It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: "The Stolen Bacillus" by HG Wells

Episode Date: May 26, 2024

Margaret reads a classic anti-anarchist story by HG Wells written before Wells learned what was up.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hey guys, I'm Kate Max. You might know me from my popular online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Curious about queer sexuality, cruising, and

expanding your horizons? Hit play on the sex-positive and deeply entertaining podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Join hosts Gabe Gonzalez and Chris Patterson Rosso as they explore queer sex, cruising, relationships, and culture in the new iHeart podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. The 2025 iHeart Podcast Awards are coming. This is the chance to nominate your podcast for the industry's biggest award. Submit your podcast for nomination now at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. But hurry, submissions close on December 8th. Hey, you've been doing all that talking.

It's time to get rewarded for it. Submit your podcast today at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards. Calls on media. Book club, book club book club book club hello and welcome to cool zone media book club the only book club where i do the reading for you maybe there's other book clubs where other people do the reading for you but this is the only one where i'm going to do it. The I in the aforementioned I is me, Martyr Killjoy. I am a fiction writer, and I also read you fiction stories every Sunday. So we talk sometimes on this show about how certain stories are of interest in particular because of how they shine a light on

the past by showing how at least one author perceived the world around them and various social issues, all while telling a good tale. Plot is the engine that drives the story forward and keeps the reader engaged. Another thing we talk about even more often, on both It Could Happen Here and Cool People Did Cool Stuff, is the history of the labor movement, and in particular the history of the anarchist labor movement. We do that because we're drawn to do so, but also because, well, anarchism is one of the most maligned political ideologies in history, which is impressive because pretty much all the other major political ideologies around in the 20th century managed some rather impressive feats of mass death, oppression, and general fuckery. Usually, though, those ideologies killed mostly,

but not exclusively, poor people and colonized subjects. The anarchists, they killed a few kings and politicians and cops and suddenly everyone was freaked out. I am fascinated by the anarchist scare. The first red scare in the US around the end of World War I targeted anarchists primarily because anarchism, before the Bolshevik victory in the Russian Civil War, was pretty much the biggest name in town for the revolutionary left in a lot of countries. Not everywhere, but a lot of places. I make it a hobby of reading anti-anarchist fiction because there's an awful lot of it from around the turn of the century. And I think it's fun, honestly. Sometimes it was written by some of the best writers of the era. GK Chesterton,

Joseph Conrad, and HG Wells have all made boogeymen of anarchists. We were pulp novel villains, wild-eyed crazy zealots and terrorists who sometimes had class politics and sometimes didn't. Probably the best modern comparison is how the Western media often presents Muslims today, or especially did during the height of the global war on terror. Today's story is one of these stories about anarchist boogeymen. It's by an author I generally think rather highly of, H.G. Wells. He's got a ton of famous books you might have heard of, The Island of Dr. Moreau, The Invisible Man, The War of the Worlds. He's known as the father of science fiction. He was a scientist trained in biology. He was also

quite openly a socialist. He was part of the Fabian Society, which one day I'll cover in more detail. Actually, a lot of the old science fiction writers were part of the Fabian Society. It's kind of interesting to me. H.G. Wells' book, The Time Machine, is a simple parable about how if class divisions continue to deepen, humanity will become two separate species. It's also where the word time machine comes from. Plus, I think he coined the word atomic bomb by prophesying them in 1914. He was raised middle class in England and was apprenticed out as a draper, which is a cloth merchant, basically, and then soon just became a wildly prolific writer. The story we're going to read is the title story of his first book of short stories.

And frankly, it doesn't represent his mature opinion on just about anything. This is very like his first book kind of energy, not just in terms of fiction, but especially in terms of his political thought. Which isn't to say that he becomes an anarchist, but he later actually comes kind of close while still working with some of the major power players of the world. He would go on to correspond with and influence both Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin. At one point, he went to the USSR to interview Stalin to try and convince him basically to stop being such a dick, which obviously didn't work. H.G. Wells' 1940 The Rights of Man was the inspiration for the UN's Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which was

adopted in 1948 after Wells' death. Like all actual socialists, H.G. Wells agreed with the anarchist vision for the future, stateless and cooperative. He just disagreed with the methods by which to reach it. In his book, New Worlds for Old, he wrote, The anarchist world, I admit, is our dream. Socialism is the preparation for that higher anarchism. Painfully, laboriously, we mean to destroy false ideas of property and self, eliminate unjust laws and poisonous and hateful suggestions and prejudices, create a system of social right-dealing and a tradition of right feeling and action. Socialism is the schoolroom of true and noble anarchism,

wherein by training and restraint we shall make free men. That was, of course, 15 or so years after he wrote this anarchist-terrorist boogeyman story, which I'll read to you now. The Stolen Bacillus by H.G. Wells This again, said the bacteriologist, slipping a glass slide under the microscope, is a preparation of the celebrated bacillus of cholera, the cholera germ. The pale-faced man peered down the microscope. He was evidently not accustomed to that kind of thing and held a limp white hand over his disengaged eye.

I see very little, he said. Touch this screw, said the bacteriologist. Perhaps the microscope is out of focus for you. Eyes vary so much, just a fraction of a turn this way or that. Ah, now I see, said the visitor. Not so very much to see after all. Little streaks and shreds of pink. Yet those little particles, those mere autonomies, might multiply and devastate a city. Wonderful. He stood up and, releasing the glass slip from the microscope, held it in his hands towards the window. Scarcely visible, he said, scrutinizing the preparation. He hesitated. Are these alive? Are they dangerous now? Those have been stained and killed, said the bacteriologist. I wish, for my own part, we could kill and stain every one of them in the universe.

I suppose, the pale man said with a slight smile, that you scarcely care to have such things about you in the living, in the active state. On the contrary, we are obliged to, said the bacteriologist. Here, for instance, he walked across the room and took up one of several sealed tubes. Here is the living thing. This is the cultivation of the actual living disease bacteria. He hesitated. Bottled cholera, so to speak. Also obliged is me. I am obliged to cut to ads. show where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast Post Run High is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. You know that rush of endorphins you feel after a great workout?

Well, that's when the real magic happens. So if you love hearing real, inspiring stories from the people you know, follow, and admire, join me every week for Post Run High. It's where we take the conversation beyond the run and get into the heart of it all. It's lighthearted, pretty crazy and very fun. Listen to post run high on the I heart radio app,

Apple podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Jack. These Thomas, the host of a brand new black effect, original series, black lit the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature.

I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audio books while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into how tech's elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, better offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse

and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong though, I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. And we're back. A slight gleam of satisfaction appeared momentarily in the face of the pale man.

It's a deadly thing to have in your possession, he said, devouring the little tube with his eyes. The bacteriologist watched the morbid pleasure in his visitor's expression. This man, who had visited him that afternoon with a note of introduction from an old friend, interested him from the very contrast of their dispositions. The lank black hair and deep gray eyes, the haggard expression and nervous manner, the fitful yet keen interest of his visitor, were a novel change from the phlegmatic deliberations

of the ordinary scientific worker with whom the bacteriologists chiefly associated. It was perhaps natural, with a hearer evidently so impressionable to the lethal nature of his topic, to take the most effective aspect of the matter. He held the tube in his hand thoughtfully. Yes, here is the pestilence imprisoned. Only break such a little tube as this into a supply of drinking water. Say to these minute particles of life that one must need stain And death, mysterious, untraceable death,

death swift and terrible, death full of pain and indignity would be released upon this city and go hither and thither seeking his victims here he would take the husband from his wife here the child from its mother here the statesman from his duty and here the toiler from his trouble he would follow the water mains creeping along streets, picking out and punishing a house here and a house there where they did not boil their drinking water, creeping into the wells of the mineral water makers, getting washed into salad and lying dormant in ices. He would wait ready to be drunk in horse troughs and by unwary children in the public fountains. He would soak into the soil to reappear in springs and wells at a thousand unexpected places.

Once start him at the water supply, and before we could ring him in and catch him again, he would have decimated the metropolis. He stopped abruptly. He had been told rhetoric was his weakness. But he is quite safe here, you know. Quite safe. The pale-faced man nodded, his eyes shown. He cleared his throat.

These anarchist rascals, said he, are fools, blind fools, to use bombs when this kind of thing is attainable, I think. A gentle rap, a mere light of the touch of fingernails was heard at the door. The bacteriologist opened it. Just a minute, dear, whispered his wife. When he re-entered the laboratory, his visitor was looking at his watch. I had no idea I wasted an hour of your time, he said. Twelve minutes to four. I ought to have left here by half past three. But your things were really too interesting. No, positively. I cannot stop a moment longer. I have an engagement at four.

He passed out of the room, reiterating his thanks, and the bacteriologist accompanied him to the door, then returned thoughtfully along the passage to his laboratory. He was musing on the ethnology of his visitor. Certainly, the man was not a Teutonic type, nor a common Latin one. A morbid product anyhow, I am afraid, said the bacteriologist to himself, how he gloated on those cultivations of diseased germs. A disturbing thought struck him. He turned to the bench by the vapor bath and then very quickly to his writing table.

Then he felt hastily in his pockets. Then he rushed to the door. I may have put it down on the hall table, he said. Minnie, he shouted hoarsely in the hall. Yes, dear, came a remote voice. Had I anything in my hand when I spoke to you, dear, just now? Pause. Nothing, dear, because I remember. Blue ruin, cried the bacteriologist, and incontinently ran to the front door and down the steps of his house to the street.

Minnie, hearing the door slam violently, ran an alarm to the window. Down the street, a slender man was getting into a cab. The bacteriologist, hatless and in his carpet slippers, was running and gesticulating wildly towards this group. One slipper came off, but he did not wait for it. He has gone mad, said Minnie. It's that horrid science of his. And, opening the window, would have called after him the slender man suddenly glancing around

seemed struck with the same idea of mental disorder he pointed to the bacteriologist said something to the cab man the apron of the cab slammed the whip swished the horse's feet clattered and in a moment the cab bacteriologist hotly in pursuit

had receded up the vista of the roadway and disappeared round the corner. Minnie remained straining out the window for a minute. Then she drew her head back into the room again. She was dumbfounded. Of course he's eccentric, she meditated, but running about London, in the height of the season too,

in his socks. A happy thought struck her. She hastily put her bonnet on, seized her shoes, went into the hall, took down his hat and light overcoat from the pegs, emerged upon the doorstep, and hailed a cab that opportunely crawled by. Drive me up the road and round Havelock Crescent and see if we can find a gentleman running around in a velveteen coat and no hat. Velveteen coat, ma'am, and no at. Very good, ma'am. And the cabman whipped up at once in the most matter-of-fact way, as if he drove to this address every day of his life. Much like you can every day of your life participate in buying stuff from ads. Here they are. celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more.

After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. You know that rush of endorphins you feel after a great workout? Well, that's when the real magic

happens so if you love hearing real inspiring stories from the people you know follow and admire join me every week for post run high it's where we take the conversation beyond the run and get into the heart of it all it's light-hearted pretty pretty crazy, and very fun. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me in a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts

dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works

while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Black Lit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hola, mi gente. It's Honey German, and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again, the podcast where we dive deep into the world of Latin culture,

musica, peliculas, and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators, sharing their stories, struggles, and successes.

You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love. Each week, we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. Some few minutes later, the little group of cabmen and loafers that collects around the cabman's shelter at Haverstock Hill

were startled by the passing of a cab with a ginger-colored screw of a horse, driven furiously. They were silent as it went by, then as it receded. That's Airy Ix. What's he got? The writing is written out like that, said the stout gentleman, known as Old Tootles. He's a-using his whip, he is, to rights, said the ostler boy. Hello, said poor old Tommy Biles. Here's another blooming lunatic. Bloat if there ain't. It's old George, said Old Tootles, and he's driving a lunatic, as you say. Ain't he a-clawing out the keb? Wonder if he's after Airy Ix. The group around the cabman's shelter became animated. Chorus.

Go it, George. It's a race. You'll catch him. Whip up. She's a goer, she is, said the ostler boy. Strike me giddy, cried old Tootles. Sorry. I fucking can't.

It's written this way, and I can't do a British accent. So I'm just trying to read it the way it's written. Here, I'm going to begin in a minute. Here's another coming. If all the Kebs and Hampstead ain't gone mad this morning. It's a field male this time, said the Osler boy. She's a following him, said old Toodles. Usually the other way around.

What's she got in her hand? Looks like I at. What a blooming lark it is. Three to one on old George, said the Osler boy. Next. Minnie went by in a perfect roar of applause. She did not like it, but she felt that she was doing her duty and whirled on down Haverstock Hill and Camden Town High Street

with her eyes ever intent on the animated back of old George, who was driving her vagrant husband so incomprehensibly away from her. The man in the foremost cab sat crouched in the corner, his arms tightly folded and the little tube

that contained such vast possibilities of destruction gripped in his hand. His mood was a singular mixture of fear and exaltation. Chiefly, he was afraid of being caught before he could accomplish his purpose, but behind this was a vaguer but larger fear of the awfulness of his crime. But his exaltation far exceeded his fear. No anarchist before him had ever approached this conception of his. Ravitcho, valiant, all those distinguished persons whose fame he had envied, dwindled into significance beside him. He had only to make sure of the water supply, and break the little tube into a reservoir. How brilliantly he had planned it, forged the letter of introduction, and gotten into the laboratory. How brilliantly he had planned it, forged the letter of introduction, and gotten into the laboratory.

How brilliantly he had seized his opportunity. The world should hear of him at last. All these people had sneered at him, neglected him, preferred other people to him, found his company undesirable, should consider him at last. Death, death, death. They had always treated him as a man of no importance. All the world had been in a conspiracy to keep him under. He would teach them yet what it is to isolate a man.

What was this familiar street? Great St. Andrew's Street, of course. How fared the chase? He craned out the cab. The bacteriologist was scarcely 50 yards behind. That was bad. He would be caught and stopped yet. He felt in his pocket for money and found half a sovereign. This he thrust up through the trap and the top of the cab into the man's face. More, he shouted, if only we get away.

The money was snatched out of his hand. Right you are, said the cabman, and the trap slammed, and the lash lay along the glistening side of the horse. The cab swayed, said the cabman, and the trap slammed and the lash lay along the glistening side of the horse. The cab swayed and the anarchist, half standing under the trap, put the hand containing the little glass tube upon the apron to preserve his balance. He felt the brittle thing crack and the broken half of it rang upon the floor of the cab. He fell back into the seat with a curse and stared dismally at the two or three drops of moisture on the apron. He shuddered. Well, I suppose I shall be the first. Phew! Anyhow, I shall be a martyr.

That's something. But it is a filthy death, nevertheless. I wonder if it hurts as much as they say. Presently, a thought occurred to him. He groped between his feet. A little drop was still in the broken end of the tube. And he drank that to make sure. It was better to make sure. At any rate, he would not fail. Then it dawned upon him that there was no further need to escape the bacteriologist. In Wellington Street, he told the cabman to stop and got out. He slipped on the step. His head felt queer. It was rapid stuff,

this cholera poison. He waved his cabman out of existence, so to speak, and stood on the pavement with his arm folded upon his breast, awaiting the arrival of the bacteriologist. There was something tragic in his pose. The sense of imminent death gave him a certain dignity. He greeted his pursuer with a defiant laugh. Viva la anarchy. You are too late, my friend. I have drunk it. The cholera is abroad. The bacteriologist from his cab beamed curiously at him through his spectacles. You have drunk it! An anarchist, I see now! He was about to say something more, and then checked himself. A smile hung in the corner of his mouth. He opened the apron of his cab as if to descend, at which the anarchist waved him a dramatic farewell and strode off

towards Waterloo Bridge, carefully jostling his infected body against as many people as possible. The bacteriologist was so preoccupied with the vision of him that he scarcely manifested the slightest surprise at the appearance of Minnie upon the pavement with his hat and shoes and overcoat. Very good of you to bring my things, he said, and then remained lost in contemplation of the receding figure of the anarchist. You had better get in, he said, still staring. Minnie felt absolutely convinced now that he was mad and directed the cabman home on her own responsibility. Put on my shoes? Certainly, dear, said he as the cab began to turn and hid the strutting black figure,

now small in the distance from his eyes. Then suddenly something grotesque struck him, and he laughed. Then he remarked, it is really very serious, though. You see, that man came to my house to see me, and he is an anarchist. No, don't faint, or I cannot possibly tell you the rest. And I wanted to astonish him, not knowing he was an anarchist. And I took up a cultivation of that new species of bacterium I was telling you of, that infest, and that I think cause, the blue patches upon various monkeys. And like a fool, I said it was Asiatic cholera, and he ran away with it to poison the water of London. And he certainly might have made things look blue for this civilized city.

And now he has swallowed it. Of course, I cannot say what will happen. But you know it turned that kitten blue, and the three puppies, and patches, and the sparrow, bright blue. But the bother is, I shall have all the trouble and expense of preparing some more. Put on my coat on this hot day? Why? Because we might meet Mrs. Jabber. My dear, Mrs. Jabber is

not a draft. But why should I wear a coat on a hot day because of Mrs. Oh, very well. The end. Okay, I like this story because it's so trashy. It's like H.G. Wells is the father of science fiction, and this is just like a vaguely racist, shitty, anti-anarchist book. He's going on to try and be like, that man who came in, he was the wrong kind of white.

He wasn't Teutonic. He wasn't, you know, like he's like trying to play what ethnicity is this man because he's like weird and can't be trusted. And he's like tall and lanky and evil. And he's also like a total incel, right? The anarchist in this story, he's like, everyone treated me wrong and I'm going to show them all. And that is not, that's not the anarchist vibe. I don't believe it was the anarchist vibe back then either at all. But you know, I mean, the story was written before HG Wells' serious involvement in socialist politics. It was like written, I think, right before he joined the Fabian Society

and certainly, you know, 15 years before he was talking about how anarchism is the goal of every socialist in very explicit terms. I wasn't able to find him like reflecting on this story. And I'd be really interested if anyone out there knows what he thought about this story later, because it's so bad. It's entertaining. I hope you found it entertaining. And the little like trick ending at the end, like, oh, just he's gonna turn blue. Well done. Well done, HG Wells, you weird fucker. Men hate their wives. That is just like a thing throughout history. And that is why here on this podcast, we stan wife guys, and this is not a wife guy story. This is a like, I'm thinking about saving all of London or whatever, and my wife is only thinking about me looking weird in front of

the neighbors, because that's all women think about, even though she's like on call for him at all times. H.G. Wells did not go on to treat women with a... He was not known for his fidelity in his marriages. Marriage? I don't remember. He was with a lot of people. I don't remember how many of them married him. I reached the point where I'm out of things to say. I'll see you next week on another episode of Cool Zone Media Book Club. And if you want more from me about history, you can check out Cool People Did Cool Stuff. And if you want more from not me about

dot history, you can check out It Could Happen Here. Talk to you all soon. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here updated monthly at coolzonemedia.com slash sources.

Thanks for listening. Hey, guys, I'm Kate Max. You might know me from my popular online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. third journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Curious about queer sexuality, cruising, and expanding your horizons? Hit play on the sex-positive and deeply entertaining podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Join hosts Gabe Gonzalez and Chris Patterson Rosso as they explore queer sex, cruising, relationships, and culture in the new iHeart podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. Sniffy's Cruising Confessions will broaden minds and help you pursue your true goals. You can listen to Sniffy's Cruising Confessions, sponsored by Gilead, now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season digging into Tech's elite and how they've turned Silicon Valley into a playground for billionaires. From the chaotic world of generative AI to the destruction of Google search, Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech brought to you by an industry veteran with nothing to lose. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts from.