The World Above The World

by Brian Stableford

  “I’ve always hidden his origin and we all have an interest in maintaining the same discretion, To reveal his true nature to him would be to falsify his attitude, take away his ease and, if I dare use the expression, his naturalness. He would become my accomplice, he would hide his secret from you. While he believes himself to be similar to the common run of men, he acts as they do effortlessly, and does not suffer from being a prodigious exception. Oh, Dajan-Phinn, interrogated by you, will not fail to tell you that he lived until adolescence with two old people who brought him up on the outskirts of the city, near the gate, until the day when I took him to live in the zoological garden. He will describe to you very succinctly the surroundings of his childhood monotony: the hut, the nearby forest, the school to which he went every day. Why? Because, to give him the illusion of a normal life, I was obliged to create memories for him, as one furnishes a modern château with ancient objects to give it the appearance of age….”

  And as those most inclined to believe the doctor could not repress signs of astonishment, he added: “What is there in that to surprise you? Have you not witnessed and admitted more extraordinary phenomena? Have you not seen, during a séance of hypnotism and suggestion, the operator leave stronger imprints in the consciousness of subjects, persuading them that a potato is a delicious fruit, that all the vowels are missing from a newspaper they’re reading, or even constraining them to commit a theft or some other crime in the waking state? And he is acting on a fully-formed organism—a task more difficult than making an impression on an entirely new substance.”

  Fixing a few images in a brain was, was nothing for Dr. Bro. The most outstanding aspect of his work, in that order of ideas, was to have created in Dajan-Phinn a heredity of sorts, to have slipped instincts and knowledge into his skull as one injects sera under the skin. It was necessary to see Dr. Bro striving to make that comprehensible. As his listeners, with the exception of Ruchard, had been unable to follow him with regard to technical developments, he deployed an untiring patience in initiating them—adapting science for the usage of ordinary people, as he put it. He explained the cerebral localizations, pointed out the seat of each function in his head, struck himself on the cranium—everything but open it up to display the white substance and the grey matter—and, like a genial cook revealing a recipe, enumerated and measured out the notions and sentiments with which he had endowed Dajan-Phinn.

  To model a character as one models a statue! To carry out an instruction, an education as one packs a trunk! To choose oneself the moral and physical qualities that ought to compose the idea being! So many exciting problems…but there was no time to linger over them. Dr. Bro carried everything away in the torrent of his loquacity.

  Professor Ruchard was right: the man made one dizzy. On listening to him, one no longer knew whether one was living in a hallucination or reality. And he was always ready with a riposte, as Ruchard had also observed.

  If one timidly expressed astonishment that a task s prodigiously complex had not required more time, he folded his arms beneath his chin and cried: “What! What! You admit without discussion, on the basis of a traveler’s tale, that a fakir can make a seed grow, within half an hour, into a plant covered with flowers, but you won’t admit that seven years have been enough for me to complete my work?”

  Or, striking minds by means of analogy, he cried: “Living beings! But your industry has almost created them, and by the thousand. Do you think than an automobile is so very different from an animal? Add to it an organ of vision like a photographic apparatus, and an organ of audition like the telephone, which would alert it to dangers on the road, and react against them, and you would have an embryonic being capable of guiding itself and steering itself unaided.”

  Every time he launched into these fantastic comparisons, Professor Ruchard protested, shaking his head gravely.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Bro anticipated. “The very principle of life is lacking, the energy inclusive in the seed, in the cell. The fact of having isolated and reconstituted that energy evidently constitutes the heart of my discovery.

  Letting himself off the bridle briefly, he launched into vast considerations, affirmed that mineral, vegetable and animal matter each had a unique essence, represented as a condensation of forces, grabbed some random object, depicted it as an agglomeration of tiny worlds incessantly in vibration….

  Then, having perceived a few signs of lassitude in his audience, he sketched some witty observations about Dajan-Phinn—a name that he had made up on a whim, for any trace of which one could search the world’s records in vain. He imagined the automaton, alerted to his true origin, disconcerting an employee of the civil service with the unexpectedness of his replies, asserting that he had neither father nor mother and concluding with the prodigious affirmation that: “I was born at the age of 20.”

  Naturally, the young foreigner was never present during these conversations. As soon as he appeared, the subject was changed. Everyone did his best to dissimulate that abrupt leap and to adopt a cheerful tone—efforts more praiseworthy than successful. For, since Dr. Bro’s revelation, the mere presence of Dajan-Phinn provoked an anxiety among all the participants that they could not suppress.

  It must be agreed that their situation was quite unique. To live in the company of an individual whose origin is unknown, and unknowable! About whom one demands, on talking to him, listening to him and looking at him: “Is he a man or an automaton?” Certainly, he is human in appearance—but a scientist, a genius or a madman, has sprung forth and proclaimed; “He’s an artificial being, emerged from my hand!” And from then on the mind doubts, alternately rebelling and submitting, and losing balance in those overly abrupt oscillations.

  In the little group that was upset and impassioned by the enigma set before them, however, Dr. Bro immediately found two convinced partisans: his daughter, blindly rallied by filial faith; and his sister-in-law, seduced by the attraction of the marvelous. Nothing could any longer tear Madame Bro away from the conviction that she was playing hostess to an automaton. Into the ardent discussions that where whispered in corners in Dajan-Phinn’s absence, she had even thrown a weighty argument, calculated to have an impact on the mind.

  “Come on!” she said. “Is his absolute insensibility that a of human being? Have you ever seen him take any interest in the slightest adventure, imaginary or real, of which love might be the motive? Has he ever sat Lise or Claude on his knee? Have the funny little things they say, their mannerisms and caresses, which delight us and bring tears to our eyes, ever had a softening effect on him? The joy of Suzanne and Henri on seeing one another surprises him. Their impatience to be married is incomprehensible to him. Does he not lack what the doctor calls, in his scientific language, the affective faculties? And is not that imperfection in his work also the mark of its authenticity?”

  Bro took on a contrite air. He confessed that, indeed, that was the weak point of his creation. He had, however, paid particular attention to those affective instincts so necessary to a human being, which are the sweetness of life. What cause had vitiated his cultures, caused the development of those faculties to be abortive? He did not know. Along with Dajan-Phinn’s speech defect—the difficulty of release that delayed the beginning of each sentence on his lips—they were the two flaws in his work…

  But such arguments were not sufficient to compel all conviction. Among the experts poring over Dajan-Phinn, two remained undecided: César Bro and Henri Ruchard.

  Since his brother’s shattering revelation, the painter had not ceased examining the young foreigner from the corner of his eye. And he found—but might it not be the effect of a kind of suggestion?—something artificial in the nacreous translucency of his complexion and the mineral gleam of his beard and hair, and an extra-natural perfection in the beauty of his lines and contours. At the same time though, as soon as he was inclined to believe, an instinct of prudence and pride rebelled within him and cried out to him to deny the miracle of science.

>   To that ancient horror of reason for everything unknown, Henri Ruchard was equally submissive, and it counterbalanced in him the impulse that, from the very first moment, had thrown him on to Dr. Bro’s side, inclining him to the solution most favorable to his cause, the only one capable of putting a conclusive end to those wearying quarrels. In fact, if the artificial origin of Dajan-Phinn were to be proven and recognized, all controversy ceased. If, on the contrary, that origin were contested, the discussion remained open indefinitely.

  Alas, Professor Ruchard did not appear to be close to giving in. In the little group, he represented the opposition, but a defiant, hostile opposition. In his dread of being duped and set up for mockery, he redoubled his gravity—and he set about studying Dajan-Phinn with concentrated but discreet attention: the attention reserved for a selected invalid to whom one does not wish to reveal his illness.

  What about Dajan-Phinn? If he was insensitive, Dajan-Phinn was, at least, very intelligent, and it could not take him long to perceive that he had become the center of attention of the little society in which he lived. Once put on his guard, none of the signs of that metamorphosis could any longer escape him: neither the silence, nor the awkward transitions that marked his entrance; nor the hesitant hands and fugitive fingers that were extended toward him at moments of greeting; nor the gazes that lingered on his face: the ponderous gaze of Professor Ruchard; the sly and pensive gaze of César Bro; the limpid and marveling gaze of Suzanne Bro. He could not be unaware of the instinctive gesture with which Madame Bro sometimes drew her children away from him, as if she were pulling them out of the way of a moving machine. He could not fail to perceive the change of attitude on the part of Henri Ruchard, once somber and sulky, seemingly inclined to avoid him and even treat him with hostility, but who now interrogated him cordially about his childhood and youth. It was impossible not to notice the sudden solicitude of Professor Ruchard, who, indifferent at first, now sounded his chest and examined him minutely at the slightest sign of indisposition…

  Evidently, Dajan-Phinn had to take note of all these symptoms and seek and explanation for them. For, if they did not cause him any emotion—given that nothing seemed to cause him any emotion—the mystery that he sensed around him had to appear to him as a problem of sorts, which his lucid mind would strive to solve.

  Now, the solution offered itself. This period of intense but discreet inquisition had been going on for about a fortnight. The banns of the imminent marriage had been posted.

  One afternoon, Dajan-Phinn went into the dining-room at an indolent pace in order to fetch a book that Madame Bro had forgotten. In the painter’s house, the room in question was only separated from the drawing-room by a light curtain that was drawn during the day. Dajan-Phinn heard his name pronounced on the other side of that veil. He recognized Henri Ruchard’s voice. He stood still and listened.

  “…I told you that he would be our evil genius. You see, Suzanne, that my presentiments did not deceive me. Without him, this accursed quarrel would be dead. On the contrary, it’s nourished by him—and now it’s poisoned, in a state of acute crisis. What good does it do to hide it? My father’s conclusions are injurious to yours. It’s the most wounding denial, the most insulting suspicion. Oh, Suzanne, my dear Suzanne, will it be necessary for us to separate, so near to our union, to being together? And all for this adventure in dementia…”

  “Please calm down,” pronounced Suzanne’s voice. “Don’t demoralize me in my turn. We need all our composure. So, your father has made his decision, in a firm manner. There’s no means of making him relent in his determination?”

  “I’ve tried everything, but in vain. Nothing will deter him any longer from talking to your father imminently. His verdict is without appeal. Disconcerted momentarily by the prodigious assertion, he had gradually pulled himself together. Oh, I’m certain that he’s undertaken the most scrupulous examination, with absolute probity. Be sure that if he had conserved the slightest doubt, he’d have admitted it frankly…but he no longer has any. For him, Dajan-Phinn is a mere mortal…”

  “Then your father won’t hesitate to accuse his old friend of lying?”

  “I believe that objection has held him in check longer than the apparent proofs provided by your father—but he explains and excuses the trickery. For him, Dr. Bro’s mind has been stricken, even disturbed, by the premature death of his wife, by excessive labor, and above all by his very defeat. And in consequence of that final shock, the idea developed within him of obtaining revenge at any cost, by means of this implausible but troubling fable.

  “My father,” Suzanne interjected, sharply, “will not admit the excuse of madness. He would consider that one more insult. But, all in all, is Monsieur Ruchard not struck by the singular signs that make Dajan-Phinn an exceptional being, beyond humanity?”

  “You can be sure that I’ve struggled, that I’ve used every weapon at our disposal—I, who ask nothing more than to be convinced, who have so much interest in the miracle being real. That hesitation he displays at the beginning of every statement? It appears that it’s quite common.”

  “The photographs that your father has seen?”

  “He’s sure, in the final analysis, that they’re fake. One can express anything one wishes by means of photography—and Dr. Bro had as many models as he might desire among the anatomical specimens in the zoological gardens of Borneo.”

  “That excessively perfect beauty?”

  “Why should it be the work of a man rather than that of nature?”

  “That almost absolute insensibility?”

  “Does one need to be an automaton to be heartless? How many human beings are ignorant of tenderness? No, for my father, Dajan-Phinn is a poor foundling, exceptionally endowed, like those little Alpine shepherds who are prodigious calculators, whom Dr. Bro must have discovered, cultivated and even subjected to suggestion. Come on—all these proofs are fragile, and break against reason. We can’t avoid an explosion. Oh, one sometimes has to ask oneself whether people who attach themselves to nothing and are indifferent to everything might be better off. They don’t have our anxieties…”

  “Would you change places with them?” she asked, softly.

  Stricken, he replied: “No, no. You’re right—but I’m like one of those bad-tempered horses enraged by any hobble, you see. I blasphemed. Certainly, it would be insane to despair, since we love one another, since I have you close to me, sure and faithful, and since I only breathe for you. To love, to be loved…oh, that really is the secret of all effort, all energy, the motto of happiness, and the flower and perfume of life. Yes, we’ll fight. Nothing will ever separate us.”

  “Have we not,” she went on, “undergone many other ordeals already: the waiting, the uncertainty…the worst of evils, it’s said, because it contains all of them.”

  “Dear Suzanne, I admire your smiling valor. Yes, for us the past answers for the future. There are already so many shared memories…that’s a chain which nothing can break. You remember, last year, when we still didn’t dare to admit anything to one another…taking little Lise for our confidant, who couldn’t understand, and, leaning over that two-year-old child in her crib by turns, we told her…everything that we would have wished to say to one another…”

  “Yes, that was the time when my uncle César, from whom you were taking lessons and who made you work on a portrait from a living model, exclaimed: ‘That’s odd—all your women resemble my niece Suzanne!’”

  Thus they poured out the cordial of memories for one another in advance of the impending battle. They lowered their voices. Sometimes, even the slight murmur paused, and from the silence, the noise of a kiss emerged, as soft and gentle as that of a drop of water falling into a bowl. Then the tender litany rose up again, replete with murmured oaths, praises, reminiscences and plans, acts of grace and acts of retreat, words to lull, or to cajole, puerile words, words as old as humankind, but which always seem new to those who pronounce them and those who hear them, words ak
in to kisses which, like them, take on a new savor in passing over the lips…

  Dajan-Phinn had heard everything: that he was or was not an automaton. No more shattering revelation had ever struck an understanding. To know that his origin was being discussed! To sense that he was on the frontiers of humanity! And, to the disarray into which such a dispute must have thrown his mind, was doubtless added the sadness of surprising that loving duo, of glimpsing the promised land in which he would never set foot.

  That day, he was more silent than usual. The next day, he was hardly to be seen. He shut himself up in his room. During dinner, at which the Ruchards were guests, he remained concentrated within himself. A sort of anguish weighed over the table in any case. The professor maintained a grave and ominous expression. The two fiancés were apprehensive about their fate. Only Dr. Bro was dazzling. One might have thought that he had scented the coming conflict and was becoming intoxicated in advance in an atmosphere with a whiff of gunpowder.

  After the meal, the guests spread out in the drawing-room, the door of which was open to the garden. The rain-soaked foliage was exhaling its green moist scent into the belated dusk of June. Dajan-Phinn wandered along the pathways. In common with the flowers that retained a certain phosphorescent gleam in the twilight, like a memory of day, his beauty was radiant and luminous. He stopped in front of Dr. Bro, who was camped on the steps of the perron, lighting his cigar.

  The young man opened his mouth slightly, and his eyelids fluttered. Then he began, softly: “Doctor, why have you always hidden from me what you have said about me to those surrounding us? Tell me the truth. Am I truly a sort of machine forged by your hands, designed to astonish the world, to proclaim your merit?”

  Bro threw away his match violently. “Everyone here will be my witness that I kept silent as much in your interest than in mine. And I would like to know who has permitted…”