Investigations of the Future Read online

  I had descended to the ground and was walking at hazard through the streets of old Paris—I mean the Paris of 1865—in company with my guide. The boulevards stretched away one after another, squares were succeeded by other squares, domes by colonnades and colonnades by domes. But for a painful aching in the soles of my feet, it would have seemed to me that I remained motionless in the midst of a vast stage-set that unfolded around me, perpetually repeating itself.

  After walking for a few hours, I suddenly emerged in front of the Palais-Royal, and saw with satisfaction that it had been combined with the Louvre, along with the Tuileries. I went around the latter palace, looking for the garden, but did not find it; except for the part reserved to the château, it had become invisible. The tennis court, the municipal post office, the Café de la Terrasse and the Orangery had extended their stone ramifications in all directions. A modest branch of the Marly machine25 was lounging over the great fountain, linked by a subterranean canal to the Seine, and the Avenue des Champs-Élysées extended its border of houses as far as the Place de la Concorde.

  On the other side of the river, two boulevards intersected on the location of the Luxembourg Gardens, which had long abused municipal tolerance by leaving sixty or sixty thousand square meters of excellent terrain unused and removing considerable capital from circulation. The Rue Soufflot had been connected to the Rue de Fleurus through the garden and the Rue Bonaparte to the Rue de l’Ouest, for the greater convenience of carters and to put Bobino in communication with the Panthéon. The Avenue de l’Observatoire shone proudly in its polished asphalt sidewalks. A cab-stand covered the lawn of the Orangery; in the place where the Nursery had been, the odor of lilacs had been replaced the odor of troopers; improved absinthe was being sold in the Medici Grotto, and water-carriers came to refill their buckets at the Jacques de Brosse fountain.

  By way of compensation for the Romantic soul, however, the authorities of the year 1965 had put flower-beds in the Place Saint-Sulpice, around the Obelisk and the Arc de Triomphe at the Étoile, thus according nature its right to sunlight, but without permitting it to infringe that of the boutiques. Besides which, an ingenious improvement had been introduced into the fabrication of gardens. The administration bought them ready-made, to order. Trees made of painted cardboard, and flowers of taffeta, played a leading role in those oases, where precaution as taken as far as hiding artificial birds in the foliage, which sang all day long. Thus, what was agreeable in nature had been conserved, while avoid everything about it that was inappropriate or irregular.

  Suddenly, near the middle of the former gardens of the Tuileries, I emerged into an immense square, the cupola of which had been glazed, as a precautionary measure against the insults of sun and rain. Its perimeter was entirely formed by four monuments, which summarized marvelously he principal interests and essential needs of a great capital: a Mairie, a barracks, a theater and a branch of the Bourse. By virtue of a glorious and well-deserved exception, the square, instead of bearing the name of a victory, bore the name of a victor—the man who had vanquished the darkness and resistance of old Paris, the promoter of that great monument of transformation that had only been followed in being surpassed. In the middle of the square, on a tall bronze pedestal, stood a colossal statue of the second founder of the city, in the costume of a Great Aedile, clad in a toga and laticlave. Half-risen from his curule chair, he was extending a finger toward a map of Paris spread out before him, with an imperious and serene gesture, and in his other hand he was holding an open pair of compasses, gleaming like a sword-blade. Little genii were at his feet, playing with spirit-levels, pickaxes and trowels.

  As I drew nearer, I perceived that the statue also served as a heater and a stand-pipe. It had the nozzle of a pump in its breast and the flue of a stove in its back; it emitted fire at the top and water at the bottom. In addition, it played the role of a candelabrum by night. In the dark, the interior flame lent fantastic gleams to the bronze, and the heat outlets, located between the lips, the eyelids and the nostrils, were transformed into sources of light, reflected infinitely by the vault of crystal. That fashion of utilizing the useless and regenerating art by means of a salutary injection of industry struck me as a brilliant revelation of progress in relation to the new capital.

  The four faces of the pedestal were filled with as many expressive and ingeniously-selected bas-reliefs. On the front one saw the City of Paris coiffed by her towers, directing a procession of suburban communes, and coming at its head to prostrate herself at the feet of the Great Aedile, who was lifting her up while kissing her hand.

  To the right, the Great Aedile was sitting at his work-desk, plunged in profound meditation, with his eyes glued to a map; to either side of him, Art and Civilization were raising their torches to give him light, and the municipal committee, were ranged in a circle in religious silence, like the sheaves in Joseph’s dream.

  To the left, the Great Aedile was stamping his foot on the ground, causing a forest of domes, campaniles and colonnades to spring forth, which came to arrange themselves in front of him to the enchanting sounds of a concerto of lyres played by the Amphions of the municipal committee.26 In one corner, I vaguely made out an episode in which the City of Paris was playing a role that I could not quite make out; I could not determine exactly whether she was putting her hand on her heart in a gesture of eternal gratitude or on her purse, in order to pay for the municipality’s violins.

  The posterior face of the pedestal was divided into two sections; one represented the Assumption of the City of Paris, borne up toward the clouds in the arms of a legion of architects and engineers, as naked as Amours, by virtue of the requirements of style. France, hand extended, was contemplating it in an attitude of ecstatic admiration, and London, Vienna, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Rome and Constantinople, symmetrically arranged in the foreground, were burning incense in cassolettes.

  The other half represented the apotheosis of the Great Aedile, and I only have a confused memory of it. I only remember that, in one lower corner, Posterity, as serene and grandiose as the angel that appeared to Heliodorus,27 was driving the hideous monsters of Envy and Denigration into a pit with strokes of a whip.

  I heard a blow resound. Ah! How hard Posterity was striking! A second stroke. I stirred feebly, thinking that I could already feel Posterity’s lash upon my own head. It seemed to me that someone was marching toward me, and I recoiled instinctively, stammering a few badly-articulated words. A vigorous arm shook me.

  I sat up straight. Through the partly-open window beams of sunlight and torrents of dust were extending as far as my bed. The noise of spades and pickaxes, the song of saws, the axles of heavily-laden carts and Berthelet wheelbarrows grating on the stone, filled my ears like a whirlwind. My concierge was beside me; he resembled the Civilization of the right-hand bas-relief.

  “A nightmare, Monsieur?” he said, clutching his cap respectfully in his hand.

  “No, no—a dream, a beautiful dream! But if it was only a dream, why did you wake me up?

  With a sad and gentle smile he handed me a piece of paper that he was holding. It was an order from the City of Paris—the third in six years—to clear the locale within two months, in order to make way for the extension of the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  “Oh!” I cried. “It wasn’t a dream, as you can see!”

  Alfred Franklin: The Ruins of Paris in 4875

  (1875)

  I

  To His Excellency the Minister of the Navy and Colonies, at Noumea (Caledonia)28

  Within sight of Paris, 20 May 4875

  Monsieur le Ministre,

  The exploration fleet of which Your Excellency placed me in command has completed the first part of its task.

  If, as tradition says, Noumea owes its origin to a Parisian colony, I have found the cradle of our ancestors. I have found the most beautiful, wealthiest, most famous and most sumptuous city of the old world, for it is within sight of the ruins of Paris that I am writing this dispatch. It
will be delivered to Your Excellency by Lieutenant Inveniès, who had the glory of being the first to set foot on the land for which we were searching.

  On 10 May, the winds had suddenly turned from south-south-east to south-south-west, the sea became very heavy, the barometer dropped below eighty millimeters and a furious tempest dispersed the ships of the squadron. My fears were all the greater because the region in which I was sailing is unknown, and my frigate was being driven the wind with a speed of twenty-five knots. Soon, the water penetrated below decks, broke through the wall of the engine-room and threatened to put out the fire.

  At midday, our position being 34° 37ʹ 47ʺ north latitude and 42° 24ʹ 40ʺ east longitude, the wind suddenly dropped and a rapid current carried me eastwards, where we perceived land. Two of my ships, the Répertrix and the Eruo, were then able to rejoin me, and we advanced with extreme caution. Sounding only indicated a depth of six fathoms, and we were surrounded by a prodigious quantity of rats, which it was necessary to disperse with rifle fire.

  Finally, at about two o’clock, we dropped anchor on a good bed of fine sand, in an immense and safe harbor. A large river was slowly emptying its waters there, and on the coast, as far as the eye could see, a dense curtain of trees concealed the horizon from us. I gave orders to gather the flotilla, and decided to spend a little time there. My crew needed rest; we had not had any fresh meat for a fortnight, and the corvette Eureka, which I am sending you, required urgent repairs.

  I admit that at that moment we had no idea that we were so close to the objective of our search. Kortambert, in fact, in the geographical fragments so expertly restored by Monsieur Dartieu, says in a positive manner that Paris is situated about two hundred kilometers from the sea.29 It is necessary to recognize, however, that our scholars and geologists, even in their most boldest hypotheses, are far from having exaggerated the incredible violence of the cataclysm that wrecked the entire old world, and which only our little island had the privilege of escaping.

  At about five o’clock, while the crew was at table, our eyes were attracted landwards by flames and clouds of smoke, which were rising a short distance away behind the trees. I immediately sent out a launch with a dozen men, commanded by Lieutenant Inveniès, to investigate.

  They came back in the evening, at nine eighteen, bringing news that caused hope to leap in our hearts.

  Three or four kilometers from the coast, our men had found a town of rather wretched appearance, the inhabitants of which, numbering approximately two thousand, appeared to be prey to a great agitation. The flames that we had seen from afar were completing their work, and three or four dwellings had been reduced to a pile of rubble. It was easy to see that the conflagration had selected the least constricted and the least poor, and, as they were not adjacent to one another, it was easy to deduce that criminal intent had designated them for the ravages in question.

  The natives ran to our sailors and pressed around them, all speaking and shouting at the same time, fighting to get closer to them and studying them with a child-like avidity. Five minutes after its arrival, the little troop was surrounded by a compact crowd, whose curious gazes and frankly indiscreet attitude was not at all threatening. A few words pronounced by Lieutenant Inveniès were immediately understood, and they replied to him in a language that has, like ours, striking analogies with French.

  The mores of this population, with which we have since been able to familiarize ourselves, offer strange contrasts. In the bosom of this savage tribe, which seems to have sprung from the ground in these uninhabited regions, among these barbarians clad in animal skins, one observes virtues, vices, tastes, defects and aspirations that are usually the product of refined civilizations.

  Their great preoccupation is the quest for pleasure. Everything is an occasion for celebration; on the slightest pretext, they assemble outside or gather in one another’s homes to sing, eat, drink, dance and talk. Any event occupies and amuses them, any spectacle delights them. Noisy, talkative, restless and impressionable, they become enthusiastic without reflection, and become weary just as rapidly. Self-regard is the most obvious of their faults. Everything that glitters and everything that gleams attracts and impassions them: the sight of plumes and braid excites them madly. They are also good, frank, hospitable, generous, brave, intelligent, delicate, even full common sense, so long as it is not a matter of governing their little city.

  Unfortunately, that is the habitual subject of their conversations, and the only one on which they permit no mockery; they are, however, wont to assure themselves, by the periodic overthrow of their leaders, of distractions that are dear to them and the pretext for glorious anniversaries. Sacrificing everything to form, they are more preoccupied with the title that their leader will bear than the manner in which he will rule them.

  There are, in any case, many other difficulties to resolve in organizing authority in a population in which everyone yearns to command and no one consents to obey. The most modest individuals dream of a public function that will give them at least a few subalterns to govern, but all of them, even the poorest and most ignorant, believe themselves to be perfectly capable of ruling the tribe; they talk incoherently about the city’s affairs, emitting ideas, theories and principles as insensate as they are disparate, and, when they do not see them adopted, experience an imperious desire to revolt. The clever lie in wait for a opportunity, seizing it when the moment comes, and in a trice, the leader is overthrown. Then there are cries of triumph, public rejoicing and endless parades through the town; they congratulate one another, compliment on another and embrace one another.

  When our men arrived, it was the evening of one of these great days, and the flames we had observed came from a few huts that had been set on fire in the riot. In consequence, the dethroned chief and his two principal ministers found themselves homeless.

  The lieutenant also learned that these improvised revolutions took place twice or three times a year. However, he was told that this one would certainly be the last, and that an indefinite era of calm and concord was about to commence for the population. It had, in fact, just adopted a form of government that limited the exercise of power to thirty days, and determined that a new leader had to be chosen every month; every citizen would thus have his turn, and would live in peace, nurtured by that sweet hope.

  That ingenious expedient, which might seem bound to content everyone, is not, it seems, as sure a remedy as one might be led to believe, and it has already been tried more than once without success. Everything goes smoothly for a month, apparently, but the head of state often refuses to stand down to the end of his term of office, and it always requires a revolution to reclaim the throne from him.

  Women greatly envy men the privilege of governing and making revolutions; for want of anything better they strive to dominate in the hut, and often find a latent but incontestable despotism there. Impressionable, passionate and nervous, they alternate between behavior that is good, gentle, affectionate, sharp, nagging or cruel, according to atmospheric conditions. They are witty and refined, but thoughtless, futile, frivolous and frenetically flirtatious. Gracious, frail and delicate, but avid for pleasure, they support fatigue with an inconceivable energy. Pleasure has an instinctive attraction for all of them, which the most reasonable are sometimes impotent to combat, and they express irresistible needs corollary to the state of mind in question by means of a term that does not exist in our language, the reflexive verb “to amuse oneself.” When a woman speaks of “amusing herself,” wise husbands lower their heads and wait for the fit to pass.

  The population is strongly attached to the territory that it has occupied since time immemorial, and very proud of its petty city. They fought for the honor of showing our sailors around, who were obliged to visit every part of it, and received the most cordial welcome everywhere. People also boasted to them about the beauty of the surroundings, and above all, the imposing spectacle presented by the ruins of an immense city situated half a league away. The da
y was too far advanced, however, to permit an immediate excursion, so the lieutenant brought his men back to the ship, where their stories filled us with surprise and joy.

  The next day, I sent word that I would pay my compliments to the new leader that the natives had chosen. I reached land at about three o’clock, accompanied by my senior officers. Indigenes sent to meet me cleared a passage for us through the tightly-packed crowd and led us to the leader’s hut, where everything had been arranged for a solemn reception. Guards with a stern appearance defended the vicinity, and the ephemeral sovereign awaited us there surrounded by his ministers.

  He was clad in an ample wolf-skin constellated with variously colored seashells, glass trinkets and small objects in polished metal: buckles, rings, nails, paper-clips, collar-studs, buttons and bells. His head-dress, composed of feathers of various sorts, was augmented by an oyster-shell, whose nacreous surface gleamed in the sunlight. I strove to seem dazzled by so much wealth, which pleased the leader greatly without surprising him. His manners, however, were not lacking in dignity or grace and he responded without the slightest embarrassment to the compliment that I addressed to him.

  We set out on foot, followed—or, rather, escorted—by the entire town, men, women and children alike. No one had wanted to miss the party, and the ill and infirm were seated in crude carts. The chief noticed my surprise, doubtless mistook it for fear, and sought to reassure me, confessing to me, besides, that no human power was capable of retaining his subjects in their homes on such an occasion. By way of reply I took off my sword, and ordered my officers to do the same. Our gesture was immediately understood and saluted with enthusiastic cheers by the joyful crowd, whose members, breathless with curiosity, admired the gilded ornaments of our uniforms, commented on our slightest gestures and pressed around us, competing for our glances.