by Paul Vibert
Finally, the Chronique Industrielle adds, in its turn:
“Following the presentation at the Académie des Science of the apparatus devised by Messrs. Desgresz and Balthazard, which permits a restricted volume of confined air to be renewed indefinitely, producing by means of sodium peroxide the absorption of carbon dioxide and its replacement by an equal volume of oxygen, Monsieur E. Derennes has informed that assembly of the use of sodium peroxide for the cleansing of wells polluted by carbon dioxide.
“Such invasions are extremely frequent, and to remedy them, ventilators are employed; they give satisfactory results, but they require special apparatus and the employment of motive force. Use is also made of wooden tubes or pipes, inside which a little fire is sent down to provoke the renewal of the air, etc. Recourse has also been made to chalk solutions that absorb carbon dioxide in a short time. Most frequently, however, the vitiated air that pollutes wells is a mixture of carbon dioxide and nitrogen, representing air in which the oxygen has been replaced by a equal volume of carbon dioxide; if one absorbs the carbon dioxide by means of chalk, the nitrogen remains; the solution thus seems incomplete.
“Now that the properties of industrial sodium peroxide are known, it seems that the employment of this substance solves the problem completely. The carbon dioxide is absorbed; the air resumes its normal composition. The only objection that can be raised is the difficulty of widely distributing supplies of a compound like sodium peroxide.”
Thus, the issue is resolved, and our little submarine exploration, which was original and rather courageous a few years ago, would be mere child’s play today!
Who’s for a diving-suit?
V. How the submarine humans are formed.
Customs full of wisdom.
The human beings of both sexes that we had before us—for it was certainly a matter of ancestral kin—were entirely nude, but there was nothing immodest or shocking about that, for, having lived at the bottom of the sea for nearly five thousand years, their bodies were covered with delicate silvery scales, like those of sardines or trout—which gave them a bright and sparkling gleam in the glare of the electric and phosphorescent lights, utterly incomparable and charming.
Above the eyes, they all possessed enormous luminous balls, which lit the way far ahead like two searchlights, exactly like the fireflies of the Antilles. Between the two shoulders, finally, a slight protuberance drew the gaze without being a deformity or a disgrace; it was there that the air was enclosed, at several thousand atmospheres, which permitted them to live and breathe as freely at the bottom of the sea as we do on land.
Such were, at first glance, the three visible transformations that they had been imprinted upon them, across the centuries, but the great law of adaptation to the environment, according to the theories of Lamarck, the famous creator of transformism.
As we exchanged handshakes, however, we did not take long to perceive that they all had hands and feet lightly webbed for swimming, not like the feet of a duck, but more reminiscent of fishes’ fins.
As they all had beautiful flavescent hair, complexions as white as immaculate snow, with a slight hint of pink by virtue of the impression of joy or curiosity, with no scales at all, however imperceptible, on the face, we were seized with admiration for the surprising beauty of the young women and the imposing majesty of the old men, as handsome as the most clear-skinned of aged Arabs.
After the first exchange of greetings, Jacob Laquedem soon embarked upon a conversation, as best he could, in Hebrew, with our new submarine friends. Fortunately, they understood one another better and more easily in speech that in writing, provided that they spoke very slowly. As a result, I was able, with a little effort, to follow the gist of the captain’s conversation.
At first the lighting intrigued us; we could see well enough that the phosphorescent light, soft and bright at the same time, was produced by the luminous headlights that they all had above their eyes in the middle of the forehead, but we asked how it was came about that they also possessed so many electric lamps, strongly resembling ours. They told us that the bulbs in question had been suggested to the by those they had found in the hold of a wrecked ship. As for the production of electricity, they obtained it very easily, thanks to the submarine mountains, entirely magnetic, by which they were surrounded.
I do not want to spin this story out immeasurably, but I ought to add that they explained to us how they came to have veritable palaces, watertight grottoes perfectly lit, thanks to a system of successive doors, diminishing the force of pressure and resistance, capable of making Berlier39 himself jealous, and that they showed us the marvelous illustrated newspapers that they printed on the skins of large sharks, prepared as needed, with extreme delicacy, as solid and supple as Japanese paper.
When we asked them what their political system was, the replied that they were governed by patriarchs, the oldest and wisest, in an absolutely democratic and egalitarian republic, without a president, and that their government was much wiser than ours—which seemed to us to be the exact truth.
Apart from hunting—which is to say, fishing—they live very much like us, modeling themselves on us and educated by the incessant fall of the ships that sometimes slid gently to the sea-bed. Like us they have balls, fêtes, dinners, theatres and superb promenades, with immense pathways, in the midst of forests of coral.
By means of our cable we had all the books that they wanted sent down, and all the objects that they desired—and their joy, like ours, was unconfined.
On the fifth day, however, we thought that we ought to go back up, having learned from our friends’ own mouths that in the Pacific and the Atlantic alone there were seven great submarine states, which certainly represented more than three hundred thousand inhabitants, of whose existence we had, until that day, been absolutely unaware.
Finally, progressing from lone surprise to the next, we got ready to go back up, and decided that our submarine friend, who was the first to have spoken to Captain Jacob Laquedem, would go with us.
VI. How a submarine man came up to the surface.
Necessary precautions.
“But I’ll explode, with the compressed air that I have between my shoulders, when I reach the superior layers where the pressure is weaker!” exclaimed the man we shall call, for the sake of the clarity of our story’s conclusion, by his true name, Tubalcain Souleau.
“Definitely not,” the captain relied, for we’re going to enclose your protuberance, containing the air you need, in a strong cap of fine steel, capable of resisting any explosion. Is that practical enough?”
“Not at all, my dear captain, for then the explosion would be produced in the opposite direction, internally—and it’s my breast that would be blasted to pulp.”
“That’s true.”
“So you see that I am condemned, like all my companions, never to follow you to the surface of the waters, much less on to land.”
“That remains to be seen,” I said, in my turn, “so much so that I’ll give you the real solution.”
“You’re joking!” cried the brave Captain Jacob Laqudem.
“Joking? Listen for a moment—luckily, you have very skilful surgeons here?”
“For that, yes,” said Tubalcain Souleau, emphatically.
“Well, you’re going to have a small incision made between your shoulders, to which a tube made of silver and rubber will be attached, with a suitably-arranged system of automatic valves, and as you rise up toward the surface of the sea, you—or rather your pouch—will gradually deflate, and you’ll be safe.”
“In my arms!” cried the captain, who hugged me forcefully, adding, in a whisper: “You surprise me, old chap.”
“Keep up appearances, not forgetting that a submarine population is listening to you and watching you, ten thousand meters beneath the waves—in round numbers.”
“Why exaggerate?” the terrible captain went on. “We’re only at a bassitude of 9429.17 meters.”
“Go on—the A
cademy will give you five sous.”
“That’s all very well,” Souleau put in, but here’s my sister in tears at the idea of this operation and my departure. Will you answer for my life?”
“Let your sister, the charming Coral Flower, be consoled; the surgeon and I will answer for your life.”
And the operation was carried out forthwith—but it was scarcely over when Tubalcain Souleau cried out again.
“What is it?”
“I’m doomed.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s quite simple: once on the surface of the sea, I’ll be deflated…”
“But you’ll be breathing our ambient air.”
“Exactly, but when I come back down, my provision of air will be empty; I’ll be done for. You can see that I can’t go with you.”
“Yes you can,” I said, authoritatively, “for these tubes of compressed air that you see at our feet”—I addressed him as tu in my delirious joy (cf Doumer)40 at having found the solution—“We’ll also put on your feet when you come back.”
“And then…?”
“Then, being in communication with your compressed-air pouch, as you descend along the cable, with the aid of a little pneumatic pump working in reverse, you’ll store the air that you need just as one charges a bottle of soda-water. Do you understand?”
“So well that I’m at your disposal, to leave whenever you wish.”
Soon, the seductive Coral Flower had dried her tears, and after touching farewells and promise to return, three parallel cables slowly pulled Captain Jacob Laquedem, Tubalcain Souleau and your humble servant up to the surface of the sea, which we had quit nearly a week earlier.
I shall not linger over the vicissitudes of our return voyage, which was relatively undramatic. Suffice it to say that our air-supply tubes were only half-empty and that the brave Souleau’s apparatus functioned very well. He was very glad not to explode and to be able to breathe freely, like you or me, on the deck of the boat—with a slight dizziness at first, as when one has mountain fever.
Having ascertained exactly where we were, we set off rapidly to allow Souleau to see the Kermadu archipelago and the Friendly Isles, but heavy seas prevented us from disembarking, with the result that the poor fellow, whom we had dressed like ourselves, to protect him from the cold of the ambient air and from the curiosity of our sailors, said to me, half-sadly and half-cheerfully: “Like Moses, I must content myself with seeing the Promised Land from afar; I ought to count myself fortunate, since I’m the only man of my submarine race who has ever come to the surface of the waves, thanks to your tranquil audacity and ingenuity.
Strangely enough, through contact with him, and remembering lessons taught my father, who had learned Hebrew from Père La Touche,41 I had reached the point of understanding him as well as the captain.
After a week, as he seemed to be getting a little anemic, we prepared for his descent with the same care and precaution. As he left us, he gave me a manuscript: his impressions during his sojourn aboard our ship, which I might publish some day, when I have found a generous publisher who is also prepared to publish the 173 slides that I brought back from my voyage to the bottom of the Pacific.
A few hours later, a telephone call and a short conversation informed us that the brave Tubalcain Souleau had returned to the bosom of his family, at a bassitude of 9429 meters under the sea, as the captain put it, in the South Pacific east of the Kermadu isles.
And now it is with tears in my eyes once again that I think of that double and strange adventure, which ranks among the best and happiest of my life—which is already long, alas!
DEATH
How People Die in the Colonies
I. Strange deaths. The surprising revelations of explorers.
As I was coming back from Algiers at the end of May last year, after my candidature and my campaign against Drumont, I was invited while passing through Marseilles to give a lecture on electoral practices in Algeria by the Club Nautico-Agricole de la Colonisation Pratique.
I did so with good grace, and after having spoken for an hour and forty-five minutes on the cannibal mores of Drumont’s companions and exhibited the dark traces of several horizons, we set out, according to the custom of the province, in search of an opportunity to have a good time, legitimate in wifely eyes, by swilling champagne.
For myself, I will remark in passing that I drank mine, refusing forcefully to swill it, thinking that it is very unpleasant to find sand and pebbles at the bottom of one’s glass.42 How droll customs are, all the same! One of my neighbors told me that it was metaphorical, and that I didn’t understand it at all—but let’s pass on.
One of the joyful guests at the little improvised party turned to me abruptly and said, amiably: “We have read with pleasure your Morts étranges, which is every bit as curious as, and considerably more amusing than, Richepin’s Morts bizarres43—but what you have forgotten are colonial deaths, which are both strange and bizarre. We’re not, of course, talking about stupid deaths caused by the plague, cholera or vomito negro,44 but beautiful deaths—flavorsome deaths, as one says today, which occur s frequently in hot tropical countries, to the delight of the observer who thus finds a way of occupying—or, if you prefer, breaking—the monotony of life.”
Becoming more animated by degrees, he went on: “Look, here we have here a gathering of serious men, ship-owners, retired colonists, explorers, old soldiers in the marine infantry, who have all been globe-trotters, and if you wish, we can, while swilling this last bottle, tell you about the most curious deaths that we have seen in the colonies with our own eyes—for, mark me, old chap, you’re not in a company of liars here, you know.”
I made a sign of assent, and he pointed at a fat man with a face as red as a tomato and hair as white as a swan—a head signed by twenty years in Africa—and exclaimed: “Over to you, Marius!”
The mouth belonging to that head opened slowly, in response, and the following emerged:
“I won’t recall for you the hundreds of strange, bizarre or marvelous deaths that I’ve seen in the colonies, for our guest would still be here next week, nor shall I recall the death of poor Kunckel d’Herculay, so thoroughly eaten by ants that his skeleton was as white and polished as ivory within an hour and he was only recognized by his esparto-grass cravat, respected by the voracious hymenoptera because it appears that the knot was properly contrived. I propose to cite only one truly amazing colonial death.”
“Adopted!” cried twenty voices.
“Perfect,” said Marius. “I’ll continue. It was one day when I had set off with a column toward El Goléa, beyond Ouargla. I went hunting outside the encampment, in mid-morning, with a young adjutant, a great pal who was a native of the Mouffetard quarter in Paris—while I myself was born in the Rue de Pierre-qui-Rage in Marseilles. Enough—I’ll go on. My weary friend told me that he was going to rest for a quarter of an hour in a clump of palm trees. When I came back fifteen minutes later, he was dead of a fractured skull. An ostrich had arrived from the desert in that interval, and having seen my poor friend’s prematurely bald head, had doubtless mistaken it for an egg. So it had crouched down over him and laid an egg—and that egg had split his skull in two. I ran to the camp, and my friend was swiftly buried under three large stone slabs in a ruined Marabout shrine, for fear of jackals and hyenas. And what an omelet we made from the egg of the unwittingly murderous ostrich! I’ll say no more than that—but for want of truffles, it was sprinkled with tears.”
“If it had only been the egg of a moa or an aepyornis!” said an explorer, who wanted to show off his science.
But Marius caught the ball on the volley: “I’ve seen eggs of the former in Melbourne or Sydney Museum, I can’t remember exactly. If one of those birds had laid an egg—if it were a female, of course—on a sleeping patrol, it would have crushed at least three men!”
I burst into loud laughter. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but it’s two forty-one in the morning. Let’s go to bed—
and if you want to do me the honor of coming to lunch with me tomorrow at seventeen minutes past noon at Roubion’s, we can continue listening to accounts of how people die in the colonies while we eat a nice bouillabaisse—for Monsieur Marius has already delighted me,”
“You’re too kind. Tomorrow, the floor will be given to my friend Castagnat, who explored Madagascar at almost the same time as Grandidier himself.”45
And we separated, in order to get a few hours sleep.
II. Strange deaths. The surprising revelations of explorers. The giant clam’s bite.
As has been agreed during the night, all the members of the Club Nautico-Agricole de la Colonisation Pratique met again at the appointed time in the Restaurant du Chemin de la Corniche, owned by Vincent Roubien, as well as your servant. By twelve thirty-three—just time to strangle a small parrot—we were at table, confronting an excellent bouillabaisse, according to the program.
As soon as the coffee was served, the president cried: “The floor’s yours, Castagnat.
And, having extracted a powerful puff from his cigar, Castagnat began in these terms:
“As I’ve had the honor of telling you, I was one of the fist explorers of Madagascar, since I was one of the companions of the celebrated Grandidier. You know that he’s been a member of the Institut for a long time, in recompense for that little voyage, and if the same thing didn’t come my way, it’s only because I received a less distinguished education than him.”
“That’s very true,” said Marius.
“Shut up. Everyone knows how one is cut in two by sharks in Madagascar, from its busiest harbors to the mouths of its rivers, as in all tropical regions.
“In the aforementioned river-mouths one even finds alligators and caimans, to complete the feast…for people here, who only know the mouth of their trombone, can’t have any idea how it is.”
