Journey to the Isles of Atlantis and Other Fanciful Excursions

by Brian Stableford

  “I thought,” he said to Blas, “that our French language was no longer spoken.”

  “It’s no longer in current usage, that’s true, but we have to know it in order to read the texts of the masterpieces of classic literature. Since that appears to be agreeable to you, you have only to come here every evening. As you can see, this room is devoted to declamation, reading and diction. It’s one of the most popular.”

  Numerous rooms still remained to be visited, but Blas contented himself with showing his friend the room reserved for lovers of painting.

  Marcel perceived that the material methods of pictorial art had been completely renewed. The majority of artists were painting with colors mixed with molten wax, and there was an electric heater above their palette.

  “That method,” sad Blas, “is renewed from the remotest antiquity. The frescoes of Pompeii and Herculaneum were executed in this fashion, for the most part. It’s more solid than painting with oils, which can sometimes be blackened and deteriorate in less than a century.

  In that room there were also young men painting on porcelain with the aid of fine powders of metallic oxides. In front of each of them was a sort of electric stove. When the painting was complete it was sufficient to turn a switch and the colors were vitrified in an even and perfect fashion.

  “All this interests me enormously,” said Marcel, “but I confess that I’m a little tired. I’ve seen so many previously unsuspected marvels today, and learned so many things that I didn’t know, that my ideas are beginning to become confused in my head.”

  “A few hours of sleep will put you right,” replied Blas. “I’ll accompany you back to your room. Tomorrow morning, at the usual time of awakening, I’ll come to find you.”

  Once he was alone in the luxurious room where he had woken up that morning, Marcel felt a sadness invade him. He thought about his parents, whom he might never see again, and who had doubtless wept over his disappearance. He reproached himself bitterly for not having followed their advice and avoided more carefully causing them chagrin when he was with them.

  He went to bed with a heavy heart, but he was so fatigued that he had scarcely introduced himself into the silky glass fiber blankets that his head tilted and his eyes closed…and he fell asleep.

  X. Paris in the Thirtieth Century

  As on the previous day, Marcel was extracted from the slumber into which he was plunged by the sounds of a seductive and mysterious music. He woke up smiling.

  This time he did not experience any astonishment. He felt that he would have no difficulty getting used to the new existence that had been made for him. There was, however, a shadow over his satisfaction, for he wondered with anxiety whether he would ever see his parents again, and the world of the twentieth century, so imperfect and so barbaric, but to which his heart was still connected by so many bonds.

  But what could he do about it? It was impossible for him to return to the past.

  Marcel thought that the best thing for him to do was to resign himself; and he hoped that he might perhaps be able, once again, to traverse the ocean of elapsed ages in the same inexplicable fashion that he had crossed it the first time.

  He leapt out of bed, therefore, put on his glass fiber chlamys, and set about his electrical ablutions.

  He had only just finished when Blas came in, greeting him with a cordial bonjour.

  “Well,” he asked, “did you have a good night? Are your muscles and your brain suitably rested?”

  “I feel admirably well, thank you, and I’m ready to accompany you wherever you care to take me.

  “The essential thing for you, I think, before studying anything else, is to familiarize yourself with the way in which the mechanism of instruction functions. In consequence, we’ll go this morning to visit one of the most celebrated professors of anthropology. Afterwards, I’ll take you to the palace where all the professors’ lessons and courses are automatically centralized, in order to be distributed thereafter throughout the world.”

  “What mans of locomotion will we employ?”

  “We can simply go on foot, if you wish. I think, in any case, you’ll derive a good deal of pleasure from seeing what has become, over the centuries, of the old Parisian city, which your memories must retrace for you as a disorderly accumulation of buildings and factories. You’ll see that we’ve improved the landscape greatly.”

  Blas and Marcel set forth. At one of the extremities of the oval formed by the circular gallery, they went through a large sandstone portico, which had no gate and no concierge to forbid access, and found themselves in the grounds of the school.

  In front of them was a large avenue bordered by flowering tulip-trees and eucalypti. Marcel uttered an exclamation of amazement on seeing profiled, at the end of the avenue in question, the Gothic towers of Notre Dame.

  He saluted the old cathedral with as much pleasure and emotion as he would have done for a childhood friend encountered in a foreign country.

  “Everything hasn’t disappeared from the world forever!” he exclaimed. Instinctively, he tried to get his bearings. He looked round. Apart from the basilica, however, he did not recognize anything.

  “At which point in old Paris is your school constructed, then?” he asked.

  “It covers almost entirely a hill that as once called the Butte Montmartre. The tower that serves as an aerial station for our aeroscaphs is built on the site of the church of Sacré-Coeur. We’ll follow this avenue, which will take us, via a very gentle slope, all the way to the Seine, to the foot of the cathedral, the sight of which produced such an impression on you.”

  “And that’s all that remains of Paris?” asked Marcel, who felt sadness invading him.

  “No,” replied Blas. “Not far from here, a large arch ornamented with sculptures subsists, which our historians say was constructed by a celebrated general of the nineteenth century, a certain Napoléon. I believe, if I’m not mistaken, that that was the name of the conqueror in question.”

  Marcel remained silent. Too many thoughts were overwhelming him.

  He felt the vertigo of the centuries invading him.

  Without saying a word, he continued to follow the avenue that led to Notre Dame, in company with Blas.

  At intervals, large roundabouts ornamented with spurting fountains and statues in marble, stucco or glass paste broke the uniformity of the perspective.

  To the right and the left they perceived edifices of sandstone and porcelain protruding from the midst of the foliage, which scarcely differed from those of the school in greater elegance and sumptuousness. Finally, they arrived opposite the cathedral. Marcel perceived that the sculptures were admirably conserved and were shining in the sunlight as if they were varnished.

  “Don’t be astonished,” said Blas, “if these ornaments, sculpted in a very soft and friable stone, are in such a perfect state of conservation. It has already been hundreds of years that the precaution has been taken of coating the whole exterior of that historic monument with a thin layer of molten glass, which sheltered it permanently from destruction. It’s a method of conservation currently employed in our museums.

  Another fact that astonished Marcel greatly was the beauty and limpidity of the waters of the Seine. The muddy, black and fetid river that he had known was now crystal clear.

  Between the monumental quays, decorated with burnished gold lamp-posts, the bed of the river, paved with brightly-colored ceramics, could be discerned clearly, and the bridges, each with a single arch, were incomparably bold and elegant.

  Marcel and Blas followed the course of the Seine for a while. Here and there they encountered passers-by who responded to their salute with cordial politeness.

  “How is it,” Marcel asked, “that we haven’t yet encountered any poorly-dressed surly or deformed individuals?”

  At that question, Blas manifested a certain astonishment. “You still believe, then, that in any human society there must be poor people, cripples and malcontents? You won’t see anyone h
unchbacked or lame here, because those disgraced by nature no longer exist in our midst. The progress of hygiene and medicine suppressed those infirmities a long time ago, which were easy to cure.”

  “Very good. But what about the malcontents and the poor?”

  “Those people are no longer here for the same reason as the infirm. No one can be discontented with his lot, since everyone does what he wishes within the measure of his faculties, and he has the same rights and the same duties as his fellows. Fortunately, natural forces, aided by the labor of machines, produce enough to satisfy all needs. Our thirtieth-century society could become ten times as numerous without poverty, or even the need to economize, being felt among us.”

  Marcel and Blas, turning their backs to the river, had continued their route in the direction of the place where the Canal Saint-Martin is today.

  “It seems to me,” said Marcel,” “That we haven’t followed a direct route, that we’ve made several detours...”

  “I perceived your emotion at the sight of the church of Notre-Dame; I didn’t want to deprive you of the pleasure of contemplating it at close range. In any case, there’s no need to hurry. A walk in the shade of these large trees, through parks dotted with flowers and enclosing beautiful buildings, is a veritable enchantment.”

  They had been walking for about an hour when Marcel uttered an exclamation of surprise. Between the trees, a large expanse of blue water had just appeared. Small boats of a shiny metal were bobbing, moored to the porphyry quays by silver chains.

  “I confess,” said Marcel, “that I’m utterly bewildered. What is this lake, or this sea? I would never have suspected that such major changes could have been produced in the geographical constitution of France.”

  “This change owes nothing to the action of geological forces; it’s the work of human labor. It’s the former Paris seaport. It was hollowed out seven or eight centuries ago. As long as the struggles of industrial competition lasted, it made the city the world’s foremost commercial center. Now that we produce almost all the substances necessary to life locally, by chemical means, and indispensable transportation is operated by means of aeroscaphs, we have only conserved this vast basin and the channel that aliments it, because of their utility from the viewpoint of hygiene and esthetics. Those boats that you see are yachts, in which a few lovers of nautical sports devote themselves to the art, as old as the world, of guiding vessels in spite of wayward winds and furious waves.”

  “One more question,” said Marcel, having ceased to reflect a great deal by virtue of what he had just seen. “What system of sanitation do you use? You’ve doubtless renounced the employment of sewers?”

  “It’s more than five hundred years since electric furnaces were introduced everywhere to burn detritus; you can visit, if you wish, the superb subterranean canal that once carried the water of the sewers from Paris to the sea, fertilizing the entire countryside on the way. The progress of hygiene and agriculture have renounced that. Now, it only serves to lodge electrical machinery.”

  Blas and Marcel went into a large garden, at the center of which rose two or three porcelain towers ornamented by balconies with colonnettes and topped with silver domes.

  “This is the home of Monsieur Talab, the celebrated professor of anthropology,” said Blas. “I’ll see whether we’re not disturbing him too much, and if he’s able to receive us...”

  Blas went into the vestibule and approached a telephonic plate, which a sandstone statue presented with a smile.

  “Dear and venerated master,” he said, “The young stranger from the twentieth century who has arrived among us, of whose advent Monsieur Futural has notified you, would like to be introduced to you. May we be received in your study?”

  The response was immediate; a voice full of affability, which seemed to emerge from the mouth of the stature, articulated clearly: “You can come up; you aren’t disturbing me at all.”

  Marcel and Blas went over the footbridge of the elevator, which deposited them on a square landing ornamented with alabaster vases full of flowers. They moved aside a curtain and found themselves in a spacious room surrounded by glass panels.

  Monsieur Talab was a tall man with a face surrounded by a black beard sculpted in the Assyrian mode. He welcomed his visitors with a heartiness that was not exempt from a certain curiosity in Marcel’s regard.

  “I see,” he said, “that you’ve already adopted our costume and our usages. I greatly regret not having seen you dressed as you were three days ago. But at least, thanks to you, I shall be able to clarify a few archeological problems that have been embarrassing me somewhat. First of all, why, in your time, did people have the habit of coating the undergarments that you called shirts with a broth of starch that, in drying out under the action of fire, caused them to become stiff and scratchy, and must certainly have transformed them into veritable instruments of torture? I have here the starched collar of an elegant man of the twentieth century, and I wonder how anyone could support such a harness for long. That custom must have a utility, some reason for being?”

  “In truth, Monsieur,” replied Marcel, blushing slightly, “I confess that in wearing starched shirts, we never had a practical objective in mind. It was the fashion; people thought it looked good, that’s all.”

  “A strange aberration!” muttered the professor. “Those sharp collars must have sawn the neck and ears of those who wore them. But I thank you for your explanation. I had always thought that starched cloth possessed special properties, medical or otherwise. I’m glad to be undeceived.”

  He indicated a glass panel to Marcel. “Look, here’s one of your contemporaries, whose complete harness we’ve been able to reconstitute exactly, He’s even coiffed in a cylindrical hat ornamented with fur, which I believe was called a ‘top hat’ in that epoch.”

  Marcel turned round and saw, with stupor, a wax mannequin with glass eyes facing him, clad in a black evening suit almost exactly similar to those that men’s clothiers exhibit in their shop windows. The archeologist had not omitted any detail. The hands were gloved, the moustaches turned up and curled with tongs; there was even a diamond stud glinting in the fissure of the waistcoat.

  Marcel felt slightly humiliated in seeing that the wax individual excited the professor’s zestful jeers. “Truly,” said the latter, “I don’t know how men were once able to deck themselves out in a livery so morose and so ridiculous. I’m not surprised that your epoch was an industrial one; one might think it the stump of a smoke-blackened factory chimney.”

  The professor asked Marcel a host of other questions. In order not to forget anything he heard, he placed an audiophonic recorder next to the young man. All his responses were faithfully inscribed on the plaque of the apparatus.

  “Messieurs,” the professor said finally, “in spite of the interest of your conversation, I’m obliged to take my leave of you. The hour for my lecture has arrived.”

  Blas and Marcel bowed respectfully and got ready to withdraw, while the professor, without paying any further heed to them, installed himself at his work table placing a large vibrant plaque. In a clear and crisp voice, he began his lecture.

  “I explained to you in a previous lesson, Messieurs, that one of the causes that held back the progress of the human family for a long time was the great importance attached to an unoxidizable metal, nowadays very common, which is none other than gold.

  “In ancient societies, the man who, by whatever means, succeeded in taking possession of a certain quantity of it found himself dispensed, by virtue of that fact, from any work and any initiative.

  “Gold was the pretext for countless crimes and wars. By producing gold at a minimal price, chemistry changed the face of things...”

  Marcel and Blas left on tiptoe.

  When the elevator had deposited them in the professor’s vestibule, Blas said to Marcel; “As you’ve just seen, nowadays, a professor gives his lectures at a long distance from his audience. That doesn’t offer any inconvenience, be
cause of the improved means that we have of transmitting the human voice. Monsieur Talab has pupils who live thousands of leagues from here; they’ve no less attentive and punctual for that.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  “Every professor, like the one we’ve just quit, pronounces his lectures in front of the plaque of a powerful transmitting apparatus. All his lectures are collected at the Central Palace of Studies, from which they are then retransmitted all over the world, in such a way that at the same time, countless students scattered all over the face of the globe can receive the same lessons, as clearly as if they were only a few feet away from the professor.”

  “If possible,” said Marcel, “I’d like to visit that Central Palace of Studies.”

  “Nothing is easier. We’ll go there now.”

  Soon, the two friends penetrated into a vast agglomeration of buildings composed of numerous exceedingly high towers. The summits of those towers were reserved for wireless telephony apparatus, and put the Central Palace in communication with all the schools in the world. The interior offered a series of halls filed with receivers and transmitters, supervised by two or three men clad, like the inhabitants of Artika or Mastif in insulating gutta-percha garments.

  Blas and Marcel only visited a one or two rooms.

  “There’s no need for us to see the others,” said Blas. “They’re all disposed in the same fashion. Instead, if you like, we’ll hurry back to the school, and in order to get there more rapidly we’ll make use of a mode of locomotion that is certainly unknown to you, for you’re from the epoch of the Métropolitain.”

  “What is that mode of locomotion?”

  “The pneumatic carriage.”

  An elevator took the two young men down to a subterranean hall, where a large number of cylindrical tunnels ended, and which was filled with a perpetual whistling sound.

  Soon, that whistle intensified, and he faded...and a sort of projectile appeared, without the slightest sound, at the extremity of one of the tunnels.

  “Here’s the carriage,” said Blas. He hastened to open a door accommodated in the wall of the projectile, and they both went into it.