The World of the Variants

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  The thoughts expressed by the movements of our hosts were not only general and poetic. They often became specific; I understood that they served to express precise notions. For example, I was able to observe veritable dialogues in a few instances, of which I ended up grasping some vague traces, doubtless insufficient for me to follow the thoughts of the swimmers, but sufficient for me to understand that what I was seeing was a conversation. During aquatic lessons given to children, which I took pleasure in watching, my conviction was confirmed; the individuals informing the children expressed their approval or disapproval by means of swimming gestures, at least two of which I came to understand—one that brought the lesson to an end, another that changed the subject.

  Love found its natural expression there. The Water-Men were able to deploy an artistry of tenderness, supplication and pride, which varied between individuals—an artistry more unexpected than their collective art, exceedingly subtle and delicate, and perhaps superior to our conversational idylls.

  They did not seem to have any metaphysical consciousness, being little inclined to abstraction. I saw no trace of religion or supernatural belief, merely an intense love of nature. I have mentioned their gentleness toward birds and mammals, and also toward domesticated fish. That gentleness put them in intimate communication with the creatures in question. They were able to make themselves understood to an admirable degree. I have seen them giving instructions to salamanders, to bats, to birds and to carp—instructions the mere idea of which would seem chimerical to us: to go to a designated place for instance, an island or a particular part of the lake. Swans might make journeys of several leagues in response to such orders; bats might suspend their hunting for several days; carp might cease temporarily to shelter in their favorite spots.

  The scene that had transpired during our first encounter with the Water-Men was often repeated before my eyes. With the aid of a reed, in which grooves of different lengths and depths were engraved, and by means of the friction of a stone hook, a musician could produce those finely cadenced notes. The sounds caused animals to gather and held them spellbound: reptiles, birds and fish came to listen to them, and beasts of prey granted their victims a truce.

  How often those scenes enchanted us! How many hours we spent watching some male or female musician renewing the ancient fables—and with such a rudimentary instrument! What an extraordinary felicity there was in all the play, and in all the life, of those amphibious people!

  I have said that their mores were free—but with one reservation; their unions lasted a lunar month. Generally, the new moon coincided with the period of selection. Young men and women paired up then, until the phases were complete. All the same, it was a sort of marriage, a marriage both physiological and astronomical, inasmuch as the young women were perfectly in tune with the star.6

  These mores did not give rise to any disorder. They were accompanied by a great fidelity. We saw no shadow of dispute, much less of combat, between our male hosts. Once a choice was made, everyone observed it until the end of the lunar cycle; everyone remade it until the end of the following cycle. It was not prohibited to continue a marriage for a further term, but it rarely happened. They were more frequently resumed a few months later. As for the children, they stayed with their mothers for a few months, but the entire community watched over their wellbeing.

  With respect to an adaptation that might explain how they can remain so long underwater, I never found any trace of one.7 The time that a Water-Man can dive without coming up to the surface is sometimes more than half an hour. If you add to that a swimming speed that reaches 30 to 45 kilometers per hour, you will see that they can rival cetaceans. They have one veritable superiority over the latter, in their eyes, which are admirably adapted for aquatic vision. A simple inspection of that organ already makes that apparent: their immense flat pupils are as favorable to underwater vision as a falcon’s eyes are to aerial vision. The superiority of the organ is abundantly demonstrated a posteriori by the subtlety of their movements; they accomplish marvels of precision in co-ordination, calculating, almost simultaneously, darts that, if they were incompetently executed, would result in terrible collisions. In their fish-hunts, they can perceive the smallest fish from hundreds of meters away. On land, they suffer from a kind of presbyopia; within a radius of ten meters their sight is blurred, but they can see distant objects quite well.

  Their hearing is also noticeably different from ours. I have mentioned their music, which is punctuated with veritable commas, and their bizarre articulation of speech. This is, I believe, because their ears—like their eyes—are adapted for aquatic life rather than life in the air. It is well-known that the speed of sound in water is more than quadruple that in air, which necessarily creates significant divergences between an ear developed in an aquatic milieu and one developed in the medium of air.

  It might be objected that the inhabitants of water are very often mute, and that ears developed with the rarefaction of air, but I shall not debate the problem here—experience is on my side, in regard to the Water-People, and takes priority over theory. I shall limit myself to saying that, once originated, hearing has been able to receive modifications due to the very media that retarded its birth. Thus, even if a very dense atmosphere might have opposed the production of an auditory sense, there is no proof that a relevant organ, already produced, would not have been capable of adapting, if the animal were subsequently led to live in a dense atmosphere. Furthermore, the fact that hearing has developed on Earth in the aforementioned conditions does not demonstrate peremptorily that it could not have developed otherwise, although it would doubtless have required a few million years more. Finally, and most importantly, the present affirmations of science on this subject might be no more definitive than the assertions of our immediate predecessors—such as, for example, that which attributed the vast development of the reptiles of the Secondary Age to the presence of large quantities of carbon dioxide, whereas today it is attributed, on the contrary, to an excess of oxygen.

  VI. The Attack

  One morning, Sabine and I were drifting idly on the lake. At first, our friend had followed us on our lazy excursion. He darted away, returning in unexpected leaps, and sometimes drew our raft along. We paused in the shade of a clump of ash-trees on an islet.

  Snowy water-lilies were dreaming on their dark leaves; humble water-crowfoots raised themselves up above thin archipelagoes of algae; arrowheads deployed their pale petals, their gleam softened like clouds in the dawn light; and sharp-snouted fish, emerging in schools, darted forth joyfully. Plants and animals alike were glorying in the sunlight; the hour was sounded by carillons of shadow, the rippling of the water and the swaying of the reeds. Warm caresses sought one another in the imponderable clouds of pollen and flowers emerging tenderly from the depths toward other flowers. The world of the Waters, father of life and fecund ancestor, multiplied its indefatigable magic.

  Sabine’s gaze was impregnated with the freshness of the lake and the palpitation of the daylight. I trembled with emotion as I looked at her. The Eternal Eden of Nature around amorous youth!

  I remember the passage over her face of a sunbeam filtered through a gap in the foliage. She was standing up, her eyelashes lowered toward me. The sunbeam began to tremble in her hair as the leaves stirred. A bough dipped; a shiny insect wandered over her neck—and happiness seemed to be posed upon the bluish water, on the nacreous edges of petals. I clasped her to my heart; a perilous softness commanded us.

  “Forever!” I murmured.

  Then, I felt afraid; I drew away from her. We dared not say any more; an overly charming threat was prowling around us; the susurrus of the leaves, the flutter of a sparrow and the hum of insects seemed like the sighs of the beyond…

  A rumor drew us out of that ecstasy.

  It was coming from our left, from an isle of poplars.8 Some 30 human beings were moving about there. Others soon joined them, emerging from the lake.

  “Water-People,” I s
aid.

  “But look…they’re different from the ones we know!”

  Indeed, these were darker in color, a kind of blue-black. Sabine huddled closer to me, impelled by dread. “Let’s go back to our friends!”

  “I think we should,” I said.

  I was about to cast off when a violent commotion lifted up our raft. Half a dozen men emerged near the islet. Like our hosts they had bizarrely round eyes almost devoid of sclerotic, with slightly indented pupils, but their color and their hair were quite different, as was their attitude.

  They watched us from a distance. One of them—an athletic young man—never ceased staring at Sabine. Armed with harpoons, they seemed redoubtable. I shivered as I saw them drawing closer. Sabine was very pale.

  Suddenly, the one who was staring at Sabine spoke, in the moist, rippling voice of his race. I made a gesture of incomprehension; they uttered menacing cries and brandished their harpoons. The situation was becoming critical. I still had my rifle, which I kept in readiness—but once the two barrels had been discharged, how could we defend ourselves against these beings, familiar with an element in which they could hide? Besides, even supposing that I could stand up to them, was there not a multitude within 100 meters, ready to come to their aid?

  While I reflected on the peril, the young athlete began to speak again; his gestures indicated that he seemed to be demanding a reply. Then I raised my voice. They were struck with amazement. Having paused momentarily to confer with one another, their harpoons were raised again, and they resumed shouting, more menacingly. It became evident that they were preparing to attack me.

  I raised my rifle. There was a moment of horrible silence. I thought we were doomed, and prepared myself to die courageously.

  A shout went up from the open water. My antagonists turned round. I could not retain a joyful exclamation. A troop of our hosts was swimming toward the islet. Our friend, at their head, made signs to the aggressors. In response to these signs, the harpoons were lowered. Soon, Sabine and I found ourselves in the midst of our friends again.

  Then, we witnessed a kind of ceremony in which our Water-People welcomed the others. The entire dark horde came from the isle of poplars. Presents were exchanged, along with strange embraces. It seemed to me that I discerned a certain falsity in the demonstrations of the two races, especially on the Dark side.

  The young athlete continued to stare at Sabine from a distance, in a manner that I found extremely annoying.

  When our hosts had taken us back to their own island we were greatly relieved to find ourselves under their protection again. Nevertheless, a subtle anxiety continued to haunt us. I thought it was shared—our rescuer, in particular, seemed troubled. He no longer left our side. He had shown us an admirable devotion and, affection generating affection, I had come to love him like a brother.

  The afternoon passed without incident.

  An hour before dusk, a deputation of dark Water-Men arrived on the island; among them I recognized the young athlete. He seemed to be acting as their leader. Our hosts received the deputation honorably, offering gifts, and there was an aquatic dance in which the Lights and the Darks vied with one another to distinguish themselves.

  I kept apart, with Sabine and our friend. We watched everything through the hanging branches of an ash-tree. In spite of our anxiety, the festival was not without interest for us. All of a sudden, at the moment of the greatest animation, two men emerged, not far from our retreat. Had they perceived us? Had they been spying on us for some time? I don’t know—but they advanced toward us. It was the young chief again—except that he had a smiling, friendly expression, and his gestures were full of tenderness.

  He spoke a few words to our companion, and then, drawing away, looked at Sabine. The equivocal avidity of his gaze made me shiver.

  They returned to the lake. Then our friend, shaking his head, allowed his disquiet to become clearly evident. He made signs telling me to watch Sabine carefully, and indicating that he too would be on his guard.

  The night was troubled. Glimmers of light moved over the lake and through the foliage of the isles. Strange music was heard; groups of swimmers were glimpsed in the water.

  The Moon was on the wane. The star rose, three-quarters eaten away, at about 11 p.m. It was accompanied by a cortege of clouds, a pale procession that extended across the entire zodiac. Occasionally, the Moon exposed its yellow head in a vaporous window; then it became possible to see the churning of the lake, traversed by large and speedy bodies.

  About 1 a.m., the Darks arrived en masse, less than 100 meters from our island. The Moon had whitened, it surged forth thinly over a cloudy promontory, tracing a tremulous path over the waves. The poplars were sparkling softly; in the background, a sheet of vapor dissipated, allowing a metamorphic light to ooze through. The light appeared to trace out a gap, a pale crater, clear at the edges, dappled with white plush and pearls.

  The human company contained its aquatic dance. The water began to sing delicately, in a crystalline fashion. Voices were raised in invitation; young people from our island went to join the nocturnal fête.

  How charming and exciting these scenes would have seemed to me without Sabine’s presence! What a joy to be able to study the mores of these survivals of an ancient aquatic race which might once have dominated entire continents!

  Sometimes, I let myself go, and savored the poetry of the spectacle to the full—but my doubts returned very quickly; and there certainly seemed to be a lack of trust between the two races, perhaps originating from ancient conflicts. Their union seemed more tactical than profound.

  Abruptly, the Moon was veiled, attained by thicker clouds, and darkness fell, becoming more intense. I was afraid, and drew nearer to my companion’s hut, taking up a position in the narrow doorway.

  In the distance, the fête drew to a close. A profound silence weighed upon the waters.

  I continued to stand guard. Two or three times I thought I heard the sound of footfalls in the grass, and I did not fall asleep until it was almost dawn.

  VII. The Disappearance

  Nothing untoward occurred during the rest of the week. Every day, a deputation of the black Water-Men came to our island, and our people visited them on the nearest large island, where they had established their camp. The young people of both races continued to organize fêtes. The animation had increased; the nights were spent dancing, in great aquatic ballets in the decreasing moonlight. The weather remained mild; an invincible sense of the exquisite accompanied the continual apprehension that tormented me. My sleep was troubled, haunted by nightmares. I often woke up with a start, my temples bathed in sweat and my mouth feverish.

  I should have been reassured, however, firstly because we were well guarded, and secondly because the newcomers seemed to have forgotten our presence. It was quite probable that the young chief, supposing that he had ever entertained any dubious idea, had abandoned it, with that fickleness that seemed to be one of the characteristics of his race.

  I told myself that repeatedly, but I was no more tranquil for it. I was obsessed by a presentiment more powerful than any reasoning. Besides, our friends still manifested a mistrust equal to my own, which made no small contribution to my nervousness. They could not be moved by mere presentiments; they undoubtedly had serious reasons for suspicion!

  One evening, at moonrise, the black Water-People arrived in large numbers, accompanied by their old men. They made solemn demonstrations, with numerous exchanges of gifts. I guessed that it was a matter of their departure, and hope slipped furtively into my soul.

  The sky was clear over three-quarters of its circumference, especially to the east. Yellow light strayed over the waters. Amphibious animals were croaking on the leaves of the water-lilies and on the long blades of the irises. The whole humid scene exhaled a nervous poetry. The boundless fecundity was perceptible, tender surges of joy stroking the tips of the reeds, the flights of bats and moths and the reverie of the willows. It was one of those days whe
n the eternal rebirth of Creation is a hymn of praise.

  The Water-People sensed that; their farewells were a miraculous fête. I had never seen such an adorable ballet, a more harmonious moving dream, in the tiny lacustrian cosmos. Black bodies and light bodies passed by in infinite interlacements, in arabesques full of a subtle sentiment of curvature, in a symphony of trajectories. The play of the moonbeams over all those bodies, emerging and plunging into the depths, turning in crystalline penumbras and pools of mother-of-pearl and aquamarine, was so beautiful that I forgot my anguish.

  Everything came to an end at about 1 a.m. The farewell scene was grave; I watched the living fleet draw away. “Ah!” I said to Sabine, who had watched the whole display with me. “Can it be that they’re leaving?”

  “I think so,” she said. Her fearful eyes were raised toward me, inundated by pale moonlight.

  I kissed her cheeks with a mixture of fever and delight. “I’ve been so afraid—for you!”

  “If only my father would come back now,” she said, with a sigh. “I’m so anxious!”

  “He’ll come back.”

  But I was still not tranquil. A vague, unreasoning fear continued to stir within me, and even the arrival of our friend, who explained by means of signs that the others had really gone, could not lay it to rest.

  At about 2 a.m., however, I lapsed into a feverish sleep.

  I think my sleep was quite heavy at first, in compensation for the insomnia of the preceding nights. Toward morning, I had a nightmare that finally woke me up with a start. My heart was in tumult; I was possessed by a confused, stifling terror.

  “Sabine!” I cried.

  I got up. I recovered my self-composure. I darted a glance outside my hut. Dawn was breaking. The ash-trees were rustling in the morning breeze. The Moon was still wandering near the zenith. Everything inspired confidence. The last palpitations of the nightmare died away. I stood there for a few minutes, contemplating the gentle uncertainty of the firmament.