The end of 1912 had some unexpected emotions in store for us.
Metchnikoff had always been able to congratulate himself on the cordial hospitality which he had found in France, and to the end of his life he remained deeply grateful for it.
But, in any country, incidents may occur about which it would be unjust to generalise when they are due to individuals or to particular limited circles, as was the fact in the present case. In spite of the broad and generous ideas so widespread in France, a sudden current of narrow nationalism became manifest, at this moment, in certain quarters. Foreigners were accused of invading the country, of occupying lucrative posts and increasing the difficulties of the bitter struggle for existence. At first, only vague allusions were made, but, little by little, the attacks of that nationalist circle went beyond all bounds of justice and decency and turned into brutal provocations. The contemptuous word métèque was resuscitated.
One newspaper especially led a furious propaganda and hesitated at no means of overwhelming its victims, one of whom was Metchnikoff.
Those coarse attacks might have been ignored with the contempt which they deserved had they not been echoed by a writer in a serious publication. Dr. Roux then wrote a reply in the same paper, and the campaign ceased.
A proverb says with truth, “Slander away! something will always stick.” And it was thus in this case. Metchnikoff was reproached with having made money by his scientific discoveries. The story of his whole life and the fact that he left no fortune should suffice to answer this calumny, yet I am obliged to dwell on it, though I should have preferred not to do so. The incident is too characteristic of Metchnikoff to be omitted in this biography, which must be a faithful testimony. The calumny was based on a real fact, but the interpretation of it was absolutely false. After Metchnikoff’s experiments on the lactic bacillus, a notion of the hygienic power of pure sour milk began to spread among the public. A manufacturer had the idea of preparing it on a large scale, according to the new scientific principles, and wished to form a company to that effect; he asked Metchnikoff to recommend to him some one whom he could entrust with the technical work of preparing the pure curded milk. It happened that we were just then trying to find a post for a young couple in whom we were interested, and whose child was my husband’s goddaughter. He trained his protégé in the technique required, and was therefore able to recommend him. A short time later, the manufacturer declared that he could not be sure of the success of his enterprise without the guarantee of the name of Metchnikoff, whose researches had proved the advantages of the preparation in question. After consulting the legal adviser of the Pasteur Institute, Metchnikoff consented to this, without of course having any pecuniary interest in it; the formula chosen was, “sole provider of Professor Metchnikoff.” The undertaking succeeded, and our protégé’s future was assured. Metchnikoff himself, however, was attacked and accused most unjustly, though he had never made any personal profit whatever from the enterprise. And yet, when his friends told him that it had been very reckless on his part thus to expose himself, he answered that he thought it impossible to hesitate between the welfare of a whole family and the possibility of gossip. His reasoning was imprudent and perhaps erroneous, but he never hesitated between doing a kindness and the possible unpleasant consequences it might have for himself. If some people could not understand him, it was because he was far from the commonplace, “not like other people,” a quality often misunderstood and unforgiven.
Such are the facts. “Honi soit qui mal y pense!”
The desire to lessen the ills around him was, in general, the cause of heavy anxieties in his later years. He had learnt that the discovery of an industrial process, of which the realisation required capital, would be an excellent investment. He immediately wished to make his friends profit by it, as well as himself, in order to alleviate material difficulties. But until the end of his life the undertaking had no results, and he was obsessed by the fear of having given bad advice to those who followed him.
He knew not how to refuse, even when he should have done so; therefore he was odiously exploited. Often he worked, in his rare leisure moments, for people who were unworthy of his kindness. During the last years of his life, all these incidents grieved him so much that he used to say he felt the burden of existence. His soul was darkened, he felt very depressed, and his health suffered.
We spent the summer holidays of 1913 at St. Léger-en-Yvelines, a pretty place on the edge of the Rambouillet forest. In his choice of a holiday resort, my husband was always guided by the desire to find a place favourable to my sketching, and St. Léger answered the purpose wonderfully. The fields with their vast horizons, the forest with its graceful bracken and carpets of softly-tinted heather, the mysterious ponds, all went to compose an admirable symphony, full of artistic suggestion.