are atheistic by social ideological comparisons, though they may believe in God, their fundamental belief in nature forbids them from any canonical society. What surprises me greatly is the number of religious surgeons and scientists alike. One can only pretend they do not understand the true meaning of nature for a finite length of time. Their confession is inevitable.
It is no man’s right to see what I show them––but instead a privilege. This privilege must be bridled by a discretion that only I can discern, that only I am able to judge.
The show continued for eight years until a private performance in Budapest during the fall of 1901 went terribly wrong. During that show one of his creatures, the Serpent Queen, attacked a member of the audience. Nothing more is known about the performance or the victim. The written accounts by local authorities reveal only that the patron died while in attendance of the performance called the Human Renaissance, hosted by the American surgeon and performer Dr. Spencer Black. The incident must have had a great impact on Black because he never performed again. He returned to his house in Philadelphia, where he proceeded to expand his research facility.
Since leaving Spencer and taking custody of Samuel in 1887, Bernard Black had remained in New York, where he met and married Emma Werstone, a wealthy widow from a good family. Her first husband, an officer in the southern frontier, had been killed in the Spanish–American War. Bernard and Emma were married in 1899 and together they raised Samuel, a promising student interested in architecture and engineering. He went on to graduate from the prestigious Wayne and Miller School of Architecture.
As the Human Renaissance traveled throughout Europe, Bernard received numerous letters from Spencer. Most were short, incomplete, and often frightfully obscure and confusing. Because Spencer was always moving from one town to the next, there was no way for Bernard to deliver a reply. This may explain why Spencer’s letters often read like journal entries or inebriated nonsense. Strangely, he never mentions Elise’s horrible condition; his letters to Bernard suggest that they are merely suffering from domestic troubles.
December 1897
Dearest Brother,
All things are unrelenting; all of the once gentle and supple nectars of life are now venomous and cruel. I am unable to manage my affairs. My bones have dried and cracked and my poor Elise doesn’t forgive me … I know what she must think of me. My son, Alphonse is a beast of another sort––he is often angry, he has a deep internal malady, I fear him … his destiny.
I have nothing now. I am tired and care little of anything. I am lost, dear brother.
I miss the company you had once offered. I regret that I cannot see you and I do wish––most sincerely––that you are filled with joy, that life cradles you as one of its most beloved.
Spencer
* * *
June 1898
Dear friend Bernard,
I trust this letter finds you well. It has been a long while since my last letter. I have been quite busy, I assure you. I cannot say very much at the moment, for the work undertaken and what is presently at hand is far too difficult to detail within the pages of a mere note.
I can say that I offer great apologies to you. I did not mean to cause you alarm or worry at my less orthodox interests. I have suffered a great number of tragedies. My beloved Elise is well; she manages, I suspect.
I will be leaving for a travel excursion that may take a great deal of time to complete.
Your Brother, S.
* * *
August 1900
Bernard,
I must express my gratitude, insomuch that your foreboding of my certain demise can only attest to your love and most heartfelt concern for me. I had time to consider in depth that which you have instructed me, years ago, regarding what to pay heed to whilst I continue my work further. I trust I will be in your debt and I thank you––though I admit I would be grateful if in matters of peril and premonitions of gloom that you were not a sophist but indeed a fool.
Dear brother––you preserved your life, you coveted it; it was impossible for you to continue in medicine with sickness and death all around, you needed to pursue a quieter science––I understand.
You steadily follow the guidance of the learned; you read what you have been instructed to read. You are like a child at practice on a piano. You balance a stick