Paris in the Twentieth Century

by Jules Verne

  Everyone got up from the table.

  "Now, " said Uncle Huguenin, "we must find a worthy ending to this fine day. "

  "Let's go for a walk!" exclaimed Michel.

  "Oh, let's!" Lucy chimed in.

  "Where shall we go?" asked Monsieur Huguenin.

  "To the Port de Crenelle, " Michel replied.

  "Perfect. Leviathan IV has just docked, and we can have a look at this marvel. "

  The little group went out into the street, Michel offered his arm to the young lady, and everyone headed for the railroad station.

  This famous project of a Paris seaport had at last been realized; for a long while it had not raised much interest; many visited the canal site and were loud in their derision, dismissing the entire venture as a folly. But in the last decade, the incredulous had been obliged to yield to the facts.

  Already the capital seemed likely to become something like a Liverpool in the heart of France; a long series of canals and wet docks dug in the vast plains of Grenelle and Issy could accommodate a thousand high-tonnage vessels. In this herculean task, industry seemed to have achieved the extreme limits of the possible.

  Frequently during previous centuries—under Louis XIV, under Louis Philippe—this notion of digging a canal from Paris to the sea had been broached. In 1863, a company was authorized to prepare plans, at its own expense, linking Paris to Creil, Beauvais, or Dieppe; but the elevations necessitated many locks and considerable waterways in order to realize such a project; the Oise and the Béthune, the only available rivers in this area, were soon judged inadequate, and the company abandoned its endeavor.

  Sixty-five years later, the State returned to the notion, favoring a system already proposed in the last century, a system whose logic and simplicity had caused it to be summarily dismissed at the time; it involved using the Seine, the natural artery between Paris and the Atlantic.

  In less than fifteen years, a civil engineer named Montanet cut a canal which, starting on the Plaine de Grenelle, ended just above Rouen, measuring a hundred and forty kilometers in length, seventy meters in width, and twenty meters in depth; this operation produced a bed containing about a hundred and ninety million cubic meters; such a canal would never be in danger of running dry, for the fifty thousand liters per second the Seine produces amply sufficed to fill it. Excavations in the bed of the lower part of the river had opened the canal to the biggest ships. Thus navigation from Le Havre to Paris no longer raised any difficulties.

  There existed in France at the time, according to the Dupeyrat Project, a railway network on the tow- paths of all canals. Powerful locomotives towed the tugs and transport vessels with no difficulty. This system, greatly enlarged, had been applied to the Rouen canal, and it may readily be imagined how rapidly commercial vessels as well as government shipping sailed up to Paris. The new port had been magnificently constructed, and soon Uncle Huguenin and his guests were strolling on the granite quays, amid a considerable crowd.

  There were eighteen wet docks, only two of which were reserved for the government ships assigned to protect the fisheries and the French colonies. Here, as well, were reproductions of armored frigates of the nineteenth century, which the archaeologists admired without quite understanding.

  These war machines had ultimately assumed incredible though readily explainable proportions; for a period of some fifty years, there had been an absurd duel between armor and cannonballs, as to which would resist and which would penetrate. Cast-iron hulls became so thick, and cannon so heavy, that ships ended by sinking under their burden, and this result brought to a close this noble rivalry just when cannon- balls were about to triumph over armor.

  "This was how they fought back then, " observed Uncle Huguenin, pointing to one of these iron monsters pacifically moored at the rear of the basin. "Men shut themselves up in these floating fortresses, and then they had to sink the others or be sunk themselves. "

  "But individual courage didn't have much to do in such machines, " protested Michel.

  "Courage was outdated, like the cannons, " Uncle Huguenin commented with a smile. "Machines fought, not men; hence the impulse to put an end to wars, which had become ridiculous. I could still conceive of battle, in the days when you stood man to man, and when you killed your adversary with your own hands—"

  "How bloodthirsty you are, Monsieur Huguenin!" exclaimed Lucy.

  "Not at all, my dear, I'm merely reasonable, insofar as reason has anything to do with such things; war once had its raison d’être, but since cannons have had a range of eight thousand meters, and a thirty-six- millimeter cannonball at a hundred meters could pass through thirty-four horses and sixty-eight men, you'll have to admit that individual courage had become a luxury. "

  "Indeed, " Michel commented, "machines have killed bravery, and soldiers have become mechanics. "

  During this archaeological discussion, the four visitors continued their promenade through the wonders of the commercial docks. Around them rose an entire town of taverns where sailors ate their meals and smoked their pipes. These brave fellows felt quite at home in this mercantile port in the very center of the

  Plaine de Grenelle, and they were free to make all the racket they liked. They formed, moreover, a distinct population, not mingling with the inhabitants of the other suburbs, and quite unsociable. It was a kind of Havre separated from Paris by no more than the width of the Seine.

  The commercial waterways were connected by cantilever bridges operated at fixed hours by means of the Catacomb Company's compressed-air machines. The water vanished beneath the ships' hulls; most advanced by means of carbonic-acid vapor; not a three- master, a brig, a schooner, a lugger, a coasting vessel which was not fitted with its propeller; wind was no longer a source of energy; it was no longer in use, no longer sought, and old Aeolus, scorned, hid shamefaced in his bag.

  It is easy to imagine how cutting through the isthmuses of Suez and Panama had increased long-distance commercial navigation; maritime operations, delivered from monopolies and from the shackles of ministerial brokers, enormously increased; ships multiplied in all forms. Certainly it was a magnificent spectacle, these steamers of all sizes and all nationalities whose flags spread their thousand colors on the breeze; huge wharves, enormous warehouses protected the merchandise which was unloaded by means of the most ingenious machines; some prepared packing materials, others weighed them, some labeled them, still others stowed them onboard; ships towed by locomotives slid along the granite walls; bales of cotton and wool, sacks of sugar and coffee, crates of tea, all the products of the four quarters of the world were heaped up in towering mountains of commerce; many-colored panels announced the ships departing for every point on the globe, and all the languages of the earth were spoken in this Port de Grenelle, the busiest in the world.

  The sight of this vast basin from the heights of Arcueil or Meudon was really splendid; as far as the eye could see extended a forest of flag-studded masts; a tide-signal tower stood at the entrance to the port, while at the rear an electric lighthouse, no longer much used, rose into the sky to a height of 152 meters. This was the highest monument in the world, and its lights could be seen, forty leagues away, from the towers of Rouen Cathedral. The entire spectacle deserved to be admired.

  "This is all really splendid, " said Uncle Huguenin.

  "Pulchre[60] sight," echoed the professor.

  "If we have neither water nor sea wind, " continued Monsieur Huguenin, "here at least are the ships which water bears and the wind drives!"

  But where the crowd clustered most thickly, so that it became really difficult to pass through, was on the quays of the largest basin, which could scarcely accommodate the recently docked gigantic Leviathan IV; the last century's Great Eastern[61] would not have been worthy to be her launch; her home berth was New York, and the Americans could boast of having defeated the British; the ship had thirty masts and fifteen chimneys; of her thirty thousand horsepower, twenty thousand was for the drive wheels and ten thousand
for the propeller; railroad tracks made it possible to circulate swiftly from one end of her decks to the other, and in the space between the masts could be admired several squares planted with huge trees, whose shade spread over flowerbeds and lawns; here the elegant passengers could ride horseback down winding bridle paths; soil spread to a depth of three meters over the main deck had produced these floating parks. This ship was a world, and her crossings achieved prodigious results; she came from New York to Southampton in three days; sixty-one meters wide, her length may be judged by the following fact: when Leviathan IV docked prow foremost at the quay, rear-deck passengers still had to walk a quarter of a league before they reached terra firma.

  "Soon, " Uncle Huguenin said, strolling under the oaks, rowans, and acacias of the promenade deck, "soon they'll manage to construct that fantastic Dutch ship whose bowsprit was already at Mauritius when its helm was still in the harbor of Brest!"

  Were Michel and Lucy admiring this enormous machine like the rest of this astonished crowd? I cannot say for certain, but they strolled about, speaking in low voices, or saying nothing at all, and staring into each other's eyes; they returned to Uncle Huguenin's lodgings without having seen much, or anything, of the wonders of the Port de Grenelle!

  Chapter XII: Quinsonnas's Opinions on Women

  Michel spent the following night in a delicious insomnia: why bother to sleep? Better to dream wide awake, which the young man did quite conscientiously until dawn; his thoughts touched the ultimate limits of ethereal poetry.

  The next morning, he walked through the offices and climbed onto his Ledger. Quinsonnas was waiting for him. Michel shook or rather squeezed his friend's hand but seemed reluctant to speak. When he began dictating, his voice was strangely ardent.

  Quinsonnas stared at him, but Michel avoided meeting his eyes. "Something's happened, " the pianist reflected. "What a strange expression! He looks like someone who's just come back from the tropics!"

  The day passed in this fashion, Michel dictating, Quinsonnas writing, each watching the other on the sly. A second day passed without producing any exchange of thoughts between the two friends.

  "Love must be at the bottom of this, " the pianist decided. "Let him stew in his sentiments—eventually he'll talk. "

  On the third day, Michel suddenly interrupted Quinsonnas as he was forming a splendid capital letter. "My friend, " he asked, blushing, "what do you think of women?"

  "I was right, " the pianist congratulated himself, but made no answer.

  Michel repeated his question, blushing even more deeply.

  "My boy, " Quinsonnas replied solemnly, putting down his pen, "our opinion of women, speaking as men, is quite variable. I myself don't think the same thing about them in the morning that I do at night; spring leads me to different thoughts about them from those I have in autumn; rain or fair weather can remarkably alter my doctrine; in short, even my digestion has an incontestable influence on my sentiments in their regard. "

  "That's not an answer, " said Michel.

  "My boy, let me respond to one question by another. Do you believe there are still women on this earth?"

  "Do I ever!"

  "You meet them from time to time?"

  "Every day. "

  "Understand me, " the pianist continued. "I'm not talking about those more or less feminine beings whose goal is to contribute to the propagation of the human species, and who will ultimately be replaced by compressed-air machines. "

  "You're joking. "

  "My friend, we are speaking quite seriously, but that may still afford some cause for complaint. "

  "Oh please, Quinsonnas!" Michel exclaimed. "Be serious!"

  "Not for one minute. Gaiety is of the essence. I return to my proposition: there are no women left; the species has vanished, like pug-dogs and megatheriums!"

  "Please!"

  "Allow me to continue, my son; I believe that there were indeed women in the very remote past; the ancient writers speak of them in quite formal terms; they even cited, as the most perfect specimen among them, the Parisienne. According to the old texts and prints of the period, she was a charming creature, unrivaled the world over; in herself she combined the most perfect vices and the most vicious perfections, being a woman in every sense of the word. But gradually the blood grew thin, the race deteriorated, and physiologists acknowledged this deplorable decadence in their texts. Have you ever seen caterpillars become butterflies?"

  "Certainly. "

  "Well, " the pianist replied, "this was just the opposite; the butterfly regressed to being a caterpillar. The caressing manner of the Parisienne, her alluring figure, her witty and tender glances, her affectionate smile, her firm yet precise embonpoint soon gave way to certain long, lean, skinny, arid, fleshless, emaciated forms, to a mechanical, methodical, and puritanical unconcern. The waist flattened, the glance austerified, the joints stiffened; a stiff, hard nose lowered over narrowed lips; the stride grew longer; the Angel of Geometry, formerly so lavish with his most alluring curves, delivered woman up to all the rigors of straight lines and acute angles. The Frenchwoman has become Americanized; she speaks seriously about serious matters, she takes life seriously, she rides on the rigid saddle of modern manners, dresses poorly, tastelessly, and wears corsets of galvanized tin which can resist the most powerful pressures. My son, France has lost her true superiority; in the charming century of Louis XV, women had feminized men; subsequently they have switched gender and no longer deserve the artist's gaze or the lover's attention!"

  "Don't stop now. "

  "Yes, " Quinsonnas continued, "you smile! You suppose you have the wherewithal to confound me in your pocket! You have your little exception to the general rule ready to hand! Well, you will merely confirm that rule! I maintain my position. And I shall take it even further: no woman, whatever class she belongs to, has escaped this degradation of the race! What we used to call the grisette has vanished; the courtesan, drearier than ever now that she's a kept woman, displays a severe immorality all her own! She is clumsy and stupid but functions with order and economy, so that no man nowadays ruins himself for her! Ruins himself! Please, the word itself is obsolete! Everyone gets rich today, my son, except the human body and the human mind. "

  "So you claim it is impossible to meet a true woman in this day and age. "

  "Indeed, under ninety-five years of age, there are none. The last ones died with our grandmothers. However..."

  "Oh, however?"

  "Such things can be met with in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; in this one little corner of our enormous Paris, that rare plant puella desiderata, as your professor would say, is cultivated, but only here. "

  "So, " replied Michel, smiling ironically, "you persist in this opinion that woman is a vanished race. "

  "My son, the great moralists of the nineteenth century already foresaw this catastrophe. Balzac, who knew something about the subject, suggests as much in his famous letter to Stendhal: Woman, he says, is Passion, Man is Action, and it is for this reason that man adores woman. Well, they are both action now, and as a consequence there are no longer any women in France. "

  "Fine, " said Michel, "and what do you think of marriage?"

  "Nothing good. "

  "But beyond that... "

  "I should be more inclined toward other men's marriages than my own. "

  "So you'll never marry?"

  "No, not until that famous tribunal demanded by Voltaire is convened to judge cases of infidelity—six men and six women, with a hermaphrodite with the deciding vote in case of a tie. "

  "Now be serious. "

  "I am being quite serious; such a tribunal would be the only reliable guarantee! You remember what happened two months ago, Monsieur de Coutances brought adultery charges against his wife. "

  "No!"

  "Well, when the magistrate asked Madame de Coutances why she had forgotten her duties, she replied, 'I have such a poor memory!' And was acquitted. And quite frankly, that response deserved an acquitta
l. "

  "Leaving Madame de Coutances aside, let's get back to marriage. "

  "My son, here is the absolute truth on this subject: being a boy, one can always marry; being married, one cannot become a boy again. Between the married state and the bachelor state yawns a dreadful abyss. "

  "Quinsonnas, what is it you have against marriage?"

  "What I have... is this: in an age when the family is tending toward self-destruction, when private interest impels each of its members into divergent paths, when the need to get rich at all costs destroys the heart's sentiments, marriage seems to me a heroic futility; in the past, according to the ancient authors, things were quite different; leafing through the old dictionaries, you will be astonished to find such terms as Lares and Penates, hearth and home, my life's companion, and so on, but such expressions have long since vanished, along with the things they represented. They are no longer used; it seems that in the past spouses (another word that has fallen into desuetude) intimately mingled their existence; people recalled these words of Sancho Panza: a woman's advice isn't much, but a man would have to be mad not to heed it! And men heeded it. Consider the difference: the husband nowadays lives far from his wife, he sleeps at his club, eats there, dines there, works there, plays there.... Madame's life is her own affair, in every sense of the word. Monsieur greets her as a stranger, if he should happen to meet her in the street; from time to time he pays her a visit, turns up on her Mondays or her Wednesdays; sometimes Madame invites him to dinner, more rarely to spend the evening; finally, they meet so little, see each other so little, speak to each other so little and with so little intimacy, that one wonders, quite rightly, how there happen to be so many rightful heirs in this world!"