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The study of complex variables is important for students in engineering and the
physical sciences and is a central subject in mathematics. In addition to being
mathematically elegant, complex variables provide a powerful tool for solving
problems that are either very difficult or virtually impossible to solve in any
other way.
Part I of this text provides an introduction to the subject, including analytic
functions, integration, series, and residue calculus. It also includes transform
methods, ordinary differential equations in the complex plane, numerical meth-
ods, and more. Part II contains conformal mappings, asymptotic expansions,
and the study of Riemann–Hilbert problems. The authors also provide an ex-
tensive array of applications, illustrative examples, and homework exercises.
This new edition has been improved throughout and is ideal for use in intro-
ductory undergraduate and graduate level courses in complex variables.
 Complex Variables
Introduction and Applications
Second Edition
 Cambridge Texts in Applied Mathematics

FOUNDING EDITOR
Professor D.G. Crighton
EDITORIAL BOARD
Professor M.J. Ablowitz, Department of Applied Mathematics,
University of Colorado, Boulder, USA.
Professor J.-L. Lions, College de France, France.
Professor A. Majda, Department of Mathematics, New York University, USA.
Dr. J. Ockendon, Centre for Industrial and Applied Mathematics, University of Oxford, UK.
Professor E.B. Saff, Department of Mathematics, University of South Florida, USA.

Maximum and Minimum Principles

M.J. Sewell
Solitons
P.G. Drazin and R.S. Johnson
The Kinematics of Mixing
J.M. Ottino
Introduction to Numerical Linear Algebra and Optimisation
Phillippe G. Ciarlet
Integral Equations
David Porter and David S.G. Stirling
Perturbation Methods
E.J. Hinch
The Thermomechanics of Plasticity and Fracture
Gerard A. Maugin
Boundary Integral and Singularity Methods for Linearized Viscous Flow
C. Pozrikidis
Nonlinear Systems
P.G. Drazin
Stability, Instability and Chaos
Paul Glendinning
Applied Analysis of the Navier-Stokes Equations
C.R. Doering and J.D. Gibbon
Viscous Flow
H. Ockendon and J.R. Ockendon
Similarity, Self-similarity and Intermediate Asymptotics
G.I. Barenblatt
A First Course in the Numerical Analysis of Differential Equations
A. Iserles
Complex Variables: Introduction and Applications
Mark J. Ablowitz and Athanssios S. Fokas
 Complex Variables
Introduction and Applications
Second Edition

MARK J. ABLOWITZ
University of Colorado, Boulder

ATHANASSIOS S. FOKAS
University of Cambridge
  
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo

Cambridge University Press

The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge  , United Kingdom
Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York
www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521534291

© Cambridge University Press 2003

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provision of

relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place
without the written permission of Cambridge University Press.

First published in print format 2003

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s for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not
guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
 Contents

Sections denoted with an asterisk (*) can be either omitted or read

independently.

Preface page xi

Part I Fundamentals and Techniques of Complex Function

Theory 1

1 Complex Numbers and Elementary Functions 3

1.1 Complex Numbers and Their Properties 3
1.2 Elementary Functions and Stereographic Projections 8
1.2.1 Elementary Functions 8
1.2.2 Stereographic Projections 15
1.3 Limits, Continuity, and Complex Differentiation 20
1.4 Elementary Applications to Ordinary Differential Equations 26

2 Analytic Functions and Integration 32

2.1 Analytic Functions 32
2.1.1 The Cauchy–Riemann Equations 32
2.1.2 Ideal Fluid Flow 40
2.2 Multivalued Functions 46
∗
2.3 More Complicated Multivalued Functions and Riemann
Surfaces 61
2.4 Complex Integration 70
2.5 Cauchy’s Theorem 81
2.6 Cauchy’s Integral Formula, Its ∂ Generalization and
Consequences 91

vii
 viii Contents

2.6.1 Cauchy’s Integral Formula and Its Derivatives 91

∗
2.6.2 Liouville, Morera, and Maximum-Modulus
Theorems 95
∗
2.6.3 Generalized Cauchy Formula and ∂ Derivatives 98
∗
2.7 Theoretical Developments 105

3 Sequences, Series, and Singularities of Complex Functions 109

3.1 Definitions and Basic Properties of Complex Sequences,
Series 109
3.2 Taylor Series 114
3.3 Laurent Series 127
∗
3.4 Theoretical Results for Sequences and Series 137
3.5 Singularities of Complex Functions 144
3.5.1 Analytic Continuation and Natural Barriers 152
∗
3.6 Infinite Products and Mittag–Leffler Expansions 158
∗
3.7 Differential Equations in the Complex Plane: Painlevé
Equations 174
∗
3.8 Computational Methods 196
∗
3.8.1 Laurent Series 196
∗
3.8.2 Differential Equations 198

4 Residue Calculus and Applications of Contour Integration 206

4.1 Cauchy Residue Theorem 206
4.2 Evaluation of Certain Definite Integrals 217
4.3 Principal Value Integrals and Integrals with Branch
Points 237
4.3.1 Principal Value Integrals 237
4.3.2 Integrals with Branch Points 245
4.4 The Argument Principle, Rouché’s Theorem 259
∗
4.5 Fourier and Laplace Transforms 267
∗
4.6 Applications of Transforms to Differential Equations 285

Part II Applications of Complex Function Theory 309

5 Conformal Mappings and Applications 311

5.1 Introduction 311
5.2 Conformal Transformations 312
5.3 Critical Points and Inverse Mappings 317
5.4 Physical Applications 322
∗
5.5 Theoretical Considerations – Mapping Theorems 341
 Contents ix

5.6 The Schwarz–Christoffel Transformation 345

5.7 Bilinear Transformations 366
∗
5.8 Mappings Involving Circular Arcs 382
5.9 Other Considerations 400
5.9.1 Rational Functions of the Second Degree 400
5.9.2 The Modulus of a Quadrilateral 405
∗
5.9.3 Computational Issues 408

6 Asymptotic Evaluation of Integrals 411

6.1 Introduction 411
6.1.1 Fundamental Concepts 412
6.1.2 Elementary Examples 418
6.2 Laplace Type Integrals 422
6.2.1 Integration by Parts 423
6.2.2 Watson’s Lemma 426
6.2.3 Laplace’s Method 430
6.3 Fourier Type Integrals 439
6.3.1 Integration by Parts 440
6.3.2 Analog of Watson’s Lemma 441
6.3.3 The Stationary Phase Method 443
6.4 The Method of Steepest Descent 448
6.4.1 Laplace’s Method for Complex Contours 453
6.5 Applications 474
6.6 The Stokes Phenomenon 488
∗
6.6.1 Smoothing of Stokes Discontinuities 494
6.7 Related Techniques 500
∗
6.7.1 WKB Method 500
∗
6.7.2 The Mellin Transform Method 504

7 Riemann–Hilbert Problems 514

7.1 Introduction 514
7.2 Cauchy Type Integrals 518
7.3 Scalar Riemann–Hilbert Problems 527
7.3.1 Closed Contours 529
7.3.2 Open Contours 533
7.3.3 Singular Integral Equations 538
7.4 Applications of Scalar Riemann–Hilbert Problems 546
7.4.1 Riemann–Hilbert Problems on the Real Axis 558
7.4.2 The Fourier Transform 566
7.4.3 The Radon Transform 567
 x Contents

∗
7.5 Matrix Riemann–Hilbert Problems 579
7.5.1 The Riemann–Hilbert Problem for Rational
Matrices 584
7.5.2 Inhomogeneous Riemann–Hilbert Problems and
Singular Equations 586
7.5.3 The Riemann–Hilbert Problem for Triangular
Matrices 587
7.5.4 Some Results on Zero Indices 589
7.6 The DBAR Problem 598
7.6.1 Generalized Analytic Functions 601
∗
7.7 Applications of Matrix Riemann–Hilbert Problems and ∂¯
Problems 604

Appendix A Answers to Odd-Numbered Exercises 627

Bibliography 637

Index 640
 Preface

The study of complex variables is beautiful from a purely mathematical point

of view and provides a powerful tool for solving a wide array of problems
arising in applications. It is perhaps surprising that to explain real phenomena,
mathematicians, scientists, and engineers often resort to the “complex plane.”
In fact, using complex variables one can solve many problems that are either
very difficult or virtually impossible to solve by other means. The text provides
a broad treatment of both the fundamentals and the applications of this subject.
This text can be used in an introductory one- or two-semester undergraduate
course. Alternatively, it can be used in a beginning graduate level course and
as a reference. Indeed, Part I provides an introduction to the study of complex
variables. It also contains a number of applications, which include evaluation
of integrals, methods of solution to certain ordinary and partial differential
equations, and the study of ideal fluid flow. In addition, Part I develops a
suitable foundation for the more advanced material in Part II. Part II contains
the study of conformal mappings, asymptotic evaluation of integrals, the so-
called Riemann–Hilbert and DBAR problems, and many of their applications.
In fact, applications are discussed throughout the book. Our point of view is
that students are motivated and enjoy learning the material when they can relate
it to applications.
To aid the instructor, we have denoted with an asterisk certain sections that are
more advanced. These sections can be read independently or can be skipped.
We also note that each of the chapters in Part II can be read independently.
Every effort has been made to make this book self-contained. Thus advanced
students using this text will have the basic material at their disposal without
dependence on other references.
We realize that many of the topics presented in this book are not usu-
ally covered in complex variables texts. This includes the study of ordinary

xi
xii Preface

differential equations in the complex plane, the solution of linear partial differ-
ential equations by integral transforms, asymptotic evaluation of integrals, and
Riemann–Hilbert problems. Actually some of these topics, when studied at
all, are only included in advanced graduate level courses. However, we believe
that these topics arise so frequently in applications that early exposure is vital.
It is fortunate that it is indeed possible to present this material in such a way
that it can be understood with only the foundation presented in the introductory
chapters of this book.
We are indebted to our families, who have endured all too many hours of
our absence. We are thankful to B. Fast and C. Smith for an outstanding job
of word processing the manuscript and to B. Fast, who has so capably used
mathematical software to verify many formulae and produce figures.
Several colleagues helped us with the preparation of this book. B. Herbst
made many suggestions and was instrumental in the development of the com-
putational section. C. Schober, L. Luo, and L. Glasser worked with us on many
of the exercises. J. Meiss and C. Schober taught from early versions of the
manuscript and made valuable suggestions.
David Benney encouraged us to write this book and we extend our deep
appreciation to him. We would like to take this opportunity to thank those
agencies who have, over the years, consistently supported our research efforts.
Actually, this research led us to several of the applications presented in this book.
We thank the Air Force Office of Scientific Research, the National Science
Foundation, and the Office of Naval Research. In particular we thank Arje
Nachman, Program Director, Air Force Office of Scientific Research (AFOSR),
for his continual support.
Since the first edition appeared we are pleased with the many positive and
useful comments made to us by colleagues and students. All necessary changes,
small additions, and modifications have been made in this second edition. Ad-
ditional information can be found from www.cup.org/titles/catalogue.
 Part I
Fundamentals and Techniques of Complex
Function Theory

The first portion of this text aims to introduce the reader to the basic notions and
methods in complex analysis. The standard properties of real numbers and the
calculus of real variables are assumed. When necessary, a rigorous axiomatic
development will be sacrificed in place of a logical development based upon
suitable assumptions. This will allow us to concentrate more on examples and
applications that our experience has demonstrated to be useful for the student
first introduced to the subject. However, the important theorems are stated and
proved.

1
 1
Complex Numbers and Elementary Functions

This chapter introduces complex numbers, elementary complex functions, and

their basic properties. It will be seen that complex numbers have a simple two-
dimensional character that submits to a straightforward geometric description.
While many results of real variable calculus carry over, some very important
novel and useful notions appear in the calculus of complex functions. Appli-
cations to differential equations are briefly discussed in this chapter.

1.1 Complex Numbers and Their Properties

In this text we use Euler’s notation for the imaginary unit number:
i 2 = −1 (1.1.1)
A complex number is an expression of the form
z = x + iy (1.1.2)
Here x is the real part of z, Re(z); and y is the imaginary part of z, Im(z).
If y = 0, we say that z is real; and if x = 0, we say that z is pure imaginary.
We often denote z, an element of the complex numbers as z ∈ C; where x, an
element of the real numbers is denoted by x ∈ R. Geometrically, we represent
Eq. (1.1.2) in a two-dimensional coordinate system called the complex plane
(see Figure 1.1.1).
The real numbers lie on the horizontal axis and pure imaginary numbers on
the vertical axis. The analogy with two-dimensional vectors is immediate. A
complex number z = x + i y can be interpreted as a two-dimensional vector
(x, y).
It is useful to introduce another representation of complex numbers, namely
polar coordinates (r, θ):
x = r cos θ y = r sin θ (r ≥ 0) (1.1.3)

3
4 1 Complex Numbers and Elementary Functions

z = x+iy

r y
θ

Fig. 1.1.1. The complex plane (“z plane”)

Hence the complex number z can be written in the alternative polar form:

z = x + i y = r (cos θ + i sin θ ) (1.1.4)

The radius r is denoted by

r= x 2 + y 2 ≡ |z| (1.1.5a)

(note: ≡ denotes equivalence) and naturally gives us a notion of the absolute

value of z, denoted by |z|, that is, it is the length of the vector associated with
z. The value |z| is often referred to as the modulus of z. The angle θ is called
the argument of z and is denoted by arg z. When z = 0, the values of θ can be
found from Eq. (1.1.3) via standard trigonometry:

tan θ = y/x (1.1.5b)

where the quadrant in which x, y lie is understood as given. We note that

θ ≡ arg z is multivalued because tan θ is a periodic function of θ with period
π. Given z = x + i y, z = 0 we identify θ to have one value in the interval
θ0 ≤ θ < θ0 + 2π, where θ0 is an arbitrary number; others differ by integer
multiples of√ 2π . We shall take θ0 = 0. For example, if z = −1 + i, then
|z| = r = 2 and θ = 3π 4
+ 2nπ, n = 0, ±1, ±2, . . . . The previous remarks
apply equally well if we use the polar representation about a point z 0 = 0. This
just means that we translate the origin from z = 0 to z = z 0 .
At this point it is convenient to introduce a special exponential function. The
polar exponential is defined by

cos θ + i sin θ = eiθ (1.1.6)

Hence Eq. (1.1.4) implies that z can be written in the form

z = r eiθ (1.1.4 )

This exponential function has all of the standard properties we are familiar
with in elementary calculus and is a special case of the complex exponential
 1.1 Complex Numbers and Their Properties 5

function to be introduced later in this chapter. For example, using well-known

trigonometric identities, Eq. (1.1.6) implies
πi
eπi = −1
3πi
e2πi = 1 e2 =i e 2 = −i

eiθ1 eiθ2 = ei(θ1 +θ2 ) (eiθ )m = eimθ (eiθ )1/n = eiθ/n

With these properties in hand, one can solve an equation of the form

z n = a = |a|eiφ = |a|(cos φ + i sin φ), n = 1, 2, . . .

Using the periodicity of cos φ and sin φ, we have

z n = a = |a|ei(φ+2πm) m = 0, 1, . . . , n − 1

and find the n roots

z = |a|1/n ei(φ+2π m)/n m = 0, 1, . . . , n − 1.

For m ≥ n the roots repeat.

If a = 1, these are called the n roots of unity: 1, ω, ω2 , . . . , ωn−1 , where
ω = e2πi/n . So if n = 2, a = −1, we see that the solutions of z 2 = −1 = eiπ
are z = {eiπ/2 , e3iπ/2 }, or z = ±i. In the context of real numbers there are no
solutions to z 2 = −1, but in the context of complex numbers this equation has
two solutions. Later in this book we shall show that an nth-order polynomial
equation, z n + an−1 z n−1 + · · · + a0 = 0, where the coefficients {a j }n−1 j=0 are
complex numbers, has n and only n solutions (roots), counting multiplicities
(for example, we say that (z − 1)2 = 0 has two solutions, and that z = 1 is a
solution of multiplicity two).
The complex conjugate of z is defined as

z = x − i y = r e−iθ (1.1.7)

Two complex numbers are said to be equal if and only if their real and
imaginary parts are respectively equal; namely, calling z k = xk + i yk , for k =
1, 2, then

z1 = z2 ⇒ x1 + i y1 = x2 + i y2 ⇒ x1 = x2 , y1 = y2

Thus z = 0 implies x = y = 0.
Addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division of complex numbers fol-
low from the rules governing real numbers. Thus, noting i 2 = −1, we have

z 1 ± z 2 = (x1 ± x2 ) + i(y1 ± y2 ) (1.1.8a)

6 1 Complex Numbers and Elementary Functions

and

z 1 z 2 = (x1 + i y1 )(x2 + i y2 ) = (x1 x2 − y1 y2 ) + i(x1 y2 + x2 y1 ) (1.1.8b)

In fact, we note that from Eq. (1.1.5a)

zz = zz = (x + i y)(x − i y) = x 2 + y 2 = |z|2 (1.1.8c)

This fact is useful for division of complex numbers,

z1 x1 + i y1 (x1 + i y1 )(x2 − i y2 )
= =
z2 x2 + i y2 (x2 + i y2 )(x2 − i y2 )
(x1 x2 + y1 y2 ) + i(x2 y1 − x1 y2 )
=
x22 + y22
x1 x2 + y1 y2 i(x2 y1 − x1 y2 )
= + (1.1.8d)
x2 + y2
2 2
x22 + y22

It is easily shown that the commutative, associative, and distributive laws of

addition and multiplication hold.
Geometrically speaking, addition of two complex numbers is equivalent to
that of the parallelogram law of vectors (see Figure 1.1.2).
The useful analytical statement

||z 1 | − |z 2 || ≤ |z 1 + z 2 | ≤ |z 1 | + |z 2 | (1.1.9)

has the geometrical meaning that no side of a triangle is greater in length than
the sum of the other two sides – hence the term for inequality Eq. (1.1.9) is the
triangle inequality.
Equation (1.1.9) can be proven as follows.

|z 1 + z 2 |2 = (z 1 + z 2 )(z 1 + z 2 ) = z 1 z 1 + z 2 z 2 + z 1 z 2 + z 1 z 2
= |z 1 |2 + |z 2 |2 + 2 Re(z 1 z 2 )

iy

x
Fig. 1.1.2. Addition of vectors
 1.1 Complex Numbers and Their Properties 7

Hence

|z 1 + z 2 |2 − (|z 1 | + |z 2 |)2 = 2(Re(z 1 z 2 ) − |z 1 ||z 2 |) ≤ 0 (1.1.10)

where the inequality follows from the fact that

x = Re z ≤ |z| = x 2 + y 2

and |z 1 z 2 | = |z 1 ||z 2 |.
Equation (1.1.10) implies the right-hand inequality of Eq. (1.1.9) after taking
a square root. The left-hand inequality follows by redefining terms. Let

W1 = z 1 + z 2 W2 = −z 2

Then the right-hand side of Eq. (1.1.9) (just proven) implies that

|W1 | ≤ |W1 + W2 | + | − W2 |

or |W1 | − |W2 | ≤ |W1 + W2 |

which then proves the left-hand side of Eq. (1.1.9) if we assume that
|W1 | ≥ |W2 |; otherwise, we can interchange W1 and W2 in the above discussion
and obtain

||W1 | − |W2 || = −(|W1 | − |W2 |) ≤ |W1 + W2 |

Similarly, note the immediate generalization of Eq. (1.1.9)

 
 n   n
 
 z j ≤ |z j |
 
j=1 j=1

Problems for Section 1.1

1. Express each of the following complex numbers in polar exponential form:

(a) 1 (b) − i (c) 1 + i

√ √
1 3 1 3
(d) + i (e) − i
2 2 2 2
2. Express each of the following in the form a + bi, where a and b are real:

1
(a) e2+iπ/2 (b) (c) (1 + i)3 (d) |3 + 4i|
1+i
(e) Define cos(z) = (ei z + e−i z )/(2), and e z = e x ei y .
Evaluate cos(iπ/4 + c), where c is real
8 1 Complex Numbers and Elementary Functions

3. Solve for the roots of the following equations:

(a) z 3 = 4 (b) z 4 = −1
(c) (az + b)3 = c, where a, b, c > 0 (d) z 4 + 2z 2 + 2 = 0

4. Estabilish the following results:

(a) z + w = z̄ + w̄ (b) |z − w| ≤ |z| + |w| (c) z − z̄ = 2iIm z

(d) Rez ≤ |z| (e) |wz̄ + w̄z| ≤ 2|wz| (f) |z 1 z 2 | = |z 1 ||z 2 |

5. There is a partial correspondence between complex numbers and vec-

tors in the plane. Denote a complex number z = a + bi and a vector
v = a ê1 + bê2 , where ê1 and ê2 are unit vectors in the horizontal and ver-
tical directions. Show that the laws of addition z 1 ± z 2 and v1 ± v2 yield
equivalent results as do the magnitudes |z|2 , |v|2 = v · v. (Here v · v is the
usual vector dot product.) Explain why there is no general correspondence
for laws of multiplication or division.

1.2 Elementary Functions and Stereographic Projections

1.2.1 Elementary Functions

As a prelude to the notion of a function we present some standard definitions
and concepts. A circle with center z 0 and radius r is denoted by |z − z 0 | = r .
A neighborhood of a point z 0 is the set of points z for which

|z − z 0 | <  (1.2.1)

where  is some (small) positive number. Hence a neighborhood of the point

z 0 is all the points inside the circle of radius , not including its boundary.
An annulus r1 < |z − z 0 | < r2 has center z 0 , with inner radius r1 and outer
radius r2 . A point z 0 of a set of points S is called an interior point of S if
there is a neighborhood of z 0 entirely contained within S. The set S is said to
be an open set if all the points of S are interior points. A point z 0 is said to be
a boundary point of S if every neighborhood of z = z 0 contains at least one
point in S and at least one point not in S.
A set consisting of all points of an open set and none, some or all of its
boundary points is referred to as a region. An open region is said to be bounded
if there is a constant M > 0 such that all points z of the region satisfy |z| ≤ M,
that is, they lie within this circle. A region is said to be closed if it contains
all of its boundary points. A region that is both closed and bounded is called
 1.2 Elementary Functions, Stereographic Projections 9

iy

Fig. 1.2.1. Half plane

compact. Thus the region |z| ≤ 1 is compact because it is both closed and
bounded. The region |z| < 1 is open and bounded. The half plane Re z > 0
(see Figure 1.2.1) is open and unbounded.
Let z 1 , z 2 , . . . , z n be points in the plane. The n − 1 line segments z 1 z 2 , z 2 z 3 ,
. . . , z n−1 z n taken in sequence form a broken line. An open region is said to be
connected if any two of its points can be joined by a broken line that is contained
in the region. (There are more detailed definitions of connectedness, but this
simple one will suffice for our purposes.) For an example of a connected region
see Figure 1.2.2.)
A disconnected region is exemplified by all the points interior to |z| = 1 and
exterior to |z| = 2: S = {z : |z| < 1, |z| > 2}.
A connected open region is called a domain. For example the set (see
Figure 1.2.3)

S = {z = r eiθ : θ0 < arg z < θ0 + α}

is a domain that is unbounded.

z5
z6

z1

z2
z4

z3

Fig. 1.2.2. Connected region

10 1 Complex Numbers and Elementary Functions

θ 0+ α

θ0

Fig. 1.2.3. Domain – a sector

Because a domain is an open set, we note that no boundary point of the

domain can lie in the domain. Notationally, we shall refer to a region as R; the
closed region containing R and all of its boundary points is sometimes referred
to as R. If R is closed, then R = R. The notation z ∈ R means z is a point
contained in R. Usually we denote a domain by D.
If for each z ∈ R there is a unique complex number w(z) then we say w(z)
is a function of the complex variable z, frequently written as

w = f (z) (1.2.2)

in order to denote the function f . Often we simply write w = w(z), or just w.

The totality of values f (z) corresponding to z ∈ R constitutes the range of
f (z). In this context the set R is often referred to as the domain of definition
of the function f . While the domain of definition of a function is frequently a
domain, as defined earlier for a set of points, it does not need to be so.
By the above definition of a function we disallow multivaluedness; no more
than one value of f (z) may correspond to any point z ∈ R. In Sections 2.2
and 2.3 we will deal explicitly with the notion of multivaluedness and its ram-
ifications.
The simplest function is the power function:

f (z) = z n , n = 0, 1, 2, . . . (1.2.3)

Each successive power is obtained by multiplication z m+1 = z m z, m =

0, 1, 2, . . . A polynomial is defined as a linear combination of powers


n
Pn (z) = a j z j = a0 + a1 z + a2 z 2 + · · · + an z n (1.2.4)
j=0
 1.2 Elementary Functions, Stereographic Projections 11

where the a j are complex numbers (i.e.,1 a j ∈ C). Note that the domain of
definition of Pn (z) is the entire z plane simply written as z ∈ C. A rational
function is a ratio of two polynomials Pn (z) and Q m (z), where Q m (z) =
m j
j=0 b j z

Pn (z)
R(z) = (1.2.5)
Q m (z)

and the domain of definition of R(z) is the z plane, excluding the points where
Q m (z) = 0. For example, the function w = 1/(1 + z 2 ) is defined in the z plane
excluding z = ±i. This is written as z ∈ C \ {i, −i}.
In general, the function f (z) is complex and when z = x + i y, f (z) can be
written in the complex form:

w = f (z) = u(x, y) + i v(x, y) (1.2.6)

The function f (z) is said to have the real part u, u = Re f , and the imaginary
part v, v = Im f . For example,

w = z 2 = (x + i y)2 = x 2 − y 2 + 2i x y

which implies

u(x, y) = x 2 − y 2 and v = 2x y.

As is the case with real variables we have the standard operations on func-
tions. Given two functions f (z) and g(z), we define addition, f (z) + g(z),
multiplication f (z)g(z), and composition f [g(z)] of complex functions.
It is convenient to define some of the more common functions of a complex
variable – which, as with polynomials and rational functions, will be familiar
to the reader.
Motivated by real variables, ea+b = ea eb , we define the exponential function

e z = e x+i y = e x ei y

Noting the polar exponential definition (used already in section 1.1, Eq. (1.1.6))

ei y = cos y + i sin y

we see that

e z = e x (cos y + i sin y) (1.2.7)

1 Hereafter these abbreviations will frequently be used: i.e. = that is; e.g. = for example.
12 1 Complex Numbers and Elementary Functions

Equation (1.2.7) and standard trigonometric identities yield the properties

e z1 +z2 = e z1 e z2 and (e z )n = enz , n = 1, 2 . . . (1.2.8)

We also note


|e z | = |e x || cos y + i sin y| = e x cos2 y + sin2 y = e x

and

(e z ) = e z = e x−i y = e x (cos y − i sin y)

The trigonometric functions sin z and cos z are defined as

ei z − e−i z
sin z = (1.2.9)
2i
ei z + e−i z
cos z = (1.2.10)
2
and the usual definitions of the other trigonometric functions are taken:

sin z cos z 1 1
tan z = , cot z = , sec z = , csc z = (1.2.11)
cos z sin z cos z sin z
All of the usual trigonometric properties such as

sin(z 1 + z 2 ) = sin z 1 cos z 2 + cos z 1 sin z 2 ,

(1.2.12)
sin2 z + cos2 z = 1, ...

follow from the above definitions.

The hyperbolic functions are defined analogously

e z − e−z
sinh z = (1.2.13)
2
e z + e−z
cosh z = (1.2.14)
2

sinh z cosh z 1 1
tanh z = , coth z = , sechz = , cschz =
cosh z sinh z cosh z sinh z
Similarly, the usual identities follow, such as

cosh2 z − sinh2 z = 1 (1.2.15)

Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 Mauney enjoyed her mild exasperation and determined to extract
her viewpoint still further. There was as yet no sign of dinner, and
the score of guests still kept up a monotonous buzz of conversation.
He noticed Lorna talking with Mr. Nutbrown Hennigar, a lecturer in
the history department.
“Don’t you think men are irrational beings, Miss MacDowell?” he
said, turning his chair a little toward her.
“What difference does that make?”
“You might have more respect for them if they weren’t!”
“Respect men!” she laughed. “Why I think they’re just wonderful. I
just love men. But, tell me, Mr. Bard, what are you taking at the
university?”
“History.”
“Like it?”
“Yes, I do. What are you taking?”
“General course.”
“Like it?”
“Oh, please don’t ask me!” she implored, playfully putting up her
slender hands in mock impatience. “The college game never quite
phizzed on me, I’m afraid. I’m tired of it. May as well tell the truth,
as lie about it, eh?”
“Surely. But what is it you dislike about education?”
“Education’s all right. It’s the university. Some day I’m going to
write a book on how to run one’s university—just like a hand-guide
on how to run one’s automobile. I’ll send you a copy, if I don’t
forget.”
“Please don’t. I imagine it would be hot stuff.”
“Thanks. I take that as a compliment, whether it is or not.” She
laughed as she turned toward the other guests. “There’s Nutbrown
Hennigar over yonder talking with Lorna Freeman. He’d murder me
if he heard me talk about college this way. You know him of course.
Funny chap. Likeable in many ways. And he’s certainly in the swim.”
“Swim—how?”
“Why! His father owns the university—Senator Hennigar, yonder,
talking with Madame de Freville. He looks like cupid at seventy,
minus the wings.”
“He’s the Chancellor, isn’t he?” Mauney asked. “I’m just a green-
horn in Merlton. I’m afraid of my shadow at an affair like this.”
“Chancellor—yes—and then some! You certainly are green if you
don’t know all about the Hennigars. However, you’ll learn, Mr. Bard.
Hennigar is the great password. You can do anything if you have a
little bit of Hennigar. There’s Nutbrown, for example, lecturing in
history. Someday he’ll be the professor. There’s Professor Freeman,
married to Hennigar’s daughter.”
“No,” said Mauney, suddenly sitting up in astonishment.
“But, yes,” quoth Miss MacDowell in surprise. “Didn’t you know
that?”
“I certainly did not.”
“Well, how much will I tell you? Who are your friends here?”
“The Freemans.”
“That’s too bad,” she sighed playfully. “My tongue will get me in
wrong, sooner or later.”
“Not at all. Shoot ahead. I’m very keen on what you’re telling me.”
“In that case I’ll continue. Professor Freeman is a brilliant man,
but, without a little bit of Hennigar, his brilliance would have been
doomed to obscurity like the jewel in the cave. He started life as
poor as a church mouse, but saw help in two directions. I know him
like a book. He got a job as lecturer in history. He stuck to business
and avoided individualistic tendencies. I give him great credit. He
knew that since the days when Socrates held tutorial groups in
porches down to the present when he held his own in university
halls, a fair volume of knowledge had been amassed—quite enough
historical data to engage anyone comfortably. He had opinions of his
own, but ascension on the academic ladder meant consistent self-
suppression. He quietly taught the young idea old ideas, and rose in
favor, until, gradually passing through assistant-ships and associate-
ships, he stretched out finally in the chair of history. But, of course,
the magic behind it all was his connection with the Hennigar family.
You see, the senator is Chancellor, chairman of the building
committee, friend of the university in general, and heaviest endower
in particular. If Freeman could have done a cleverer thing than marry
Miss Hennigar, it would have required a committee of corporation
lawyers to discover it.”
“That’s news to me,” said Mauney. “I appreciate getting in on a
little gossip like this, too. Who’s your friend here, Miss MacDowell?”
“I haven’t any,” she said. “Nutbrown Hennigar fusses over me at
times. But I’m here just because François met me in the east
corridor this morning and told me I had to come up for dinner. I
never made any bids for getting in with this crowd. I don’t fit,
anyway. But François insisted, and then Madame ’phoned me, so
what could I do?”
“They seem like a friendly bunch of people, though,” Mauney
remarked.
“Friendly!” she returned. “Why not? They’re pretty nearly all
related. There is Alfred Tanner—he’s a real fellow—but he married
Senator Hennigar’s other daughter. Everybody else here, if not
related to Hennigar, has a very special stand in. It’s the great eternal
family compact. I’ll mention that in my hand-book, too.”
“But the senator seems to be a good old chap!”
“Certainly. I admire him. You know how he made all his money,
don’t you?”
“No.”
 “Jam,” said Miss MacDowell simply. It was apparent from her
animation that she loved talking about the man. Mauney wondered
at her, nevertheless, for it struck him that she was ill-advised to say
so much to a stranger. Fortunately, everything she had said, thus far,
had struck home with unusual force and greatly appealed to him.
But how could she take the risk of committing herself so freely?
“You see, it’s just like this,” she said, lowering her voice and
smiling with the mischievous glee of a child consciously undertaking
some deviltry, “Hennigar discovered early in life that plums and
ginger-root blend in a manner most gratifying to the palate. He
persevered with his formula. With the austere self-denial of the
specialist, he worked hard and became the arch-confectioner. He
pyramided profits into advertising—”
“Is he the maker of Hennigar’s jam?” interrupted Mauney,
incredulously.
“Of course he is. He kept at it, as I was saying, until to-day a ten-
acre factory buzzes with its manufacture and the plum-trees on a
thousand hills grow for Hennigar alone. Oh, but it was wonderful
jam,” she laughed, smacking her lips prettily. “It has ‘jammed’ out a
small-sized marble palace in Riverton, a fleet of motor cars from
Rolls to Buick, one for every mood, an army of liveried servants, one
for every duty. It has ‘jammed’ Elias Hennigar into the Senate, into
the front ranks of the Church, into the intimate counsels of the
university—in fact, this jam has made him. But, of course, one
doesn’t mention jam, now. He’s got it all washed off his hands by
this time.”
“Doesn’t that beat the devil!” exclaimed Mauney. “Oh, I beg your
pardon, Miss MacDowell.”
“Not at all,” she laughed. “I like to hear a man cuss. I sort of know
where he stands, then. Listen and I’ll tell you a secret.”
Mauney leaned a little nearer her.
“I’m going to drop my course this spring,” she whispered, “and
take a job under Professor Freeman as departmental secretary in
history. Won’t that be fun? I’ll have Alfred Tanner to work with. He’s
better than a circus any time, and then there’s Nutbrown Hennigar.
Have you had him to lecture to you yet? No? I guess he sticks to the
general course students. Well, he’s a scream, anyway. He’s very, very
fond of me, mind you. Just imagine a Hennigar on my trail. He takes
me to theatres often. And dances—oh, he can’t dance at all; he just
rambles. He thinks it’s awfully queer of me to have accepted this job
in the history department.”
Mauney’s attention was completely engaged by his charming
companion. She puzzled him beyond measure. Why, he wondered,
did she talk so confidently to him? She did not appear to be a rattle-
brained woman, and yet how strangely familiar she had become.
“Say,” he said, after a little pause. “You’re kind of human, and I’m
just going to ask you a question, if I may.”
She nodded.
“Why do you tell me so much?” he asked. “Mind you, I like it a
whole lot. But how did you know I would like it?”
She laughed tantalizingly.
“Because I know all about you, Mr. Bard,” she replied.
“Me?”
“Certainly. You’re a pal of Max Lee’s, aren’t you?”
His eyes opened with enlightenment.
“Are you Freda MacDowell?” he asked eagerly.
She nodded and teased him with her eyes.
“Of course I am. Max has told me all about you. When I heard the
name Bard, to-night, I wondered if you were Mauney.”
“I sure am,” he said, warming up, “and this is a great pleasure,
indeed, I—”
“And I was positive it was you,” she interrupted, with a roguish
glance at his face, “because Max told me you had an awful head of
red hair.”

CHAPTER VI.
In Which Stalton Sees the Doctor.
Mauney did not enjoy the dinner-party. He kept looking at Freda
MacDowell and wishing he had never met her. He knew, without
further contemplation, that she was the most attractive woman he
had ever met. He could have gone on talking to her all evening long,
but he was glad that such had been impossible. Every time he
looked at her he felt a warmth gripping his breast. Her eyes—well,
he knew that he had never seen eyes like them. They were perfect.
They were vastly comforting. They haunted him, all the way back to
Freeman’s, and then all the way to 73 Franklyn Street. He
remembered Max’s description of her, and knew that it was no idle
remark:
“She’s just like nobody else.”
He demanded of life to know just how such a thing could come to
pass, namely, that he should be attracted so strongly to a woman,
all at once, at first sight, at first talk. Of course he would have to put
her clean out of his mind. He felt weak when he thought of her. He
knew just how much of her he could stand. He was positive that
another hour’s acquaintance would have completed the most
enthralling fascination. He sat in his own room smoking furiously,
trying to accuse himself of a hyper-vivid imagination and an over-
developed susceptibility. He tried to tell himself that he was not
infatuated with her. He smoked many cigarettes. It grew late. He
pulled down a book and began reading, with the book in his lap.
Then he came to himself gradually and discovered that he had not
been reading at all, but only inspecting his finger-nails, while his
thoughts kept returning constantly to Freda MacDowell.
 Max would wonder why he had not dropped in to-night. Somehow
he could not face Max. He had no wish to see Max to-night. It would
be hard to talk to him—just as if he had wronged him in some way.
Then, at length, he gained a better perspective of the situation. He
tossed aside his book and walked along the hall to his chum’s door.
“Hello, you!” said Lee, looking up from his desk, which was littered
with note-books and texts. “You’ve been dolling up a little, eh? Been
at a dance?”
“No, just a kind of dinner party, Max. What are you doing?”
“Can’t you see?”
“Sure. What is it, though?”
“Oto-laryngology, if you insist.”
“Is it?” asked Mauney, absently, as he leaned against the wall by
the door.
“Well, of course, you fish. If I say it’s oto-laryngology I don’t mean
anything else. What’s the matter with you? Sit down. I’m out of
smokes. If you’ve got any, hand ’em over.”
Mauney tossed his package of cigarettes on the desk and
stretched himself in a chair near by.
“Well, Max,” he said at length. “You’re the luckiest dog in Merlton!”
“How do you make that out, my son?” Lee asked, as he turned to
throw away a burnt match.
“Because you are, that’s all. You’ve got a woman who really loves
you, and—”
“Wait, now, you poor fish. Did I tell you she loved me?”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Lee cast a puzzled look at Mauney, who sat, as if in reverie, gazing
up through blue rings of smoke that emerged in slow clouds from his
mouth.
“Are you suddenly overtaken with a bachelor’s remorse?” Max
queried, sarcastically. “Is that why you come in here to disturb my
faithful studies? Why envy me so much? Why don’t you nab onto
somebody yourself? You’ve got more to recommend you than I
have.”
Mauney was not listening to him, but continued gazing up at the
ceiling. Even there he could not avoid the vision of a woman’s dark,
comforting eyes.
“You’ve got better mating points than I have. You’re a better man
than I am, Gunga-din. Look at that chest of yours—any woman
would sigh petulantly to have her head pillowed there. All you got to
do is to go out and walk down Tower Street and the girls will be
running into lamp-posts as they turn to behold your Apollo-like
form.”
Mauney looked into Max’s face, confused.
“What?” he asked.
“Oh I didn’t say anything. I was just humming a snatch from
Mendelssohn’s ‘Fatal Step.’ Say, Mauney, what the devil’s the matter
with you, anyhow?”
“Nothing.”
“All right: smoke on. I’m going to study. Stay till you get it all
straightened out, and, when you’re ready to go, don’t forget the
door is on your left. Good-night, dearie.”
Lee turned to his desk and resumed his reading of numerous
pages of badly-written notes. From time to time he mumbled
sentences, then shifted in his chair, then lit a new cigarette, and
mumbled again. During this time Mauney sat quietly back, busy with
unpleasant thoughts. He remembered that Lee had explained the
hopelessness of his relationship with Freda MacDowell. He had said
that, although he loved her, he would never let her know. Mauney
had always admired Max. Now he respected him more than ever. He
thought it was very noble of him to preserve silence regarding his
love.
“I guess we’re both sort of out in the cold, Max,” he said, at
length.
“I guess so,” Lee absent-mindedly agreed, as he continued to
read. “Out in the cold? How do you mean?”
“With women.”
“Oh, damn women. I’m busy with oto-laryngology. Exam’s coming
on to-morrow.”
Mauney rose and stretched himself.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced, tossing his package of
cigarettes again on the table. “Keep ’em; you’ll need a few fags
before morning.”
Mauney resumed his accustomed life next day with a feeling of
gratitude that he had at least his work to occupy his mind. He put
Freda MacDowell out of his consciousness—she was the property of
Maxwell Lee, and nothing would ever permit him to encroach on his
good friend’s property. She grew smaller as she receded in the vista
of his thoughts, and he considered it fortunate that he saw nothing
more of her during the term.
At the spring examinations Lorna Freeman gained top place,
defeating Mauney by many marks and winning the Hennigar
scholarship for proficiency in history. He congratulated her cordially,
and inwardly admitted her superior ability. She deserved the
distinction. He was not jealous, for even at the end of his first year
his eye was looking at something different from marks and
scholarships. He had passed his exams—that was all he cared. There
were other rewards—quiet, inner compensations, from the reading
of history. These he had not missed. The story of humanity was
growing real to him, something he could touch with his hands and
cherish. There came thoughts that pleased his fancy, and he wrote
them in a big, empty ledger—wonderful thoughts about history, that
he wanted no one but himself to read. He prized his ledger. Many a
night during the long summer vacation he took it from the locked
drawer of his desk and added more paragraphs to it. It was nothing
—just his fancies.
Maxwell Lee, having successfully graduated, and having acquired
the degree of M.D., gained an appointment in the department of
biochemistry, as a research fellow, at a salary of seven hundred
dollars a year, and began work immediately. Mauney was introduced
to his laboratory, a big upstairs room in the Medical Building, with
two bald, great windows that flooded the place with a brilliant light.
It was a busy room, filled with long tables of intricate apparatus,
retorts, gas burners, and complicated arrangements of glass tubes,
resembling a child’s conception of a factory. He often dropped in to
talk with Lee, who was always absorbed in his new work, bent over
steaming dishes of fluid, or seated before a delicate scales,
contained in a glass case. He spoke seldom of Freda MacDowell,
now, but much of a certain disease upon which he was working, in
an attempt to discover its cause. Mauney disliked the laboratory,
pungent with fumes of acid, but was glad to see Max so happy in his
work.
Lee still remained at Mrs. Manton’s boarding-house and in the
evenings, when he was not busy at the Medical Building, was to be
found, sitting in his shirt sleeves, in an alcove of the upstairs
hallway, reading technical treatises on biochemistry.
Fred Stalton gradually formed his own original opinion about the
intense occupation of Lee.
“Since he got that M.D. tacked on to his name,” Stalton remarked
to Mauney one night in the dining-room, “he’s sort of waded out into
biochemistry a little too deep. Max has changed, Mauney. He’s
changed a lot. When he first came here to stay, he was the life of
the party, a real midnight serenader, believe me. Of course, I
suppose somebody’s got to do the tall studying, but I hate to see
him so much at it. His health won’t stand it. He’s not very strong. He
ought to rig up an office down on College Street, hang out his
shingle and practise. Why, if he just had the lucre I’ve spent on
doctors he could take a holiday in Honolulu. People would be bound
to come to him. Doctors don’t do any good except to ease your mind
a little, and that’s why people go to them. You get a pain in your
almanack, and you hike right over to the nearest medico. He just
lays on the hands, tells you it’s a very minor trouble; you pay him a
couple of bones for a piece of paper and go home tickled all over.
It’s a game, but Max ought to play it. He’s getting too serious.”
“Maybe,” admitted Mauney. “But he’s all taken up with the idea of
striking the cause of pernicious anæmia—”
“Anæmia?”
“Yes.”
“What’s that like?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you. Max did describe it to me. People with it
are sort of pale and yellow and lose their pep.”
Stalton’s brow puckered up thoughtfully.
“I wonder if there’s any chance of me having that lot,” he said
slowly. “I certainly haven’t got any more pep than a Ford car leaking
in oil in three cylinders. Here I am, Mauney, only forty-two years old;
I shouldn’t be like this. I can’t do much more work than a sundial on
a rainy day, without getting all in, down and out. I’ve been to about
a hundred doctors and only two ever agreed on what ails me.”
“What seems to be the trouble, Fred?”
“All I know is how I feel,” replied Stalton. “Some say it’s
hyperacidity. Some call it auto-intoxication. One bird claimed I had
an ulcer of the stomach. About ten of ’em laid all the blame on my
teeth. Others said I had weakness of the nerve centres. I don’t
believe any of them ever really hit it yet. As soon as I collect enough
dust I’m going to call and see Adamson.”
“Is he good?” asked Mauney, but casually interested in Stalton’s
recital of his bodily woes.
 “Good? I guess he is! That chap, they say, never makes a mistake.
He’s a professor in the Medical School. You have to make an
appointment four weeks in advance to see him at all. He charges
about a hundred a minute, but, from what I hear, he’s worth it. I’d
never begrudge it to him. I haven’t been able to hold down a steady
job for five years.”
Mauney had observed Stalton’s manner of life. Gertrude allowed
him to play on an easy financial margin. He made what money he
got by speculating on theatre tickets, playing the horses at Riverton
Park, and from his rare, but always successful, indulgence in big
poker games down-town. When he was in pocket he paid his board
cheerfully and bought new clothes and quantities of cigarettes.
When he was financially embarrassed he helped Gertrude with the
housework and made his own cigarettes. He was the soul of good-
heartedness. He would lend money to any of his friends if he had it.
If not, he would thank the intending borrower for the compliment of
being asked. His popularity at 73 Franklyn Street always remained at
flood-tide—he was so cheerful about his own infirmities and so eager
to listen to the troubles of others. Mauney found him as restful as
other men who lived purposeless lives.
Late one night Mauney was awakened by the sound of his
bedroom door opening. In the light which entered from the hall he
beheld Stalton standing in his bathrobe, smoking a cigarette. He was
unusually pale.
“I didn’t want to disturb, Max,” he said, “but I’m suffering the
tortures of the damned with this stomach of mine. I wonder if you
would mind going downstairs and calling up Dr. Adamson. I’ve got to
see that bird, sooner or later, and I’d like to have him see me when
this real attack is on.”
Mauney agreed, sprang out of bed, and feeling that Stalton was
actually in great pain, persuaded him to take his own bed. After
helping him to get into it, he covered him quickly with the sheets
and descended to the telephone. After giving the number he waited
for fully a minute before receiving a reply.
 “Yes,” said a tired, business-like voice at length.
“Doctor Adamson?”
“Yes.”
“Could you come to seventy-three Franklin Street?”
“What appears wrong?” he asked pleasantly.
“Mr. Stalton has a severe pain in his stomach.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” he replied. “It might be a surgical case,
you know. Anyway I never go out at night, except under very
exceptional circumstances. I think you had better call my assistant,
Dr. Turner.”
“Well, listen, doctor,” persisted Mauney, “Mr. Stalton is a fine chap
and he thinks the sun rises and sets on you.”
The physician laughed.
“Indeed? Well, that’s very nice of him,” he said. “Tell him I’ll break
a custom. Seventy-three Franklin? I’ll be up soon.”
Within half an hour the distinguished physician arrived. He was a
cheerful, clean-shaven, well-dressed man of perhaps forty-five, and
looked extremely awake, considering the hour. Mauney showed him
upstairs to his room and introduced him to the patient.
“How do you do?” said Dr. Adamson, pleasantly, as he took
Stalton’s proffered hand. “Are you in trouble?”
“I feel as if there was a mud-turtle inside my stomach, doctor,
trying to land on the edge of my liver,” confessed Stalton.
Adamson laughed as he drew up a chair, and sat down leisurely
beside the bed.
“Well,” he said, in his cheerful way, “your description lacks nothing
in vividness. Do you think he will manage to land?”
Stalton put his palm over the pit of his stomach.
“Right there,” he said.
 “Pain?” queried Adamson.
“It isn’t exactly pain, doctor. It’s an all-gone feeling. If it would
only pain I’d know where I stood. But it really doesn’t pain—it’s just
sort of churning.”
Adamson’s grey eyes became keen, as he inspected his patient.
“When did you first notice it?” he asked.
“I’ve had it for ten years; only it’s got unbearable to-night.”
“Exactly,” nodded the physician, as he lapsed into a silence, and
felt his patient’s pulse.
“Are you a student?” he asked, glancing about the room.
“No. This is Mr. Bard’s room. I haven’t followed any regular
occupation for a few years back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t seem to have the pep, doctor.”
“Exactly. Do you have headaches?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Right in the dome,” explained Stalton, placing his hand on the top
of his head.
“Exactly. Any backache?”
“You’re right.”
“Where?”
“All the way from my neck to my heels. My legs ache most of the
time, too.”
After the physician had very carefully examined him he dropped
his stethescope into his bag, which he closed with a snap.
“What horse is going to get the Lofton Plate to-morrow?” he
asked, as he sat down and lit a cigarette and proffered the case to
his patient.
“I’d bet on the Grundy stables to-morrow, doctor.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. I don’t pose as an expert, but if I had the money I’d play
Grundy to win for a thousand dollars.”
“I used to imagine I could pick the winners,” laughed Adamson. “I
think every man passes through that stage.”
“Yes, and the sooner he passes it the better,” smiled Stalton.
“Exactly.”
For a few seconds the physician smoked in silence.
“What’s the matter with me, doctor?” asked Stalton, at length.
“Are you prepared for my verdict?” replied Adamson, somewhat
seriously.
“Well—yes—that’s why I sent for you. I know you will tell me.”
“No matter how serious, I presume you would rather know the
truth?”
“You bet I would,” said Stalton, perching himself up on his elbow,
and gazing with fearful apprehension at the renowned physician.
“Some doctors said there wasn’t anything wrong with me.”
“But there is,” said Adamson, emphatically.
“Well, I knew it, I—”
“You have a really serious complaint, Mr. Stalton.”
“Is there any hope of curing it?”
“That all depends on you, Mr. Stalton. But first let me explain. And
in doing so I want you to believe every word I say. I don’t want you
to be hurt by anything I say, either. I have given you a careful
examination and have located your trouble, but it’s not the kind of
trouble you think it is.”
 “No?”
“No. Your stomach is anatomically normal, although it is not
working in perfect physiological harmony. It is influenced by your
mind very considerably. Your head contains a real ache, and your
back contains a real ache, and your legs get really tired. You feel
weak most of the time. You find it hard to stick at one occupation.
These are real troubles, not imaginary. Your body is—well, rather
rebellious against work. Is that not true?”
“It certainly is, doctor. I—”
“Exactly. It doesn’t want to be put to a test, where it knows it will
be unsuccessful.”
“You’ve sure expressed it, doctor.”
“And now, Mr. Stalton,” said Adamson, leaning back in his chair
and fixing his patient with his keen, grey eyes, “would you believe
me if I told you that your body is merely working in harmony with a
wrong idea in your mind?”
“Well, I’d believe anything you say, doctor,” said Stalton, slowly,
but with evident surprise.
“Good. I appreciate your confidence very much. You have a wrong
thought complex. In some way or other you have acquired a wrong
mental attitude toward work. It’s not your fault. I do not blame you
in the least. But I want to remove that thought complex, because in
so doing I will remove your disease, and if you will but believe me
now, you will be immediately cured. You have for the past few years
actually feared work.”
“I know it, doctor, but I—”
“This fear of work has been a real disease, Mr. Stalton. You feared
work. You mentally rebelled against work. Your body took its cue
from your mind and rebelled also. Your body rebelled so much that it
instituted pains and aches, so as to avoid the thing your brain
feared. In other words, your whole trouble has been a mental and
physical rebellion against work. Do you believe me or not?”
 “Well, doctor, I’ve got to believe you,” said Stalton slowly. “But
what am I to do?”
“First, you are going to remind yourself that work is really a
blessing—nothing to be feared—but rather something to be desired.
It will not hurt you. I give my word. You need not have this old
timidity any longer. In the second place, you are going to get a job
somewhere at once and begin to work steadily at it. Have you any
trade?”
“I learned electric wiring years ago.”
“Fine. Go to-morrow, confidently, and get a job, wiring. If you do,
you will find all your pains and aches gradually disappearing. If I am
wrong, I will charge you nothing for this call. I know I’m right.”
“How much do I owe you, doctor?” asked Stalton, getting out of
bed, as the physician started toward the door.
“It will be twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “But I would like it to be
the next twenty-five you earn. Good-night.”
He extended his hand.
“Good-night, sir,” said Stalton, taking it. “I believe you’ve hit the
nail on the head.”
When Mauney returned to his room, after accompanying Adamson
to the door, he found Fred Stalton walking up and down.
“What do you know about that, Mauney?” he asked. “That bird
certainly put his finger on the tender spot that time. In one way I
feel like a damned slacker now. Don’t mention this to anybody,
Mauney. But Adamson is right. Why, that pain is gone already. I’m a
liar if it isn’t. No drugs about that bird. I’m going out to-morrow to
buck the old world for a living again.”
A few weeks saw a great change in Stalton. He embraced work
with a good will and never once faltered. He obtained a good
position with a down-town electrical company, and came home each
night hungry and happy. Gertrude was puzzled completely.
 “Why, Freddie!” she said one night, “you’re all better. What on
earth did it? You look ten years younger, and I haven’t heard a word
about teeth for a long time.”
“Do you remember that last bottle of Burton’s Bitter Tonic I
punished?” he asked with a broad smile. “Well, it’s the greatest stuff
on record. I’m going to pose for a portrait and give ’em a red-hot
personal letter of recommendation to put in the newspaper. ‘It has
cured me—why not others? Eventually—why not now? At all
druggists, the same wonderful, world-beating, little tonic!’”
 BOOK III.
THE LAMP OF KNOWLEDGE

CHAPTER I.
Adjustments.
The next two years passed very quickly for Mauney, with few
perceptible changes. The war was over. Merlton, one day, had gone
crazy with armistice celebration, only to settle down on the next to
its usual life. The university was crowded now with returned soldiers.
It was a familiar scene to behold the great square dotted with
limping students still in uniform. The sight of them brought sharp
emotions to Mauney—mingled sympathy for their sufferings and
regret that he had been denied a share in their adventures in
France. He knew that he, himself, had been peculiarly untouched by
the war. Nevertheless, the stupendous event had made an
impression upon him, the more severe by reason of his own non-
participation in it. A sensitive depth in his nature was perpetually
harrowed by thought of it. Having, by this time, followed the records
of history from their dim beginnings up to the present, he was
confronted, as was every one, by an impassable barrier, which
refused to yield to any philosophic explanation. Perhaps he was too
near the catastrophe, in time, to gain the needed perspective. But
the facts were constantly before him. Something had slipped in the
great, good purpose of God. In the substrata of life a tremendous
fault had occurred, bearing its outward upheavals of death, suffering
and disorder.
 Three years at college had made a great difference in Mauney
Bard. He had passed through the academic terms, like the unnoticed
steps of a great staircase, without noticing that he was, in a sense,
always climbing. He was climbing nearer to something—something
perceived to be intangible, but worthy.
From his humble beginnings on Lantern Marsh farm, where his
perspective was hedged by blind walls of pettiness on every side, he
had emerged into a grateful breadth of vision, where, at his very
feet, lay the treasures of accumulated knowledge and whence, too,
the horizon was attractive with mystery.
He had become a man, at length, with a man’s viewpoint and a
mature sense of a personal participation in the affairs of the world.
Three years of history had brought him to a point of view which
included himself. Every student cannot be so favored by the unseen
mechanism which moulds personality. Many, including the brilliant
Miss Lorna Freeman, failed nothing in gaining an accurate
knowledge of history. She seemed in eagerness for learning to be
like the dry, cracked earth, eager for the rain that never quite fills it;
but with all her great capacity for information she lacked the quality
that had made Mauney older and more serious. The war did not
make any appreciable difference in Lorna. It was a phenomenon,
similar to, if vaster than, other wars, which would, in due course,
afford her fascinating study. But to Mauney it had already loomed up
as a vital obstacle to his philosophy of optimism, for all things
culminated in it. All good that had ever been, met in it a blasting
contradiction. All hope of a satisfactory society met in it a destructive
rebuff; all the quivering aspirations of his own developing mind
found in it a dark abyss, frightful enough to quench them.
So it was that Mauney, at the end of his third year, lost immediate
interest in his academic work and grappled with a problem of reality.
He grew serious and questioning. His auburn hair, which had
darkened until its color was scarcely present, was parted carelessly
above a face somewhat paled by thought, a face whose blue eyes
were intense with sharp mental strife, and whose lips had changed
from their boyish happiness to the determined line of serious
manhood.
His problems had thus changed a good deal from the time when
they concerned merely his personal liberty, for they now concerned
rather the liberty of the human race. He had gradually emerged from
selfish considerations. He had lost touch with his family. Old bonds
no longer held him. The new thing—the cosmic consciousness—
which he owed to the university training, took possession of his
mind. Wonderful gift of the college! That a man, through its agency,
should unconsciously loose himself from all that relates to personal
passion and tune his being to the pitch of the general passion of
mankind!
From Maxwell Lee, constantly bent over his laboratory desks,
constantly delving into the secrets of disease, constantly at work,
heroically striving against handicaps of poverty and ill-health, he
absorbed a great truth of conduct, for he gradually came to
understand that it was the vast desire for human betterment that
inspired this frail, but active, research student. Max loomed bigger
than ever in his esteem. Three or four years had ripened their
friendship, tested it in many ways, and proven it to be solid. Neither
of them cared to leave 73 Franklin Street, partly because Mrs.
Manton and Fred Stalton and the others had become strange
fixtures in their lives, but mainly because they meant more to each
other than either quite realized.
And Freda MacDowell had joined the ranks. Shortly after dropping
out of her arts course she had met Gertrude and adopted 73
Franklin as her boarding house. She had now served two years as
secretary in the Department of History, and was no more favorably
impressed by education than on the evening of her conversation
with Mauney at Professor de Freville’s. Frequently she had a good
deal to say on the subject, although Mauney always tried to avoid
her. She had the big front room opposite Max’s on the first floor, and
there was a tasteful alcove with a desk and chairs in the hallway,
where Max and she always sat to talk.
 Apparently she had at last found her ideal boarding house. Her
taste, cultivated by a half-dozen seasons in Merlton, and moulded by
a gradual elimination of features objectionable or stereotyped, had
become as whimsical as a middle-aged Parisian’s taste in diet. Two
years as an undergraduate of the university had sufficed to draw the
ban upon women’s residences and the mild espionage of fellow
students. Her third year in arts had taught her conclusively that
living with a maternal aunt was laying oneself needlessly open to
constant misinterpretation. There were things she wanted to do—
such as show herself friendly with Max Lee. There were other things
which she did—such as allow Nutbrown Hennigar to call upon her.
Evidently, Mrs. Manton’s house furnished what she wanted—
freedom, comfort, protection from idle scandal. At any rate Mauney
drew as much from her usual conversations.
But he was too busy to be greatly concerned with Freda; and,
moreover, he had long since decided that she belonged to Lee. Max
occasionally denied this, and characterized their relationship as
merely a good friendship, but Mauney heard between his words.
Moreover there was Lorna Freeman, whom he had watched
develop into an attractive womanhood. They were still together
daily. He still took dinner at the professor’s occasionally and followed
dinner with long discussions in the smoky study upstairs. He liked
the Freemans. He liked Lorna. He liked Merlton and his university
life.
But at the end of three years, with only one more year to study,
he began to take synoptic views of the general situation and to cast
into the immediate future for a career.
During his fourth year the problem of a life-work forced itself upon
him.
He told Professor Freeman his troubles as they smoked together.
The historian seemed to appreciate the confidence.
“Well, Mauney,” he said seriously, “The logical thing for you to do
is to find out what you are best fitted for, and take up that work. You
will be graduating next spring. The world is before you. No one but
yourself can decide the question.”
Hours when Mauney might have been cogitating on the subject,
were usually spent in delightful loneliness in his room, writing down
his thoughts on history in his ledger, which had now grown to be a
considerable volume of literature. He took it out of its long privacy
one evening to show to Lorna. He read her snatches of things he
had written, consciously opening the somewhat sacred recesses of
his being to her. When he asked her for an opinion she had little to
say.
“Oh, it’s pretty stuff!” she admitted coolly—“a sort of effervescence
from a student’s mind!”
She was right. He mentally applauded her judgment. Surely, after
all, it was nothing else. All the nights he had spent on it! All the
impassioned moments he had worked to express his personal ideas
of history! Nothing but a sort of effervescence! Surely, she was right.
Cold, frank, truthful Lorna! How his admiration was wrung from him
by her bald statement! He had wanted her to like it tremendously
and praise it and acclaim it as worthy writing. But now he felt like
thanking her for categorizing it with accurate appraisal. How
accurate she was! “Effervescence!” When he returned home he
threw the ledger down on his desk.
“Damn this effervescence!” he cursed with ruffled feelings. “Damn
my student’s mind! If this isn’t real then I’m not real.”
Of course, the situation in the class, with only two of them, always
the same two, was provocative of a strain between them. He never
felt that they had discovered the very thing that she had
recommended in the stilted language of her first year—a modus
vivendi.
She consistently defeated him at the examinations, although he
was quite indifferent to the fact. He noticed a peculiar jealousy in
her that came to the surface at odd moments, when their respective
intelligences were compared by the challenge of academic demands.
He knew that, often enough, he could have answered a tutor’s
question first, but that he refrained in order to give her the
advantage of priority.
She had become a beautiful woman, a blonde goddess of severely
classical line and color. When he looked at her he favored her
intelligence, and continued to accord her priority. But he felt that she
was overshadowing and hindering him, and that a modus vivendi
could be discovered only by some spiritual change in their
relationship.
One solution seemed to be a personal declaration of
independence. She deserved, no doubt, to be regarded as an
academic rival, and thus treated; for, if ever an opportunity came for
her to defeat him by a clever word or argument she never held back.
If now, he were to retaliate, forgetting her sex, and try earnestly to
beat her at her own game of wit, he would be truer to himself, and
would create a more natural relationship in the class.
But, on the other hand, a different solution cropped up. If, by any
means, he could spiritually overshadow her, break down her being
into dependence upon his own; if, in short, he could but touch her
affections, he would thus create harmony in the class, as well as
accomplish a desirable feat. He knew well enough that he had ached
to touch her hidden heart. He had sat, for nearly four years, looking
at her, admiring her body as well as her mind, but had never been
able once to tell her in words, or in any other way, just how he felt
about her.
This problem added itself to the several others that confronted
him. He accused himself over and over of continued weakness. He
must do something about Lorna Freeman. That was the great
certitude before him. She could not be ignored. It was incumbent
upon him either to dislike her or love her. Which would it be? She
was like a bulky obstacle in his path, that could not be moved. His
progress depended on shoving her aside or else winning her.
Naturally he embraced the second method, as a trial.
 He hired a car one autumn evening and took her driving out past
Riverton into the country. The air was crisp and the west aglow with
luminous green.
“You seem frightfully serious, Mauney,” she remarked.
“So I am,” he admitted. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
She glanced from under her black hat and smiled a little
impatiently.
“When one goes for a motor-drive one doesn’t usually like to be
so oppressively serious, does one? Have I the right to enquire as to
what is making you so much absorbed in your thoughts?”
He nodded as he turned toward her.
“Yes,” he said forcibly. “You’ve got a peach of a right to ask. I’m
serious about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I’ve tried for four years to get something said, and you’ve
always been so preoccupied with an overweening interest in the
surrounding world, that I’ve never managed to say anything. Even
now I haven’t got five cents’ worth of assurance. I don’t altogether
blame myself, either. I’m not an especially timid or fearful creature. I
usually say what I want to say and let the devil take the
consequences. And that, Lorna, is what I’m going to do right now.”
She was surprised. Her blue eyes widened. Her perfect, if severe,
lips opened to reply, but he was leaning toward her, ready to
interrupt.
“Why have I always been so meekly worshipful?” he demanded.
“Why have I always let you have your way? Is it just because you
are a woman? If so—if you are a woman—why don’t you sometimes
treat me as if you were?”
Her face was a picture of utter astonishment.
“Mauney Bard!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you ask me one
question at a time? You seem dreadfully upset about something,
don’t you?”
“Yes,” he admitted, as he leaned closer to her. “I am. I’m upset
over you.”
She was strikingly good-looking at the moment. Her customary
classical paleness was gone. A warmth of color, provoked by some
sudden emotion, had usurped its place. She was surprised by his
words and her eyes frankly looked her confusion.
“Lorna,” he said, putting his arm about her shoulders. “I had to
bring you here, away from everything. I—”
“Don’t!” she implored, drawing quickly back. “I—I can’t!”
Then she made a queer, gurgling sound in her throat, tried to
speak, and ended by weeping with her face held between her hands.
As the car sped on Mauney sat regarding her in absolute
mystification.
“Why on earth does the girl weep?” he meditated. “What have I
done to her? Is my proffer of love an insult?”
It was a hoax of a drive. It became unbearable. After a long
silence he ventured to change the subject entirely, and found her
presently quite agreeable to talk about other matters. He was glad
when he at last put her down at her home and said good-night.
Then, returning to the car, he drove to the Medical Building, where
the windows of Lee’s laboratory were brilliantly lighted. After paying
the driver he stood for a few moments on the walk trying to collect
his self-control. He wanted to see Max, but knew that unless he
paused he would stamp into the laboratory like a madman. He owed
Lee some deference on account of the latter’s important work. It
was ten minutes before he opened the great front door of the
building and ascended the iron staircase to the first floor. He rapped
on the laboratory door.
“Who’s there?” came Lee’s voice, in an unnatural tone.
“Mauney.”
 “All right.”
In a moment Max unlocked the door and stepped back. He had a
bottle of whiskey in his hand with a corkscrew stuck into the cork.
Without noticing Mauney’s surprised expression, he turned to walk to
a table where he continued his occupation of trying to draw the
cork. His lean body was clothed in his long, white, laboratory gown,
and his black hair hung in confusion over his pale face. He evidently
forgot that something in the present scene was bound to be
dramatically new to Mauney. Without explanation he drawled, in his
gentle voice:
“This whiskey, Mauney, is neither Olympian nectar nor fixed
bayonets. I’ve frequently sipped better spirits, and I’ve occasionally
tasted worse. Like you and me, my son, it was made before the war.
Fortunately it lacks the throaty sting of recent distillation, but, on the
other hand, it can hardly be said to possess the superb smoothness,
the velvety, liqueur-like softness of real old spirits, such as I, and
such as you, no doubt, have, at sundry times and in divers places,
imbibed. I use the word ‘imbibed’ advisedly, and with nice selection
from the swarm of verbs meaning to drink, such as sip, taste,
sample, swallow, tipple, to say nothing of swig, and to leave out of
consideration entirely such inelegant terms as snort, or even gargle.”
Mauney was leaning against the desk watching him curiously and
smiling at his mood. He wondered especially why Max was drinking.
“Do you want any help?” he asked, seeing that Lee still struggled
with the cork.
“No, I scorn your assistance,” he laughed. “There we are! Pop! It
had a nice pop, hadn’t it? And here’s your glass. I suppose you’re
drinking?”
“Why, Max, old fellow! I’ll drink with you, yes. I’m in a good mood
for murder or anything, to-night.”
Lee held up a beaker full of whiskey.
 “Murder—eh? If that’s how you feel put that glass back on the
desk. Don’t touch it. You’re not in a fit mood for drinking, my son. In
order to drink one should be bathed in delightful reminiscences; one
should feel at peace with the spacious present and most hopeful for
the future.”
“And yet,” Mauney said, looking into his friend’s dark eyes, “I don’t
seem to think you’re in that delightful mood either. What’s wrong?”
Lee laughed rather unrestrainedly. After quaffing off the beaker of
liquor he filled the receptacle with water from a tap, drank it,
smacked his lips, and then, putting down the beaker on the desk, lit
a cigarette.
“I’m not really drunk, Mauney,” he replied more soberly. “I’m
taking this stuff for stimulation. My health is not the best,
unfortunately. Keep it dark; but I was up to pay a visit to Dr.
Adamson this afternoon. Well, he went over my chest, and I guess I
know why they turned me down for the army. I’ve got T.B. all right,
so he thinks. Don’t be alarmed—”
“But you shouldn’t be working,” interrupted Mauney, in great
astonishment over the news.
“So Adamson tried to tell me. But it’s the fibrotic type—just a sort
of shrivelling of one lung. Not a bit contagious, you know. Of course
it weakens me, sure enough. And I do think it’s a damned great
misfortune, my son. Here I have my work pretty near in hand”—he
made a gesture toward the apparatus that littered the desks—“and
another year’s work would probably give me the secret I’m after. I’m
on the track, Mauney; I’m on the track.”
“Good.”
A tremendous pity for Lee possessed him, a pity that one man
could never express to another. He thought of the quiet, gradual
process of disease that had gone on in Max’s body, steadily sapping
his strength. Why should fate have ordained this brilliant student to
bear a disease that might have been visited more reasonably upon
one who could never mean so much to the cause of science?
 “Now, what I intend doing is to work on until I finish this bit of
research work,” Max informed him. “If I discover the cause of
pernicious anæmia I’ll be fairly happy, as you can imagine. If I don’t
—well, I’ll have another whack at it after I rest up and get back in
shape. I’m going to work right now. There’s a chair and some
cigarettes, Mauney. Sit down and stay a while anyway.” He turned
presently from his laboratory apparatus. “But you didn’t explain your
murderous mood. What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing worth talking about,” Mauney replied, simply.
Whether it was worth talking about or not, the next few days
seemed to prove that it was worth thinking about. He found himself
in the same unsatisfactory relation to Lorna as ever. He called one
evening and asked her if she would like to stroll with him on their
back lawn.
“Oh yes,” she consented, “although it does sound childish, doesn’t
it?”
It was far from childish to Mauney. He looked down upon her pale,
exquisite face, as they sat on a bench in the faded twilight and knew
that something had to be done about her. He was determined not to
let another day pass without settling once and for all the relationship
that was to exist between them. Here beside him on the bench was
the one woman who had managed to cast a constant spell of
attraction over him. For three years she had occupied a good deal of
his thoughts. During this time he had become tolerably well
acquainted with himself and longed now to become acquainted with
the woman who had always held him so coolly at arm’s length. He
was particularly curious to know what explanation existed for her
conduct a few nights previously in the motor car. Why had she
resisted his embrace?
“Lorna,” he said, at length, “I want to ask you a question. It may
not mean much to you, but it means a lot to me.”
“Well, Mauney,” she said, with just a fleck of impatience in her
voice. “I’ve been dreading this conversation. I know what you want
to ask me and I’m not at all certain that I can explain. And yet I
can’t very easily deny you the right to ask.”
“I don’t see how you could in fairness, Lorna. I merely want to
know why you repelled me the other night, when I tried to kiss you.
Tell me if there was any other motive than just plain lack of affection
for me. Was that it?”
He was leaning toward her for her reply, and his arm which lay
across the back of the seat, touched her shoulders lightly. She did
not move from the caress.
“Look here, Mauney,” she said, in such a clear, unhampered tone
that he almost started. “I think I can explain. I’ve always liked you a
lot. You’ve always been a perfect gentleman to me. I’ve always
admired your courtesy at all times. And I’ve always liked your ideas.
I think I could have gone on for ever, dreaming life with you if—if—”
“If what, Lorna?”
“If you hadn’t spoiled—I mean, when you tried to take me in your
arms, that was a totally unknown idea. Not so much that, perhaps,
but it was beyond me entirely. I felt that it symbolized something
big, yet something so vastly new and foreign to my mind that I was
frightened.”
“Frightened?”
“That’s it, exactly,” she nodded. “I was frightened at having a new
vista of life opened up suddenly, that way—unawares, taken off
guard, if you can understand. I wasn’t ready for it. You see, my mind
is, in many ways, inexperienced. I don’t know men at all. You’ve had
more emotional experience than I have. I didn’t mean to be cruel. In
fact, that’s why I cried, because I was afraid I had hurt your
feelings.”
A street lamp on Crandall Street now blossomed into light and
sent a long, glancing shaft against her face. Mauney quivered with
attraction.
“Are you actually afraid of me, Lorna?” he asked.
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