’ war?’ he said, and I came right back at him, ‘I’m sorry to displease you,’ I said, ‘but Dr. Holabird did not mention the war.’ The idiot! Well, I won’t let him worry me.”
And indeed, as Martin met the staff at lunch, Wickett was the only one whom he did not find courteous, however brief their greetings. He did not distinguish among them; for days most of the twenty researchers remained a blur. He confused Dr. Yeo, head of the Department of Biology, with the carpenter who had come to put up shelves.
The staff sat in Hall at two long tables, one on the dais, one below: tiny insect groups under the massy ceiling. They were not particularly noble of aspect, these possible Darwins and Huxleys and Pasteurs. None of them were wide-browed Platos. Except for Rippleton Holabird and Max Gottlieb and perhaps Martin himself, they looked like lunching grocers: brisk featureless young men; thick mustached elders; and wimpish little men with spectacles, men whose collars did not meet. But there was a steady calm about them; there was, Martin believed, no anxiety over money in their voices nor any restlessness of envy and scandalous gossip. They talked gravely or frivolously of their work, the one sort of work that, since it becomes part of the chain of discovered fact, is eternal, however forgotten the worker’s name.
As Martin listened to Terry Wickett (rude and slangy as ever, referring to himself as “the boy chemist,” speaking of “this gaudy Institute” and “our trusting new lil brother, Arrowsmith”) debating with a slight thin-bearded man—Dr. William T. Smith, assistant in biochemistry—the possibility of increasing the effects of all enzymes by doses of X-rays, as he heard one associate-member vituperate another for his notions of cell-chemistry and denounce Ehrlich as “the Edison of medical science,” Martin perceived new avenues of exciting research; he stood on a mountain, and unknown valleys, craggy tantalizing paths, were open to his feet.