Martyrs of Science Read online

  The most remarkable of Berthoud’s works, however, are undoubtedly his historical romances, especially those featuring real or imaginary scientists. Those that pretend to be based on fact—“drama-documentaries” in modern parlance—are more extensively fantasized that most of the similar items nowadays produced for the television medium, but it is arguable that that makes them all the more interesting, and certainly makes them more extensively “personalized.” Looking back from the viewpoint of a literary archaeologist interested in precursors of modern speculative fiction, Berthoud might seem to be a deeply frustrating case-study, as a writer who came close to inventing “science fiction” in the 1840s but failed to do so, ultimately producing only one futuristic story in the 1860s, conscientiously offered as a Mercieresque dream, more in a spirit of parodic frivolity than serious anticipation. It is, however, rather unfair to assess him in terms of what he did not do rather than what he actually did.

  The items he collected in Fantaisies scientifiques de Sam now seem extremely eccentric to modern eyes educated by a very different notion of what “scientific fantasies” might be. Many are items of offbeat journalism, only lightly fictionalized, and many of those that are more solidly cast in a fictional mold are brief historical romances devoid of any scientific content, or primitive exercises in what would now be called “animal fantasy.” Those that do deal with contemporary scientific research and discovery, however, often do so from an odd and perhaps seemingly-perverse perspective. I have only reproduced a handful of them in this sampler, attempting to give a hint as to their range, but the group is hopefully varied enough to illustrate their eccentricity as well as their scope.

  The collections of children’s stories Berthoud assembled after the Fantaisies scientifiques frequently recycle stories therefrom—especially the longer stories that probably predate the articles reprinted from La Patrie—but usually add new items intended to round out their themes. The latter are usually presented in a supposedly child-friendly manner, but that does not always serve of conceal the author’s cynicism, and certainly does not suppress the pioneering surges of his imagination.

  In those more extravagant endeavors, Berthoud was inevitably working under the handicap of the imperfect knowledge of his era and the limitations of his own particular idols of thought. He was by no means the only writer to become interested in contemporary paleontological discoveries in the 1860s, or to attempt to find ways of dramatizing those discoveries in fictional form, but the limitations of the fossil record as a basis for fictional reconstruction are painfully obvious to the modern eye in “Le Château de Heidenloch” and we now know that Berthoud was on the losing side of the argument in sticking to Georges Cuvier’s insistence on maintaining belief in the special creation of humankind in accordance with Biblical chronology in spite of the overwhelming evidence of the Earth’s antiquity and the mounting evidence that humankind’s Stone Age must date back much further than Biblical chronology allowed. It is, however, worth remembering that modern readers only have access to the second, revised edition of Jules Verne’s Voyage au centre de la Terre, written in 1867 in order to take aboard the conversion of Louis Figuier, its principal source, to the latter viewpoint, and that the first version of the novel, published in 1864, had accepted the creationist account to which Berthoud adhered.

  All the English versions produced as Journey to the Centre of the Earth reproduce the revised edition. It is true that the depictions of the plesiosaur and the ichthyosaur contained in Verne’s novels are far more accurate that the earlier descriptions contained in Verne’s novelette, but Verne’s description of a prehistoric human, presented (as a vision) in the second version is as wide of the mark as anything in Berthoud’s work, and Berthoud’s pioneering account of Stone Age humankind, “Les Premiers habitants de Paris” (1865; translated herein as “The First Inhabitants of Paris”), although inevitably primitive by comparison with the prehistoric fantasies produced in the 1890s by J. H. Rosny and others, nevertheless remains something of a tour de force for its time, having been produced a full decade ahead of the next significant attempt to do something similar—which was almost certainly inspired by Berthoud—in Le Monde inconnu [The Unknown World] (1876, tr. in 1879 as The Pre-Historic World) by his fellow veteran feuilletonist Élie Berthet, which was subsequently revised in 1885 as Paris avant l’histoire.

  Jules Verne was a considerably better writer than Berthoud, and seems much more important to historians of science fiction because he did write a handful of genuine items of speculative fiction that extrapolate the possibilities of scientific progress far more robustly than anything Berthoud did, but it is worth remembering that Jules Hetzel did his level best to restrain, if not actually to suppress, that aspect of his star writer’s work, and that Berthoud, mostly working for editors far more conservative than Hetzel, was certainly not operating in an environment hospitable to that kind of endeavor.

  It is still impossible to judge the full extent of Berthoud’s endeavors in pioneering his own varieties of “scientific fiction,” because many of the periodicals for which he worked have vanished from human ken, and it is highly unlikely that gallica will ever be able to reproduce even scattered samples of them, but the few samples that have been revived by that means indicate that he really was an interesting and accomplished writer in that context. The work in question would have been as difficult for contemporary readers to assess properly as for modern ones but their esotericism should not be allowed to detract from its achievement, which is as remarkable for its fervor as for its uniqueness.

  The translations from Contes misanthropiques included in the present collection’s section of Misanthropic Tales were made from the Google Books version. Most of the translations of items from the Chroniques et traditions surnaturelles de Flandre in the Folklore and Fakelore section were made from the versions reproduced on the Biblisem website at biblisem.net, because they are easier to read than the originals contained on gallica, but the items not available on Biblisem were taken directly from the gallica version of the first edition. The translation of the three stories in the Martyrs of Science section reprinted in Fantaisies scientifiques de Sam and all the stories in the Scientific Fantasies section were made from the gallica versions of that four-volume set. The translations of “Le Maître du Temps” and “Le Chaudron de Bicêtre” were made from the gallica copies of the Revue Pittoresque. The translation of “Le Château de Heidenloch” in the Stories for Children section was made from the gallica version of Contes du Dr. Sam; the translations of the other two stories in that section were made from a copy of an undated Garnier edition of L’Homme depuis cinq mille ans.

  Brian Stableford

  MISANTHROPIC TALES

  PRESTIGE

  May Our Lady aid me, good sire! A tattered

  rag instead of an entire mantle of new fabric!

  Père Mathias, La Querelle des Chevaliers.1

  My daughter is young, she is pretty;

  And her mother has trained her

  In economy since childhood.

  I’m rich, it’s true, but I have many children;

  It’s time I married her off.

  S. Henry Berthoud. Le Projet de mariage.

  It was four o’clock; the sea, leaving the shore dry, was only audible as a dull murmur, and only a few waves were perceptible, still swaying on the edge of the horizon.

  The greatest activity reigned in the port of Dunkerque; troops of fishermen, their baskets on their back and their nets in hand, wearing their skirts of thick red cloth rolled up to their knees, were advancing barefoot in the midst of the hardened sand that the ebb-tide had uncovered; their confused and singular cries mingled with the racket of carts, the oaths of mariners in their various languages, the plaintive and rhythmic songs of sailors unloading ships, and other confused noises. Cabin-boys in tarred hats, tradesmen, foreigners, women wrapped in the grey or black mantillas known locally as “capes,” and others elegantly dressed in fashionable costumes, were moving
around the harbor, crossing paths, forming groups, moving apart, advancing on to the jetty; and the rays of the setting sun displayed their ruddy light through the furled sails, rigging, flags and masts that rose up in all directions.

  Picturesque as the spectacle was, it did not attract the slightest attention from a young man who was making his way along the harbor precipitately.

  I should think so! All his sensations were absorbed by one of those ardent and unrestricted joys that arrive so rarely in life to dilate the breast of a young man, although it suffices, in order for it to happen, that he is young and in love.

  Far from noticing the effects of the light, Paul, for that was his name, did not even think about looking where he was going. That would have been a good idea, however, for on two occasions he attracted energetic protests, and he finally found himself in the arms of someone who demanded in a phlegmatic tone, with an unequivocal English accent: “Paul, have you done mad?”

  “Sydney, my friend, you, here? I thought you were in London. It’s my good angel who’s sent you! Oh, I’m the happiest of men!”

  After that beginning, which a professor of rhetoric would have called an exordium ex abrupto, Paul linked arms with the friend that he had encountered in such an opportune fashion, and set about telling him the cause of his joy. Nothing befits and animated conversation like a precipitate pace, and Paul dragged his listener along so rapidly that the latter exclaimed: “God damn it! Don’t you know that I’ve got a bullet lodged in my leg?”

  That interjection slowed Paul’s march for a few seconds; even so, he gradually resumed his hasty pace, and when they both arrived at the hotel where Sydney was staying, the islander’s face was covered with sweat.

  “My friend,” he said, stopping with an entirely British gravity, “I see that felicity is at least as loquacious as misfortune. You’ve asked for Mademoiselle Tréa’s hand in marriage; her father, Monsieur Vandermoudt, has promised it to you. Thank God: there, in one sentence, are your confidences of five quarters of an hour.

  “Personally, I left London the day before yesterday and Calais this morning. My business affairs will keep me here for two weeks. I’m going to have dinner; will you join me?”

  Paul accepted, laughing, talked about nothing all through dinner but Tréa, the charming Tréa, and would not give Sydney a rest until he had consented to be introduced to Monsieur Vandermoudt. Sir Edward Sydney finally gave in, and after having retired to a room whose door he took extreme care to close, he emerged again dressed with an elegance and taste that the most committed dandy would not have disavowed.

  Sir Edward might have been forty years old. At first sight, his distinguished bearing, teeth of admirable whiteness and regularity, beautiful blond hair and graceful manner produced the favorable impression that disposes people to great benevolence. It was only after a more attentive examination that one discovered a discordance in his gaze and bizarre effects that lingered.

  Furthermore, he expressed himself in French with great facility, albeit with a certain hoarseness and awkwardness in his pronunciation. The limp occasioned by the wound in his leg was hardly noticeable, perhaps not even lacking in a certain grace, and, far from harming him, reflected upon him the interest that a soldier’s wound almost invariable produces. Let us add, too, that the wound in question was not his only one, for he experienced some difficulty in making use of his right arm, the hand of which remained constantly covered by a glove.

  The portrait of Mademoiselle Tréa will not be as long: an only daughter, a spoiled child, delightful caprices, and a whimsicality that might drive a husband to despair or render him the happiest of men; nourished on novels like all the young women of the province, and in consequence, excitable; incorrect in judgment and imagining the ideal type of happiness in the features of a cavalry officer with an epaulette and medal, whom every sentry salutes.

  At any rate, she was allowing herself to be married to Paul without regret, but without joy, saying to herself: He’s a nice fellow who loves me as much as he’s capable of loving—which is to say, very gently—and with whom I’ll find a negative kind of happiness.

  The rank that gave Tréa’s father his consideration and his fortune were only secondary; according to the conventional expression, it placed him among the well-to-do bourgeoisie and nothing more; the young woman’s vanity felt flattered when Paul, with a solemnity unaccustomed for him, introduced, first to Monsieur Vandermoudt and then to Mademoiselle Tréa Vandermoudt, “Colonel Sir Edward Sydney of Sydney Hall.”

  Sir Edward’s distinguished manners, which made a contrast with Paul’s blunt and bourgeois manners, initially inspired in Tréa a kind of suspicion of herself and respect for Sir Edward; she did not indulge that evening in her customary chatter, a delightful profligacy overflowing with mischief and candor; she maintained a certain reserve, and replied timidly.

  It was a major occasion for her, when Sir Edward arrived the following day on his own. Paul had left that morning on important business, which would keep him absent for at least a month.

  On the one hand, she did not want to appear silly, and on the other, she could not overcome the impression of superiority that Sir Edward made on her; she was flattered to be associating with a man of his rank and merit, and yet the man in question imposed himself upon her in the most cruel fashion.

  There was in Sir Edward’s character that exaltation that, far from being incompatible with experience and disenchantment, is rather the companion of then, if not the consequence.

  Utterly smitten with the Tréa’s grace and naivety, he had promised himself the previous day that the charming creature would not be Paul’s. Rich, powerful and accustomed to satisfying his slightest whim, Paul’s departure served his purpose marvelously; it was up to him to do the rest. He set to work with the confidence of a man whose experience and intelligence guaranteed success, and the wariness of a lover who is very much in love and who is staking too much on success not to be afraid of failure.

  The colonel had observed, without seeking to destroy, the impression of superiority that he had made on Tréa; far from being unfavorable to his plans, it was to serve them. He showed himself to be so witty and so amiable that Tréa felt attracted to him by a gentle charm that would temper, but without diminishing, the sentiment she experienced of the colonel’s merit.

  The next day and on the days after that, Sir Edward continued to surround Tréa with the most assiduous attentions. However, he never mentioned love; he did better than that: he let her see that he loved her.

  It was necessary to lead Paul’s fiancée insensibly to renounce the man to whom she and her father had granted the right to her. That was a treason that would go against and revolt the young enthusiast’s romantic ideas, and such a rupture would be bound to cause a scandal. All the small town gossip! To have fingers pointed at one, to be subjected to sarcasms and mealy-mouthed atrocities!

  The colonel read Tréa’s mind. He therefore continued his skillful seduction, always putting himself, by indirect means, in parallel with Paul; that was to establish his value and to denigrate, perhaps doom, the man who, although younger, admittedly, did not possess any of Sir Edward’s brilliant qualities.

  Even so, he would never have triumphed if he had not dissipated the ideas of treason to which Tréa’s romantic character was opposed, making them disappear beneath generous sentiments.

  Naturally melancholy in his character, he took advantage of that disposition. He allowed it to be glimpsed that a profound chagrin was consuming him. That somber despair, about which he never uttered any complaint, inspired that tender interest in the young woman which, quite different from pity, only differs from love by an imperceptible nuance, and whose effect is all the more sure because one is less wary of it, and the mystery in which its attraction is clad.

  The progress of that sentiment was rapid in Tréa, but it was necessary to hasten it further, because Paul was going to return, along with the forgotten scruples and the shame of saying to his face: �
��I love someone other than you, whose wife I have promised to be.”

  The opportunity for a decisive struggle presented itself the next day. The colonel was alone with Tréa. Tréa yielded with charm to one of those conversations which relaxation, confidence and a tenderness as-yet-unadmitted or concealed render so delicious.

  The subject turned to happiness; she cited someone as an example of a happy man.

  “Happy!” he said.

  “Yes…there are many who are said to be happy.”

  “And yet, if one knew that they were suffering, perhaps one wouldn’t want to change places with them, at the price of the softness of luxury, the glamour of rank and the glory of renown. Perhaps one wouldn’t want to, if one had to sleep on straw and eat black bread.

  “I knew a man whose lot everyone envied; amiable, it was said, learned, a great name, and rich enough to satisfy the vastest desires. He was, however, very unhappy. There was no ostentation or exaggeration in his dolor; he allowed himself to drift in the midst of life’s pleasures, insouciantly, without receiving any beneficent impressions therefrom.

  “An atrocious and prolonged dolor numbed his moral faculties, as it can dull the physical faculties, except that the latter are sometimes cured, the former never can be. He loved, he was beloved; a woman had sacrificed everything for him: happiness, the past, the future, conscience! He was worthy of such sacrifices. He was worthy, because he did not regard love as a frivolous struggle of pleasure and vanity a duel in which one deploys cunning, which one refines with skill, and after which one departs cold and indifferent.