INTRODUCTION
Carl Grunert was a pupil of Kurd Lasswitz, one of the pioneers of German science fiction. He wrote several "novelettes of the future", including among others, "The Martian Spy", "Enemies in Space", and "The White Enigma".
"Mr. Vivacius Style" was initially published in the 1908 anthology "The Martian Spy and other Novels", and has been cited by some as a precursor to the much more well-known "Professor Dowell's Head" by Belyaev. Whether Belyaev read the Grunert is up for debate (we think it is unlikely), there are very strong parallels between certain plot points.
The original German text can be free found online at: https://www.projekt-gutenberg.org/grunert/marsspio/chap008.html - this translation is based on this online version.
MR. VIVACIUS STYLE
Miss Annie, my wife's cousin, residing at 2** North-Center Avenue in Chicago, Ill., sent me an issue of the German-American newspaper "Chicagoer Tribüne" today, in which she had highlighted the following article in red:
"A curious story, sounding quite 'American' even by our local standards, is reported from one of our little country towns, for the understanding of which we preface the following:
For quite some time, a few bold and brilliantly written feuilletons in one of our largest papers had attracted all cultured peoples' attention. It was not so much the energy and fire that set them apart from our daily literature, but the almost striking resemblance they bore in style and opinion to the articles of the well-known Mr. Vivacius Style, who, as our readers will recall, died suddenly in the Buffalo rail crash a few years ago. His crushed body was one of the last found under the wreckage of the train. As the head was missing, his identity was only established by some papers found in the breast pocket of his coat, including a ready-to-print manuscript on the race struggle.
At that time we lamented with the whole of America, indeed with the whole civilized world, the great loss that journalism, science, and humanity had suffered with the death of Mr. Style. But as we explained in our obituary at that time, the cruel fate was actually merciful, despite its rough hand, the sudden end saved the famous author from long physical suffering: for among Mr. Style's confidants it was well known how seriously ill he had been for many years. Only such a strong spirit like his could have known how to triumph over matter for so long, and no one has noticed the physical torments through his brilliantly written essays, which show all the merits of our best classics. At that time (cf. Volume 26, No. 245) we dared draw a parallel with our great German poet Friedrich Schiller, for whom we German-Americans perhaps have more sympathy than his compatriots at home in the fatherland; we explained how much the world had lost from the death of the great poet, how much could still be hoped for from his pen, and that the number of his unwritten works was certainly far greater than that of those left behind. We lamented the frailty of human nature, which had bound such a fiery spirit in the shackles of a sickly body. "Pegasus in the Yoke!" We wrote that it is precisely such cases that awaken in us human beings the immodest desire in our souls to be able to master nature, that is, to free such gifted spirits from the fate of their accidental physical constitutions in the interest of mankind.
But now, as mentioned at the outset, the unbelievable news that Mr. Vivacius Style is still alive comes from a small country town in Ohio, that those splendid articles in the 'Sun' and other papers, which illuminate the latest current issues in a surprising, very peculiar, but highly modern way, literally derive from him. The only thing that remains a mystery is how and whether he was saved from the railroad accident, since his friends had reconnoitred his corpse. His former admirers therefore do not believe in his authorship of his current publications and consider the whole story a cunning press maneuver - all the more so since no one has yet seen or spoken to the revived Vivacius Style. In our opinion, however, the published series of articles speaks for the truth of the matter in a flawless and completely convincing way, despite all statements to the contrary. Only one of our living authors writes like this - and that is Mr. Vivacius Style! Ex ungue leonem! - We do not even discuss, like other newspapers, the various possibilities of a plausible explanation of the mysterious matter: use of Style's earlier, as yet unpublished manuscripts, imitation of his style by a younger, talented journalist, etc. - we assert with all determination the authenticity of the editorials in the 'Sun'. We know that we are now pretty much alone in making this assertion; but the future will prove us right. – – That's as far as we wrote yesterday. In the meantime, the whole thing has found a surprising, and no less wonderful explanation.
Mr. Vivacius Style is indeed alive - or was alive until a few days ago; However, one has to make restrictions with the word 'alive' insofar as not he himself, his entire bodily self, has lived on since that railway accident, but only - his head!
Doctor Magician, whose name will perhaps be known to some of our readers as that of a brilliant naturalist and pioneer, particularly in the field of biological chemistry, put the following on record in Nowhere-City, for the reassurance of public opinion and for his own justification:
'I, Doctor Magnus Magician, happened to be near the scene of that train crash. I gave first aid as best I could to the few passengers who were still alive. When I finally penetrated the interior of the almost completely destroyed dining car, which according to the survivors had been unoccupied at the moment of the collision, I found, close to the exploded carbon dioxide apparatus - a head, artfully separated from the body, probably by a piece of metal hurled by the explosion, as from a dissecting knife of the anatomist. This head lay on a heap of "snow" as on a pillow, formed by the liquid carbonic acid that froze when it suddenly poured out. I, who have performed many a post-mortem in my profession, was wonderfully moved by the high intellect that spoke from his features and the enigmatic, life-fresh color of his face. I was so taken by the sight that I bent down to him. In doing so I discovered that the frozen carbonic acid had suddenly stopped the bleeding; the openings of the great arteries were hermetically sealed by bungs of frozen carbonic acid, and the whole surface of the wound was covered with a thick layer of solid ice.
I decided to take my find with me to do scientific experiments on it. I meticulously bundled him in a pack of carbonic snow, wrapped him up carefully, and carried him to my automobile, which was parked nearby. – On the way I gave thanks for the fortune that put such a test subject in my hands. At that time I had been working on the production of a substitute liquid for human blood, which I wanted to introduce into the bloodstream of the human body by transfusion in the event of acute and chronic cardiac failure, bleeding, gas poisoning, etc. My preparation, 'Sanguinum', obtained through a biological-chemical process, reacts exactly like human blood according to Uhlenhuth's method, and therefore should be able to fulfill the functions of natural blood. - When I got home to the laboratory, my first concern was to carefully and gradually thaw the head, to make the wound surfaces painless, and to connect it to the transfusion apparatus. I then opened the tap of the pulsometer-type instrument to introduce my artificially generated blood into the subject's arteries. –
It does not belong in an official record to speak here of the feeling that seized me when I saw the lifeless head gradually coming to life again: the slight blushing of the cheeks, the trembling of the still closed eyelids, the change in facial expressions in the slowly revitalizing features and finally - the opening of the eyes, awakening from death, looking back into life! Here the expression that the language is too poor for such a feeling fits perfectly. – Enough – he woke up and looked at me. I saw his lips move; but speaking was impossible for him; he lacked the organ that supplied his larynx with the necessary air. I bent to his ear and slowly told him everything, his misfortune, the finding of his head and his coming here - and his waking from death.
He stared at me in disbelief for a long time; - finally a smile crossed his features, a sunny, happy, liberating smile, which also freed my soul from a quiet self-reproach. He wanted to speak again, and it seemed to me that his lips formed only two words at a time: "thank you!"
My next concern was to construct an apparatus that would make it possible for him to speak again, i.e., a sort of automatic bellows that forced air into his larynx through what was left of his trachea. - Day and night I worked non-stop, feverishly - finally I managed to do it and switched on my apparatus.
The experiment went better than I had hoped. It is true that his voice lacked sonority, since there was no resonance of the sound in his chest, and at first he had difficulties regulating his breath; but he could speak and make himself understood to me. And only now did I learn from his own mouth what an "illustrious head" I was harboring: I had saved Mr. Vivacius Style, at least, as he himself humorously remarked, the one part of his ego in his body which was worth something in life. - And now my relationship to my test subject changed in one fell swoop: for a long time I had been an enthusiastic admirer of the previously unknown champion for nobler humanity, for dignity and freedom of thought, for the creation of spiritual values, for the true nobility of our sex. I had learned with regret from my peers that the days of this rare, highly gifted man were numbered, that he was suffering under the burden of an already sickly and weak body. From that moment on, I considered it my noblest task in life to preserve and care for this gifted intellect of mankind - with all the means that science and my medical experience gave me; I could not but see more than mere coincidences in the wonderful concatenation of all the circumstances of his salvation! – –
To give him the journalistic work he longed for, I bought a phonograph on which he recorded his articles; later I replaced this with a Poulsen telegraphophone to enable him to record longer treatises undisturbed. I gladly went to the small trouble of typing his spoken essays into ordinary writing. – This is how we have worked together this past time; at last he insisted, in order to free me from the task of writing, to buy one of the newly invented talking typewriters at his own expense. Since then he has prepared his manuscripts for printing all by himself.
He wished that I not to reveal our mutual secret of his 'disembodied' existence to any living soul; I should keep quiet even to his longtime friend and publisher, the editor of the 'Sun', but I had secretly confided in him, as he will now, in view of the situation, be happy to confirm. - Only once did my poor friend find it difficult to keep his secret - on the day when he learned that Miss Evelyn H....., his enthusiastic friend and admirer, was seriously ill as a result of his terrible, sudden end. In that hour he composed the sonnet: "From the dead to the living", which made the rounds in many of our major newspapers at the time, and whose final terzanes (in German translation) read:
'I am far away - but not in the realm of spirits;
No longer human, but still mortal as once;
Bodiless, but master of my senses.
A miracle - I live, reborn from death -
And if you cry for the one suddenly torn away,
You have not lost what you loved!'
Verses that only become fully understandable through my current report. – But otherwise he worked as if nothing had happened; his journalistic dexterity, his striking dialectic, his wealth of knowledge and skills - and last, but not least - his philanthropy are evident in every line. – In order to let him and I forget the unusual and tragically fearful aspect of his appearance, the living human head on the working machine, I had prepared him a garment that was closed up to the neck like a comfortable housecloth and covered everything. - Just about this time the fight for the so-called 'Colored Bill' began in the country, introduced by Mr. Retrorsy, according to whom, the colored people of all races in the territory of the United States should no longer have their previous rights - and it was of all people, Mr. Vivacius Style's articles in the 'Sun' which, by their flaming protest against this bill, kindled a great movement among our fellow citizens on which we still stand, a movement, which ultimately escalated in a journalistic duel between Mr. Style and Mr. Retrorsy in the press. This is not the place to point out Mr. Retrorsy's way of fighting, which had unleashed a whole arsenal of personal and political suspicions against Mr. Style; – Despite all these suspicions, Mr. Vivacius Style won in the forum of public opinion with his ideas. That was one of his last pleasures. For I, the doctor, have not really liked him myself for some time; his usual joie de vivre and his golden sense of humor decreased. I checked my apparatus with concern, I examined his condition. It was – as I had to recognize – a purely mental illness, and I also believed with certainty that I had found a causal connection between his melancholy and Miss Evelyn H.....'s illness. In addition, I would have liked to have found a confidante for our secret, who would take loving care of his well-being, which in this case meant the meticulous and conscientious operation of the apparatus if I should somehow be prevented from doing so. For example, the 'sanguinum' must be freshly prepared every twenty-four hours, e.g., all this made me decide to visit that friend of Mr. Vivacius Style, from whom I learned through confidential inquiries that her illness was also only of a mental nature—without Mr. Style's prior knowledge, of course. For this purpose I had to be away from him for half a day, but I thought I could rely on my longtime servant Phin for this brief absence. - On the day of my departure I carefully checked the operation of the apparatus again; then I bade Mr. Style a brief farewell, promising to be with him again in a few hours. – – I never saw him alive again.
Mr. Retrorsy is known to have always disputed the authenticity of those articles in the 'Sun'. If his repeated doubts did not succeed in luring Mr. Style and I out of our reserve, he will on the other hand have spared no means or ways to discover our secret. The almighty dollar probably did its work here too. Some detective agency will have found me as the broker of his articles; enough: it is certain, according to my investigations, that he stayed in Nowhere-City for weeks and finally bribed my servant with a large sum to immediately let him know that I was going to be away for a long time. - In the hours of my departure he then barged into my house and broke down the door of my laboratory, which had been protected by a lock. –
No living mouth told me what happened next, but rather – the phonograph, which I put into action to record when I left, just in case. According to this phonographic account, Mr. Retrorsy, upon seeing his adversary appearing fully human and natural in his disguise, exclaimed:
'Goddam - the fellow is alive indeed!' - to which Mr Style replied calmly: [Translator's note: The numerous "Goddam!"s are in English in the original.]
'Yes, Mr. Retrorsy - and I hope to prove it to you with my pen even better than with my eyes!'
'Will you at least tell me, in the interests of your many friends and - opponents, how you actually saved yourself from that train and stayed alive, Mr. Style? Since a large number of people, including your most loyal supporters, at the time diagnosed you as a veritable corpse, it would still be important for your political opponent to clarify this contradiction – including Goddam! - for your newest protégés, the damned Colored ones -'
At these moments, according to the phonograph, the automatic regulator of the transfusion apparatus set in; the peculiar rasping sound naturally caught Mr. Retrorsy's attention and with it his - suspicions. He broke off in the middle of a word and then continued in a mocking tone:
'What – what is that? - Where did that come from? Do you have clockwork in your body, Mr. Style? – Is your current existence just a covert humbug after all? – Goddam – it would be! Let them see! – –'
It is likely that Mr. Retrorsy then stepped closer and examined Mr. Style's disguise. Powerless and defenseless, the poor man was exposed to all attacks by his opponent.
'Well - that's your secret, Mr. Style! – You are no longer a proper person, but only a mechanism in disguise! And you still dare to join the battle of opinions! You dare to accuse me of all sorts of machinations - and you are yourself only a machine that this clever medicine man has patched up again with his damned art! - You should stop attacking me with your insane articles - Goddam - Let me examine you more closely - I should succeed in rendering you and your mechanism harmless in the future! Haha! Here is a piece of an automaton's glass tube inserted into your body - it can surely be broken.'
The phonograph registered a violent noise, the shattering of the glass tube, probably from a blow with a walking stick - and a hissing bubbling, the outflow of the sanguinum, the artificial blood.
Mr. Vivacius Style felt and knew that his end was soon to come; he exclaimed:
'You have acted according to your character - like a cowardly scoundrel! I feel I must bleed to death — O, Mr. Magician, my dear friend, with so much wickedness an honest man struggles in vain! – Miserable Retrorsy, triumph then! You destroyed me, but not my idea - and by it, I will avenge myself on you.' - -
- - At the appointed time I returned to my home. I came with a happy heart: Miss Evelyn H..... felt strong enough to come to my place tomorrow to share with me the care for the dearly rescued. Surprised that Phin didn't meet me at the front door, I stood in the hall for a moment and called out. There was no answer - but at that moment I did hear a dull noise, which was accompanied by a violent rattling, like a strong electrical discharge.
With foreboding, I rushed up the stairs to the laboratory in a breathless haste and fell inside. –
My first glance flew to Mr. Vivacius Style. Pale, like a noble marble statue, his bowed head lay a little to one side on the pillow that I put on him to support him while he slept. I saw with bleeding heart that I was too late!
Another look at the apparatus, half stripped of its shell, made me recognize the work of destruction as the cause of the sudden catastrophe.
And now I had found the culprit! He was pinned in the high-voltage line of my laboratory, convulsed in a single spasm, in a corner under the transformer...
From the pictures I possessed, I recognized him as Mr. Retrorsy, my lost friend's worst enemy. But only after I had satisfied myself with sad, incontrovertible certainty that all my medical skill and science came too late this time for Mr. Vivacius Style, only then—I am not ashamed to admit it! – I tried to get Mr. Retrorsy. I turned off the power, unhooked his convulsed limbs, and tried to revive him. When these remained fruitless, I transfused him with sanguinum, the artificial blood which he had withdrawn from my shamefully sacrificed friend by his nefarious deed. – He finally awoke and came back to life. He recognized me and wanted to speak, but his tongue lay like lead in his twisted mouth. He tried to write, but his hands were paralyzed and cold and stiff as stone!
But even without his confession, I was able to fully explain what had happened: he probably heard me coming shortly after he had completed his shameful deed and turned to flee. He had stumbled and tried to hold on, but the metal rod he grabbed in haste was the cable of my high-voltage power line - and the shock of 50,000 volts hit him. –
The phonograph gave me context. The wretch has achieved his purpose, Mr. Vivacius Style is no more! – But the good cause has avenged its faithful warrior, faster than he probably thought himself: Mr. Retrorsy is paralyzed of tongue and hands forever...'"
Up to this point I had read the article in the 'Chicagoer Tribüne'.
Shaking my head, I turned the newspaper over - the date was from the first of April...
But—Miss Annie—?
