Scientific Romance

by Brian Stableford

  “So, also, the endless series of dinners, receptions, balls and routs which dominated what was called society, had the final effect of only boring to death the participants in them. Yet they are in themselves excellent things; the trouble was, that owing to the heaping together of people in inextricable masses, they were carried to an unnatural and intolerable excess. Our new plan of existence has not annihilated the principle of human meetings; it has regulated and modified them, and thereby rendered them fully and invariably effective.

  “In addition to the great business centers of which I have told you, there is an equal number of places whereon are built theatres, churches, museums, and great pleasure gardens and halls for amusement and for public meetings of all sorts. At these places, at stated intervals—five or six times a year—the people come together in vast numbers, for purposes of mutual entertainment, information and improvement. After a few days spent in this manner, they separate again, and disperse to their homes. In this manner they obtain the very best results of association, without running any risk of overdoing it. Of course, it is the flying-machine that makes such gatherings from all parts of the continent practicable.”

  “And don’t the ladies wear bonnets at these gatherings?” I enquired, somewhat anxiously.

  “No one wears either hats or bonnets,” replied my informant. “It was discovered about sixty years ago that the hair is a sufficient and natural covering for the head, and nothing else is worn by anyone.”

  “And where are your government headquarters, and your halls of congress?” I asked.

  “Nothing of the kind has existed for many years,” was the answer. “In the first place, the scattering of the population radically modified the character of the laws needed for our government; and the absence of municipalities and the difficulty of getting officers to carry out the behests of the law over so vast an extent of country, practically brought legislation to a standstill. But, on the other hand, it was soon discovered that laws were scarcely necessary, and were becoming less so every year. The pauper class was rapidly diminishing—it is now non-existent—because land speculation had been put an end to, and the land was free to whomsoever desired to settle on and improve it. Crimes against property ceased; drunkenness died a natural death, owing to the lack of example and provocation which cities had supplied.

  “Social vices diminished for the same reason; and, in short, it appeared that there was little or nothing, in the way of pains and penalties, for the law to do. The separate and independent mode of life adopted by the people taught them how to take care of themselves, and to be just to one another; and the fact that immense improvements in the way of telegraphs and telephones had brought every individual of the nation into immediate and effortless communication with every other, gradually made the government of the people, by the people, for the people, a literal instead of merely a figurative truth.

  “We are all under one another’s moral supervision; a wrong done this morning on the spot on which we stand, for example, would, before sunset, be known to every man and woman in America, and the wrongdoer would be henceforth marked. Matters of supreme public concern are still discussed, at need, at meetings of the delegates of the nation, and the results are disseminated over the continent, not as commands, but as counsel. Really, however, things run themselves nowadays; insomuch that not more than once or twice in my lifetime has it been found necessary to call a consultation of the delegates.”

  “But how, in case of war,” was my next question, “is not the power and concentration afforded by cities severely missed in such emergencies? And are not meetings of the leading citizens then indispensable, to devise measures for defense and to raise armies?”

  “If you will reflect for a moment, I think you will perceive that a war would be a difficult thing to start,” said the man of the twentieth century, lifting one eyebrow with an arch expression. “Whom are we to fight against?”

  “I don’t refer to civil war, of course,” said I, “but supposing you were attacked from the other side of the Atlantic?”

  “The flying-machine is the universal peace-maker,” answered he. “It is true that when it was first invented it was recognized as a most formidable war-engine; and I believe that it was employed for that purpose to some extent, before the close of our century. Battles were fought in the air, and bombs were dropped into cities; no doubt there was a general feeling of helplessness and insecurity. It was easy for a single machine to destroy billions of dollars worth of property and innumerable lives. But the consequence was that the fighting soon came to an end.

  “It is always governments, and never peoples, who quarrel; and the latter declined to assist in any further destruction. As soon as there was peace, there ensued an era of travel; everybody had his flying-machine, and there was a general interchange of visits all over the world. This continued for a dozen or twenty years. By that time, political geography had been practically obliterated. I am speaking now of Europe; there was never any difficulty in this country. The nations made personal acquaintance with one another through the individuals composing them; free trade had already become universal, since it was found impracticable to maintain custom-houses in the sky.

  “Many persons settled down in what had formerly been ‘foreign’ countries; by and by, there were no longer any foreigners, things got so mixed up that distinct forms of government became, as I told you, impossible and inoperative. The old world became a huge, informal federation; and although Europe, Asia, Africa and Polynesia are still, in a sense, separate countries, it is only so far as they are geographically divided from one another. The inevitable consequence of this was the gradual adoption of a common language; and today the inhabitants of the planet are rapidly approximating to the state of a homogeneous people, all of whose social, political and commercial interests are identical. Owing to the unlimited facilities of intercommunication, they are almost as closely united as the members of a family; and you might travel round the globe, and find little in the life, manners and even personal appearance of the inhabitants to remind you that you were remote from your own birthplace.”

  “Personal appearance!” I repeated. “Surely I should find some modifications in Africa or China, for example?”

  “Perhaps, if you are an exceptionally keen ethnologist. Of what blood should you take me to be?”

  I looked narrowly at my interlocutor. He was a man of little more than middle height, with a square, compact brow and refined, molded features. The face indicated a justly balanced nature, intellectual, yet not to such a degree as to overpower the emotional. His figure was powerful and active and his bearing graceful. In short, I had seldom seen so handsome and manly a man.

  “You are a New Englander,” said I, after due deliberation, “of English—I think of Welsh—descent.”

  He laughed heartily.

  “My great-grandparents were unadulterated Esquimaux,” he replied. “No, we are pretty well disguised even now, and in another hundred years we shall be quite indistinguishable. But it is only fair to admit that the crossing of the races alone is not sufficient to account for the similarity of type. A new element of vitality, a new spirit, has been infused into the human race; and a change has evidently taken place in the interior physical constitution of the dark races, causing them to end both in form and hue towards the Caucasian standard. It would not be in our present line of discourse to explain to you the causes of this; but you must take into consideration the substantial unity of aim and feeling that now exists throughout the world, and remember that the body is formed by the soul, and is its material expression. But the alliance between physical and spiritual science had been scarcely completed in your day, I think, and these hints may therefore not have much significance for you.”

  “What you say is nevertheless interesting, and I doubt not it may be valuable,” said I, with a bow. “Still, as you say, we are here to talk about the consequences of the flying-machine. Now, after making all allowances for your unquestionab
le improvements and advantages, it still seems to me that life must be rather a dull affair in these last years of the twentieth century. What novelty or change is there to look forward to? What excitement, what uncertainty or peril have you to anticipate, to brace your nerves and rouse your souls withal? You will soon—if you have not already done so—come to a standstill; there will be nothing left to hope for—and not to hope is to despair.

  “My apprehension would be that your civilization will presently begin to retrograde; the old passions and follies of mankind will revive; they will deliberately turn their backs on what you call good, and revert to what you call evil; and a century or two hence the world will be once more a barbarism, and the whole march of improvement will have to begin over again. And to tell you the truth, I would rather live in that age than take my place here now and never feel my pulse quicken at an unforeseen emergency, or strive for eminence, or dread disaster.”

  “And were our condition what you suppose, I should certainly make the choice that you do,” replied my companion, “but you have jumped to conclusions which the facts do not support. The main difference between life now and as it was in your day is that ours is comparatively an interior, and therefore a real and absorbing, life. For the first time in history we have a real human society. You had the imitation—the symbol—but not the true thing itself. You will admit that in a perfectly free state man will inevitably select that environment and those companions with which he feels himself most in sympathy—where he finds himself most at home. Now, the power of flight, combined with the modification of the old political conditions that I have mentioned, gave to man the ability to live where and with whom he would.

  “The perfect result could not be attained at once, as it might be in a purely spiritual state; but the tendency was present and the issue was only a question of time. By degrees, the individuals throughout the world who by mind and temperament were suited to one another, found one another out, and chose habitations where they might be readily accessible to one another. Thus, each family lives in the midst of a circle of families composing those who are most nearly at one with it in sentiment and quality, and the intercourse of this group is mainly confined to itself. There is between them perfect and intimate friendship and confidence, and you will easily understand that they must realize the true ideal of society.

  “There is no loss, no waste, no aimlessness in their communion; there are a constant stimulus and means of elevation to one another, and their advance in goodness and felicity is more rapid than you can perhaps realize; but you know how human peace and happiness can be retarded by the selfish opposition of every man against his brothers, and you my infer what a transformation would ensue upon a reversal of that attitude.”

  “I recognize your point; but there must still be a certain sort of monotony in this paradoxical existence. Felicity is good as an occasional indulgence, but as a steady diet it is too relaxing. Misfortunes, griefs and disappointments—we need them just as much as we need salt, and cold weather.”

  The twentieth century man shook his head and smiled. “Since, as I suppose, you are to return to your own historical epoch upon the conclusion of this interview,” said he, “we may agree to differ, for the present, as to the objection that you raise. But when you come back to us again for good, I think you will find our life to be not less arduous and full of vicissitudes than your own.

  “This earth will never quite be heaven; there will always be struggle, uncertainty and incompleteness. Nor will you find these less poignant because the plane of activity is a more interior and vital one than you have yet known. As your perceptions become more acute, your emotions more sensitive, and your intellect more comprehensive—as your spirit, in short, learns to master your body—you will enter upon an experience compared with which the most stirring career of old times would seem tame and vulgar. But just as your dog or your horse could not be influenced or inspired by the things which mold and agitate your own life, so you—pardon me—are as yet incapable of appreciating the subtle but mighty forces that educate and purify us. This power of flight, on which our present civilization is conditioned, is, like other material phenomena, an emblem. We are lifted to a higher sphere, and thereby to a perception of truths to which the nineteenth century is yet a stranger.”

  “It strikes me, sir,” said I, “that you have intimated that I, and with me the friends and acquaintances whom I have temporarily left behind in the year 1893, are little better than so many asses. I might brook the personal aspersion on myself; but I can do no less than resent it on the part of those whom I have the honor to represent. I fail to see that further intercourse between us is desirable; but, in bidding you good-day, I may remark that I think a more modest attitude on your part would have been becoming; for you must admit that whatever you and your civilization are is due to me—insomuch that if I had not had this dream you would have had no existence whatever. Yet I am willing to be lenient, and the only retaliation I shall permit myself for your discourtesy is simply to wake up, and thereby relegate you to the nothingness out of which you have been evoked.”

  * * *

  1 Cosmopolitan had published a series of articles championing the possibility of heavier-than-air flight in 1891–92, including “The Problem of Aerial Navigation” (December 1891), an identically-titled article signed John Brisben Walker (March 1892), “Mechanical Flight” (May 1892) and “The Aeroplane” (November 1892). Walker was the owner of the magazine at the time, and is presumably the person to whom Hawthorne had promised the present item; he was also a leading manufacturer of automobiles in the 1890s.

  2 Given that Cosmopolitan in 1993 had been transformed into a glossy women’s fashion magazine, there is a certain unintended irony in its publication of this anticipation.

  THE DANCING PARTNER

  JEROME K. JEROME

  Jerome K. Jerome (1859–1927) was a British journalist and humorist who helped to promote scientific romance in the pages of The Idler, an influential periodical he co-edited with Robert Barr. Both editors contributed items of scientific romance to its pages. Jerome’s “The New Utopia” (1891) was, like the preceding work, a response to Edward Bellamy, but is more farcically parodic, in keeping with his usual manner.

  “The Dancing Partner,” which appeared in the March 1893 issue of The Idler before being reprinted in Novel Notes (1893), is part of a long sequence of stories ultimately inspired by the example of the French maker of automata, Jacques de Vaucanson (1709–1782), whose ingenious mechanical simulacra, constructed to amuse Louis XV’s court, became legendary following their demolition. Unsurprisingly, that literary tradition is particularly strong in France, where several notable stories in which anthropomorphic automata fail to substitute adequately for real human beings were produced in the nineteenth century, including the Comte de Villiers de L’Isle Adam’s phantasmagorical L’Ève future (1886; tr. as Tomorrow’s Eve). Jerome’s version shuns the commonplace motif of mistaken identity, but is deftly cynical in developing its cautionary tale.

  “This story,” commenced MacShaughnassy, “comes from Furtwangen, a small town in the Black Forest. There lived here a very wonderful old fellow named Nicholaus Geibel. His business was the making of mechanical toys, at which work he had acquired an almost European reputation. He made rabbits that would emerge from the heart of a cabbage, flop their ears, smooth their whiskers, and disappear again; cats that would wash their faces, and mew so naturally that dogs would mistake them for real cats and fly at them; dolls with phonographs concealed within them, that would raise their hats and say, ‘Good morning, how do you do?’ and some that would even sing a song.

  “But he was something more than a mere mechanic; he was an artist. His work was with him a hobby, almost a passion. His shop was filled with all manner of strange things that never would, or could, be sold—things he had made for the pure love of making them. He had contrived a mechanical donkey that would trot for two hours by means of stored electricity, and trot, too,
much faster than the live article, and with less need for exertion on the part of the driver; a bird that would shoot up into the air, fly around in a circle, and drop to earth at the exact spot from where it started; a skeleton that, supported by an upright iron bar, would dance a hornpipe, a life-size lady doll that could play the fiddle, and a gentleman with a hollow inside who could smoke a pipe and drink more lager beer than any three average German students put together, which is saying much.

  “Indeed, it was the belief of the town that old Geibel could make a man capable of doing everything that a respectable man need want to do. One day he made a man who did too much, and it came about this way.

  “Young Doctor Follen had a baby, and the baby had a birthday. Its first birthday put Doctor Follen’s household into somewhat of a flurry, but on the occasion of its second birthday, Mrs. Doctor Follen gave a ball in honor of the event. Old Geibel and his daughter Olga were among the guests.

  “During the afternoon of the next day some three or four of Olga’s bosom friends, who had been present at the ball, dropped in to have a chat about it. They naturally fell to discussing the men, and to criticizing their dancing. Old Geibel was in the room, but he appeared to be absorbed in his newspaper, and the girls took no notice of him.

  “ ‘There seem to be fewer men who can dance at every ball you go to,’ said one of the girls.