Investigations of the Future

by Brian Stableford

  I would have liked to argue against the formal accusation point by point, to demonstrate how absurd the charges laid against me were. As soon as I opened my mouth, my advocate precipitated himself toward me and begged me to be silent, while he president, revolted by my cynicism, threatened to continue the arguments without me.

  The witnesses repeated under oath what they had said during the examination, but with less assurance. Monsieur D***, the stockbroker, seemed very annoyed to find himself mixed up in the nasty business. As for the experts, they were as categorical as possible. One juror, a builder, demanded a second opinion on the piece of paper found in the railway carriage. “One doesn’t condemn a man,” he said, “one the strength of a scrap of paper.” The foreman of the jury, a man of letters, who could not forgive a colleague for dishonoring the profession, made the remark that I had confessed to once having written the lines, and that the piece of paper was a metaphorical sledgehammer as striking as it was just—and that in the end, as well as the paper, there was the knife! They passed on.

  The prosecutor’s speech was a pure masterpiece of logic, common sense and literature. After having addressed his congratulations to Meynadier for the sureness with which he had conducted the examination, and the president for his impartiality in the direction of the arguments, he appropriated both their theses and then raised, not without eloquence, the most transcendent sociological considerations.

  My crime was a literary crime, if he might be permitted to express himself thus: the act of an intellectual whose mind had been led astray by the mirage of words and whose imagination had been perverted by poetic exaltation. A few truncated quotations from my works, and a choice of aphorisms and lines of verse perfidiously selected from my manuscripts, did not, according to the honorable magistrate, leave any doubt on this point. More fortunate that many other authors, I had had at least one passionate reader: the public prosecutor.

  “Thus,” he continued, “one is eventually convinced that one is living on a higher level than one’s fellows and the law, for an ideal of beauty; one believes that one is in touch with the inaccessible horizon of utopia; and when one finds oneself at grips with the miseries of existence one resorts to crime as deliberately as an apache!”

  Except that, while one had to reserve all one’s commiseration for the apache, born in the utmost depths of society and grown up amid vice, it was necessary to strike, and strike pitilessly, the man who, possessing a certain culture, authorized himself by virtue of that superiority to avenge his disappointments and failure on the best and most honest father of a family. The just punishment, which he demanded that the jury pronounce upon me, would be a salutary example for the deviants, the fallen in revolt against society, who went to ignominy as one marches to glory!

  The materiality of the facts was more than proven, thanks to the vengeful piece of paper that the murderer had left at the scene of the crime, like a visiting card, and the knife, by which, out of a refinement of pride, he had not wanted to be separated. Around these proofs, all the others were grouped, like the fasces surrounding the ax carried by a party of lictors.

  The speech made a profound impression on the audience. Our most eloquent masters of the bar—which did not include my defender—could not have vanquished it. Maître Dupillet raised a smile when he praised my abilities as a poet; his insistence on talking about my disillusionment, my poverty—more horrible for me than anyone else, since I had fallen into the gutter from the heights of Olympus—provoked protests. Then he broadened his fire, declared that the excesses of my imagination revealed a congenital defect, an undeniable derangement, observed by the most celebrated specialists—and he sat down, exhausted, after having begged for the indulgence and pity of the jury.

  When the president asked me if I had anything to add, I replied: “I am as much a stranger to the murder of the baker Hurelle as you are, Monsieur le Président. A frightful fatality is weighing upon me, but I am innocent; I swear that I am innocent.”

  That declaration merely aroused the indignation of the public. I distinctly heard cried of: “To death! To death!” and the president threatened to clear the room.

  A few minutes later, found guilty of premeditated murder without extenuating circumstances, I was unanimously condemned to death.

  I confess without boasting that the pronouncement of the judgment caused me scant emotion. I had expected it for a long time, and that was what I was there for. Incontestably, I had triumphed; I had attained the goal that I had adopted for myself; I had every reason to be satisfied. Well, I wasn’t—not at all. It is true that all our hopes are bound to end in disappointment.

  Condemned to death, huddled in a corner of my cell, I reflected strangely. Life no longer appeared to me from the same angle, and the prospect of having my head cut off by mistake no longer presented itself to me in its grandiose aspect of tragic beauty. I wanted to write my story, but what good would it do? Everyone would believe that the true story that I am telling today was only a fable designed to delay the execution of the judgment. I would die carrying my secret with me, and would be the real butt of the joke that I had wanted to play on society, since it would be forever unaware of it.

  Then again, now that I was on the point of losing it, life—even the miserable life that I had led before my incarceration—seemed sweet. I told myself, having become fearfully positive, that it was necessary not to seek midday at two o’clock in the afternoon, that life was made to be lived, not to be dreamed. I surprised myself by making plans for the future, as if my days were not numbered, and I saw myself certain of winning fame and fortune. All those who have the intention of committing suicide ought to be locked in the condemned cell like that; I’ll wager that after a few days of that regime, they would be completely cured.

  It is easily comprehensible that in the isolation in which I was languishing, the slightest incident took on considerable proportions. On returning after the verdict I had found a little two-sou bouquet on my shelf. Those flowers troubled me, deep down, more than my condemnation. Where did they come from? Who had put them there? Was it a protest or a mark of pity? Someone, therefore, was thinking of my with sympathy, and that someone as undoubtedly a woman.

  I must render her this justice, that not for an instant did I think that the little Muse could have chosen that gracious fashion of asking forgiveness for her weakness.

  The next day, I found another bouquet on my shelf, but, oh! much finer than the first! I have never seen roses more resplendent, smelled carnations more deliciously perfumed—and there were lilies; yes, lilies!

  I was moved to the point of tears. I put the immaculate petals devotedly to my lips and emotional stanzas rose up from my heart, as vibrant as a prayer of thanks addressed to my unknown friend.

  It was the same in the days that followed. To all my questions, the warders remained mute. They knew, however, that the flowers had not fallen from the sky; their vigilance could not be deceived every time; they must therefore be in connivance with the person who brought them—unless it was a custom of which I was unaware, and which I did not find displeasing. I believe, in fact, that such a distribution of flowers in prisons would improve the most savage heart.

  The terrible moment approached. My advocate did not hide from me that my petition for mercy had no chance of success. He addressed the vague encouragements to me with which one comforts sick people who are felt to be doomed. For myself, I tried to be reasonable, and said to myself that, after all, it was perhaps better to die than to seek to penetrate the mysteries that surrounded me on every side.

  One day—and I mean one day, not one morning at dawn—I saw the governor come into my cell, accompanied by two other grave individuals (everyone is grave in that administration). I had a presentiment that my sentence had just been commuted to hard labor for life.

  Terrified, before the governor could open his mouth. I said: “No, no, I don’t want a commutation; I’ve been legally condemned and I demand to be executed.”

&nbs
p; “I haven’t come to notify you of a commutation, Labrique,” the governor said, eventually, “but to set you at liberty immediately.”

  He told me that the banker Hurelle’s murderer, not wanting to allow an innocent man to be guillotined, had secured justice, after making a sworn written confession. That murderer was none other than Monsieur D***, the stockbroker! The wretch had thought he could avenge himself thus for an outrage committed by Hurelle upon a person who was dear to him. He had taken care to explain that the piece of paper found in the railway carriage was a copy of a ballad for which he had asked me—a copy that must have fallen from his jacket pocket during his struggle with the victim.

  I was nailed to my stool, wondering if I were not the victim of a hallucination.

  “Don’t worry, Labrique,” the governor went on. “Your trial will be rapidly revised; the law will compensate you for the wrongs it has done you; in the meantime, accept this.”

  He put a blue ticket in my hand.

  I thanked him, without really knowing what I was saying, and allowed myself to be led unsteadily to the door. Blinded by the bright sunlight, I was hesitating over which direction to take when a footman approached me, asked whether I was Pierre Labrique, and invited me to climb into a coupé stationed not far away. A few minutes later, the mystery of the flowers was revealed to me.

  Mrs. Burcket, the widow of the richest livestock-breeder in Illinois, had followed my trial with the passionate interest that American women put into delving into things that surprise them. Convinced of my innocence and revolted by the verdict, she had bribed the warders in order to get the flowers to me, had moved heaven and earth to contrive the revision of my trial, and was no stranger to the liberating resolution taken by Monsieur D .

  Today, the happy spouse of Mrs. Burcket, having become a Burcket myself for commercial reasons, I breed pigs in Illinois. I buy them, I sell them, I resell them, I export them, and the business is prospering; I’m the Hog King!

  Poets will say that I’ve committed suicide. Obviously, it’s true—but incontestably in the most agreeable fashion. The future belongs to monopolists!

  Oh, poetry of the future world!

  X. The Politician

  I was sent to Pittsburgh by the Universal Informer.

  Thanks to the generosity of the billionaire Carnegie (trusts, mining, currency dealing) who, having accumulated furiously, now feels the need to squander magnificently, the Old World—what am I saying? the entire world—will be endowed with an ultra-modern temple consecrated to peace. Completing the generous initiative of our little father the Tsar (knout, deportation, hanging) the billionaire has had constructed, in The Hague, a kind of Pasteur Institute of Peace.65 Diplomats, reinforced by men of science, instead of making hollow speeches, are seeking, in superbly-equipped laboratories, to isolate the various microbes of war and prepare a serum of peace. Thus, we are entitled to hope that in the near future, the work of these scientists will have delivered us forever from the scourge that has decimated humankind for so long.

  May Carnegie and the Tsar, those two truly good men, be praised!

  I said “has had constructed.” Indeed, when one is American and possesses billions, one passed from plan to execution with a rapidity of which we have no idea. Scarcely had the great benefactor Carnegie manifested the desire for that pacific foundation than, in the calm meadows of Holland, between two canals in which tranquil water lies perpetually dormant, a palace had arisen as if by magic! A modern-style palace of tomorrow, whose soft and pleasantly concave lines seem to give flexibility to marble and a rubbery compliance to iron. In the immense rooms the light flows in waves. A rival of Puvis66 has decorated its walls with frescos symbolizing the joys of peace: smiling and serene, processions of maidens advance among the flowers of the fields beneath a sky of unparalleled purity. Olive branches serve as a motif for the ornamentation of the woodwork as well as the wallpaper; and, in an evenly-conditioned atmosphere, a mysterious orchestra sends forth perfect harmonies.

  The scientists, who do not wear the carnivalesque costume of our diplomats, circulate placidly, their hands in their coat pockets and pipes in their mouths, and their discussion hall is, quite naturally, a concert hall.

  From the center of the palace rises a communications tower, in which the semaphoric, telegraphic and telephonic services of the entire world are brought together. Clerks are specially commissioned to scan the political horizon at every minute of the day and night. As soon as a black spot is signaled, the watchman notifies the chief of practical works. The latter takes a specimen of the black spot into his laboratory, examines it, studies it, grinds it into a powder, extracts the morbid germs and sows them in various culture media.

  Recently, the peace laboratories have been overflowing with work. Apart from the Moroccan conflict, and extremely black spot has been detected in the direction of the Orient. Out there, the belliferous microbe known as balkanic constitutes a permanent nucleus of infection. The debris of twenty races, the detritus of a hundred peoples, the residues of countless sects are agglomerated behind the Gate in that antechamber of Europe; and that confused mass, which has been compared, not unjustly, to a legume salad seasoned à la turque, is in perpetual fermentation. For centuries, people have striven to remedy that condition; the most highly-reputed physicians of peoples have exhausted the resources of their art there in vain.

  It was up to the Nicholas II-Carnegie Institute to bring a modern solution to that hair-raising oriental question.

  The laboratory assistants had no need to arm themselves with powerful microscopes to assure themselves that the frightful microbe of war was proliferating in the aforementioned black spot. They recognized no less easily that it belonged to the most dangerous variety of the species called fanatic—and everyone knows that microbes of that species multiply with an incredible rapidity in media warmed by nationalistic and religious rivalries, subsequently to acquire an exceptional virulence.

  Macedonia, since it is necessary to call it by its name, must, in consequence, be their natural habitat. Every inhabitant of the country, in fact, claims that his race or his beliefs set him against those of his neighbors; and until now, to prevent these conflicts from taking on too bellicose a form, no better means has been found than confiding to the Turks the duty of carrying out, among the disparate populations, frequent and vigorous blood-letting.

  The supervisor of the experimental sociology laboratory, charged with presenting a report to the International Committee of Pacifiers, became quite perplexed.

  “Damn it, damn it!” he murmured, while stuffing his pipe. “This is very serious, very serious! These want to remain Turks or Tartars, those want to be ruled by the Greeks, others prefer the Bulgars, the Serbs, the Wallachians—what do I know? It’s marvelous—everyone in the country is a foreigner!”

  “And a nationalist, of course,” put in a laboratory assistant.

  No one has any more right than anyone else to the territory,” the supervisor continued, “any more than anyone has to any point on the globe whatsoever, since the land remains and they disappear. It’s therefore necessary to give it to all of them. Here’s an admirable opportunity to form, with these heterogeneous elements, united by the same idea of independence and emancipation, a new people! Can you imagine new notions of association and solidarity injected in profusion into the country; individual liberty developing its activity and initiative there; and rivalries transforming themselves into praiseworthy competition, by virtue of the cooperation of all in the common endeavor, and the mutual aid that they’ll render in making the disinherited of today into the happy people of tomorrow?”

  “It would be a big step toward pacification,” observed the assistant respectfully, “but I fear, Master, that you can’t destroy the frightful microbe in that way. That the practice of free existence can cause nationalities of origin to be forgotten we see every say among the immigrants to the United States, but you’re not taking into account the religions that incessantly foment h
ostility between Muslims, Jews and Roman, Greek, Russian and Syrian Catholics, etc., etc...”

  “You’re absolutely right, my friend. I intend to stipulate in my report that it’s also appropriate to inject emancipated thought. All previous religions having successively failed to keep their promises, it’s best that a new people don’t adhere to any of them. It can easily be demonstrated to them that the mysteries of their respective religions are a veritable hoax, and that supernatural intervention, about which the talk incessantly, is a trick. They’ll forget those beautiful legends as the tales of olden days are forgotten, and will be united by the same respect for natural morality, the principles of which are within the grasp of the simplest minds.

  The atheist serum was therefore prepared, in accordance with these ultra-modern givens, and presented to the International Committee for Peace, in solemn session, as the only one capable of combating the balkanic microbe efficaciously.

  When its composition had been explained to them, the delegates of the European powers, assembled in the great hall inundated with light, where the smiling maidens of the frescos symbolized the joys of peace, were momentarily struck with amazement. The mysterious orchestra stopped playing; then the murmurs rose up. Certainly, everyone ardently desired peace, but they all desired, even more ardently, a part of Macedonia. Russia, which supported the Bulgarian claims, was the first to become indignant and declared that it would be delivering the country to the worst anarchy. Austria, which cherished Bosnia, declared that, on the contrary, a strong authority like its own was necessary to hold these cosmopolites in respect. England, which supported Greece, protested against the inconvenience of the method, and Italy, which coveted Albania, smiled pityingly. As for the representative of Germany, whose sovereign marches hand in hand with the Great Turk, he recalled that his Emperor had just solemnly declared that one could not govern without God, and that religion was necessary for children and peoples. The well-known spiritualism of the French delegate gave him a duty to oppose the employment of any such serum.