The Eternal Flame

by Michel Corday

  “Oh, Maman...”

  “Then too, I’ve been jealous, cautious about your life. I’ve wanted to know everything. I’ve employed all sorts of petty means, that must also have indisposed you toward me. But you have to forgive me. You understand, now; it was tenderness again, such great tenderness...”

  Then, their hearts mysteriously blossoming, they strove to dissipate, gradually, the most tragic of all misunderstandings: that which arises between a mother and the creature that has emerged from her.

  Chapter VII

  From the first moment of his prodigious experiment, François Thibault, became slightly feverish, in spite of his robust optimism. Would it succeed?

  Obviously, it was too soon to be certain. He saw that the sky retained, even after sunrise, the nuances of the dawn. He knew by courtesy of messages that the transmitters—whose operators did not know the exactly what they were doing—were functioning normally in the four Sidereal Energy stations. Finally, he observed in himself and the members of his family the lucid wellbeing and glad excitement that were raising them above themselves.

  But was the whole Earth enveloped by the pink gas? And were all human beings experiencing that benevolent inebriation? Only his wireless set could furnish him with precise symptoms and permit him to take the planet’s pulse. Throughout the morning, however, he was unable to obtain any truly significant indication.

  Thus, he wandered impatiently, somewhat at a loss, around his petty kingdom at Bellevue. Sometimes he stood on the edge of the terrace, overlooking the stone ocean of the city, on the lookout for rumors. Sometimes he took refuge in his laboratory at the Center of Studies. There, as was his habit, he strove to forget his preoccupations in some new research. This time, however, he could not succeed in escaping them.

  Eventually, he gave up. As he came out, he scrutinized the gigantic globe that ornamented the vestibule. Instinctively, he looked around it for the pink veil that ought to be surrounding the world. He went back to his villa, and switched on his wireless set again.

  It was not until the early afternoon, at about two o’clock, that he began to collect evident signs of a metamorphosis.

  At that time, it was six o’clock in the morning in San Francisco, ten o’clock in the evening in Peking. America was only just beginning its day, Asia was finishing its own. Most of all, it was Europe that could be heard. When a speaker was using a foreign language, François Thibault translated the gist of what he was saying for those grouped with him around the screen. All the speeches presented the same new feature.

  Previously, no chronicler had ever failed to proclaim, in respect of anything whatsoever, that his country was the foremost in the world for the intelligence and taste of its inhabitants, the genius of its inventors, the beauty of its monuments and locations, the excellence of its products, the perfection of its industry and the glory of its armaments. At the same time, none ever missed any opportunity to mock and denigrate neighboring countries, slyly delivering slaps in passing. Now, they had all abandoned that tone of peevish chauvinism, as if they had suddenly discovered that the waves carried their words beyond national boundaries, where their painful impropriety must become obvious.

  Another feature: the majority of the speeches gave evidence of an unaccustomed boldness. Ordinarily, in all countries, texts were carefully checked before being read in front of a microphone. Today, however, the speakers, doubtless carried away in mid-course by generous impulses, were giving free rein to their thoughts, speaking from the heart. And one could see their faces lighting up on the screen as they directed their attention toward the future.

  The wireless set hurled all those cries of hope, transmitted by the waves, into the room, from the most modest wish to the most ambition adjuration.

  For the good of the race, women and children, one voice proclaimed consenting maternity. Another preached solidarity “We are dependent on one another. In a crowd, a public vehicle, everyone breathes into his lungs the air exhaled by the lungs of others. Since that solidarity exists, let us be conscious of it, utilize its strength. Let us be the cells of one vast organism.”

  A doctor demanded the preventative cure of the half-mad, which would permit so many dramas of power to be avoided. A league proposed the abolition of the egotistical and stupid habit of abandoning broken glass and fat Sunday papers in the suburban woods.

  Someone thundered against social iniquity. “It’s necessary that it ceases to seem natural to us. It ought to offend us and be intolerable. Let us work toward leveling upwards. It can be realized; the example of people’s palaces and museums proves it. And when we see a dazed drunk, a dirty or boastful worker, let’s blame ourselves, for it’s our responsibility to remove them from ignorance and fifth.”

  A professor spoke out against examinations, in which only memory triumphs. He denounced the excessive duration of education. Thanks to the cinema, it could be reduced by nine-tenths. The schools were often merely internment camps. It was necessary to provide youth with abundant leisure and play. It ought to remain, in our memories, the garden of life.

  Someone deplored the faults of import and export duties, the imbecile pretention of certain peoples to sell to everyone and not to buy from anyone, to live on their own produce like Robinson Crusoe on his island. “It’s necessary to put an end to a regime in which an abundant harvest is considered a calamity, where wheat, coffee and cotton are burned when so many people elsewhere lack nourishment and clothing. We erect barriers between individuals, between castes, between peoples, between races, and then we fight over them. It’s necessary to lower them. The planet is a living being, which technology has endowed with an admirable nervous system. It’s up to us to unify it, harmonize it, to make it a superior organism. As Elie Faure predicted thirty years ago,12 it’s a matter of passing from an individual civilization to a symphonic civilization, a matter of orchestrating the Earth.”

  Finally, with regard to the war, all the orators gave free voice to the common sense view that the people in power had forbidden François Thibault to voice two days earlier. No one any longer wanted these armaments and engineering works that only profited their entrepreneurs. No more subterranean fortresses whose defenders would perish asphyxiated by gases; no more billion-franc ironclads at the mercy of a floating mine, which, during the four years of the World War, had only confronted one another once, in an indecisive battle, had had not even succeeded in forcing the Dardanelles.

  Untiringly, they evoked the motives and consequences of war: on the one hand, the profit of a few thousand parasites; on the other, millions of innocent victims, and a series of crises, convulsions and miseries that force humankind to expiate its folly for even long than it would mourn its dead.

  During a gap, François Thibault, his face illuminated, said to his son: “And yet, the radio doesn’t register everything. Many signs are escaping us. Thus, undoubtedly, at this moment, thousands of reconciliations are taking place like the one that brought you and Emile Truchard together this morning. That’s the precise emblem in miniature of the rapprochements that must one day take place between classes, nations and races. It’s the triumph of the heart and reason over or meanest motives. For vanity, self-interest and tolerance are the origin of all vexations. It’s the sweetest flower of progress.”

  “Yes,” said Claude. “When I saw Emile Truchard coming toward me on the terrace, holding out his hand, I had the same impression as just now, before the wireless set: that of being transported into better times.” And he added maliciously, turning to Pierre Contal: “All this doesn’t modify your opinions slightly, Grandfather?”

  The author of Génie antique was sitting down, his head slightly tilted back, his wide beard spread out. His elbows were leaning on the arms of his chair. His fine hands were touching, at the extremities of his splayed fingers. It was a familiar attitude. In a voice that was both emotional and cheerful, he said: “But I’m not far from thinking like you, my dear Claude. Well, yes, deep down, I like the progress of science
. Why deny it, since I profit from it? When I have to go abroad to visit a museum, an excavation or a monument, I like the airplane that saves me time. In an automobile with the windows down, I like the wind that strikes my cheeks with the speed of my travel. When I’m far away from all of you, it’s good to hear your voices and see your faces over the telephone. I appreciate comfort and I’m glad to see it extending. And when I’m anxious about your health or mine, it’s good to think that the curative arts are improving every day...”

  François Thibault was not surprised by that conversion. Pierre Contal was too intelligent not to have taken note of the advantages of progress. Faithful to his attitude as a man of the past, however, he had been obliged to keep his observations secret, to bury them within himself. Today, under the pink sky, these confessions were emerging from the depths of his soul.

  Even in the course of his audacious experiment, though, the inventor was still haunted by his great dream: the immortality of the Earth and the human race, which would permit human beings to attain divinity. Thus, he asked: “In that case, Father, you’re no longer denying that humans are capable of improvement?”

  Pierre Contal curled up in his armchair, without separating his delicate white hands. “Well, this is how I see things. Three stalks emerge from the human stock; they represent art, science and morality. Art has quickly attained its full stature and is no longer growing. Science has grown vastly in the last hundred years. All things considered, it’s possible that morality, much slower to grow, might catch up with the others.”

  “Marvelous!” said Claude, gaily.

  “Here,” Pierre Contal went on. “I’ll give you an example of the progress in mores—which is to say, moral progress. Today, you see, it’s me who’s showing you the way. You know about the circus games; you know that gladiators fought to the death. It’s true that, most of the time, they were condemned criminals or prisoners of war—but still, they were men. Now, I’m weary of saying that in present day boxing matches, the vanquished must go to the land of dreams for ten seconds. Well, that’s the progress accomplished in two thousand years: on the one hand, definitive, eternal death; on the other, apparent death, for ten seconds.”

  “That’s true,” said François Thibault, pensively.

  “Fundamentally,” Pierre Contal concluded, “I don’t despair of human beings or their possibilities. But what I reprove and detest, of course, is excess. I like moderation. Note in passing that I’m not one of those fake ascetics who, without depriving himself of anything, goes about shouting everywhere that it’s important to restrict the needs of humankind. I don’t know of any gesture more deplorable than that of Diogenes breaking his superfluous bowl. Such pruning would lead us rapidly to the condition of the fakir, spending years laid out in a coffin—one might as well have the complete death that robs us of all our needs. No, no. But I repeat, I don’t like the excessive speed, excessive production, excessive ambition and excessive avidity that presently harasses us.”

  “It’s only temporary,” said François Thibault.

  “I know that. It’s just a temporary fever, a fad. People thought of themselves as Corneillians in the time of Le Cid, libertines under the Regency, Romantics with Lamartine and ferocious since the World War. They’re still human. To discern the future, it’s necessary not to be hypnotized by the present. It’s necessary to take a step back, to have a sense of duration, to be able to juggle with centuries, with hundreds of centuries. Our fashions, our successive ways of being, are merely waves, as rapid as those of the wireless. The important thing is to grasp the song that they produce, to know whether it’s a ritornelle that is finishing, or a song that will rise up and never end.”

  Chapter VIII

  Scarcely had he escaped from Noblemain than Pierre Arnage went through the little iron gate and heard it click behind him. He went rapidly through the park on the path to the château.

  He was in haste to appease Annette—for she must still be angry with him. When she had left Paris she was justly offended by the curt admissions that she had extracted from him, which he had not even been able to soften with remorse. Although he had told her that he was coming to Briolle, she did not know yet that he was coming back repentant and liberated.

  At an intersection of paths, he saw her slender silhouette. She was coming toward him.

  She said to him, simply: “I heard the automobile but I didn’t see anyone. Were you held up? A voter?”

  “And a weighty one! Noblemain. He wants to apotheosize François Thibault. He’s right, of course—but it was a bad time. I scarcely listened to his speech. We have so many things to say to one another, Annette. Shall we go for a walk?”

  She agreed without stiffness: “Let’s go for a walk.”

  He felt that she was ready to be indulgent, and rejoiced in being worthy of it. They wandered along the paths at random. The park was the true luxury of the château, a corner of the forest isolated in the town. The tender shoots of spring were spreading a green mist there. To the west, the branches were outlined in black against a ruby-red sky.

  In broad strokes, Arnage indicated how he had been raised above himself. Resolved not to divorce, he could not be sure of Marilène’s fate, but, by virtue of the instinct of a jealous male, he would have been capable of competing for her with the man who had offered to marry her. He had found the strength within himself to renounce her, to resume the straight path.

  “It’s over, then?” she asked, timidly.

  He nodded his head gravely. “It’s over.”

  They sat down on a stone bench in front of a narrow and deep basin that was known as the Fontaine de la Marquise. A spring filled it with water so pure that it was invisible; only its ripples revealed its presence.

  “I’ve been so upset,” she confessed.

  Those simple words devastated him. He would have liked to get down on his knees. “You mustn’t be upset any longer. I repeat, it’s over. There’s only you in my life. You’re the only one who counts. Fundamentally, there’s never been anyone but you. The others…oh, I was obedient to an imbecilic desire to collect adventures, not to let any opportunity that presented itself pass me by—for they did offer themselves. Come on, it’s necessary to confess: as soon as one is a star, especially in government, one is incessantly ambushed, solicited, tempted. Most of the time, it’s the women who seek out the men, while persuading them that it’s the other way around. Out of vanity, one doesn’t dare to run away; one lets oneself go, allows oneself to be caught. Oh, it will be necessary to watch over me, Annette, to protect me, to defend me. I confide myself to you. No one but you can save me from myself and others.”

  She murmured: “Why didn’t you speak sooner, Pierre.”

  “Yes, I should have—but I couldn’t. I was retained by some imbecile prudery. Deep down, you see, the whole world is timid. The audacious are perhaps even more so than the others, for they only use excessive words to make their anxieties. One always holds back one’s most tender impulses, those that depart from the most profound regions of being. One never speaks sufficiently in accordance with one’s heart.”

  “That’s true.”

  “In the twenty years that we’ve been married, how many times I’ve wanted to, and should have, given you thanks. But no, I kept quiet. If you knew how often I admired your courage and your miracles of economy, in the hard times of our early days, when neither of us was rich, how I raged at not being able to ornament you, dress you as I would have wished... I remember a little mantle, so thin. When I saw you put it on, cheerfully, in winter, I felt a chill all the way to my heart; I could have wept. But I didn’t say anything...”

  “I don’t regret those times,” she said.

  “Me neither. Outside of our money worries, they’ve left me an enchanted memory, which often comes back to mind in gusts, like a fresh and new perfume.”

  “I bore the deprivation every well, in secret. I only had one dread, one regret. I was afraid of not being able to please you with my four
-sou dresses, of not seeming pretty enough to you. And then, think of the recompenses you offered me. When I attended a session at which the entire Chamber gave you a standing ovation, I whispered to myself: “That’s my man.” It wouldn’t have taken much to make me shout it to my neighbors on the benches. But that evening, I too said nothing. I didn’t know how to tell you how proud I was of you.”

  “I sensed it, though. I remember how, in very difficult circumstances, you advised me, supported me...”

  “Not enough, not enough. I should have told you more often how much I admired your intelligence and your talent. I shouldn’t have left that care to others. Oh, it’s so difficult to pay compliments!”

  “Almost as difficult as to give thanks. Just think, Annette—in twenty years I haven’t thanked you once for your patience with me. And I’m not easy, I know that. At times, I’m damnable pig-headed. And although I’m not above reproach, not once did I ever thank you, in words, for being such a faithful wife...”

  She smiled. “Bah! Since you no longer have anything for which to reproach yourself...”

  “That’s good. I’m very happy that this evening, by some miracle, we’ve been able to say something of what’s in our hearts. Now that we know the defects of silence, we won’t mistrust one another any longer, will we? Communication is established. Let’s keep it.”

  A pink gleam lit up the crystal of the spring. The birds, returning to their roosts as dusk approached, filled the park with their sweet racket, as at dawn. Under the influence of a mysterious exaltation, Pierre affirmed his faith in his marriage. In a flash he had fathomed destiny. Certainly, the marriage would last and improve. Every man, after having desired all women, only wants one wife. And the story of one man reflects, in miniature, the story of humankind. After the promiscuity of early ages, the apotheosis of the couple slowly emerged. In the distant future, Arnage glimpsed the union in which tenderness would be molded by esteem, gratitude, common memories and mutual indulgence, in which the felicities of habit and pride in duration could be savored, in which the games of pleasure would be added to the enchantments of amity.