“It was about one o’clock in the morning. Before retiring for the
night, I opened the window and lit a cigarette. The hum of a motor-car
scudding along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne broke the reigning
silence. The trees were freshening the atmosphere by the swaying of
their darkened tops. No buzzing insect, no living sound arose from
the sterile soil of the city. The night was resplendent with stars.
Their fires seemed, in the clearness of the air, more so than on other
nights, of varied lines. The greater number blazed at white heat. Some
there were, however, yellow and orange-tinted, similar to the flames
of dying lamps. Several were blue, and I saw one of so pale a blue, so
limpid, and so soft, that I could not avert my gaze from it. I regret
being ignorant of its name, but I console myself with the thought that
men do not give the stars their true names.
“When I reflect that each one of these drops of light enlightens
worlds, I ask myself whether, like our own sun, they do not shed their
rays on sufferings without end, and whether pain does not penetrate the
utmost recesses of heaven. We can only judge the other worlds by our
own. We know of life only the forms which it assumes upon the earth,
and if we suppose that our planet is one of the least good, we have
no reason for believing that all goes rightly in the others, nor that
fortunate is he who is born under the rays of Altair, Betelgeux, or
the fiery Sirius, when we know what a grievous affair it is to open
our eyes on earth to the light of our old Sun. It is not that I find
mine an unhappy fate, when compared with that of other men. I am not
troubled with either wife or child. Love and sickness have left me
unscathed. I am not very rich, and I do not go into society. I am thus
to be numbered with the happy ones. Little joy, however, falls to their
lot. What, then, can be the fate of the others? Men are really to be
pitied. I impute no blame to nature for this; to hold a conversation
with her is an impossibility; she is not intelligent. Nor will I lay
the blame on society. There is no sense in opposing society to nature.
It is as absurd to oppose the nature of men to the society of men, as
to oppose the nature of ants to the society of ants, or the nature
of herrings to the society of herrings. Animal societies are the
necessary outcome of animal nature. The earth is the planet where one
eats; ’tis the planet of hunger. The animals peopling it are naturally
gluttonous and ferocious. Man, the most intelligent of them all, is
alone avaricious. Avarice has so far been the fundamental virtue of
human societies, and the moral masterpiece of nature. Were I a writer,
I should indite the praise of avarice. It is true that my book would
not reveal anything strikingly new. The subject has been dealt with a
hundred times over by moralists and economists. Human societies have
avarice and cruelty as their august basis.
“It is thus in the other universes, in the numberless ethereal worlds?
Do all the stars I see shed their light on men? Do people eat and
inter-devour one another beyond the infinite. This doubt troubles me,
and I am unable to contemplate without fright the fiery dew suspended
in the heavens.
“My thoughts imperceptibly become more lucid and gentle, and the idea
of life, in its sensuality, violent and suave in turn, once more
assumes a pleasurable aspect to my mind. I sometimes say to myself that
life is beautiful. For, without such beauty, how could we discern its
ugly features, and how believe that nature is bad, if at the same time
we do not believe that it is good?
“For a few minutes past, the phrases of a sonata of Mozart have hovered
in the air, with their white columns and their garlands of roses. My
neighbour is a pianist, who at nights plays Mozart and Gluck. I close
the window, and while undressing, I am pondering over the doubtful
pleasures which I may give myself the next day, when of a sudden I
remember that for a week past I have been invited to lunch in the Bois
de Boulogne; I have a vague idea that the invitation is for the coming
day. To make sure of it, I look up the letter of invitation, which lies
open on my table. Its contents are:
“‘16th September 1903.
“‘My dear old Dufresne,--
“‘Do me the pleasure of coming to luncheon with ... etc.
etc., next Saturday, the 23rd of September, 1903, etc. etc.’
“It is for to-morrow.
“I ring for my valet.
“‘Jean, wake me to-morrow at nine o’clock.’
“It happens precisely that to-morrow, the 23rd of September 1903,
I shall enter upon my fortieth year. From what I have already seen
in this world I can almost conceive what still remains for me to be
seen. I can safely foretell the topics of to-morrow’s conversation
at the restaurant in the Bois: ‘My automobile goes sixty kilomètres
an hour.’--‘Blanche has a nasty disposition; but she is true to me;
of that I feel sure.’--‘The Cabinet takes its pass-word from the
Socialists.’--‘In the long run, the _petits-chevaux_ are a bore.
However, there remains _baccara_.’--‘The workmen would be fools not to
do as they please: the government always gives in to them.’--‘I will
bet you that Epingle-d’Or will beat Ranavalo.’--‘What I personally
cannot make out is why there is not some General to sweep away all
those blackguards.’--‘What can you expect? France has been sold to
England and Germany by the Jews.’ This is what I shall hear to-morrow.
Here you have the social and political ideas of my friends, the
great-grandsons of the bourgeois of July, princes of the factory and
foundry, kings of the mine, who knew the way of mastering and enslaving
the forces of the Revolution. My friends do not seem to me capable
of preserving for any lengthy period the industrial empire and the
political power bequeathed to them by their ancestors. My friends do
not shine by their intelligence. They have not indulged in too much
brainwork. No more have I. So far, I have not done much in this life.
Like them, I am both idle and ignorant. I do not feel myself capable of
achieving anything, and if I do not possess their vanity, if my brain
is not stored with all the foolish ideas encumbering theirs; if, like
them, I do not feel a hatred for and a fear of ideas, it is due to a
peculiar circumstance of my life. My father, a big manufacturer and
Conservative deputy, gave me, when I was seventeen, a young and timid
“coach,” who spoke little, and who looked like a girl. While preparing
me for my bachelorship, he was organising the social revolution in
Europe. His gentleness was something refreshing. He has often been
put in prison, and is now a deputy. I used to copy his addresses to
the international proletariat. He made me read the whole Socialistic
library. He taught me things all of which were not to be credited, but
he opened my eyes to what was going on about me; he demonstrated to me
that everything our society honours is contemptible, and that all that
it despises is worthy of esteem. He led me into the paths of rebellion.
In spite of his demonstrations, I came to the conclusion that falsehood
should be respected and hypocrisy venerated as the two surest supports
of the public order. I remained a Conservative, but my soul became
saturated with disgust.
“As I am falling asleep, a few almost imperceptible phrases of Mozart
still reach my ears now and then, and make me dream of temples of
marble standing amid a blue foliage.
“It was broad daylight when I awoke. I dressed myself much more quickly
than it is my wont. Unconscious of the cause for this haste, I found
myself in the street without knowing how I had got there. What I now
saw about me was to me the cause of a surprise which suspended all
my faculties of reflection; and it is owing to this impossibility to
reflect that my surprise did not increase, but remained stationary and
calm. It would doubtless soon have become immoderate, and would have
changed to stupor and terror, had I retained the use of my mind, so
greatly was the scene which I was witnessing different from what it
should be. Everything about me was to me new, unknown, and foreign.
The trees and the lawns which I was in the habit of seeing daily had
vanished. Where, on the day before, the tall grey buildings of the
avenue stood out against the sky, there now stretched a fanciful line
of brick cottages surrounded by gardens. I dared not look round to
ascertain whether my own house still existed, and so I went straight
towards the Porte Dauphine. I found it not. I took a street which was,
so it seemed to me, the old road to Suresnes. The houses flanking
it, of strange style and new form, too small to be occupied by rich
people, were nevertheless embellished with pictures, sculptures, and
brilliant potteries. A covered terrace surmounted them. I followed
this rural road, whose curves produced enchanting perspectives. It
was crossed obliquely by other sinuous ways. Neither trains, nor
automobiles, nor vehicles of any kind went by. Shadows flitted over
the soil. I looked upwards and saw masses of huge birds and enormous
fishes glide rapidly through the upper atmosphere, which seemed to
be a combination of heaven and ocean. Near the Seine, the course of
which was altered, I came across a crowd of men clad in short blouses
knotted at the waist, and wearing long gaiters. To all appearance they
were in their working clothes. But their gait was lighter and more
elegant than that of our workmen. I noticed women among them. What had
heretofore prevented my recognising them as such was that they were
dressed like the men, that they had long and straight legs, and, so it
seemed to me, the narrow hips of American women. Although these folk
did not present a savage appearance, I looked at them with fright.
They presented to my gaze a more foreign appearance than any of the
numerous strangers I had so far met upon the earth. In order to avoid
seeing another human face, I turned down a deserted lane. Very soon I
came to a circus planted with masts from which flew crimson oriflammes
bearing in letters of gold the words: EUROPEAN FEDERATION. Placards
in large frames ornamented with emblems of peace hung at the foot of
the masts. They embodied announcements regarding popular festivals,
legal injunctions, and works of public interest. In addition to balloon
time-tables was a chart of the atmospheric currents drawn on the 28th
of June of the year 220 of the Federation of Nations. All these texts
were printed in characters new to me, and in a language of which I did
not understand all the words. The while I was attempting to decipher
them, the shadows of the countless machines cleaving the air flitted
across my vision. Once more did I gaze upwards, and in this sky altered
beyond recognition, more densely populated than the earth, cloven by
rudders and threshed by screws, towards which a circle of smoke rose
from the horizon, I perceived the sun. I felt like crying on seeing
it. It was the only familiar figure which I had come across since
morning. From its altitude I judged that it was about ten o’clock of
the forenoon. Of a sudden I was surrounded by a second crowd of men
and women, similar in appearance and in costume to the first. I was
confirmed in the impression that the women, although some of them were
very plump, others very skinny, and many beggared description, were
on the whole androgynous in appearance. The crowd went its way. The
open space once more was desert, just as our suburban quarters,
which only come to life on the exodus from the workshops. I remained
behind in front of the placards and read once more the date--the
28th of June of the year 220 of the European Federation. What did it
mean! A proclamation by the Federal Committee, on the occasion of
the festival of the Earth, furnished me with timely and useful data
for comprehension of that date. This is what I read: ‘Comrades, you
are aware how, in the last year of the twentieth century, the old
order collapsed in a fearful cataclysm, and how, after fifty years of
anarchy, the federation of the peoples of Europe was organised....”
The year 220 of the federation of peoples was therefore the year 2270
of the Christian Era; this was certainly a fact which remained to be
explained. How came it that of a sudden I found myself transported to
the year 2270?
“I mused over the circumstance as I strolled at haphazard.
“‘I have not, as far as I know,’ I said to myself, ‘been preserved
for so many years in the mummy state, like Colonel Fougas. I have
not driven the machine with which Mr. H. G. Wells explores time. And
if, following the example of William Morris, I have, while asleep,
skipped three and a half centuries, I am unaware of the fact, since,
when dreaming, one does not know that one is doing so. I am utterly
convinced that I am not asleep.’
“While indulging in these musings and others not worth recording,
I was following a long street bordered with railings behind which
pink-hued houses of various styles, but all equally small, smilingly
peeped through the foliage. At times I perceived huge circuses of
steel standing out in the landscape, and crowned with flames and
smoke. Terror planed over these regions to which no name can be
given, while the vibrating rush of air caused by the rapid flight of
the machines resounded painfully through my brain. The street led to
a meadow studded with clumps of trees and intersected by rivulets.
Cows were pasturing in it. Just as my eyes were feasting upon the
freshness of the scene I fancied I saw in front of me shadows flitting
along a smooth and straight road. The whirlwind engendered by them,
as they passed me, fanned my cheeks. I saw that they were trams and
automobiles, real transparencies in their rapidity.
“I crossed the road by a foot-bridge, and for a long time I sauntered
through small meadows and woodlands. I thought I was in the open
country, when I discovered an extensive frontage of resplendent
houses bordering on the park. Soon, I found myself opposite a palace
of an airy style of architecture. A sculptured and painted frieze,
representing a largely attended feast, stretched across the vast
façade. I perceived, through the panes of the bay-windows, men and
women seated in a large and bright room around long marble tables,
laden with prettily painted potteries. I entered, under the impression
that this was a restaurant. I was not hungry, but weary, and the
coolness of the room, artistically hung with garlands of fruit,
appeared to me delicious. A man who stood by the door asked me for my
voucher, and, as I showed embarrassment, he remarked:
“‘I see, comrade, that you are not of these parts. How is it that you
are travelling without vouchers! Very sorry, but it is impossible for
me to admit you. Go and seek the delegate who hires journeymen; or, if
you are too weak to work, address yourself to the delegate who attends
to those who need succour.’
“I informed him that I was nowise unfit for work, and drew away. A
stout fellow, who was picking his teeth, said to me obligingly:
“‘Comrade, you need not go to the delegate who engages journeymen. I am
the delegate attached to the bakery of the section. We are one comrade
short. Come along with me. You shall be put to work at once.’
“I thanked the corpulent comrade, assured him of my willingness,
pointing out, however, that I was not a baker.
“He looked at me with some surprise, and told me that he could see I
enjoyed a joke.
“I followed him. We stopped in front of an immense cast-iron building
having a monumental gateway, on the pediment of which a couple of
bronze giants were resting on their elbows--the Sower and the Reaper.
Their bodies expressed strength unstrained. A calm pride irradiated
their faces, and they carried high their heads; in this, greatly
dissimilar to the fierce-looking workers of the Flemish Constantin
Meunier. We entered a room forty mètres in height, wherein, amid clouds
of a light whitish dust, machinery was working with a sonorous and calm
hum. Under the metallic dome, bags tendered themselves spontaneously
to the knife which disembowelled them; the flour which escaped from
them dropped into troughs where powerful hands of steel kneaded it
into dough which flowed into moulds, which when full hastened to put
themselves of their own accord into an oven as capacious and deep as
a tunnel. Five or six men at most, motionless amid all this motion,
supervised the labour of the machinery.
“‘’Tis an old bakery,’ said my companion. ‘It hardly produces more than
eighty thousand loaves a day, and its too weak machines employ too many
hands. It matters little. Come up to the place where the goods arrive.’
“I did not have the time to ask for a more explicit command. A lift
had deposited me on the platform. Hardly had I reached it, when a kind
of flying whale alighted close to me and unloaded a number of sacks.
No human being was aboard this machine. Other flying whales brought
more sacks which they unloaded, and which offered themselves up in
succession to the knife which ripped them open. The screws revolved,
and the rudder did its work. There was no one at the helm, nobody
aboard the machine. I could hear in the distance the slight hum of
a wasp flying, and then the thing grew with astounding rapidity. It
seemed quite sure of itself, but my ignorance as to what would happen,
should it perchance go wrong, caused me to shudder. I was several times
tempted to ask to be allowed to go down again. A false shame prevented
me. I stood my ground. The sun was disappearing on the horizon, and it
was about five o’clock when the lift came up for me. The day’s work was
over. I was given a voucher for board and lodging.
“The rotund comrade remarked to me:
“‘You must be hungry. You may, if you wish, take your evening meal at
the public table. If you prefer eating by yourself in your own room,
you may likewise do so. If you prefer supping at my place, together
with a few comrades, say so at once. I am going to telephone to the
culinary workshop that your rations be sent to you. I am telling you
all this in order to set you at ease, for you seem like a fish out of
water. You have no doubt come from afar. You do not look as if you
could take care of yourself. To-day, your task has been an easy one.
Do not, however, imagine that one’s livelihood is earned every day as
cheaply as that. If the Ƶ-rays which directed the balloons had worked
badly, as will sometimes happen, your task would not have been so easy.
What is your particular line, and where do you come from?’
“These questions embarrassed me greatly. I could not tell him the
truth. I could not inform him that I was a bourgeois, and that I had
come from the twentieth century. He would have thought me crazy. I
replied in a vague and embarrassed manner that I had no trade, and that
I came from far, from very far.
“He smiled, and said:
“‘I understand. You dare not admit it. You come from the United States
of Africa. You are not the only European who has thus given us the
slip. But nearly all these deserters end by coming back to us.’
“I answered not a word, and my silence led him to believe that he had
guessed aright. He renewed his invitation to supper, and asked me my
name. I informed him that I was known as Hippolyte Dufresne. He seemed
surprised at my having two names.
“‘My name is Michel,’ he said.
“Then, after a minute inspection of my straw hat, my jacket, my shoes,
and the rest of my costume, which was no doubt somewhat dusty, but of a
good cut, for after all I do not have my clothes made by a tailor who
acts as hall-porter in the Rue des Acacias, he continued:
“‘Hippolyte, I see whence you have come. You have lived in the black
provinces. Nowadays there are only Zulus and Basutos to weave cloth so
badly, to give so grotesque a shape to a suit, to make such ill-shapen
footgear, and to stiffen linen with starch. It is only among them that
you can have learnt to shave off your beard, while preserving on your
face a moustache, and two little whiskers. This custom of scissoring
the hair of the face, so as to form figures and ornaments, is the last
word of tattooing, nowadays in vogue only among the Basutos and Zulus.
These black provinces of the United States of Africa are wallowing in a
state of barbarism resembling in many aspects the state of France three
or four hundred years ago.’
“I accepted Michel’s invitation.
“‘I live quite close to here, in Sologne,’ he said. ‘My aeroplane scuds
along fairly well. We shall soon be there.’
“He made me take a seat under the belly of a huge mechanical bird, and
we were soon cleaving the air so rapidly that I lost breath. The aspect
of the countryside was vastly different from the one known to me. All
the roads were bordered with houses; countless canals intersected the
fields with their silvery lines. As I sat wrapt in admiration, Michel
remarked to me:
“‘The land is fairly well exploited, and cultivation is “intense,” as
they say, since chemists are themselves agriculturists. One has tried
one’s best, and one has worked hard for the past three hundred years.
The fact is that to make collectivism a reality it has been necessary
to compel the soil to return four or five times more than it returned
in the days of capitalistic anarchy. You, who have lived among the
Zulus and Basutos, are aware that the necessaries of life are so scarce
with them that were they to be divided among all it would amount to
sharing poverty and not wealth. The super-abundant production which
we have attained to is more especially due to the progress made by
science. The almost total suppression of the urban classes has also
been of great advantage to agriculture. The shopkeepers and the clerks
have gone, some to the factory, others to the field.’
“‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘You have suppressed the cities! What has become
of Paris?’
“‘Hardly any one lives there now,’ replied Michel. ‘The greater part
of those hideous and insanitary five-storied houses, wherein dwelt
the citizens of the closed era, have fallen in ruins, and have been
suffered to remain in that condition. House-building was very poor in
the twentieth century of that unhappy era. We have preserved some of
the older and better constructed buildings and converted them into
museums. We possess a large number of museums and libraries: it is
there we seek instruction. We have also kept a portion of the remains
of the Hôtel de Ville. It was an ugly and fragile building, but great
things were carried out within its precincts. As we no longer have
tribunals, commerce, and armies, we no longer have cities, so to
speak. Nevertheless, the density of the population is much greater on
certain points than on others, and in spite of the rapidity of means of
communication, the mining and metallurgic centres are densely peopled.’
“‘What is that you say?’ I asked him. ‘You have done away with the
courts of law? Have you then suppressed crime and misdemeanour?’
“‘Crime will last as long as old and gloomy humanity. But, the number
of criminals has diminished with the number of the wretched. The
suburbs of the great cities were the feeding-grounds of crime; we no
longer have big cities. The wireless telephone makes the highways safe
day and night. We are all provided with electric means of defence.
As to misdemeanours, they were rather the result of the scruples of
the judges than of the perversity of the accused. Now that we no
longer possess lawyers and judges, and that justice is administered by
citizens summoned in rotation, many misdemeanours have disappeared,
doubtless because it is impossible to recognise them as such.’
“In this fashion did Michel discourse while steering his aeroplane. I
am recording the meaning of his words as exactly as I can. I regret my
inability, owing to a lack of memory, and also from fear of not making
myself understood, to reproduce his language in all its expressiveness
and its movement. The baker and his contemporaries spoke a language
astonishing me at first by the novelty of its vocabulary and syntax,
and especially by its pithy and flowing construction.
“Michel came to ground on the terrace of a modest but pleasing dwelling.
“‘We have arrived,’ he said; ‘’tis here that I live. You will sup with
comrades who, like myself, take an interest in statistics.’
“‘What! You a statistician! I thought you were a baker.
“‘I am a baker, six hours of the day. This is the duration of the day’s
work as determined for nearly a century by the Federal Committee. The
rest of the time I give up to statistical labours. It is the science
which has stepped into history’s shoes. The historians of old related
the brilliant deeds of the few. Ours register all that is produced and
consumed.’
“After having conducted me to a hydrotherapic closet established on
the roof, Michel led me down-stairs to the dining-room lit up by
electricity, entirely white, and ornamented only with a sculptured
frieze of strawberry plants in bloom. A table in painted pottery was
covered with dishes with a metallic glaze. Three persons sat at it.
Michel named them to me.
“‘Morin, Perceval, Chéron.’
“These three individuals were all clad alike in rough-spun jackets,
velvet breeches, and grey stockings. Morin wore a long white beard;
Chéron’s and Perceval’s faces were callow. Their short hair and more
especially the frankness of their looks gave them the appearance of
young lads. Yet I felt sure that they were women. Perceval seemed to me
rather pretty, although she was no longer very young. I thought Chéron
altogether charming. Michel introduced me:
“‘I have brought comrade Hippolyte, who also calls himself Dufresne, to
meet you; he has lived among the half-breeds, in the black provinces
of the United States of Africa. He could not get any dinner at eleven
o’clock, and so he must have an appetite.’
“I was indeed hungry. They helped me to tiny bits of food cut into
squares, which were not unpleasant to the taste, however new to me. A
variety of cheeses were on the table. Morin poured me out a glass of
light beer, and informed me that I could drink to my heart’s content,
as it did not contain any alcohol.
“‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I am glad to see that you pay attention to
the evils of alcohol.’
“‘They have almost ceased to exist,’ answered Morin. ‘We succeeded in
suppressing alcoholism before the end of the closed era. It would have
otherwise been impossible to establish the new _régime_. An alcoholic
proletariat is incapable of emancipation.’
“‘Have you not also,’ I inquired, while tasting a strangely carved bit
of food--‘have you not also perfected food?’
“‘Comrade,’ replied Perceval, ‘you doubtless refer to chemical
alimentation. So far, it has not made any great strides. ’Tis in
vain that we send our chemists as delegates into the kitchen....
Their tabloids are of no good. With the exception that we know how
to compound properly caloric and nutritious foods, we feed almost as
coarsely as the men of the closed era, and we enjoy it just as much.’
“‘Our scientists,’ remarked Michel, ‘are seeking to establish a
rational system of food.’
“‘That’s childishness,’ said the young female Chéron. ‘No good result
will be reached, as long as the big intestine, a useless and harmful
organ, and the seat of microbian infection, has not been removed....
This will come in time.’
“‘In what way?’ I asked.
“‘Simply by ablation. And this suppression, the result, in the first
place, of an operation upon a sufficient number of individuals, will
tend to establish itself by heredity, and will later on be common to
the whole race.’
“These people treated me humanely and conversed obligingly with me. But
it was difficult for me to chime in with their manners and their ideas,
while I noticed that I nowise interested them, and that they felt an
absolute indifference towards my modes of thought. The more I showed
them courtesies, the more I alienated their sympathies. Following
upon my addressing a few compliments, albeit discreet and sincere, to
Chéron, she no longer even deigned to look at me.
“The meal over, addressing myself to Morin, who seemed to me
intelligent and gentle, I said to him with a sincerity which indeed
stirred me deeply:
“‘Monsieur Morin, I am ignorant of all things, and I am suffering
cruelly because of my lack of knowledge. I repeat to you that I come
from far, from very far. Tell me, I entreat you, how the European
Federation came into existence, and explain to me the present social
system.’
“Old Morin protested:
“‘You are asking me for the history of three centuries. It would take
me weeks, nay months. Moreover, there are many things I could not
teach you, as I do not know them myself.’
“I thereupon entreated him to lay before me a very concise summary, as
is done in the case of school children.
“Morin, flinging himself back in his arm-chair, began:
“‘To ascertain how the present society was constituted, it is necessary
to go back far into the past.
“‘The crowning achievement of the twentieth century was the extinction
of war.
“‘The arbitration Congress of The Hague, instituted in the middle of
barbarism, did not to any degree contribute towards the maintenance of
peace. But another more efficacious institution came into existence at
that time. Groups of deputies were formed in the various Parliaments,
who entered into communication with one another, and who in course of
time came to deliberate in common on international questions. Giving
expression as they did to the peaceful aspirations of a growing crowd
of electors, their resolutions carried great weight, and supplied food
for reflection to the governments, the most absolute of which, if one
sets aside Russia, had at that time learnt to reckon with popular
sentiment. What surprises us nowadays is that no one discerned in
those meetings of deputies come together from all countries the first
attempt at an international parliament.
“‘But then the party of violence was still powerful in the several
empires, and even in the French Republic. And if the danger of the
old-time dynastic and diplomatic wars determined upon at a green-baized
table for the purpose of maintaining what was known as the European
equilibrium was averted for all time, it was still to be dreaded,
considering the unsatisfactory industrial condition affecting Europe,
that the conflicting industrial interests might bring about some
terrible conflagration.
“‘The imperfectly organised proletariat, as yet without the
consciousness of its strength, did not put an end to armed struggles
between nations, but it limited their frequency and duration.
“‘The last wars were the outcome of that mad fury of the old world
known as the colonial policy. English, Russians, Germans, French, and
Americans joined in rabid competition, in Asia and Africa, for the
possession of zones of influence, as they said, wherein they could, on
the basis of pillage and massacres, establish economic relations with
the aborigines. They destroyed everything they could destroy in those
two countries. Then followed the inevitable. The impoverished colonies
which were expensive were retained and the prosperous ones lost. But
mankind had to reckon, in Asia, with a small heroic nation, taught
by Europe, which made itself respected by her. By so doing, Japan, in
barbarous times, rendered a great service to humanity.
“‘When at last that detestable period of colonisation came to an end,
no further was there any war. Still the States continued keeping up
armies.
“‘Having so far explained matters, I shall proceed to lay before you,
pursuant to your request, the origins of present-day society. It
issued from the one preceding it. In moral just as in individual life
forms generate one another. Capitalistic naturally enough produced
collectivist society. At the commencement of the twentieth century
of the closed era, a memorable industrial evolution took place. The
slender production of small artisans whose all were their tools was
followed by a great production financially supported by a new agent of
marvellous power--capital. Here was a great social progress.’
“‘What was a great social step in advance?’ I asked.
“‘The capitalistic _régime_,’ replied Morin. ‘It brought humanity an
untold source of wealth. By grouping the workers in considerable masses
and multiplying their numbers it created the proletariat. By making the
workers an immense State within the State it paved the way for their
emancipation, and furnished them with the means of conquering power.
“‘This _régime_, however, which was to be productive of such happy
results in the future, was execrated by the workers, in whose ranks it
made countless victims.
“‘There exists no social benefit which has not been purchased at the
cost of blood and tears. Moreover, this _régime_ which had enriched the
whole world came within an ace of ruining it. After having increased
production to a considerable extent, it failed in its endeavours to
regulate it, and struggled hopelessly in the toils of inextricable
difficulties.
“‘You are not totally ignorant, comrade, of the economic disturbances
which filled the twentieth century. During the last hundred years
of the capitalistic domination, the disorder of production and the
delirium of competition piled up disasters high. The capitalists and
the masters vainly attempted, by means of gigantic combinations, to
regulate production and to annihilate competition. Their ill-conceived
undertakings were engulfed in an abyss of gigantic catastrophes.
During those anarchical days, the fight between classes was blind
and terrible. The proletariat, overwhelmed in the same ratio by its
victories and its defeats, overwhelmed by the ruins of the edifice
which it was pulling down on its own head, torn by fearful internal
struggles, casting aside in its blind violence its best leaders and
most trustworthy friends, fought on without system and in the dark.
It was, however, continually winning some advantage: an increase of
wages, shorter hours of work, a growing freedom of organisation and
of propaganda, the conquest of public power, and making progress in
the dumfounded public mind. It was looked upon as wrecked through its
divisions and mistakes. But all great parties are at odds, and all
commit blunders. The proletariat had on its side the force of events.
Towards the end of the century it attained the degree of well-being
which opens the way to better things. Comrade, a party must have
within itself a certain strength in order to accomplish a revolution
favourable to its interests. Towards the end of the twentieth century
of the closed era the general situation had become most favourable
to the developments of socialism. The standing armies, more and more
reduced during the course of the century, were abolished, following
upon a desperate opposition of the powers that were, and of the
bourgeoisie owning all things, by Chambers born of universal suffrage
under the fiery pressure of the people of the cities and of the
country. For a long time past already, the chiefs of State had retained
their armies, less in view of a war which they no longer dreaded or
could hope for, than to hold in check the multitude of proletaries
at home. In the end, they yielded. Militias imbued with socialistic
ideas supplanted regular armies. It was not without good cause that
the governments showed opposition. No longer defended by guns and
rifles, the monarchical systems succumbed in succession, and Republican
Government stepped into their places. Alone, England, who had
previously established a _régime_ considered endurable by the workers,
and Russia, who had remained Imperialist and theocratic, stood outside
the pale of this great movement. It was feared that the Czar, who felt
towards republican Europe the sentiments which the French Revolution
had inspired the great Catherine with, might raise armies to combat
it. But his government had reached a degree of weakness and imbecility
which only an absolute monarchy can attain. The Russian proletariat,
joining hands with the intellectuals, rose in revolt, and after an
awful succession of outrages and massacres, power passed into the hands
of the revolutionaries, who established the representative system.
“‘Telegraphy and wireless telephony were then in use from one end of
Europe to the other, and so easy of use that the poorest of individuals
could speak, whenever he wished, and give utterance to whatever he
saw fit to a fellow creature living in any corner of the globe.
Collectivist ideas rained down on Moscow. The Russian peasants could
listen in their beds to the speeches of their comrades of Marseilles
and Berlin. Simultaneously, the approximate steering of balloons and
the exact course of flying-machines came into practical use. The result
was the abolition of frontiers. This was the most critical moment of
all. The patriotic instinct took a fresh life in the hearts of the
nations so near uniting and fusing into one boundless humanity. In
all countries, and at one and the same time, the nationalist faith,
rekindled, emitted flashes of light. As there were no longer any kings,
armies, or aristocracy, this great movement assumed a tumultuous and
popular character. The French Republic, the German Republic, the
Hungarian Republic, the Roman Republic, the Italian Republic, and even
the Swiss and Belgian Republics, each expressed by a unanimous vote
of their respective Parliaments, and at largely attended meetings,
the solemn resolve to defend against all foreign aggression national
territory and industry. Stringent laws were promulgated repressing
the smuggling by flying-machines, and regulating severely the use
of wireless telegraphy. The militia was everywhere reorganised and
brought back to the old type of standing armies. Once more did the
former uniforms, boots, dolmans, and generals’ plumes make their
appearance. Fur busbies were anew welcomed with the applause of Paris.
All the shopkeepers and a portion of the workmen donned the tricolour
cockade. In all foundry districts, cannon and armour-plates were once
more forged. Terrible wars were anticipated. This mad spurt lasted
three years, without matters coming to a clash, and then it slackened
imperceptibly. The militias gradually recovered the bourgeois aspect
and feeling. The union of nations, which had seemed postponed to a
fabled remoteness, was near at hand. Pacific efforts were developing
day by day; collectivists were gradually achieving the conquest of
society. The day came at last when the defeated capitalists abandoned
the field to them.’
“‘What a change!’ I exclaimed. ‘History cannot show another example of
such a revolution.’
“‘You may well imagine, comrade,’ resumed Morin, ‘that collectivism
did not make its appearance till the appointed hour. The Socialists
could not have suppressed capital and individual property had not those
two forms of wealth been already all but destroyed _de facto_ by the
efforts of the proletariat, and still more so by the fresh developments
of science and industry.
“‘It had indeed been thought that Germany would be the first
collectivist State; the Labour Party had there been organised for
about one hundred years, and it was everywhere said: ‘Socialism is a
thing German?’ Still, France, less well prepared, got the start of
her. The social revolution broke out in the first place at Lyons,
Lille, and Marseilles, to the strains of _l’Internationale_. Paris held
aloof for a fortnight, and then hoisted the red flag. It was only on
the following day that Berlin proclaimed the collectivist state. The
triumph of socialism had as a result the union of nations.
“‘The delegates of all the European Republics, sitting in Brussels,
proclaimed the Constitution of the United States of Europe.
“‘England refused to form part of it, but she declared herself its
ally. While having become socialistic, she had retained her king,
her lords, and even the wigs of her judges. Socialism was at that
time supreme ruler in Oceania, China, Japan, and in a portion of
the vast Russian Republic. Black Africa, which had entered upon the
capitalistic phase, formed a confederation of little homogeneity. The
American Union had a while ago renounced mercantile militarism. The
condition of the world was consequently favourable, upon the whole,
to the free development of the United States of Europe. Nevertheless,
this union, welcomed with delirious joy, was followed for the space
of half a century by economic disturbances and social miseries. There
were no longer any armies, and hardly any militias; in consequence
of not being constricted, popular movements did not take the form of
violent outbreaks. But the inexperience or the ill-will of the local
governments was fostering a ruinous state of disorder.
“‘Fifty years after the constitution of the States, the disappointments
were so cruel, and the difficulties seemed to such a degree
insurmountable, that the most optimistic spirits were beginning
to despair. Smothered crackings foretold in all directions the
dismemberment of the Union. It was then that the dictatorship of a
committee composed of fourteen workmen put an end to anarchy, and
organised the Federation of European nations as it exists to-day. There
are those who say that the Fourteen displayed unparalleled genius and
relentless energy; others claim that they were mediocrities terrified
and influenced by the stress of necessity, and that they presided as
if in spite of themselves over the spontaneous organisation of the
new social forces. It is at all events certain that they did not go
against the tide of events. The organisation which they established, or
witnessed the establishment of, still subsists almost in its entirety.
The production and consumption of goods are nowadays carried out, to
all purposes, according to the rules laid down in those days. The new
era justly dates from that time.’
“Morin then expounded to me most succinctly the principles of modern
society.
“‘It rests,’ said he, ‘on the total suppression of individual
property.’
“‘Is not this intolerable to you?’ I asked.
“‘Why should we find it unendurable, Hippolyte? In Europe, formerly,
the State collected the taxes. It disposed of resources proper to it.
Nowadays it can be said with an equal degree of truth that it possesses
everything, while possessing nothing. It is still more exact to say
that it is we who own all things, since the State is not a thing apart
from us, and is merely the expression of collectiveness.’
“‘But,’ I asked, ‘do you not possess anything proper to yourself? Not
even the plates out of which you eat, nor your bed, your bed-sheets,
your clothes?’
“Morin smiled at my question.
“‘You are a deal more simple than I dreamt, Hippolyte. What! You
imagine that we are not the owners of our personal property. What can
well be your idea of our tastes, our instincts, our needs, and our mode
of living? Do you take us for monks, as was said in the olden days, for
men destitute of all individual character and incapable of affixing
a personal impress on our surroundings? You are mistaken, my friend,
altogether mistaken. We hold as our own the objects destined to our use
and comfort, and we feel more attached to them than were the bourgeois
of the closed era to their knick-knacks, for our taste is keener, and
we possess a livelier sentiment of form. All our comrades of some
refinement own works of art, and take great pride in them. Chéron has
in her home paintings which are her delight, and she would take it
amiss were the Federal Committee to contest with her the possession of
them. Personally, I preserve in that closet some ancient drawings, the
almost complete work of Steinlen, one of the most highly prized artists
of the closed era. Neither silver nor gold would tempt me to part with
them.
“‘Whence have you come, Hippolyte? You are told that our society is
based on the total suppression of individual property, and you get into
your head that such suppression covers goods and chattels, and articles
in daily use. But, you simple-minded fellow, the individual property
totally suppressed by us is the ownership of the means of production,
soil, canals, roads, mines, material, plant, &c. It does not affect
lamps and arm-chairs. What we have done away with is the possibility of
diverting to the benefit of an individual or of a group of individuals
the fruits of labour; ’tis not the natural and harmless possession of
the beloved chattels about us.’
“Morin next enlightened me as to the distribution of intellectual and
manual labours among all the members of the community, in conformity
with their aptitudes.
“‘Collectivist society,’ he went on to say, ‘differs not only from
capitalistic society in the fact that in the former everybody works.
During the closed era, the people who toiled not were in great numbers;
still, they constituted the minority. Our society differs more
especially from the former in that labour was not properly classified,
and that many useless tasks were performed. The workers produced
without systematic order, method, and concerted action. The cities
were full of officials, magistrates, merchants, and clerks, who worked
without producing. There were also the soldiers. The fruits of labour
were not properly distributed. The customs and tariffs established
for the purpose of remedying the evil merely aggravated matters. All
were suffering. Production and consumption are now minutely regulated.
Lastly, our society differs from the old one in that we enjoy all the
benefits derived from machinery, the use of which, in the capitalistic
age, was so frequently disastrous for the workers.’
“I asked him how it had been possible to constitute a society composed
wholly of workmen.
“Morin pointed out to me that man’s aptitude for work is general, and
that it constitutes one of the essential characteristics of the race.
“‘In barbarian times,’ he said, ‘and right until the end of the closed
era, the aristocratic and wealthy classes always showed a preference
for manual labour. They put their intellectual faculties to an
infinitesimal use, and in exceptional instances at that. Their tastes
always inclined towards such occupations as the chase and war, wherein
the body plays a greater part than the mind. They rode, drove, fenced,
and practised pistol-shooting. It may therefore be said of them that
they worked with their hands. Their work was either sterile or harmful,
for the reason that a certain prejudice forbade them to engage in any
useful or beneficent work, and also, because in their day, useful work
was most often carried out under ignoble and disgusting conditions. It
did not prove so very difficult to impart a taste for work to every one
by reinstating it in a position of honour. The men of the barbaric ages
took pride in carrying a gun or wearing a sword. The men of to-day are
proud of handling a spade or a hammer. Humanity rests on a foundation
which undergoes but little change.’
“Morin having told me that the very memory of all monetary circulation
had become lost, I asked him:
“‘How then do you carry on business without cash payments?’
“‘We exchange products by means of vouchers similar to those just given
you, comrade, and they correspond to the hours of labour performed
by us. The value of the products is computed by the length of time
their production has taken. Bread, meat, beer, clothes, an aeroplane,
represent _x_ hours, _x_ days of labour. From each of these vouchers,
collectivism, or, as it was styled formerly, the State, deducts a
certain number of minutes for the purpose of allocating them to
unproductive works, metallurgic and alimentary reserves, refuges and
private asylums, and so forth.’
“‘These minutes,’ interjected Michel, ‘are continually increasing
apace. The Federal Committee orders far too many great works, the
burden of which is thus on our shoulders. The reserve stocks are far
too considerable. The public warehouses are crowded to overflowing with
riches of all sorts. ’Tis our minutes of labour which are entombed
there. Many abuses are still in existence.’
“‘No doubt,’ replied Morin, ‘there is room for improvement. The wealth
of Europe, which has accrued through general methodical labour, is
untold.’
“I was curious to learn whether these folk had no other measurement of
labour than the time required for its accomplishment, and whether in
their case the day’s work of the navvy or of the journeyman tempering
plaster ranked with that of the chemist or the surgeon. I put the
question frankly.
“‘What a silly question,’ exclaimed Perceval.
“Nevertheless old Morin vouchsafed to enlighten me.
“‘All works of study, of research, in fact all works contributing to
render life better and more beautiful are encouraged in our workshops
and laboratories. The collectivist State fosters the higher studies. To
study is akin to producing, since nothing is produced without study.
Study, just as much as work, entitles one to existence. Those who
devote themselves to long and arduous research secure unto themselves
a peaceful and respected existence. It takes a sculptor a fortnight
to make the _maquette_ of a figure, but he has worked five years to
learn modelling. Now the State has paid him for his _maquette_ during
those five years. A chemist discovers in a few hours the particular
properties of a body. But he has spent months in isolating this body,
and years in fitting himself to become capable of such an undertaking.
During the whole of that time he has lived at the expense of the State.
A surgeon removes a tumour in ten minutes. This is the result of
fifteen years of study and practice. He has, as a consequence, received
vouchers from the State for fifteen years past. Every man who gives in
a month, in an hour, in a few minutes, the product of his whole life,
is merely repaying in a lump sum what collectivism has given him day by
day.’
“‘Without reckoning,’ said Perceval, ‘that our great intellectuals,
our surgeons, our lady doctors, our chemists, know full well how to
derive profit from their works and discoveries, and to add beyond
measure to their enjoyments. They cause to be allotted to themselves
aerial machines of 60 h.p., palaces, gardens, and immense parks. They
are, for the greater part, individuals keenly alive to laying hold of
the world’s goods, and lead a more splendid and more copious existence
than the bourgeois of the closed era. The worst of it is that the
majority of them are stupid fools who should be recruited for work at
the flour-mills, like Hippolyte.’
“I bowed my thanks. Michel approved Perceval, and bitterly lamented the
accommodating mind of the State in its system of fattening chemists at
the expense of the other workers.
“I asked whether the negotiation of the vouchers did not bring about a
rise and fall.
“‘Speculation in vouchers,’ replied Morin, ‘is prohibited. As a matter
of fact, it cannot be prevented altogether. There are among us, just as
formerly, avaricious and prodigal, laborious and idle, rich and poor,
happy and miserable, contented and discontented men. Yet all manage to
exist, and that is already something.’
“I fell a-musing for a while; then I remarked:
“‘Monsieur Morin, if one is to believe you, it seems to me that you
have realised equality and fraternity, as much as possible. But, I
fear that it is at the expense of liberty, which I have learnt to
cherish as the best of things.’
“Morin shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“‘We have not established equality. We know what it means. We have
secured a livelihood for all. We have placed labour on a pedestal of
honour. After that, if the bricklayer thinks himself superior to the
poet, and the poet to the bricklayer, ’tis their business. Every one
of our workers imagines that his form of labour is the grandest in the
world. The advantages of this idea are greater than the disadvantages.
“‘Comrade Hippolyte, you seem to have delved deeply into the books
of the nineteenth century of the closed era; their leaves are hardly
turned nowadays: you speak their language, to us a foreign tongue.
It is hard for us to realise nowadays that the bygone friends of the
people should have adopted as their motto: _Liberty_, _Equality_,
_Fraternity_. Liberty has no place in society, since it does not exist
in nature. There is no free animal. It was said formerly that a man who
obeyed the laws was free. This was childish. Moreover, so strange a
use was made of the word liberty in the last days of the capitalistic
anarchy that the word has ended in merely expressing the setting claim
to privileges. The idea of equality is still less reasonable, and it
is an unfortunate idea in that it presupposes a false ideal. We have
not to seek whether men are equal among themselves. What we must see to
is that each one shall supply his best and receive all necessaries of
life. As to fraternity, we know only too well how brothers have acted
towards brothers during the course of centuries. We do not pretend to
say that men are bad. We do not say that they are good. They are what
they are, but they live in peace, when there are no longer any reasons
for them to fight one another. We have but a single word to express our
social system. We say that we live in harmony. Now it is an assured
fact that all human forces act in concert nowadays.’
“‘In the centuries,’ I said to him, ‘of what you style the closed
era, one preferred the possession of things to their enjoyment. I can
conceive that, reversing the order of things, you prefer enjoyment to
possession. But is it not distressing to you not to have any property
to leave to your children?’
“‘In capitalistic times,’ replied Morin with animation, ‘how many
were there who left inheritances? One in a thousand; nay, one in ten
thousand. Nor must it be forgotten that many generations did not enjoy
the faculty of bequeathing. Be this as it may, the transmission of
fortune through the medium of inheritances was perfectly conceivable
when the family was in existence. But now....’
“‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘you have no family ties?’
“My surprise, which I had not been able to conceal, seemed comical to
the woman-comrade Chéron.
“‘We are quite aware,’ she said to me, ‘that marriage exists among
the Kaffirs. We European women do not bind ourselves by promises; or,
if we make them, the law does not take cognisance of them. We are of
opinion that the whole destiny of a human being should not hang on a
word. Nevertheless, there survives a relic of the customs of the closed
era. When a woman gives herself, she swears fidelity on the horns of
the moon. In reality, neither the man nor the woman takes any binding
engagement. Yet it is not of rare occurrence that their union endures
as long as life. Neither of them would wish to be the object of a
fidelity secured by means of an oath, instead of by physical and moral
expediency. We owe nothing to anybody. Formerly, a man convinced a
woman that she belonged to him. We are less simple-minded. We believe
that a human being belongs to itself alone. We give ourselves when we
please, and to whom we see fit.
“‘Moreover, we feel no shame in yielding to desire. We are no
hypocrites. Only four hundred years ago, physiology was a sealed book
to men, and their ignorance was the cause of dire illusions and cruel
deceptions. Hippolyte, whatever the Kaffirs may say, society must be
subordinate to nature, and not, as too long has been the case, nature
to society?’
“Perceval, endorsing the speech of her comrade, added:
“‘To show you how the sex question is regulated in our society, I must
tell you, Hippolyte, that in many factories the recruiting delegate
does not even inquire about one’s sex. The sex of an individual does
not interest collectivism.’
“‘But the children?’
“‘Well? The children?’
“‘Not having any family ideal, are they not neglected?’
“‘Whence did you get such an idea? Maternal love is a most powerful
instinct in woman. In the hideous society of the past, mothers were to
be seen courting misery and shame, in order to bring up illegitimate
offspring. Why should ours, exempt as they are from shame and misery,
forsake their little ones? There are among us many good partners, and
many good mothers. But there is a very large number, which increases
apace, of women who dispense with men.’
“Chéron made in this connection a somewhat strange remark.
“‘We have in regard to sexual characteristics,’ she said, ‘notions
undreamt of in the barbaric simplicity of the men of the closed era.
False conclusions were for a long time drawn from the fact that there
are two sexes, and two only. It was therefrom concluded that a woman
is absolutely female, and a man absolutely male. In reality, it is not
thus; there are women who are very much women, while others are very
little so. These differences, formerly concealed by the costume and
the mode of life, and disguised by prejudice, make themselves clearly
manifest in our society. More than that, they become accentuated and
more marked with each succeeding generation. Ever since women have
worked like men, and acted and thought like them, many are to be found
who resemble men. We may some day reach the point of creating neutrals,
and produce female workers, as in the case of bees. It will prove a
great benefit, for it will become possible to increase the quantity of
work without increasing the population in a degree out of proportion to
the necessaries of life. We entertain the same dread of a deficit in
and a surplus of births.’
“I thanked Perceval and Chéron for having kindly supplied me with
information on so interesting a subject, and I inquired whether
education was not neglected in collectivist society, and whether
speculative science and the liberal arts still flourished.
“The following is old Morin’s reply to my question:
“‘Education, in all its degrees, is highly developed. The comrades all
know something; they do not know the same things, nor have they learnt
anything useless. No longer is any time lost in the study of law and
theology. Each one selects from the arts and sciences what suits him.
We still possess many ancient works, although the greater part of the
works printed before the new era have perished. Books are still printed
in greater quantity than ever. And yet typography is on the point of
disappearing. Phonography will take its place. Poets and novelists are
already being published phonographically, while in connection with
theatrical plays, a most ingenious combination of the phono and the
cinemato rendering both the voice and the play of the actors has been
devised.’
“‘You have then poets and playwrights?’
“‘We not only have poets, but a poetry of our own. We are the first
who have delimitated the domain of poetry. Previous to our time, many
ideas which could have been better expressed in prose were expressed
in verse. Narratives were unfolded in rhyme. This was a survival of
the days when legislative enactments and recipes of rural economy
were drawn up in measured terms. Nowadays poets merely sing delicate
subjects which have no meaning, while their grammar and language are
as proper to them as their rhythm and assonance. As to our stage, it
is almost exclusively lyric. A precise knowledge of reality and a life
void of violence have rendered us almost indifferent to drama and
tragedy. The uniformity of the classes and the equality of the sexes
have deprived the old comedy of nearly all its subject-matter. But
never has music been so beautiful and so beloved. We especially admire
the sonata and the symphony.
“‘Our society is greatly predisposed in favour of the arts of design.
Many prejudices harmful to painting have vanished. Our life is more
limpid and more beautiful than the bourgeois life, and we have a
vivid appreciation of form. Sculpture is in a still more flourishing
condition than painting, ever since it has taken an intelligent part in
the ornamentation of public buildings and private dwellings. Never was
so much done towards the teaching of art. If you will but steer your
aeroplane above one of our streets, you will be surprised at the number
of schools and museums.’
“‘To sum matters up, are you happy?’ I inquired.
“Morin shook his head and replied:
“‘It is not in human nature to enjoy perfect happiness. Happiness
is not attainable without effort, and every effort brings with it
fatigue and suffering. We have made life endurable to all. That is
something. Our descendants will do better still. Our organisation is
not immutable. Not fifty years ago, it was different from what it is
to-day. Men endowed with subtile powers of observation believe that we
are on the road to great changes. That may be. However, the forward
steps in human civilisation will henceforth be harmonious and pacific.’
“‘Do you not fear, on the contrary,’ I asked him, ‘that the
civilisation with which you appear to be satisfied may be destroyed
by an invasion of barbarians? There still remain in Asia and Africa,
so you have told me, large black or yellow populations which have not
entered into your concert. They have armies, while you have none. Were
they to attack you...’
“‘Our defence is assured. The Americans and the Australians alone could
enter upon a struggle with us, for they are as learned as ourselves.
But the ocean separates us and a community of interests makes us sure
of their amity. As to the capitalistic negroes, they have not got any
further than the steel cannon, fire-arms and all the old scrap-iron
of the twentieth century. What could these ancient engines of war
do against a discharge of Y-rays? Our frontiers are protected by
electricity. A zone of lightning encircles the Federation. A little
spectacled fellow is sitting I know not where, in front of a keyboard.
He is our one and only soldier. He has but to touch a key in order to
reduce to dust an army of 500,000 men.’
“Morin ceased speaking for a moment; then he continued, speaking more
deliberately:
“‘Were our civilisation threatened, it would not be by any outside
enemy. It would be by the enemies from within.’
“‘There are such enemies, then?’
“‘We have the anarchists. They are many, fiery, and intelligent. Our
chemists and our professors of sciences and letters are almost to a man
anarchists. They attribute to the regulation of labour and production
the majority of the evils which still afflict society. They argue that
humanity will not be happy except in the spontaneous harmony to be born
of the total destruction of civilisation. They are dangerous. They
would be still more so were we to repress them. To do this, however, we
have neither the means nor the desire. We do not possess any power of
coercion or repression, and we get along very well without it. In the
barbaric ages, men nurtured great illusions in regard to the efficacy
of penalties. Our fathers suppressed the judiciary system entirely.
They no longer required it. With the suppression of private property,
they simultaneously suppressed theft and swindling. Ever since we have
carried electric protectors, assaults are no longer to be feared. Man
has come to be respected by man. Crimes of passion are still and will
ever be committed. However, such crimes as these, if left unpunished,
become rarer. Our entire judiciary body is composed of elected
arbitrators who try gratuitously all offences and disputes.’
“‘I rose, and thanking my comrades for their kindness, I begged Morin
the favour of putting one more question to him.
“‘You no longer have any religion?’
“‘Quite the contrary; we have a large number of religions, some of
them somewhat novel. To mention France only, we have the religion
of humanity, positivism, Christianity, and spiritualism. In some
countries there are still some Catholics, but they are few and split up
into sects, as the result of schisms which occurred in the twentieth
century, when Church and State drifted apart. For a long time now there
has not been any Pope.’
“‘You are mistaken,’ said Michel. ‘There is still a Pope. It is by a
mere chance that I know of him. He is Pius XXV., dyer, Via dell’ Orso,
in Rome.’
“‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘the Pope is a dyer!’”
“‘What is there surprising about that! He must perforce have a trade,
just as everybody else.’
“‘But his Church?’
“‘He is recognised by a few thousands, in Europe.’
“With these words, we parted. Michel informed me that I should find a
lodging in the neighbourhood, and that Chéron would conduct me to it on
her way home.
“The night was illuminated with an opalescent light both powerful and
soft. It gave the foliage the sheen of enamel. I walked by the side of
Chéron.
“I looked her over. Her flat-soled shoes gave firmness to her gait
and balance to her body; although her male habiliments made her seem
smaller than she was, and in spite of her having one hand in her
pocket, her perfectly simple carriage did not lack dignity. She gazed
freely to the right and left of her. She was the first woman in whom I
had noticed the air of a curious and amused lounger. Her features, seen
from under her tam-o’-shanter, were refined and strongly defined. She
both irritated and charmed me. I was in dread that she might consider
me stupid and ridiculous. It was, to say the least, plain that my
personality inspired her with supreme indifference. Nevertheless, of
a sudden she asked me what my trade might be. I answered at haphazard
that I was an electrician.
“‘So am I,’ she said.
“I prudently put an end to the conversation.
“Unheard-of sounds were filling the night air with their calm rhythmic
noise, and I listened in affright to the respiration of the monstrous
genius of this new world.
“The more I looked at the female electrician, the more did I feel a
desire for her, a desire fanned by a dash of antipathy.
“‘So of course,’ I said to her of a sudden, ‘you have regulated love
scientifically, and ’tis a matter which no longer causes any one
uneasiness.’
“‘You are mistaken,’ she replied. ‘We have naturally got beyond the mad
imbecility of the closed era, and the whole domain of human physiology
is henceforth freed from legal barbarisms and theological terrors. We
are no longer the prey to an erroneous and cruel conception of duty.
But the laws governing the attraction between body and body are still
a mystery to us. The spirit of the species is what it ever was and
ever shall be, violent and capricious. Now, just as formerly, instinct
remains stronger than reason. Our superiority over the ancients lies
less in the knowledge of it than in proclaiming it. We have within us a
force capable of creating worlds, to wit, desire, and you would have us
regulate it. ’Tis asking too much of us. We are no longer barbarians.
We have not yet become wise. Collectivism altogether ignores all that
appertains to sexual relations. These relations are what they may be,
most often tolerable, rarely delicious, and at times horrible. But,
comrade, do not imagine that love no longer troubles any one.’
“I could not discuss such extraordinary ideas. I diverted the
conversation to the temperament of women. Chéron informed me that there
were three kinds, those who were amorously disposed, those prompted by
curiosity, and the third, indifferent. I thereupon asked her to which
class she belonged.
“She looked at me somewhat haughtily and said:
“‘There are also various kinds of men. First and foremost are the
impertinent ones....’
“Her reply caused her to appear far more contemporaneous than I had
until then believed her to be. For that reason I began to speak to her
the language used by me on similar occasions. After a few trifling and
frivolous words I said to her:
“‘Will you grant me a favour and tell me your first name?’
“‘I have none?’
“She perceived that this seemed to vex me, for she resumed with some
show of pique:
“‘Do you think that a woman must, in order to be pleasing to you,
possess a first name, like the ladies of former days, a baptismal name
such as Marguerite, Thérèse, or Jeanne?’
“‘You are a living proof to the contrary.’
“I sought her gaze, but it did not respond to mine. She seemed not to
have heard. I could no longer entertain doubts: she was a coquette. I
was delighted. I told her that I found her charming, that I loved her,
and I told her so over and over again. She suffered me to go on with my
speeches, and finally asked:
“‘What do you mean by all this!’
“I became more pressing.
“‘She reproached me for taking liberties with her, exclaiming:
“‘Your ways are those of a savage.’
“‘I do not find acceptance with you?’
“‘I do not say so.’
“Chéron, Chéron, would it cost you any great effort to...’
“We sat down together on a bench over which an elm cast its shade. I
took her hand, and carried it to my lips ... of a sudden, I no longer
felt, no longer saw anything, and I found myself lying in bed at home.
I rubbed my eyes, smarting with the morning light, and I saw my valet
who, standing before me with a stupid look, was saying to me:
“It is nine o’clock, sir. You told me to wake you at nine o’clock, sir.
I have come to tell you, sir, that it is nine o’clock?”