“Gladly. That is just what I am here for. But it has been so long since my teaching days that I hardly know where to begin. Let me see…. Perhaps you would like me to relate my experiences with the white tigers of Bengal. Yes, the white tigers of Bengal.
“When I was thirty-five years old,” he began, “I conceived such a powerful desire to see the albino jungle-cats that I trekked six months, hoping only for a single glimpse of them. Then one day, just after the monsoon, I spotted one, a fine female it was, padding towards me through the brush, her pink eyes gleaming in the high grass. Instinctively, I backed away, and reached for my musket. But there was no need. Much to my amazement, the cat slowed down as she approached me, licked my hand, and led me back to her lair, waiting patiently for me as I stumbled through the jungle. There, in the hollow of an overgrown hill, were four young cubs and the carcass of a fierce male. I understood at once that the tigress had been seeking a head for her family, and had been attracted to the whitest beast she had ever seen.
“I stayed among them for three weeks, observing their habits, wrestling with the cubs, stroking their mother’s silky back. Eventually, I could stand it no longer, for, despite what the poets would have us believe, one quickly grows bored living among the wild beasts. Early one morning, I slipped away. But for years afterward, I was constantly afraid to turn around, lest I find the she-tiger at my heels, stalking me across the earth like a wronged woman. And that is the story of the white Bengal tigers.”
A pang of uneasiness passed through Judah ben Simon. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “I myself have had some experience with possessive she-cats. But tell me, what do such unnatural attachments mean?”
“Ah,” sighed Dr. Silentius, ignoring his question. “I can see that you are still unsatisfied. Is it that I am being too anecdotal for you, insufficiently scientific? If so, let me apologize, and try to make amends by telling you about the black Amazonian orchids. I must admit that this particular story is somewhat personal, but, in the interests of science, I will relate it.
“On my first journey through the South American jungle, I chanced to discover an entire grove of black orchids—mysterious, velvety, and rich. I had never seen such flowers before, though I could immediately identify them as belonging to the species Galeorchis negris. I headed for the nearest village, to see if anything was known about this strange breed; there, I was invited to pass some time, and informed of a most interesting local legend.
“It seemed that these simple-hearted people firmly believed that each of those inky orchids corresponded to the spirit of a particular village woman; it sprouted at her birth, blossomed during the week of her marriage feast, and withered at her death. Strangely enough, this improbable myth was accepted by everyone in the settlement, including the beautiful young girl who came out of curiosity to spend a few nights in my tent. In an attempt to convince me of the fable’s truth, she even took me out to the grove and pointed out the precise flower which mirrored the stages of her life.
“You can imagine how my experimental spirit rebelled against such foolishness; therefore, when I left the village out of boredom with the savages—who were really no better than the tigress at the gentle art of conversation—I plucked and carried off my mistress’s orchid, just to show them that she would still go on living.”
“And did she?” asked Judah.
“Who knows?” muttered the scientist distractedly, as if the young man’s question were beside the point. “I assume so.” He paused, obviously considering the matter for the first time. “At any rate,” he continued, “these are two of my favorite stories, for, between the tigress and the jungle goddess, they seem to cast me in the role of the great heartbreaker, a part which I
“When I was thirty-five years old,” he began, “I conceived such a powerful desire to see the albino jungle-cats that I trekked six months, hoping only for a single glimpse of them. Then one day, just after the monsoon, I spotted one, a fine female it was, padding towards me through the brush, her pink eyes gleaming in the high grass. Instinctively, I backed away, and reached for my musket. But there was no need. Much to my amazement, the cat slowed down as she approached me, licked my hand, and led me back to her lair, waiting patiently for me as I stumbled through the jungle. There, in the hollow of an overgrown hill, were four young cubs and the carcass of a fierce male. I understood at once that the tigress had been seeking a head for her family, and had been attracted to the whitest beast she had ever seen.
“I stayed among them for three weeks, observing their habits, wrestling with the cubs, stroking their mother’s silky back. Eventually, I could stand it no longer, for, despite what the poets would have us believe, one quickly grows bored living among the wild beasts. Early one morning, I slipped away. But for years afterward, I was constantly afraid to turn around, lest I find the she-tiger at my heels, stalking me across the earth like a wronged woman. And that is the story of the white Bengal tigers.”
A pang of uneasiness passed through Judah ben Simon. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “I myself have had some experience with possessive she-cats. But tell me, what do such unnatural attachments mean?”
“Ah,” sighed Dr. Silentius, ignoring his question. “I can see that you are still unsatisfied. Is it that I am being too anecdotal for you, insufficiently scientific? If so, let me apologize, and try to make amends by telling you about the black Amazonian orchids. I must admit that this particular story is somewhat personal, but, in the interests of science, I will relate it.
“On my first journey through the South American jungle, I chanced to discover an entire grove of black orchids—mysterious, velvety, and rich. I had never seen such flowers before, though I could immediately identify them as belonging to the species Galeorchis negris. I headed for the nearest village, to see if anything was known about this strange breed; there, I was invited to pass some time, and informed of a most interesting local legend.
“It seemed that these simple-hearted people firmly believed that each of those inky orchids corresponded to the spirit of a particular village woman; it sprouted at her birth, blossomed during the week of her marriage feast, and withered at her death. Strangely enough, this improbable myth was accepted by everyone in the settlement, including the beautiful young girl who came out of curiosity to spend a few nights in my tent. In an attempt to convince me of the fable’s truth, she even took me out to the grove and pointed out the precise flower which mirrored the stages of her life.
“You can imagine how my experimental spirit rebelled against such foolishness; therefore, when I left the village out of boredom with the savages—who were really no better than the tigress at the gentle art of conversation—I plucked and carried off my mistress’s orchid, just to show them that she would still go on living.”
“And did she?” asked Judah.
“Who knows?” muttered the scientist distractedly, as if the young man’s question were beside the point. “I assume so.” He paused, obviously considering the matter for the first time. “At any rate,” he continued, “these are two of my favorite stories, for, between the tigress and the jungle goddess, they seem to cast me in the role of the great heartbreaker, a part which I
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