The Mysterious Force

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  “Your absence has been quite unpleasant for us!” Langre exclaimed, when Georges went into the laboratory.

  “Much less so than for me!” the young man retorted. “You were all missing me at the same time. I was subject to an impression of the whole; you only had to tolerate an impression of a detail. Then again, I was making an enormous effort, while you remained relatively passive.”

  They lapsed into a profound reverie; then Gérard said, excitedly: “I know exactly where you went, and where you paused.”

  “I know everything that you’ve done in my absence.”

  “If I were not prey to the most absurd optimism, I’d be gripped by horror—for everything is happening as if we had become a kind of single entity.”

  “Is that so frightening?” Meyral whispered.

  “It’s terrible. It has only to continue for us to share the same personality as our gardener, our dog, our donkey, and the birds in the farmyard…”

  “The same personality, yes!” Meyral agreed. “It’s certain that we’re linked to one another in a strangely organic manner. Is some kind of energy gradually tightening the slack bond that attaches individuals in normal times? If so, it’s a simple phenomenon of interaction. Or are there living connections forming between us…or, rather, have we been caught in…?”

  He interrupted himself and looked at Langre, whose optimism was being pierced in the same way that he had been affected while the doctor had been examining the children.

  “Yes,” Langre concluded, “We’ve been caught in an immense trap. We’ve been captured by another form of life!”

  III. The Carnivorous Crisis

  The patches increased in number and became more precise; the link uniting the group tightened—and the disease, if it was one, proved to be universal; all human beings and all animals were affected.

  Everywhere, individuals were forming little agglomerations, united by a strange force. Every day, it became more difficult for individuals to draw away from their nucleus, beyond a certain distance. That distance varied according to the size of the agglomeration and local conditions. In France, it attained its minimum on the Côte d’Azur, in Paris and the vicinity of Lyon; individuals felt ill as soon as they were more than three or four meters way from their family members. Beyond that the suffering commenced, aggravated by increasing fatigue. In other regions, the limit extended as far as 700 meters—in rare cases, to 800 or 900. Germany, the western United States, southern England and northern Italy were characterized by the narrowness of the “area of circulation,” to use Professor MacCarthy’s expression.

  As the phenomenon progressed, the social and individual perturbations multiplied. Individual journeys became impossible. All displacements of any significance required the displacement of the entire group, or exposed it to catastrophes. Until the beginning of August, separations only caused distress; afterwards, they began to be fatal. Energetic, headstrong or imprudent individuals perished in large numbers. The “mortal zone” began at a distance of between 7 and 20 kilometers, according to the region.

  The group shared, in part, in the distress of the absentee, but none of its members perished. Any dispersal of the group was, of course, a source of malaise and pain, in proportion to the distances involved; so long as the whole remained within the area of circulation, sensations were produced that were more of less keen, but not painful.

  Gradually, social life underwent a metamorphosis. The units of a group were no longer able to work at any distance from one another; the staff of workshops, factories and banks was reduced; production slowed down and often stopped. Fortunately, the abundance of harvests and the somber ravages of the catastrophe largely compensated for these failures. Excursions by automobile became virtually impracticable; they required the driver and each passenger to bring the human and animal members of their agglomeration with them. People made ingenious attempts to form groups of vehicles, and imagined problematic combinations. The railway still offered some recourse, but it became increasingly difficult to obtain “convergent series” of mechanics, drivers, stokers, inspectors, crewmen and passengers.

  All civilized people became vegetarians, or almost, the death of domestic animals and some wild animals compromising the health and security of groups. Touching, bizarre and absurd relationships were seen to be established between creatures. Nothing was more singular than the processions of rich people and poor people, dogs, cats, birds and horses circulating in the cities, or gangs of peasants escorted by their livestock, followed by crows, magpies, jays, chaffinches, bullfinches, goldfinches, robins, swallows, hares, field-mice and hedgehogs, and sometimes roe deer or wild boar.

  In sum, circulation became almost as restricted as at the beginning of the planetary catastrophe, and the difficulties that were encountered on terra firma were reproduced at sea. Nevertheless, the contingencies of navigation had created original liaisons. On some ships, especially long haul vessels, associations were formed between sailors that attached them to their ships as land-dwellers were to their houses. On the other hand, the excessive mobility of their life permitted such mariners to escape the bonds that bound most men tightly together. These privileges, shared by some continental nomads, permitted water transport greater activity, by comparison with other modes of transport. Even so, ships that were immobilized in port were ten times as numerous as the others.

  In compensation, other means of communication—ordinary telegraphy, wireless telegraphy and telephones—remained, if not normal, at least sufficient. The lack of personnel was balanced by more restricted needs: tradesmen, bankers and manufacturers inevitably sent few messages.

  Until the end of August, the disorder was tolerable. The only people who suffered were those who persisted in leaving the areas of circulation; the only ones who died were those who exceeded the extreme limits assigned to their group. To the others, existence seemed pleasant and singularly intimate. Unknown joys balanced out the inconveniences. Egoism was partially replaced by a restricted but real altruism; everyone participated directly in the life of the group; there was an agreeable exchange of impressions and energies, if not thoughts.

  No one savored these new sensations more than Georges Meyral. He spent entire hours observing himself, researching by introspection the sensation of the lives of others. He experienced the strange aerial emotions that came from birds linked to the community; the enigmatic dreams through which something of the obscure souls of the dog and the donkey passed; subtle meditations in which he discovered within himself the reflections of Langre’s intellect, Sabine’s candor and the youthful impetuosity of the children.

  The charm of these emotions was that they embodied simultaneously a sense of collective life and that of intimate life. The latter was not at all compromised. Quite the contrary; it seemed more intense—with the result that there was no diminution, but a net gain.

  Even so, hypocritical individuals underwent certain trials, for, if thoughts remained totally indecipherable, actions had their reverberations through the whole group, and powerful sentiments could not be concealed. That inconvenience was compensated by an increasing solidarity, which expelled hatred, anger and jealousy.

  There was also a certain “proportionality” in the communication. A perception exclusive to two individuals remained rather obscure to the others. Meyral’s love for Sabine was only clearly evident to the young woman; although Langre was not unaware of it, and approved of it, he received no very precise or continuous revelation of it. Sabine, however, perceived it with a troubling acuity; often, when she was daydreaming in the garden or meditating in her room, a blush rose to her temples. There were moments when Georges experienced those rushes that are the storms of the soul.

  Sabine defended herself. After so much dolor and humiliation, she retained a terrible mistrust. Love had scarcely ever appeared to her in its charming forms. She saw it as a raw power, a tragic servitude, the intimate cruelty of nature. Without telling Meyral about the odious memory she retained of her ma
rriage, she set love aside from individual good and evil, discerning therein, quite differently from Phaedra, an all-consuming and toxic force. The very candor of her sentiments, combined with a richness of imagination that she inherited from Langre, maintained her in her horror. Less fearful, she might have had a clearer sight of the various combinations of passion.

  Georges received the echoing impact of these mental debates. He could not grasp the detail, but what he could grasp filled him with dread. In addition, he drew therefrom a kind of melancholy security; at least he had no need to fear any rival. While Sabine’s pessimism lasted, she would not leave her father, and he, Meyral, would be her best friend. He was at the stage in which one believes in negative happiness—in the happiness of presence, in the words of one orator.

  At length, he began to feel some pain, which increased and troubled his waking hours. He hated being feared, when he knew that he was tenderly enslaved; anguish interrupted his dream, while he felt the urgency of the young woman’s apprehension.

  One evening, they were walking in the garden in the coppery light of dusk. Gérard was following a path under the linden-trees; the children were playing by the fountain; Sabine and Meyral found themselves alone, in a bed of hollyhocks, sunflowers, irises and gladioli. Because her companion had a heart overflowing with tenderness, she was anxious. The pulsations of that anxiety penetrated into Meyral and gave him an intermittent petty fever. He ended up saying: “Be happy, I beg you! These hours are perhaps the most beautiful that your youth will experience, and you’re the one who should enjoy them most. You’re free, Sabine.”

  She blushed slightly, and replied: “Am I, really?”

  He turned to her and fell under the spell of her eyes, bathed in the light of the setting Sun, the sparkling curls of her hair and the fearful smile on her scarlet lips.

  “You are,” he affirmed, forcefully. “You must believe me. No constraint will be imposed upon you, save from outside. Don’t you feel that, Sabine?”

  “I sense your honesty and your gentleness,” she said, in a low voice. “No one is as truthful, no one inspires more confidence in me. It’s the circumstances and my own soul that frighten me!” She lowered her charming head. “I’m weak!” she continued, in a sort of lament. “And I’ve been so unhappy.”

  “I will never speak to you about my love. You shall know that it exists, and that’s all. I shan’t break the silence until the day when you give me tacit permission.”

  “How will you know?”

  “I’ll know, Sabine. I’ve come to know you, in certain respects, better than you know yourself.”

  She offered him her little trembling hand, just as Gérard came back toward the house. “Have you read the papers?” the scientist asked. He was holding Excelsior, which he was brandishing nervously.

  “Not yet,” Meyral replied.

  “Well, read this.” He showed him the headline of an article on the first page. It read: STRANGE NEWS FROM WESTPHALIA—THE CARNIVOROUS CRISIS.

  Singular and alarming news has reached us from Westphalia, where—as our readers know—groupism is more pronounced than in any other part of Europe.

  For several days, a carnivorous crisis has been rife in the region, particularly to the east of Dortmund. The inhabitants are prey to a hunger for meat that is becoming more violent by the hour, and manifests itself in some individuals with murderous fury. The affected groups steal livestock or hunt game—which has been virtually annihilated—savagely. In some districts there is veritable war; people are killing one another. It is estimated that several hundred people have perished as a result of fratricidal conflicts. The news is confused, for it is dangerous and almost impossible to send groups of reporters, but there can be no doubt about the gravity of the events…

  “The sinister era is resuming,” said the old man. “We shall pay for these two months of quietude. Oh, I knew full well that the planetary adventure was not over!” He was pawing the ground like an impatient horse; pessimism was entering his soul again, and contracting his features. “Haven’t you observed,” he went on, “that our happiness is fraying? Undoubtedly, there’s a strange sensuality in the air that we breathe, and in the effluvia of plants, but that sensuality is attenuating as the days go by.”

  It was undeniable. Although, thanks to the fatality of his nature and his age, he perceived it more clearly than the others, Sabine and Meyral nevertheless had a clear impression of it.

  “The disease is approaching swiftly,” Langre continued. “The disease that has gripped the inhabitants of Westphalia will spread throughout Europe and all over the world. A monstrous war is imminent—which might perhaps spare no one! Take note that the disease is particularly intense in Paris and the vicinity of Lyon; we’re caught between two fires. Wouldn’t it be better to flee to the south or the north?”

  “How can we foresee the future?” said Sabine. “Here, at least, we have our refuge.”

  “You’re right,” her father went on, plaintively. “Immense hazard surrounds us. The consequences of our actions evade all calculation. Nevertheless, it’s necessary to think about defending ourselves.”

  “Who can tell whether the events in Westphalia will have a sequel?” Georges put in.

  “How can you pronounce such words?” replied Langre, angrily. “Have we ever seen, since the advent of the catastrophe, a single phenomenon that has not followed its course?”

  Meyral made no reply. He would have liked to reassure Sabine, but, even more than the old man, he could only hope that the event would be without consequence.

  “We must think about defending ourselves!” Langre repeated—and he headed for the laboratory.

  IV. The Experiments

  They had been making disturbing observations for a week. The patches, after a period of incubation, became clearer. The details of their structure became more easily perceptible; their zones stood out clearly under the magnifying-glass. Motionless at first, they had begun to move, and their displacements made their extraterrestrial constitution obvious. In fact, when they left one region of the skin, the latter retained no trace of their sojourn or their passage, and seemed perfectly healthy; in consequence, the existence of the patches was unconnected with any known phenomenon.

  Given that fact, Langre and Meyral tried to determine whether the patches were constituted by material substance. The most subtle measurements revealed no resistance. At the place occupied by a patch, the skin could be pricked or sectioned exactly as if it were in its normal state. Experiments that Langre and Georges carried out on themselves, as well as the tragic maidservant and the dog, were conclusive. Nevertheless, the patches had three dimensions. The microscope revealed that they were elevated above the skin to a height that varied between 8 and 66 microns. Appropriated sections showed that they penetrated the epidermis to a mean depth of 12 microns. They were not transparent, but translucent. The inferior rays of the spectrum gave them bizarre colorations, which defied analysis at first. Electricity caused them to execute movements whose rhythm seemed disordered; chemical reactions only produced indirect effects; they seemed totally immune to the influence of weight and revealed no mass. On the other hand, they conserved their configuration and their zones rigorously.

  “So they’re assimilable to solid bodies,” Langre concluded.

  “Solids without mass or resistance?”

  They stood there meditatively.

  “Is it necessary to see them as a kind of matter, though?” asked the old man.

  “Yes, if matter, in its turn, is only a form of energy—or, rather, energies.”

  “Substance, then?”

  “Quien sabe? Energies, after all, are only manifestations of differences. They’re probably substantial, but they have no connection with what we call matter.”

  “What about the ether?”

  “The scientist’s ether is childish. I believe in ethers, indefinite in number, analogous to one another but not similar.”

  “Let’s not get out of our dep
th!” Gérard protested, swiftly. “I think it’s necessary to consider these patches as a material form of energy.”

  One morning, they made an important discovery. In order to undertake a series of experiments they had assembled the whole group, human and animal, in the laboratory. Langre, after several attempts, observed the same unusual refraction, albeit much weaker, that had been observed at the beginning of the planetary catastrophe.

  “I conclude that there’s an essential identity between the patches and the phenomenon that almost annihilated life,” he declared. “The patches must, therefore, have originated from the residuum that I’ve suspected for a long time.”

  “Must we admit, then, that this residuum is the cause of the extraordinary intoxication that has held sway over the Earth? That’s contradictory.”

  “At least imagine an effect of evolution…”

  “Or a reaction of long-neutralized terrestrial and solar energies.”

  “Perhaps both. In any case, old friend, your work is fundamental.”

  The next day, Meyral made a discovery in his turn. For some time he had noticed that the orange and red rays had more effect than others on the coloration of patches. He produced an intense red light and directed it at his bare arm. The patches began rhythmic oscillatory movement, so regular that it would have been possible to use it, grosso modo,17 to measure time. While he was observing this relatively expectable phenomenon, however, he experienced a sharp surprise: on the one hand, the patches became colored in the intervals of the zones; on the other, garnet-colored filaments appeared, linking the patches to one another. That was not all; paler filaments appeared in the atmosphere; some extended from Meyral to Langre, while the majority extended to the walls, the windows, the door and even the ceiling.

  As soon as he had made the first observations, Georges had called his friend. The old man manifested an anxiety that caused him to tremble. “We’re moving into the gulfs!” he exclaimed. “These filaments undoubtedly link all the patches—which is to say, the entire group.