IX

When the delegates were appointed to the International Scientific

Congress at the Paris Exposition of 1900, how little did anybody

imagine that the great conference would end in the most gigantic

scandal that ever stirred two continents?

Yet, had it not been for the pair of American newspapers published in

Paris, this scandal would never have been aired, for the continental

press is so well muzzled that when it bites its teeth merely meet in

the empty atmosphere with a discreet snap.

But to the Yankee nothing excepting the Monroe Doctrine is sacred, and

the unsopped watch-dogs of the press bite right and left, unmuzzled.

The biter bites--it is his profession--and that ends the affair; the

bitee is bitten, and, in the deplorable argot of the hour, "it is up

to him."

So now that the scandal has been well aired and hung out to dry in the

teeth of decency and the four winds, and as all the details have been

cheerfully and grossly exaggerated, it is, perhaps, the proper moment

for the truth to be written by the only person whose knowledge of all

the facts in the affair entitles him to speak for himself as well as

for those honorable ladies and gentlemen whose names and titles have

been so mercilessly criticised.

These, then, are the simple facts:

The International Scientific Congress, now adjourned _sine die_, met

at nine o'clock in the morning, May 3, 1900, in the Tasmanian Pavilion

of the Paris Exposition. There were present the most famous scientists

of Great Britain, France, Germany, Russia, Italy, Switzerland, and the

United States.

His Royal Highness the Crown-Prince of Monaco presided.

It is not necessary, now, to repeat the details of that preliminary

meeting. It is sufficient to say that committees representing the

various known sciences were named and appointed by the Prince of

Monaco, who had been unanimously elected permanent chairman of the

conference. It is the composition of a single committee that concerns

us now, and that committee, representing the science which treats of

bird life, was made up as follows:

Chairman--His Royal Highness the Crown-Prince of Monaco. Members--Sir

Peter Grebe, Great Britain; Baron de Becasse, France; his Royal

Highness King Christian, of Finland; the Countess d'Alzette, of

Belgium; and I, from the United States, representing the Smithsonian

Institution and the Bronx Park Zoological Society of New York.

This, then, was the composition of that now notorious ornithological

committee, a modest, earnest, self-effacing little band of workers,

bound together--in the beginning--by those ties of mutual respect and

esteem which unite all laborers in the vineyard of science.

From the first meeting of our committee, science, the great leveller,

left no artificial barriers of rank or title standing between us. We

were enthusiasts in our love for ornithology; we found new inspiration

in the democracy of our common interests.

As for me, I chatted with my fellows, feeling no restraint myself and

perceiving none. The King of Finland and I discussed his latest

monograph on the speckled titmouse, and I was glad to agree with the

King in all his theories concerning the nesting habits of that

important bird.

Sir Peter Grebe, a large, red gentleman in tweeds, read us some notes

he had made on the domestic hen and her reasons for running ahead of a

horse and wagon instead of stepping aside to let the disturbing

vehicle pass.

The Crown-Prince of Monaco took issue with Sir Peter; so did the Baron

de Becasse; and we were entertained by a friendly and marvellously

interesting three-cornered dispute, shared in by three of the most

profound thinkers of the century.

I shall never forget the brilliancy of that argument, nor the modest,

good-humored retorts which gave us all a glimpse into depths of

erudition which impressed us profoundly and set the seal on the bonds

which held us so closely together.

Alas, that the seal should ever have been broken! Alas, that the

glittering apple of discord should have been flung into our

midst!--no, not flung, but gently rolled under our noses by the gloved

fingers of the lovely Countess d'Alzette.

"Messieurs," said the fair Countess, when all present, excepting she

and I, had touched upon or indicated the subjects which they had

prepared to present to the congress--"messieurs mes confrères, I have

been requested by our distinguished chairman, the Crown-Prince of

Monaco, to submit to your judgment the subject which, by favor of the

King of the Belgians, I have prepared to present to the International

Scientific Congress."

She made a pretty courtesy as she named her own sovereign, and we all

rose out of respect to that most austere and moral ruler the King of

Belgium.

"But," she said, with a charming smile of depreciation, "I am very,

very much afraid that the subject which I have chosen may not meet

with your approval, gentlemen."

She stood there in her dainty Parisian gown and bonnet, shaking her

pretty head uncertainly, a smile on her lips, her small, gloved

fingers interlocked.

"Oh, I know how dreadful it would be if this great congress should be

compelled to listen to any hoax like that which Monsieur de Rougemont

imposed on the British Royal Society," she said, gravely; "and because

the subject of my paper is as strange as the strangest phenomenon

alleged to have been noted by Monsieur de Rougemont, I hesitate--"

She glanced at the silent listeners around her. Sir Peter's red face

had hardened; the King of Finland frowned slightly; the Crown-Prince

of Monaco and Baron de Becasse wore anxious smiles. But when her

violet eyes met mine I gave her a glance of encouragement, and that

glance, I am forced to confess, was not dictated by scientific

approval, but by something that never entirely dries up in the

mustiest and dustiest of savants--the old Adam implanted in us all.

Now, I knew perfectly well what her subject must be; so did every man

present. For it was no secret that his Majesty of Belgium had been

swindled by some natives in Tasmania, and had paid a very large sum of

money for a skin of that gigantic bird, the ux, which has been so

often reported to exist among the inaccessible peaks of the Tasmanian

Mountains. Needless, perhaps, to say that the skin proved a fraud,

being nothing more than a Barnum contrivance made up out of the skins

of a dozen ostriches and cassowaries, and most cleverly put together

by Chinese workmen; at least, such was the report made on it by Sir

Peter Grebe, who had been sent by the British Society to Antwerp to

examine the acquisition. Needless, also, perhaps, to say that King

Leopold, of Belgium, stoutly maintained that the skin of the ux was

genuine from beak to claw.

For six months there had been a most serious difference of opinion

among European ornithologists concerning the famous ux in the Antwerp

Museum; and this difference had promised to result in an open quarrel

between a few Belgian savants on one side and-all Europe and Great

Britain on the other.

Scientists have a deep--rooted horror of anything that touches on

charlatanism; the taint of trickery not only alarms them, but drives

them away from any suspicious subject, and usually ruins,

scientifically speaking, the person who has introduced the subject for

discussion.

Therefore, it took no little courage for the Countess d'Alzette to

touch, with her dainty gloves, a subject which every scientist in

Europe, with scarcely an exception, had pronounced fraudulent and

unworthy of investigation. And to bring it before the great

International Congress required more courage still; for the person

who could face, in executive session, the most brilliant intellects in

the world, and openly profess faith in a Barnumized bird skin, either

had no scientific reputation to lose or was possessed of a bravery far

above that of the savants who composed the audience.

Now, when the pretty Countess caught a flash of encouragement in my

glance she turned rosy with gratification and surprise. Clearly, she

had not expected to find a single ally in the entire congress. Her

quick smile of gratitude touched me, and made me ashamed, too, for I

had encouraged her out of the pure love of mischief, hoping to hear

the whole matter threshed before the congress and so have it settled

once for all. It was a thoughtless thing to do on my part. I should

have remembered the consequences to the Countess if it were proven

that she had been championing a fraud. The ruffled dignity of the

congress would never forgive her; her scientific career would

practically be at an end, because her theories and observations could

no longer command respect or even the attention of those who knew that

she herself had once been deceived by a palpable fraud.

I looked at her guiltily, already ashamed of myself for encouraging

her to her destruction. How lovely and innocent she appeared, standing

there reading her notes in a low, clear voice, fresh as a child's,

with now and then a delicious upward sweep of her long, dark lashes.

With a start I came to my senses and bestowed a pinch on myself. This

was neither the time nor the place to sentimentalize over a girlish

beauty whose small, Parisian head was crammed full of foolish, brave

theories concerning an imposition which her aged sovereign had been

unable to detect.

I saw the gathering frown on the King of Finland's dark face; I saw

Sir Peter Grebe grow redder and redder, and press his thick lips

together to control the angry "Bosh!" which need not have been uttered

to have been understood. The Baron de Becasse wore a painfully neutral

smile, which froze his face into a quaint gargoyle; the Crown-Prince

of Monaco looked at his polished fingernails with a startled yet

abstracted resignation. Clearly the young Countess had not a

sympathizer in the committee.

Something--perhaps it was the latent chivalry which exists imbedded in

us all, perhaps it was pity, perhaps a glimmering dawn of belief in

the ux skin--set my thoughts working very quickly.

The Countess d'Alzette finished her notes, then glanced around with a

deprecating smile, which died out on her lips when she perceived the

silent and stony hostility of her fellow-scientists. A quick

expression of alarm came into her lovely eyes. Would they vote against

giving her a hearing before the congress? It required a unanimous vote

to reject a subject. She turned her eyes on me.

I rose, red as fire, my head humming with a chaos of ideas all

disordered and vague, yet whirling along in a single, resistless

current. I had come to the congress prepared to deliver a monograph on

the great auk; but now the subject went overboard as the birds

themselves had, and I found myself pleading with the committee to give

the Countess a hearing on the ux.

"Why not?" I exclaimed, warmly. "It is established beyond question

that the ux does exist in Tasmania. Wallace saw several uxen, through

his telescope, walking about upon the inaccessible heights of the

Tasmanian Mountains. Darwin acknowledged that the bird exists;

Professor Farrago has published a pamphlet containing an accumulation

of all data bearing upon the ux. Why should not Madame la Comtesse be

heard by the entire congress?"