Chapter 19

Some Basic Principles

8 min

“What’s the matter?” asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him.

“What’s the matter?” asked Kemp when the Invisible Man let him in.

“Nothing,” was the answer.

“Nothing,” came the answer.

“But, confound it! The smash?”

“But, damn it! What about the crash?”

“Fit of temper,” said the Invisible Man. “Forgot this arm; and it’s sore.”

“I lost my temper,” said the Invisible Man. “I forgot about this arm, and it’s sore.”

“You’re rather liable to that sort of thing.”

“You’re fairly prone to that sort of thing.”

“I am.”

Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken glass. “All the facts are out about you,” said Kemp, standing up with the glass in his hand; “all that happened in Iping, and down the hill. The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here.”

Kemp crossed the room and picked up the pieces of broken glass. “All the facts about you are out,” Kemp said, standing up with the glass in his hand. “Everything that happened in Iping and down the hill. The world knows about its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here.”

The Invisible Man swore.

The Invisible Man cursed.

“The secret’s out. I gather it was a secret. I don’t know what your plans are, but of course I’m anxious to help you.”

“The secret’s out. I understand it was a secret. I don’t know what your plans are, but of course I’m eager to help you.”

The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.

“There’s breakfast upstairs,” said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere.

“There’s breakfast upstairs,” said Kemp, speaking as casually as he could. He was delighted when his strange guest willingly got up. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere.

“Before we can do anything else,” said Kemp, “I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours.” He had sat down, after one nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has talking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed and vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the breakfast-table—a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping unseen lips on a miraculously held serviette.

“Before we can do anything else,” said Kemp, “I need to understand a little more about your invisibility.” He glanced nervously out of the window, then sat down as if he had something to discuss. He doubted for a moment that the whole business was sane. But his doubts vanished again as he looked across at Griffin, who sat at the breakfast table. Griffin was a headless, handless dressing gown, wiping unseen lips on a miraculously held napkin.

“It’s simple enough—and credible enough,” said Griffin, putting the serviette aside and leaning the invisible head on an invisible hand.

“It’s simple enough, and believable enough,” said Griffin. He put the napkin aside and rested his invisible head on an invisible hand.

“No doubt, to you, but—” Kemp laughed.

“No doubt, to you, but...” Kemp laughed.

“Well, yes; to me it seemed wonderful at first, no doubt. But now, great God! ... But we will do great things yet! I came on the stuff first at Chesilstowe.”

“Well, yes, it seemed wonderful to me at first, no doubt. But now, great God! ... But we’ll do great things yet! I first came across the stuff at Chesilstowe.”

“Chesilstowe?”

“I went there after I left London. You know I dropped medicine and took up physics? No; well, I did. Light fascinated me.”

“I went there after I left London. Did you know I gave up medicine and switched to physics? No? Well, I did. Light fascinated me.”

“Ah!”

“Optical density! The whole subject is a network of riddles—a network with solutions glimmering elusively through. And being but two-and-twenty and full of enthusiasm, I said, ‘I will devote my life to this. This is worth while.’ You know what fools we are at two-and-twenty?”

“Optical density! The whole subject is a network of riddles, with solutions glimmering just out of reach. I was only twenty-two and full of enthusiasm, so I said, ‘I will devote my life to this. This is worth doing.’ You know what fools we are at twenty-two?”

“Fools then or fools now,” said Kemp.

“As though knowing could be any satisfaction to a man!

“As if knowing could give a man any satisfaction!

“But I went to work—like a slave. And I had hardly worked and thought about the matter six months before light came through one of the meshes suddenly—blindingly! I found a general principle of pigments and refraction—a formula, a geometrical expression involving four dimensions. Fools, common men, even common mathematicians, do not know anything of what some general expression may mean to the student of molecular physics. In the books—the books that tramp has hidden—there are marvels, miracles! But this was not a method, it was an idea, that might lead to a method by which it would be possible, without changing any other property of matter—except, in some instances colours—to lower the refractive index of a substance, solid or liquid, to that of air—so far as all practical purposes are concerned.”

“But I went to work like a slave. I had hardly spent six months working and thinking about the problem before light suddenly came through one of the meshes, blindingly! I found a general principle of pigments and refraction. It was a formula, a geometric expression involving four dimensions. Fools, ordinary people, even ordinary mathematicians, know nothing of what a general expression can mean to a student of molecular physics. The books that tramp has hidden contain marvels, miracles! But this was not a method. It was an idea that might lead to a method. The method would make it possible to lower the refractive index of a substance, solid or liquid, to that of air, for all practical purposes. It would do this without changing any other property of the matter, except its color in some cases.”

“Phew!” said Kemp. “That’s odd! But still I don’t see quite ... I can understand that thereby you could spoil a valuable stone, but personal invisibility is a far cry.”

“Phew!” said Kemp. “That’s strange! But I still don’t quite see ... I can understand how you could ruin a valuable stone that way. But making a person invisible is a big leap.”

“Precisely,” said Griffin. “But consider, visibility depends on the action of the visible bodies on light. Either a body absorbs light, or it reflects or refracts it, or does all these things. If it neither reflects nor refracts nor absorbs light, it cannot of itself be visible. You see an opaque red box, for instance, because the colour absorbs some of the light and reflects the rest, all the red part of the light, to you. If it did not absorb any particular part of the light, but reflected it all, then it would be a shining white box. Silver! A diamond box would neither absorb much of the light nor reflect much from the general surface, but just here and there where the surfaces were favourable the light would be reflected and refracted, so that you would get a brilliant appearance of flashing reflections and translucencies—a sort of skeleton of light. A glass box would not be so brilliant, nor so clearly visible, as a diamond box, because there would be less refraction and reflection. See that? From certain points of view you would see quite clearly through it. Some kinds of glass would be more visible than others, a box of flint glass would be brighter than a box of ordinary window glass. A box of very thin common glass would be hard to see in a bad light, because it would absorb hardly any light and refract and reflect very little. And if you put a sheet of common white glass in water, still more if you put it in some denser liquid than water, it would vanish almost altogether, because light passing from water to glass is only slightly refracted or reflected or indeed affected in any way. It is almost as invisible as a jet of coal gas or hydrogen is in air. And for precisely the same reason!”

“Exactly,” said Griffin. “But remember, visibility depends on how visible objects affect light. An object absorbs, reflects, or refracts light, or does all three. If it does none of these things, it cannot itself be visible. Take an opaque red box. You can see it because its color absorbs some light and reflects the rest, all the red light, toward you. If it absorbed no particular part of the light but reflected it all, it would be a shining white box. Silver! “A diamond box would absorb little light and reflect little from most of its surface. But here and there, where the surfaces were at the right angles, light would be reflected and refracted. So you would see a brilliant display of flashing reflections and translucent patches, a sort of skeleton of light. A glass box would not be as brilliant or as clearly visible as a diamond box. That is because it would refract and reflect less light. See that? From certain angles, you could see right through it. Some kinds of glass would be more visible than others. A flint glass box would be brighter than an ordinary window glass box. “A box made of very thin ordinary glass would be hard to see in bad light. It would absorb hardly any light and refract and reflect very little. If you put a sheet of ordinary clear glass in water, it would almost disappear. It would disappear even more completely in a liquid denser than water. That is because light passing from water into glass is only slightly refracted or reflected, or indeed affected in any way. It is almost as invisible as a jet of coal gas or hydrogen in air. And for exactly the same reason!”

“Yes,” said Kemp, “that is pretty plain sailing.”

“Yes,” said Kemp, “that is pretty straightforward.”

“And here is another fact you will know to be true. If a sheet of glass is smashed, Kemp, and beaten into a powder, it becomes much more visible while it is in the air; it becomes at last an opaque white powder. This is because the powdering multiplies the surfaces of the glass at which refraction and reflection occur. In the sheet of glass there are only two surfaces; in the powder the light is reflected or refracted by each grain it passes through, and very little gets right through the powder. But if the white powdered glass is put into water, it forthwith vanishes. The powdered glass and water have much the same refractive index; that is, the light undergoes very little refraction or reflection in passing from one to the other.

“And here is another fact you will know is true. Kemp, if a sheet of glass is smashed and ground into powder, it becomes much more visible in the air. In the end, it becomes an opaque white powder. This is because grinding the glass creates more surfaces where refraction and reflection occur. A sheet of glass has only two surfaces. But in the powder, light is reflected or refracted by each grain it passes through. Very little light gets all the way through the powder. But if the white glass powder is put into water, it disappears at once. The glass powder and the water have nearly the same refractive index. That means light undergoes very little refraction or reflection as it passes from one to the other.

“You make the glass invisible by putting it into a liquid of nearly the same refractive index; a transparent thing becomes invisible if it is put in any medium of almost the same refractive index. And if you will consider only a second, you will see also that the powder of glass might be made to vanish in air, if its refractive index could be made the same as that of air; for then there would be no refraction or reflection as the light passed from glass to air.”

“You make glass invisible by putting it in a liquid with nearly the same refractive index. A transparent object becomes invisible in any medium with nearly the same refractive index. And if you think about it for a moment, you’ll see that powdered glass could also vanish in air. It could vanish if its refractive index were made the same as that of air. Then there would be no refraction or reflection as light passed from the glass to the air.”

“Yes, yes,” said Kemp. “But a man’s not powdered glass!”

“Yes, yes,” said Kemp. “But a man isn't powdered glass!”

“No,” said Griffin. “He’s more transparent!”

“Nonsense!”

“That from a doctor! How one forgets! Have you already forgotten your physics, in ten years? Just think of all the things that are transparent and seem not to be so. Paper, for instance, is made up of transparent fibres, and it is white and opaque only for the same reason that a powder of glass is white and opaque. Oil white paper, fill up the interstices between the particles with oil so that there is no longer refraction or reflection except at the surfaces, and it becomes as transparent as glass. And not only paper, but cotton fibre, linen fibre, wool fibre, woody fibre, and bone, Kemp, flesh, Kemp, hair, Kemp, nails and nerves, Kemp, in fact the whole fabric of a man except the red of his blood and the black pigment of hair, are all made up of transparent, colourless tissue. So little suffices to make us visible one to the other. For the most part the fibres of a living creature are no more opaque than water.”

“That from a doctor! How easily we forget! Have you already forgotten your physics in ten years? Think of all the things that are transparent but do not seem to be. Paper, for example, is made of transparent fibers. It is white and opaque for the same reason that powdered glass is white and opaque. Oil white paper, and the oil fills the gaps between its particles. Then light is refracted or reflected only at the surfaces, and the paper becomes as transparent as glass. And it is not just paper. Cotton, linen, wool, and wood fibers are all made of transparent, colorless tissue. So are bone, Kemp, flesh, Kemp, hair, Kemp, nails and nerves, Kemp. In fact, the whole fabric of a man is made of transparent, colorless tissue, except for the red of his blood and the black pigment in his hair. So little is needed to make us visible to one another. For the most part, the fibers of a living creature are no more opaque than water.”

“Great Heavens!” cried Kemp. “Of course, of course! I was thinking only last night of the sea larvae and all jelly-fish!”

“My goodness!” cried Kemp. “Of course, of course! Just last night I was thinking about sea larvae and all jellyfish!”

“Now you have me! And all that I knew and had in mind a year after I left London—six years ago. But I kept it to myself. I had to do my work under frightful disadvantages. Oliver, my professor, was a scientific bounder, a journalist by instinct, a thief of ideas—he was always prying! And you know the knavish system of the scientific world. I simply would not publish, and let him share my credit. I went on working; I got nearer and nearer making my formula into an experiment, a reality. I told no living soul, because I meant to flash my work upon the world with crushing effect and become famous at a blow. I took up the question of pigments to fill up certain gaps. And suddenly, not by design but by accident, I made a discovery in physiology.”

“Now you understand me! And you know all I knew and had in mind a year after I left London, six years ago. But I kept it to myself. I had to work under terrible disadvantages. Oliver, my professor, was a scientific fraud, a journalist by instinct, and a thief of ideas. He was always prying! And you know how dishonest the scientific world is. I simply refused to publish and let him share the credit. I kept working. I came closer and closer to turning my formula into an experiment, into reality. I told no one, because I intended to unveil my work to the world with crushing effect and become famous overnight. I studied pigments to fill in certain gaps. Then suddenly, by accident rather than design, I made a discovery in physiology.”

“Yes?”

“You know the red colouring matter of blood; it can be made white—colourless—and remain with all the functions it has now!”

“You know the red coloring in blood. It can be made white, or colorless, and still perform all its functions!”

Kemp gave a cry of incredulous amazement.

Kemp cried out in disbelief and amazement.

The Invisible Man rose and began pacing the little study. “You may well exclaim. I remember that night. It was late at night—in the daytime one was bothered with the gaping, silly students—and I worked then sometimes till dawn. It came suddenly, splendid and complete in my mind. I was alone; the laboratory was still, with the tall lights burning brightly and silently. In all my great moments I have been alone. ‘One could make an animal—a tissue—transparent! One could make it invisible! All except the pigments—I could be invisible!’ I said, suddenly realising what it meant to be an albino with such knowledge. It was overwhelming. I left the filtering I was doing, and went and stared out of the great window at the stars. ‘I could be invisible!’ I repeated.

The Invisible Man stood up and began pacing the small study. “You have every reason to exclaim. I remember that night. It was late. During the day, the silly students bothered me by staring. I sometimes worked until dawn. The idea came to me suddenly, splendid and complete. I was alone. The laboratory was quiet, with the tall lights burning brightly and silently. In all my great moments, I have been alone. ‘One could make an animal, a tissue, transparent! One could make it invisible! All except the pigments. I could be invisible!’ I said. I suddenly realized what it meant to be an albino with such knowledge. It was overwhelming. I stopped filtering and went to stare out of the great window at the stars. ‘I could be invisible!’ I repeated.

“To do such a thing would be to transcend magic. And I beheld, unclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might mean to a man—the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw none. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become—this. I ask you, Kemp if you ... Anyone, I tell you, would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years, and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its summit. The infinite details! And the exasperation! A professor, a provincial professor, always prying. ‘When are you going to publish this work of yours?’ was his everlasting question. And the students, the cramped means! Three years I had of it—

“To do such a thing would be beyond magic. And I saw, without a trace of doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility could mean to a man: the mystery, the power, the freedom. I saw no drawbacks. Just think! I was a shabby, poverty-stricken demonstrator, trapped teaching fools at a provincial college. And I might suddenly become this. I ask you, Kemp, if you ... Anyone, I tell you, would have thrown himself into that research. And I worked for three years. Every mountain of difficulty I climbed revealed another from its summit. The endless details! And the frustration! A professor, a provincial professor, was always prying. ‘When are you going to publish this work of yours?’ he asked endlessly. And the students, the limited resources! I had three years of it ...

“And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible—impossible.”

“And after three years of secrecy and frustration, I found that I could not complete it. It was impossible.”

“How?” asked Kemp.

“Money,” said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window.

“Money,” said the Invisible Man. He went back to staring out the window.

He turned around abruptly. “I robbed the old man—robbed my father.

He turned around suddenly. “I robbed the old man, robbed my father.

“The money was not his, and he shot himself.”

“The money wasn’t his, and he shot himself.”