“That’s marvelous!” Marcel exclaimed. “And how have you arrived at establishing communications with the planet Mars?”
“Thanks to geometry,” replied Blas. “In one of the vastest plains in the world, in Siberia, we built luminous walls more than a hundred leagues long, presenting in relief the essential figures of geometry. Years of waiting went by. Finally, the Martians responded with similar signals, and after long groping on either side, we’ve finally arrived at admitting a common alphabet. That was the most difficult part. Now, the inhabitants of the two worlds will be able to march in the same path of fraternal progress.”
XII. In the Family
After the midday meal, which was rapidly expedited, Blas took Marcel to the infant classes, which the latter had expressed a desire to see.
In the different rooms they traversed, the strictest precepts of hygiene were applied. The children, installed on sandstone chairs, were maintained with a cleanliness and care that excluded any deleterious miasma, any negligence and any disorder, so they were fresh and rosy.
Marcel was both delighted and surprised not to observe among them any of the rickety bodies or pale and chlorotic faces with dead eyes and weary already-geriatric gestures that populated the elementary schools of Paris in his own day. All the children he saw had clear complexions, lively eyes and plump hands. The smiles of contentment that illuminated their faces showed that, in making them study, a means had been found of avoiding any constraint of difficulty on their part.
That happy and smiling infancy was truly a joy to behold.
“What do you do, then,” Marcel asked, “to have little schoolchildren as docile and as happy at the same time? In order to obtain that result you must employ complicated and expert methods?”
“Our method is perhaps expert, but not complicated. The pedagogues of the year 3000 never make use of force, or even constraint, with the youngest children. They content themselves with observing the pupils entrusted to them carefully. A child always has a liking or an aptitude for something; it’s those tastes and aptitudes that they try to discover. That’s the whole problem. If a child likes drawing, he’s enabled to draw; if he has a good memory and likes learning by heart, he’s provided with moral maxims, interesting stories and harmonious verses. If, on the other hand, he gives evidence of reflection and logical thinking, his young imagination is steered toward mathematics or philosophy.”
“Pardon me,” said Marcel, “but with that system you must form little specialists whose knowledge will necessarily remain incomplete.”
“That’s a great error,” Blas replied. “Human intelligence forms as a whole. From the moment that one has a liking for one of its manifestations, one arrives, by the force of circumstance, in interesting oneself in the universality of the others. Thus, the child who begins by drawing doesn’t take long to perceive that, in order to draw correctly, it’s necessary to know anatomy, perspective and mathematics. When he’s in possession of that knowledge, he notices many other lacunae. He perceives that he knows almost nothing, and his ardor for work is augmented. And he arrives inevitably at studying philosophy and history, which furnish him with subjects and general ideas, so that, gradually, whatever the art or science was with which he began, he eventually climbs the entire ladder of human knowledge.
“I’ll add that studies thus organized are far better than those accomplished by force. The pupil, only ever having worked on what interests him, never forgets anything. One avoids, as far as possible, fatiguing his memory, leaving the field free for his reason, his imagination, his logic and his initiative. It’s sufficient for a study not to please the child for it to be abandoned immediately. So, thanks to that method, the ignorant no longer exist among us, while good pupils—those who were called swots in your day—are numerous.”
“There must be a good deal of indiscipline, disorder and idleness in your schools.”
“That’s an error. Children never disobey, precisely because no one ever seeks to impose any constraint on them. We always make appeal to their reasoning and their curiosity. No one ever seeks to intimidate them. A child is the most logical being there is. Far more than an adult, he is avid for explanations and knowledge. It’s sufficient to speak to him gently, to provoke his questions and to put the answers within the range of his young intelligence. Thus, the pupils in our schools, from the most tender age, give proof of an exemplary attention and docility. They wait for recreation time without impatience, and one has to use subterfuges to make them accept the days of leave necessary to their health, so much attraction do they feel to study.
“In sum,” Blas concluded, “pedagogues, nowadays, are little more than attentive psychologists. They cultivate in perfection the art of interesting themselves in young intelligences, and that’s the sole reason for their success.”
“I admire that system of education greatly,” said Marcel. “But permit me to raise an objection. It must happen frequently that you run into ingrate natures, encounter primitive intelligences that aren’t interested in anything at all.”
“That does sometimes happen, but the result is not what you might imagine. It merely requires a little more trouble and a little more attention, that’s all. No child exists who isn’t interested in anything. As he’s never constrained, he lets his veritable penchants show right away. We favor them, and it’s through that breach, however narrow it might be, made in his ignorance, that the army of other knowledge doesn’t take long to penetrate. Thus, we’ve had backward children—this is the case that presents itself most frequently—who initially show a taste for gymnastics and violent exercises, fond of wrestling, for example, or excursions by aerocycle and aeroscaph.”
“And what happens then?”
“It’s by dint of conducting aeroscaphs and aerocycles that they become passionate about mechanics. Every sportsman likes to know the organs of the apparatus of which he makes use. In order to understand mechanics it’s indispensable to know physics and chemistry. You can see the logical sequence. Our initial idlers become, in the end, as knowledgeable as their comrades.”
“Permit me to ask one question,” said Marcel, “a very important question. What, in your era, is the role of the family in the education of a child?”
After a moment of reflection, Blas replied: “Affection between parents and children is profound. Children never cease, in our society, to cherish and respect their parents. They consult them about everything, and never have the slightest disagreement with them. But in other respects, the role of the family is not at all what it once was. In barbaric epochs, parents kept close watch on their children, not losing sight of them for a minute, with the objective of protecting them against the dangers they might run outside. Today, there is no longer any reason for such a close surveillance. As much from the moral as the material viewpoint, the child enjoys an absolute security. Outside, he isn’t exposed to any danger or any bad example. He only sees around him spectacles of beauty and goodness. From the most tender age, he is habituated to loving all those who surround him, and not being afraid of anyone or anything. The people of the thirtieth century respect all old people as if they were their parents, and cherish all children as if they were their own.”
“When I was younger,” Marcel murmured, “I wasn’t permitted to cross the street, because of the vehicles or the crowd. I can see that all that has changed.”
“I think,” said Blas, “that you understand sufficiently now the fashion in which our elementary schools function. If you wish, we can employ the rest of the afternoon visiting my parents. I haven’t seen them for three days. I never let such a long time pass without going to embrace them. The delay is partly your fault. I’ll introduce you and you can take charge of excusing me.”
“Do your parents live far away?”
“No, they live on the shore of the ocean, a quarter of an hour away by aeroscaph. The place where they reside is part of the ancient French département of Landes. My father is an architect. He’s the author of
several ameliorations in the internal design and external decoration of edifices, which were universally adopted a few years ago.”
Marcel was eager to meet Blas’ parents. The two friends ran to the aerial station and leapt into a aeroscaph.
This time, they went at a lower speed than during their journey to Artika, but Marcel still judged it vertiginous.
A few minutes later, they were within sight of the sea. A vast forest of pines, pomegranates and palm trees, dotted with white towers of sandstone and porcelain, extended beneath them when Blas exclaimed, joyfully: “Halt! We’ve arrived!”
They both disembarked on to the terrace of the house in which Blas’ father lived. The elevator deposited them at the door of a drawing room ornamented with large vases of flowers and white statues. Blas’ mother and sister did not take long to appear. Both were very beautiful, and Blas’ mother appeared so young that she might have been mistaken for her daughter’s older sister.
Like Madame Futural, the two women wore no jewelry or feathery hats. They were simply dressed in glass fiber tunics with broad pleats, of an admirable richness and good taste.
They gave the young refugee from times past a very cordial welcome. They even went to fetch cups and urns of red jasper, which they placed on a chrysoprase side-table, and invited Marcel to refresh himself. He excused himself; he was neither hungry nor thirsty, having eaten copiously in company with his comrade in the school refectory.
Blas’ sister was named Hyla. She was presently finishing her studies, after which she had decided to take up a position as a teacher of elementary classes. She adored children, and, while awaiting the moment of her marriage, would be glad to spend a few years in their company.
Like all young women, Hyla was very curious. She bombarded Marcel with questions. After a few minutes of conversation, he did not take long to perceive, to his great confusion, that the young woman was much more learned than he was. Without any pedantry, she discussed, playfully, a host of questions that had been the exclusive province of the most rebarbative scholars in his day.
“You’re not unknown to me,” she said. “We’ve already been informed of all the details of your arrival, and up to date with the excursions you’ve made in our world.”
“Really?” said Marcel, nonplussed.
“Do you want proof?” said Hyla smiling. And she pressed the button of a phonograph.
“You’ll see,” she said, “that your arrival has been reported in our newspapers.”
The apparatus began, in a monotonous and, so to speak, impersonal voice: “By virtue of a combination of circumstances that our scientists are in the process of studying, and which the will clarify in a few days, an inhabitant of the distant and still-barbaric epoch of the twentieth century has made an appearance among us.
“He is young and appears to be mild in character. He only possesses the singularly limited education that was provided in his time, but he seems avid to learn....”
The rest of the article contained the most scrupulous details of Marcel’s person and the actions. Another article took account of the most plausible hypotheses that scholars had advanced in his regard. Without committing any indiscretion, the author of the second article studied the tastes, aptitudes and faculties of the young stranger in depth.
Marcel had never been passed through such a clear and exact analytical sieve.
“There are still journalists among you, then?” he asked.
“With an astonishment full of politeness, Hyla replied: “But everyone is a journalist nowadays. It’s sufficient for that to have something interesting to say. The scholar who has made an interesting discovery, the poet who has completed a fine work, and anyone who had witnessed an interesting event, hastens to telephone their discovery, work of art or item of information to one of the regional receivers, who transmits it to the rest of the world.”
“In that case,” said Marcel, “you must be exposed to hearing many items of padding, many poor works, many idle and futile reports and many challenged discoveries.”
“Why?” said Hyla, whose beautiful eyes expressed a naïve astonishment. “When one has nothing of interest to say, one says nothing. In our day, journalism is not a salaried profession, and no one has any interest in spoiling phonographic plates needlessly.”
“Once,” said Marcel, in a low voice “there were many people who wrote in order to say nothing, and who were well paid for it.”
Hyla emitted a frank burst of laughter. “I’ve read that,” she said, “but I thought it was greatly exaggerated. I’m glad that you’ve confirmed the item of information.”
The conversation was at that point when Blas’ father came into the drawing room. He was a man in the prime of life. From the outset of the conversation he gave evidence of a perfect affability and courtesy toward his guest.
“Your intelligence and your polite manner,” he said to Marcel, “make me doubt that we have made much progress in a thousand years. I see that after ten centuries of endeavor and ordeals, humankind is not as greatly improved as we had the conceit to believe.”
“You’ll permit me to doubt that,” replied Marcel, politely.
“You know, Father,” said Blas, “that a maxim already current in the twentieth century says that a host is responsible for the wellbeing of his guest during the time that the latter spends under his roof. What distractions can we offer our friend?”
“I confess to you,” Marcel said, “That I’d take great pleasure in visiting your habitation in all its details; and if it isn’t indiscreet, I’d like to take account of the arrangement of your domestic life.”
“You’re not committing any indiscretion,” replied Blas’ father. “We live in broad daylight. Only vanity, vice and ambition have any need to dissimulate. Since those faults no longer have any reason to exist, the house of any citizen is wide open to all the others.”
“First of all,” Blas commenced. “You must have noticed that in our society we don’t have any species of domestic staff. Electricity has become, for us, the most obedient, the most exact and the least onerous of servants. It’s sufficient for us to unleash the current of an electric oscillator to clean our apartments, our beds and the few utensils of which we make use in the most antiseptic fashion.”
“But what about the cooking?”
“Backward human being!” said Blas, smiling. “You must have perceived, however, that humankind is presently content with a single aliment, whose chemical preparation is very simple. Cooks, scullions, roasters of meat and makers of sauces, wine-waiters and arbiters of taste of every sort have become legendary beings, who are only seen in the theater. In all the world there is only one cook, an inoffensive maniac who, once or twice a year invites a few of his archeologist colleagues to historical repast prepared with great difficulty, thanks to hothouses and zoological gardens.”
Marcel, in confusion, dared not ask any more questions.
Accompanied by Blas and his father, he visited all the rooms in the habitation one by one. It stood in the center of a large park, whose last trees bathed their roots in the sea. They began with the park and its hothouses. Then they visited the basements, which contained, along with the electric accumulators, the machines that powered the elevator and the wireless telegraph and telephone, as well as the oscillators.
The bedrooms, although more luxurious, were very similar to the one in which Marcel had slept during the previous two nights. There were the same ceramic walls, the same glass dome and the same bed in the form of a conch.
There were several drawing rooms, heated or cooled at will by calorific plates, and decorated with statues and clumps of plants.
Marcel did not see any paintings, books or trinkets. He made that observation.
“The objects of which you speak,” Blas replied, “are only found in our museums. We’ve suppressed everything futile, cumbersome or ugly, as much for reasons of hygiene as esthetics. We detest complications, and we have a horror of microbes.”
After
wards, Marcel went into the library, where phonograph cylinders were accumulated by in thousands. Then he was taken to the museum—for every house had one of its own in the thirtieth century.
There, he saw with pleasure volumes carefully arranged, statuettes and utensils of all kinds, not to mention numerous photographic and cinematographic albums.
“You’ve seen everything,” said Blas, finally. “It only remains for us to visit the terrace where we disembarked. There’s a splendid view over the sea from there.”
“I’ve had an excellent idea,” said Hyla to her brother. “In the twentieth century, little was known about the oceanic depths. I’m sure that your friend would be delighted to make a submarine excursion.”
Marcel welcomed that proposition enthusiastically; and they immediately set about making preparations for the projected excursion.
XIII. Gardens Under the Sea
After having traversed the park, the entire family headed for the shore. The blue waves of the ocean came to caress the roots of pine trees and eucalypti weakly. From time to time, flowers were detached from the tall trees and fell gently into the water.
Following his friends, Marcel penetrated into a small building located at the extremity of a kind of peninsula that was almost entirely covered by vegetation.
“You see here,” said Blas’ father, the graving-dock where we keep the submarine that we employ in our excursions.
Marcel looked. A long crystal spindle was extended on ebonite rollers. Through the transparent walls the propulsive engines were visible, disposed at the rear and made of a metal as pale as silver.
Blas’ father opened a hatch circled by the same pale metal, the closure of which could be rendered hermetic by a rubber ring.
Everyone sat down on banquettes disposed in the interior. Blas bolted the door and secured the rubber strip while his father set in motion an apparatus for the continuous production of respirable air. The submarine, sliding along its rollers, soon plunged gently into the sea. The propeller began to spin, and they did not take long to draw away from the shore.
Journey to the Isles of Atlantis and Other Fanciful Excursions Page 24