The Supreme Progress

by Brian Stableford

  Pay? Never! In case her vibrant amorous heart

  Faltered…

  I’d rather keep my budget wisely

  Unaltered!

  “Tonight, it doesn’t make sense—but sometimes, it astonishes the reader. Quarter past five…stop! The copy’s all in.”

  All the reporters put down their pens and telephones. They all put their hats in numbered boxes and make their way, as the idiots they were before being coiffed, to collect their 3.50 francs from the cashier.

  “The reporting is nothing, as an expense, by comparison with the cost of administrative personnel and furnishings.”

  The furnishings? It doesn’t surprise me that they’re costly. Imagine immense hothouses filled with palm-trees and orchids, criss-crossed by bird-flies and hummingbirds! These hummingbirds are something of a nuisance. Fortunately, the American Humbugson has just invented a colibricidal powder.

  And the walls that are visible, out there in the distance, and those abrupt crags, are made of reinforced concrete, lit up by night. I won’t even mention the basement for the printing-press, where no one is printing, because there are people with exquisite voices dictating copy into phonographs whose tapes, reproduced by the million, will carry the spoken newspaper to its subscribers.

  No one any longer knows how to read or write—that’s progress!—because of the aforementioned phonograph. One only finds a few people, backward in that respect, among the dregs of the population—those are the people employed as reporters…

  Crack! My three-legged cane-bottomed stool has broken beneath my contortions—and I fall back into our own sad epoch, into the offices of a periodical in 1886.

  What a paltry establishment yours is, my poor Chat Noir!

  Charles Cros: The Pebble That Died of Love

  A Story Fallen From the Moon

  (1886)

  On the 24th of Chum-Chum (Vegan calendar, 7th series) a terrible moonquake devastated the Sea of Tranquility. Horrible or charming fissures opened up in that virgin42 but infertile ground.

  A flint (definitely not from the epoch of chipped stone, more probably that of polished stone43) chanced to roll down from a doomed peak and, proud of its roundness, lodged about a phthwfg44 from fissure AB33, commonly known as Moule-à-Singe.45

  The rosy appearance of this region, entirely new to a flint scarcely chipped away from its peak, and the black manganese moss that overhung the new abyss, frightened the audacious pebble, which stopped dead, foolishly.

  The fissure burst into silent laughter—the silence peculiar to the Beings of the Planet Without an Atmosphere. Far from losing its grace in the course of that laughter, its physiognomy gained a certain exquisite modernity therefrom. Enlarged, but more elegant, it seemed to say to the pebble: “Come on then, if you dare!”

  The latter, whose name was actually Skkjro,46 judged it appropriate to preface its amorous assault with an aubade, sung into the void perfumed by magnetic oxide.

  It employed the imaginary coefficients of a fourth-degree equation.47 It is well-known that in ethereal space, one obtains unparalleled fugues in that fashion (Plato vol. XV, ch. 13).

  The fissure (whose Selenian name means Augustine) seemed at first to be appreciative of this homage. It even softened, welcomingly.

  The Pebble, emboldened, was about to take advantage of the situation, rolling further, perhaps penetrating…

  At this point, the drama commences—a drama brief, brutal, and true.

  The dry surface of the Moon, jealous of this idyll, was subject to a second quake.

  The frightened fissure (Augustine) closed again, forever, and the pebble (Alfred) exploded with rage.

  That was the beginning of the Age of Chipped Stone.

  Charles Epheyre: The Mirosaurus

  (1885)

  What does one need to be happy? A faithful and gentle wife, a modest and honorable social position, good health and reasonable comfort. In my opinion, there’s no need for greater wealth.

  And that is why Monsieur Perron, the local registrar in Martinville, in Calvados, should have been perfectly happy.

  His little house was surrounded by a garden; it shone whitely in the sunlight, when there chanced to be any sunlight, surrounded by greenery. It was the most luxurious house in Martinville, for the presbytery—which could have given it some competition—was old, falling into ruins, whereas the Perron house had been recently repaired. Its youth made a contrast with the decrepit hovels and smoky cottages of the village.

  Alas, one always finds, even in the wisest man, something akin to a seed of madness. Monsieur Perron, who had no ambition for himself, became ambitious on seeing his son grow up.

  Georges would certainly not grow old in the humble status of his father! He would leave the ignoble province where everyone yawns, and see Paris. He would arrive there triumphantly; he would make a great name for himself, would amass a colossal fortune. He would get his hands on the only two great kinds of wealth that bring happiness: fame and money. He would pierce, by dint of hard work or genius, the immense obscurity in which the petty and the humble vegetate dolorously. That was what Monsieur Perron repeated to himself night and day, while balancing his accounts.

  As soon as Georges was ten years old, he was sent to school in Caen. He had a kepi and a tunic; he wore out trousers that were too short, on wooden benches that were too hard. He tore and covered with ink the masters of ancient and modern literature; he learned to play prisoner’s base and tag, to write lines with three pens joined together and to call those who denounced him when he copied his homework lunatics.

  Those studies lasted six years. That is how long it takes to form the hearts and minds of children. Monsieur Perron would have been quite satisfied had Georges been able to combine his various talents with the advantage of a baccalaureate, but Greek and Latin had conserved all their mysteries for the poor lad. He failed completely at the first attempt.

  During this interval, Monsieur Perron died. His robust confidence in the future was unshaken, and, as he departed for the other world, he had retained all his hopes. Hopes or illusions, it scarcely matters; death is gentle when one still possesses them. May the God of Abraham and Jacob show us such favor at our last sigh. He left three people behind: Mother Perron, a meek and tranquil creature; Nonotte, the busy old maid, simple and loquacious; and finally, Georges, who had no baccalaureate but was no less admired and adored by the two women for that.

  It turned out that Monsieur Perron had been very thrifty. He left some capital— government stock, to be exact, with small periodical dividends. It was enough to live quietly, without exaggerated luxury but without anxiety for the future. In Martinville, with an income of 12,000 francs, one can still hold one’s head up, and it is permissible to keep a few bottles of burgundy behind the firewood for special occasions.

  By dint of perseverance, Georges eventually obtained his baccalaureate. That was a memorable occasion in Martinville. That day, it was almost forgotten that Monsieur Perrron was dead. The poor brave man would, however, have been highly delighted with that fine introduction to glory.

  The beginning of a career is fraught with so many rough patches that I am always astonished when anyone dares to commit himself to one. Georges hesitated between the law, medicine, administration, commerce, the army and industry for such a long time that by the age of 23 he still had not made a decision.

  Must the truth be told? Our friend was lazy. He did not like activity, effort or strife. Why bestir oneself, exhausting oneself in sterile and tiring attempts, when happiness was at hand, under that humble roof where there was an indulgent mother and a devoted servant? Is there any pleasure greater than taking a nap beside a stove or watching big grey clouds borne along in hurried swirls by the wind from the sea?

  Growing pale over boring books, confronting redoubtable examinations, visiting unfamiliar, malevolent, surly and harsh people, depriving oneself of walks, sleep and rest—that was how Georges represented glory to himself, and it scarcely seemed e
nviable.

  He liked the joys of nature. He loved birdsong, which the return of spring recalls to love and joy. Later, in summer, he wandered through the countryside, admiring the large meditative oxen, glad to be alive, grazing meadow-grass. Often, on the cliffs, he listened to the sound of the waves that came to beat the rocks at high tide. For long hours he contemplated the eccentric seagulls, white patches playing with the crests of the waves, or the boats whose sails were filled by the wind, leaning over the abyss. Then a secret contentment took possession of him; he thought vaguely that it must be hard to be an audacious seagull, struggling with squalls, or a valiant boat defying the fury of tempests. He liked it better being Georges Perron, petty bourgeois of Martinville, who, after his excursion to the rocks, was sure of finding the table set and a benevolent maternal smile when he returned home.

  Alas, benevolent maternal smiles never last for very long.

  Madame Perron’s death did not change Georges life of idleness at all. The excellent Nonotte, who had rocked him in his cradle, continued surround him with tender care. After a few months of sadness, the little house recovered its calmness. Everything was orderly and serene again. Georges resumed his solitary walks and continued his dreams.

  What was he thinking about as he daydreamed? Where did his chimerical aspirations lead him? Where was that smoke going? Who knows? Perhaps in the direction of great thoughts, perhaps that of great actions.

  In his excursions to the shore, Georges had one place that he preferred—a sort of natural grotto that was half-submerged at high tide, but which the low tide uncovered in its entirety. It was, nevertheless, rather difficult to reach and curiosity-seekers never visited it. It was there that Georges spent long hours in meditation.

  When he finally went home, he saw from a distance that Nonotte was waiting for him impatiently on the doorstep.

  “It’s 6 p.m. already,” said the worthy woman. “Hurry up, or the joint will be burnt.”

  She brought warm clothes and slippers. All the wellbeing of the hearth warmed the vagabond’s heart again. Then, there was steaming soup, which Nonotte placed on the white tablecloth in a ceremonious manner. And when the dinner was over, Georges, sitting in an armchair, smoked his long pipe, falling half-asleep, lulled by the hum of the stove and Nonotte’s chatter.

  No neighbor or unwelcome guest ever came to trouble that peace. Their only commensal was Miche, a fat and indolent she-cat who lay at the foot of the armchair.

  At 9 p.m. or thereabouts, his eyelids having become heavy, he had to go lie down, languishing on the huge, soft, pleasantly-scented bed with its long white curtains. Georges stretched himself out, snuffed out his candle and, the following morning, feeling much better, felt ready to resume the thread of his destiny.

  By virtue of visiting the same grotto every day, he ended up knowing it down to its smallest details. It was adorned with fossil seashells that projected from the clay. Sometimes, Georges detached one of these venerable relics with his knife. He was familiar with their forms and their indentations. Carefully, he studied the structure of each shell, examining the folds, the juncture and the involutions, and often regretted not knowing the names of the various species that he had before his eyes. He knew, however, thanks to a vague memory of his schoolwork, that fossils were ancient creatures that had lived in distant epochs and had been fixed for hundreds of thousands of years within the Earth’s crust.

  An old book on natural history gave him a few summary indications; he learned that there were Ostreas, Pectens, Rhynchonellas and Ammonites, and became interested in their history. One day, he brought a few of these seashells home, then others, and yet others. He lovingly chose all of those whose stria had been best preserved over time; he put them on a shelf, grouping them according to their forms and analogies, comparing them, turning them round and classifying them as best he could.

  An unknown force developed within him, like a secret and mysterious instinct, which pushed him forward. Every day, his little collection became dearer to him; every day it took up more of his time. He was astonished to find himself so ardent about things that he hardly understood. With a certain surprise, he was aware of the birth of a strange vocation and he was a witness rather than a protagonist of the passion that stirred within him.

  As for Nonotte, she did not understand the assembly of old shells at all. Georges brought new ones back every day. To the great indignation of the honest servant, an entire room was devoted to this debris. They were on the floor, under the bed, in the wardrobes and the cupboards. It was a museum in miniature; had Nonotte not worshiped her young master, she would have swept away that entire paleontological orgy like unsavory dust.

  The solitary walks had an objective now; the daydreams had taken on a precise form. It was a matter of enriching the shell collection, of amassing in the little house in Martinville these witnesses of ancient ages. Georges was no longer living in the present; he was in the past. He was 500,000 years older than his fellow citizens in Martinville. He became a contemporary of the Ammonites, imagining their conflicts, their appetites and their frolics in the seas of the earliest terrestrial ages. He imagined immense beaches animated by the combats of monstrous creatures, and he lost himself in that contemplation of the past, full of disdain for the vulgarities of today.

  In his monotonous and comfortable existence, gripped by this strange mania, Georges quickly forgot all the stupid things that one learns at school. He no longer thought about the splendors of Paris and all the pleasures that the capital reserves for young people. All of that phantasmagoria gradually disappeared and faded away in his memory, stifled by the nonchalance of present wellbeing, the force of a nascent passion and the majesty of the solitary and calm nature in the midst of which he lived.

  There was an old family friend of the Perrons living in Caen, who was a member of the Paleontological Society of Calvados. Georges wrote to him asking for advice. The worthy man, astonished and delighted, came to Martinville and admired Georges’ collection. He weighed the Ammonites, turned over the Terebratulas and read aloud the labels stuck to the oysters.

  “You must join our society,” he exclaimed, excitedly. “You’ve become the equal of the best of them at a stroke.”

  Georges protested at first, judging himself unworthy of such an honor; then, seized for the first time with a confused sentiment of ambition, he accepted.

  Twice a month he went to Caen to attend the meetings of the Paleontological Society. There he learned the elements of geology, and was encouraged by honest advice. The Society was composed of worthy men devoid of arrogance and vanity. They led modest little lives, untroubled by any extreme desire. They followed from afar, by means of a few scientific journals, the great movement of progress whose frenzied whirlwind carried away their colleagues in Paris. Alongside those violent conflicts, fecund ideas and desperate efforts, they kept quiet in their petty province, satisfied with their humble station, fanatically amorous of their science and their region. They only spoke about Parisians with irony, perhaps mingled with regret; but they returned to their amours very rapidly. With no other passion than for their fossils, they discussed the stratum of a shell or the classification of a bivalve with more enthusiasm than the taking of Sebastopol or the war in Italy.

  At about this time, Georges made a friend.

  One of the inhabitants of Martinville having died, his house fell by inheritance to an individual of an animal species totally unknown in Norman villages. This person came unceremoniously to establish himself in the house he had inherited, and for a long time was the object of all the conversations in the main square and everywhere else.

  Monsieur Frantz Loch, born in Winterstein in German Switzerland, resembled a spider. He was tall and thin, with arms and hands that seemed to go on forever. Black hair, greying slightly, falling upon his shoulders; blue eyes possessed of a softness and an extreme strength; coarse and angular features, and a deep voice; something wild and benevolent in the ensemble: such was the new inhabita
nt of Martinville.

  He had brought musical instruments with him: a violin, a violoncello and a piano. Every evening, he devoted himself to prolonged musical exercises, and well into the night, sentimental melodies such as Martinville had never heard mingled with the sounds of the wind and the sea.

  During the day, Frantz Loch walked on the strand, listening to the whistling of the breeze, the roaring of the waves and the rattle of the shingle. Often, in the midst of the racket, he would take a pencil and paper from his threadbare coat and write feverishly. His long legs strode back and forth on the sand as if running after inspiration.

  It was in nearby locations that Georges was searching for shells, sculpting his stone with his hammer, absorbed in the conquest of some Terebratula or an Ostrea. The same disdain for the banalities of life united the two men. They did not take long to get to know one another, to talk to one another, to understand one another. Georges offered to show Frantz his collection; Frantz offered to let Georges hear his music. Frantz admired the collection; Georges waxed ecstatic over the music.

  Finally, after a hard life, Frantz was able to find some rest. Until now, the fatalities of life had drawn him through misery and misfortune. That naïve and tender soul had run into human heedlessness, ingratitude and malice. Passionate about his art, Frantz had thought that it was sufficient to eat when hungry, to do no harm to anyone, and to be a great artist. In 40 years, people and events had not entirely succeeded in disillusioning him.

  For the good, misfortune is a bountiful school. After having suffered a great deal, Frantz had become better. He, who had been so badly treated by his fellow humans, loved humankind, and if he lived in solitude it was by virtue of timidity, not hatred.

  Soon, attracted by a powerful sympathy, by the need for friendship that is as strong as the need for love, old Frantz developed a tender and profound affection for young Georges. He treated him with paternal gentleness, giving him advice.