He shook his head seriously in affirmation.
“Yes, vivisection. You have caught my idea marvelously. Yes, in cases of vivisection of the soul. For instance, when a loving mother is informed of the death of her son or...a rich man that he has become penniless. But the senses, what can we do with the senses, we cannot hold them in leash all our life! You understand, Wondergood? In the long run, I am not in the least so cruel a man as I occasionally seem even to myself and the pain of others frequently arouses in me an unpleasant, responsive trembling. That is not good. A surgeon’s hand must be firm.”
He looked at his fingers: they no longer trembled. He continued with a smile:
“However, wine helps some. Dear Wondergood, I swear by eternal salvation, by which you love so to swear, that it is extremely unpleasant for me to cause you this little...pain. Keep your senses, Wondergood! Your senses, your senses! Your hand, my friend?”
I gave him my hand and Magnus enveloped my palm and fingers and held them long in his own paw, strained, permeated with some kind of electric currents. Then he let them go, sighing with relief.
“That’s it. Just so. Courage, Wondergood!”
I shrugged my shoulders, lit a cigar and asked:
“Your illustration of the very wealthy man who has suddenly become a beggar,—does that concern me? Am I penniless?”
Magnus answered slowly as he gazed straight into my eyes:
“If you wish to put it that way—yes. You have nothing left. Absolutely nothing. And this palace, too, is already sold. To-morrow the new owners take possession.”