Investigations of the Future

by Brian Stableford

  “I congratulate you, Madame, on knowing our national literature so well, but intoxication that is not poured out by beauty is, for me, merely a brutal delirium, and that beauty is the guarantee of the sublimity of my joy, for a golden ewer with rare sculptures can only contain a nectar worthy of the gods!”

  I proclaimed that with such conviction that Madame’s drink went down the wrong way and her husband the prophet was gripped by an outburst of laughter that was prolonged like a hurrah in a crowd.

  After supper, Laura sat down at the piano, excusing herself for only being familiar with the German repertoire. While her fingers flew nimbly over the keyboard and melancholy ballads succeeded the broadly overlapping chords of passionate sonatas, Hierophas and I, seated on the same sofa, silently blew away the smoke of our cigars. He was doubtless absorbed in his calculations, while I was pursuing my flirtation. Each note seemed to vibrate for me alone. I felt that she was smitten, as I was smitten, and that her heart was coming to me on the wings of the music, just as the blue spirals of smoke were bearing mine toward her.

  “My dear friend,” said Smithson, suddenly, “I’ve been thinking about the question you asked me a little while ago.”

  “What question?”

  “About the future of humankind.”

  “Oh, yes…yes.”

  “Tomorrow morning, perhaps I’ll be able to give you a more categorical reply, but at first glance, this is what I observe: the gods having rendered the earth inhabitable, humans have gradually recreated it. The forces of nature have been tamed by mind, if not entirely, at least in part, and…are you listening to me?”

  It was not only the piano but her voice, a warm mezzo-soprano that filled the room with tremulous and tender notes.

  “Yes, yes!” I hastened to reply to Smithson, who continued.

  “Follow my reasoning carefully. After the great physical discoveries will come the great metaphysical discoveries, which, even more than the former, will transform the world. We shall thus advance to the limits of the unknowable, and…are you with me?”

  She had made a selection of the most fiery declarations of love, and I experienced I don’t know what mad desire to respond to that voice, which was proclaiming in vain the ardor of its flame. Without being aware of it, I repeated with her the words: “Yes, I’m yours.”

  “I think,” said Smithson, laughing, “that you’re a little distracted.”

  “The music is so penetrating,” I stammered, understanding my gaffe.

  “I’ll wager that you’re in love?”

  “Me!” I felt a shiver run down my spine. Repaying the audacity, I added, laughing: “I won’t take the bet, because you only bet on sure things, since nothing can be hidden from you.”

  “I congratulate you on being in love—it’s the noblest passion of all; I hope you’ll be happy.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him whether I would be—he ought to know! To address that question to a husband, however, seemed to be to be in doubtful taste, and I relied with a vague exclamation.

  “Is one ever sure of being happy?”

  “Yes, sometimes,” Smithson replied—and he dispatched his smoke slowly toward the ceiling, smiling at agreeable memories.

  That prophet, that prescient, was the blindest and least jealous of husbands! He was truly soaring above contingencies. He read the future and did not see the present: his wife’s flirtatiousness and our exchanged glances. He did not understand my disturbance at all. I felt sorry for him.

  When she had finished, as I congratulated the cantatrice, I told her that her song had given birth to an emotion within me to which her husband could testify. Laura denied being a great artiste and claimed that in order to have been moved I must have been very obliging. I was about to say something stupid when some neighbors arrived to talk to Smithson about local business. As such questions were no more interesting to Laura than to me, we took refuge in a corner of the drawing room and resumed our intimate conversation.

  She explained that, living in an environment where everything was foreseen, the unknown, that universal alarm, had a charm for her that she could not resist. For her, I was the unknown; an invincible force had driven her toward me, and my gallantry had done the rest. Incidentally, she told me that William and she had separate apartments, and that the room set aside for me was only separated from hers by a glazed corridor.

  I limited myself to repeating that she was the most beautiful, most adorable and most marvelously amiable of all the women I had encountered thus far. I would have liked to silence the immense love that, on seeing her, had struck me like a thunderbolt, but I could not do it. By retaining me in hr proximity, she had prolonged my happiness but aggravated my torment, and I would only leave the house in permanent despair. Perhaps I put a little more emphasis into it than sincerity, but she didn’t appear to perceive it.

  The prophet bid his neighbors farewell.

  Laura stood up, passed close to me, and leaned over to whisper in my ear: “One o’clock in the morning.” Then she slowly drew away, to say goodbye to the people who were leaving.

  I remained nailed to my chair by shock. Laura had given me a rendezvous, and a nocturnal rendezvous, which could only take place in her bedroom! My first reflection was to think that these American prudes so strict in their “respectability,” so prompt to be shocked when one mentioned Parisian women, could certainly give them pointers! I could not imagine, in fact, that one of our honest bourgeois wives would fall into the arms of anyone like that, after a few minutes of conversation. The sphinx had feet of clay! Which didn’t prevent me from glorying in my conquest—one doesn’t meet the wife of a prophet every day—and reveling in the thought of the promised felicities.

  Having exchanged good nights with my hosts, accompanied by warm handshakes, I found myself alone in a very elegant apartment, naturally provided with all desirable comforts. Then I reviewed the multiple incidents of the day; they appeared infinitely less odd to me.

  I was now certain that I had stupidly allowed myself to be caught by a flirt, an expert and exceedingly cunning woman who was drawing me into a wicked escapade. Her gracious welcome, her smiles, her glances, her beauty—everything seemed suspect to me. That insistence on my staying, the skill in engineering private conversations, that outrageously low-cut dress and those lascivious songs—was all of that not a task of seduction planned in advance? Besides which, could there be anything unexpected in that house?

  An atrocious idea crossed my mind: perhaps she was following a plan concocted by her husband. Yes, yes, the fellow’s joviality rang false and his cordiality was only feigned. True, I had not familiar with prophets, but it seemed to me that such a man would not put himself out for a mere reporter, explain his working methods to him, introduce him to his wife, allow her to flirt with him—for he could not have failed to notice it—and then entertain him under his roof. What did it signify that he had sent away my carriage, and made me drink, in spite of myself, strange alcohol decorated with the name of Champagne? And the care he took to tell me that he could not foresee anything that concerned his wife—was that not to give me to understand that I could pay court to her without fear?

  I threw myself down on a chaise-longue, certainly not to sleep but to collect myself and concentrate my ideas.

  There was no need to seek any further; I had fallen into a trap. What were their objectives? What did they expect of me? Did they want to make me sing? They couldn’t suppose that I’d roll over for money. Did Smithson want to take revenge on his wife? He couldn’t have expected my arrival.

  Aided by the darkness and the silence, the most extravagant thoughts crossed my mind. Sinister anecdotes crowded my memory. Who could tell, with these eccentrics, what one might expect? I could already see myself riddled with bullets or lacerated by stab-wounds.

  I thought about running away. Through the house? That was unthinkable; I might get lost in the maze of corridors and stairways, and bump into the porter, who would mistake
me for a thief and shot me dead. Jump out of the window? I looked out; it opened into an interior courtyard.

  The best thing to do was to stay in my room, lock the door and wait for morning. In order to put this very reasonable plan into execution, I went to lock the door. There was no key!

  Firmly decided not to go to sleep, and to remain ready for anything, I paced back and forth, wondering whether it might not be prudent to barricade the door with furniture. No, in spite of appearances, I might be mistaken, and then, how ridiculous it would have been to erect such defenses.

  My watch showed a quarter to one. Already! Laura would be expecting me in a quarter of an hour. Would she be the only one expecting me? Whether she was sincere or setting a trap for me, she would be expecting me, I was sure of it. At that moment I imagined her there, all ready, at the other end of the corridor, her beautiful body draped in a light and transparent fabric, lifting up her loose tresses with a gracious gesture and darting a last glance at her mirror. Then I saw her curl up, tremulously, in a profound armchair and smile within it, that dazzling smile which transfigured her beauty. Her feverish eyes, fixed on the face of a grandfather clock, following the progress of the hands... By the undulation of lace I sensed her breathing becoming gradually weaker. I saw her beautiful arms, so pure in their lines, coming apart like wings, and extend toward the unknown—toward me—while her lips came together to blow me a kiss.

  Shall I lose that delightful Laura forever because of a stupid and unjustifiable pusillanimity? Shall I exasperate myself and curse myself in a vain attempt? I’ve certainly seen what I’ve seen, heard what she said to me; thunderbolts are undeniable: she loves me! She loves me and I’d be stupid not to respond to her love, to let her go because a hallucinatory wakefulness has given birth within me to chimerical dreads. No, a thousand times no! Shall I tell her tomorrow that I was afraid? A truly fine defeat for a gallant man! All the more reason to do it if there’s a risk to be run. That woman, sincere or false, has trusted me, and I can’t appear to her to be a coward or an imbecile.

  The hands of my watch were approaching one o’clock. What if I were going to my death, though? Damn it! The husband was one of those idiots that can be fooled with impunity. Was it not the height of cynicism to take the wife of one’s host? Get away! Is there a morality for love?

  The d’Artagnanesque side of my character got the upper hand, forcefully, and I opened my bedroom door.

  Moonlight coming through the windows that lit the corridor described large black arabesques on the floor. I slid along the wall, muffling the sound of my footsteps as much as possible, pricking up my ears at the slightest suspect rustle. I reached the blissful door.

  It is no exaggeration to say that at that moment, my heart was beating as if to burst. I scratched softly; no sound replied to me; no light filtered through the cracks.

  Softly, I called: “Laura, my darling?”

  Nothing.

  I presumed that Laura, by virtue of some residue of respectability, preferred silence, darkness and mystery. Boldly, I pushed the door. It opened. Hesitantly, I advanced into the darkness, dreading at every step that I might bump into a item of furniture.

  “Laura?” I repeated, tenderly. “Laura, my darling?”

  Emotion must have paralyzed her throat, for, after a few seconds, I perceived the hoarse sound of her respiration. Cautiously, I approached the bed. I reached out a hand; I felt a dangling arm: her arm, rather strong, with pure firm lines. I seized it, and covered it with kisses.

  Abruptly, it tore away from my caresses. The bed shuddered, as if she had leapt out of it. Electric lamps lit up and I saw, standing by the bed, in his sculptural nudity, the black man who had opened the door to me!

  Alarmed, he had flicked the switches, and grabbed a revolver. I stopped him with a placatory gesture; he recognized me.

  How could I explain my presence? I could not confide to him that I was going his mistress’s room and that, having mistaken the door, I wished he would tell me where I was. I gave the excuse that I was looking for a bathroom, to which he gave me directions tremulously, and I found myself back in the corridor.

  What should I do? Knock on another door? It seemed to me, now, that it was a nearby door that she had indicated to me. No, though. What if, this time, I were to go into the prophet’s room? I retraced my steps. And, although it was exceedingly cruel to tell myself that Laura might perhaps be there, impatient to see me, I went back into my room, furious with myself, ashamed of the ridicule that would shower upon me if rumor of the adventure got around.

  In the morning, I had resolved to cut things short, to leave without even seeing my hosts, and send them a letter explaining the plausible reasons that had motivated my precipitate departure. I forgot that in that house, one could not do anything that was not anticipated.

  Scarcely was I in the hallway than I saw Smithson and his wife advancing toward me, with their hands outstretched, thanking me effusively.

  “For what?”

  Finally, the prophet spoke. “Yesterday, when I received your card, I was with Laura. ‘A Frenchman!” she said. ‘Will you introduce me to him?’

  “‘Do you intend to deceive me with him?’ I asked.

  “‘Why not?’ she replied.

  “Confronted with that threat, I declared to her that, in spite of everything she could do, I was certain that she would not deceive me. She replied that she did not believe in my prophecies, and that, if she wanted to, she would deceive me. My prediction, and I thank you for it, has thus been realized this time, since Laura did not leave my side last night.”

  “And I have won my bet too,” continued Madame, “since, if I had indicated the door to my room last night, instead of that of my servant, you would at the present moment, William, be well and truly deceived; while my servant would have been spared a shock.”

  I must have had an expression so pitiful, and a manner so disconcerted, that the adorable Laura thought it necessary to offer me excuses.

  “Alas, Monsieur, I am indeed not the Messalina you thought you had encountered; I’m merely an honest mother, who permitted herself to play a joke on your complacency—a cruel one, I admit—and who sincerely begs your pardon. I would have been horribly vexed if I hadn’t succeeded in seducing you and I would rather you were dead than had failed to come to knock on the black man’s door. Be assured that I shall conserve a precious memory of all the gallant things you said. I hope that, for your part, you will also recall our flirtation with pleasure.”

  And Laura held out her pretty hands, which I kissed respectfully.

  “I don’t want to be in your debt,” Hierophas said to me, “And I don’t want you to harbor any resentment with regard to an adventure from which none of use emerges entirely honorably. This is my response to your question about the progress of humankind. Humankind is in decline in Europe, Asia and Africa; it is making progress in America.”

  “Which means?”

  “That humankind will become American, or disappear!”

  II. The Reverend

  Setting the ridiculousness of the adventure aside, I had every reason to congratulate myself, since the prophet had indicated to me mathematically the direction in which humankind was progressing. It remained to discover how it would progress on the new path. It seemed to me that a visit to the New Life Club would fill me in on this point; a friend in Cincinnati offered to introduce me and serve as my guide.

  At first sight, the club in question resembles all the rest—and God knows how many of them there are in the territory of the Union—in making the same bluff: pretention to colossal proportions, insolent and garish luxury. It goes without saying that a multitude of black men and innumerable servo-motors permit every member to satisfy his most capricious whims rapidly and effortlessly, each to his own: work, play, read, chat, argue, eat, drink, sleep, dance, play sport, watch various spectacles or flirt, if the inclination moves him. My introducer gave me a thousand details about the organization and told me that the
club had been founded according to the principles of Reverend Lowster of Cincinnati.

  Although I had never heard mention of the Reverend, I did not want to appear to be ignoring his work, and declared that, without permitting myself to criticize such respectable principles, his “new life” seemed to me to be strangely similar to the old.

  “How alike you all are!” my Yankee replied, with the loquacity of a do-gooder. “You stand in ecstasy before a working machine, the flood of light that springs forth, the cylinder that records speech, the invisible wave that carries it, the automobile that devours distance, the airplane that takes flight—all of those that are children’s toys. Science amuses you, and for you, moral discoveries pass unperceived. Know, then, once and for all that science has given all it could; it has gone from the heaviest substance to the imponderable, and we say to it: ‘Stop! Your role is over!’ To tame the force—blind, like all forces—that we call nature, there is no longer any but one force in the world: that is moral force.

  “That’s why we reckon that Reverend Lowster had one of those inspirations of genius that are very rarely encountered in history, when he demanded of all the members of the circle to make an undertaking to leave nothing to chance.”

  “You’ll excuse me,” I replied, “but I don’t really see how that can greatly modify the behavior of your compatriots, who are not given to treating things lightly, being practical men who calculate and carefully weigh the pros and cons before launching themselves into any project.”

  “Yes, it doesn’t seem like much, and yet it’s a considerable matter for the future of our race,” said the enthusiastic disciple of Reverend Lowster, with the discreet smile of a polite gentleman who dares not mock overtly.

  We were going through a reading room; he fell silent, and I took advantage of it to admire a collection of Bibles, ranging from the most ancient parchments to very recent editions. There were handwritten pages there, and other printed with an amazing perfection and beauty, marvels of miniaturization, design and engraving and masterpieces of binding, such as I had never seen anywhere else. One might have thought that those simple books revealed in themselves as much enthusiasm and mystic grandeur as our Gothic cathedrals. I was slightly surprised to see the respectful indifference of the readers in their regard. They probably all knew the Bible by heart, for none of them was reading it. On the other hand, they were competing for the magazines, newspapers and illustrated periodicals of the entire world, including those sheets of very special artistry that are produced in Paris for export.