The Enchanted Clock

by Julia Kristeva

  No, Astro, not Theo the German whose first and last name you bear though you won’t admit it. There is only one Theo for me, and that’s you. This time I only dreamed of Claude-Siméon, the one Stan is always telling me about, since he’s so keen on clocks, telescopes, and whatever. I was somewhere between the Louvre and Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois—we were there recently, do you remember? The last time you were in Paris we had a drink on the terrace of the Café Marly, we made love, then we strolled around the neighborhood. Claude-Siméon was coming out of the National Library, I think.

  I see him heading down the rue des Petits-Champs, then the rue du Louvre; I follow him, as one does in a dream, as if I were he, as if I were you. His staring eyes are translucent, testimony to entire days spent in the greenish aquarium light of the lamps in the former library. I didn’t know you at that time. I was looking for constellations of ideas in the pages of “continental philosophy.” Your black curls fell to your shoulders; it was the month of May. Not the May of the “events,” but the month of linden trees and promises of honey.

  Now I see him on the rue des Prêtres-Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. He is coming toward me, holding against his hip a packet of books and notebooks tied together in a beige strap decorated with red and green threads. I notice the main title of the book visible on top of the pile: Poissonnades (1749). Did the strap loosen, or did Claude-Siméon make a false movement while embracing me? Poissonnades escapes from the package, and the title of another book appears: Réveillez-vous, mânes de Ravaillac!

  Passemant looks at me with an anxious air like yours, about which I don’t know if it’s contemplating the end of the world or acting a part. A glance to the left, a glance to the right. In a hoarse voice, he unloads his anxieties onto me: “Look out for the cops, special agents are on the lookout everywhere, the police are omnipresent.”

  “I know it.”

  “No, you don’t know it.”

  Fear brings people together. I see us: Claude-Siméon Passemant pulls me into the corridors at Versailles; now he’s using the familiar tu.

  “Argenson and Conti’s men, the devout party, are railing about la Pompadour. And the people are imitating them. Explosions everywhere! Do you know the pamphlet, Melotta Ossoupi, histoire africaine? An anagram of La Motte Poisson …”

  Does he imagine himself—a misogynist, moreover, like everyone else—a rival of la Pompadour? His Majesty’s technician, more and more agitated, knows of every slanderous attack launched against the favorite.

  “It seems the marquise has the most haggard, unhealthy look in the world, they say she has leucorrhea! Madame had a miscarriage, she spits blood, gets a cold whenever a door is opened, always has a sore throat, nothing helps relieve her fevers. And that’s not all! The marquise keeps the war going out of self-interest, sells regiments and passports to move the kingdom’s wheat abroad. She buys up all the diamonds she can get her hands on, distributes at the price of gold appointments as underfinanciers and supercouncilors. The courtesans take her for a pretty prime minister (so they say in the gazettes, it seems). She is afraid of being poisoned, it’s understandable. An obscure working girl, a petite bourgeoise!”

  “Is it possible duchesses agree with the people? Look out, revolts are expensive!” I manage to get a word in, seeking to share my experience. But he continues his wild harangue against la Pompadour.

  “She never goes anywhere without antidotes to poison, she has her kitchen under surveillance, drinks lemonade only when served by her people, and has her doctor sleep in her antechamber. Can you imagine!”

  “Mr. King’s Clockmaker, the ends justify the means, and power is never where one thinks it is.”

  “We risk the Bastille and Vincennes prison!” He’s not listening to me, wrapped up in his terror as a persecuted man. “The Château d’If, Maastricht, the Mont Saint Michel, Charlemont. Watch out!” I follow him as he takes refuge in the church.

  A priest passes, discreetly. He looks at us, seems embarrassed. I have a feeling of weightlessness and seek a sort of moral support, but which? The organ remains mute. I had found myself in this same place one Sunday afternoon after Astro’s departure for Lima. Wandering in Paris on a Mother’s Day. Chance had brought me here; when I went in I had heard the singing of the Dialogue of the Carmelites by Bernanos and Poulenc. The words were unfamiliar to me, a little out of date, but I understood them. (Like now, in my dream, where I bathe in the flood of words from another time.) Vague memories of some readings came back to me. Voltaire’s Pompadour, yes, a bit. But Passemant’s? What connection with time, the clock, the heavens? And with this Claude-Siméon panicked with jealousy, with plebian hatred, with unrequited love for his sovereign?

  I ask him again: “You have no settled place in life.”

  “Everything is politics, believe me.” He’s still using the familiar tu. “Look. Maurepas, the minister of the king’s house, had granted me a privilege for the construction of the eight-foot reflecting telescope, the latest. Because to be completed, this work requires suitable lodging. But Maurepas has been dismissed; it seems la Pompadour does not find him efficient enough …”

  “Yet Voltaire said she liked to be of service. That she ‘thought philosophically.’ ”

  “She couldn’t do anything for Diderot. Neither get him out of Vincennes nor get him into the Academy. But as for philosophizing, oh yes indeed, Jeanne-Antoinette does philosophize! Buffon will testify to it.”

  Claude-Siméon murmurs that he also has privately sought Buffon’s support in his need for money. I say I understand.

  No need to worry, says the suddenly smug phantom of my dream, a relative of la Pompadour is getting him lodging in the Louvre. This Tournehem, moreover, knew la Pompadour’s father and also her mother. The illustrious financier general knew her so well that he could even be Jeanne-Antoinette’s father. Oh yes, so the rumor has it! Besides, the official father of the king’s mistress, François Poisson himself, was nearly hanged … You can see what a fine family that was! But the poor fellow’s cunning, he agreed to be the scapegoat in a murky financial affair implicating the Pâris brothers. He took exile in Germany, and from there he has continued to provide important services to the royalty while also attending to the education of the person who passes for his daughter. He placed her in an Ursuline convent in Passy with a sister of his wife. His wife, the mother of the marquise and mistress of Tournehem! Can you imagine?

  The man of the automatons is indignant. Is he pretending, or is he naïve? That’s the Regency for you, Mr. Engineer! Intrigues and French follies found everywhere, from the lowliest of cottages to the summits of the state.

  He senses that things are falling apart everywhere. The only stability lies in the sciences: that’s what he thinks, this phantom, and perhaps he is right. Otherwise there’s a risk of migraine, madness, maybe Hell.

  “Madness or Hell. Me, I prefer science.”

  We hug the walls of the church. It is deserted, like today. I sense you are reassured. This Passemant, in the end, is you; I’m merging you two. I’m scrutinizing the woodwork; it’s the same as Saint-Eustache, where we went recently. In the end you put down your packet of books, you forget it. Color has returned to your face, your voice has become silken.

  “In forty years we will be in 1789.”

  Are you speaking, or is he?

  I ask you to repeat the number. Passemant calmly spells out the fateful date.

  “That will be the French Revolution, Monsieur.”

  He looks at me without flinching. “What is your name?”

  Suddenly he’s using the polite vous form, as if to extract us from the dream …

  “Nivi. Nivi Delisle.”

  He asks me to spell my first and last names. Places his hand flat on the lectern. Frowns. Looks away. Visibly, my name means nothing to him. No more than the date does.

  “Have we already met? The French Revolution? Why not … Louis XV is afraid. ‘I can see I am going to die like Henri IV,’ that’s what he said t
o me.1 The eclipse will take place, it’s programmed, and others will follow. Not right away … My clock will not be in danger in 1789, it will function until 9999, no problem … After that, they’ll need five digits.”

  A group of Chinese tourists rushes in under the arches of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. Passemant doesn’t like crowds. We hurry out to the sunshine, breathe the humid air.

  “Were you born on an isle, Delisle?”

  “Not really, but I like islands.”

  “Chinese?”

  “I would have liked it. Who knows? Do I look it?”

  “I don’t know … That first name …”

  “It means ‘My language.’ ”

  “Aha … French of French origin?”

  “Sort of, yes … Now, yes.”

  “You understand …” He stares at the air above our heads, asks himself … “A revolution … A revolution, you can’t stop it … Whether it’s French, English, German, Russian, or Chinese.”

  He speaks to me with compassion. Is concerned to solicit my curiosity, careful to avoid upsetting me. Nations are so susceptible. I hasten to help him. Like with you, my A, when you leave your interstellar speculations and try to find the words to name our “affection,” as you say. That expression seems more neutral to you, more scientific than the usual words. When you become terrestrial again, you hesitate, awkward. I move closer to the clockmaker.

  “There is time, and there is time. You are from another time.”

  He would like me to give him the details, but I am silent.

  In a sudden burst, he turns toward me and cries: “But I don’t yet know how to measure the diffuse cosmological background!”

  Whereupon I burst out laughing. Claude-Siméon hesitates a second, then abandons his seriousness and starts laughing with me. Gone is his long hair; he is you, completely you, the way you are today.

  That’s it. We wake up. Where are you? ILY.

  1. Henri IV was assassinated in 1610 by Ravaillac, whose latter-day emulators are alluded to in the title of one of the books Passemant is holding.

  20

  PASSEMANT WITH THE CASSINIS

  The Cassinis are a veritable dynasty of astronomers in the service of science and the monarchy. How often has Claude-Siméon been in their apartment? This location, attributed to them by rights, is situated on the second floor of the Observatory. The day student from the Collège Mazarin is fascinated by the great Jacques Cassini, who, not content merely to transmit the fire of the stars to this mercer’s son, becomes his extoller, does his best to support him. This Passemant may not be a scientific genius, but he’s certainly a Cartesian who knows how to combine his mathematical talents with his skill at diffusing Newton’s God into Versailles’s amusements. This boy’s instruments are worthy of the best astronomical tables, and one day they will be capable of diverting intelligent people who abhor boredom. As Claude-Siméon is the friend of a cousin of Mme Cassini, anyway, it is not surprising he is welcome. In England, people are far less fussy about birth. They know how to appreciate individual gifts and merit, whatever their provenance. All the better for young Passemant.

  Not so young as that anymore: he must be well into his forties; he’s the father of a Louise-Françoise and a Marie-Aubine. The astronomer Cassini leaves it to his spouse to take care of the courtesies: Suzanne-Françoise de Charmois does not fail to ask about her little cousin Charles Joachim and about the visitor’s family.

  The engineer wishes to speak of the divisions of a quadrant, a project he is getting ready to present to the Royal Academy of Sciences. Cassini has not been involved in scientific activity for four years, leaving astronomy to his son César-François. The elder Cassini is snowed under by his numerous administrative duties: Chamber of Accounts, Chamber of Justice, Council of State. But still a scientist at heart, he makes sure to keep people like this young Passemant under his wing. From the start Cassini recommended him to Julien Le Roy, the esteemed clockmaker of the king, who has become accustomed to the technical talents of this fine lad.

  Jacques Cassini is not one to waste time chatting. This somber dark-skinned Italian, in the elegant beauty of his sixty-seven years, absently studies the postulant from bottom to top, without animosity. Claude-Siméon hands him his calculations, numb with admiration and humility. Is this host who has welcomed him really the great Cassini, the one who drew a perpendicular to the meridian of France? He, the author of the fabulous work on the inclined orbits of satellites and the rings of Saturn?

  Suzanne-Françoise has a square jaw, rarely smiles. Her transparent blue eyes, like those of Charles Joachim, the classmate from the Collège Mazarin, have nothing to say. Stiffly, she asks about Marie-Aubine, Louise, his comrades from school, then turns on her heel and leaves. The other members of the family, equally stiff-lipped, barely pronounce a few words. They are deep into their occupations: the first doing accounts, the second focused on a military tract, the third on a score for voice, the last on a novel. Each ignores the presence of the others, shut up in their own worlds. With the exception of the second son, César-François, who, aware of paternal attentions, asks to read the pages of Passemant’s thesis.

  Silence.

  “Excellent!” Jacques Cassini looks up from the manuscript.

  “Excellent!” So does his son César-François.

  Claude-Siméon feels himself come back to life—in another world than his, it goes without saying, but a world far beyond this living room. By any chance will he be admitted to the Observatory for good?

  “You are one of us, Passemant. Every day, with your techniques, you are accomplishing for Newtonians what Voltaire achieves in the world of ideas. No need to tell me you are a diffuser of knowledge, I know it. A Hermes. That’s not nothing, believe me. You bring the god of Reason into everyone’s time.”

  Jacques Cassini is alluding to Voltaire’s book, Elements of the Philosophy of Newton, which is intriguing scholars and scientists. Everyone here knows it. A work reprinted several times and still at the heart of debates after more than ten years. Claude-Siméon lets it pass, looks down. Lowers his head.

  “Oh no, I’m not overvaluing you … What has Voltaire done, actually? He goes to England, where he becomes a deist after meeting Clarke, Newton’s disciple. From the natural order—or more precisely, from Newton’s gravitation—he infers a principle of transcendent order, namely, God. Which our M. Arouet encapsulates in an expression that has become famous: ‘I cannot imagine how the clockwork of the universe can exist without a clockmaker.’ Voltaire, as he likes to call himself, then settles at Cirey with Émilie du Châtelet. He invites my compatriot Algarotti, who has adapted Newton for the ladies. It’s important—oh yes, oh yes, you can be sure! Voltaire steals his idea but adapts it for everyone, including women, and with a genius far superior to his guest’s. I have to admit that France today is much better than Italy … This philosophical debate frightens the church, as you know … Ergo, we celebrate—you celebrate—the natural theology of Newton. Or of Voltaire. Such is the meaning of your calculations on the divisions of the quadrant, my good friend, and of your telescopes and clocks in the works. But then, does Descartes lead to … impiety?”

  “Sir, certain people accuse Newtonian physics of lending strength to materialism.” Claude-Siméon hesitates, attempts to stammer as if to prevent emotions from taking over, then lets himself go. “We know that the gravitational force is not only mathematical in nature. It is a quality of matter. And I can reproduce it in an astronomical clock. Up to 9999, for now, indeed more, if …”

  The visitor is ashamed at boldly launching into abstract arguments. Yet he does feel at home, as if no longer in the company of the illustrious Cassinis. Almost as comfortable as he is at La Pomme d’Or, the little observatory he has built for himself on the rue de la Monnaie, having left the rue aux Fers the better to observe the moon and the stars. Almost. He can’t manage to think about Newton and Voltaire, or even to think at all … As the Cassinis do … As he should … Shame makes
him sweat. At La Pomme d’Or, Louise has placed an enamel plaque representing the baptism of Christ. And Claude-Siméon himself has hung two paintings on wood, The Flight from Egypt and a Descent from the Cross … Things should be clear: Passemant is a man of precision. The only thing that interests him at this time is to be better lodged so his equations will be fair and true, appreciated just like those of the great scientists here in their Observatory.

  Cassini continues; he takes a stance, rewrites history as an astronomer and politician. “That’s it, that’s it. The debate is just starting. Look, even if everything were just information, how would this Everything be any less real, or less material? Starting from when, and where? Call ‘that’ God, up to you! As for me, I’m just a scientist. I believe only in experiments. You engineers are the ones who make science available for everyone’s use. Let’s do a bit of daydreaming and start with the greats of this world. With the king’s graces. You know His Majesty spends long hours with science. In the vicissitudes of life—because God does not spare monarchs—science is the unique distraction of a fine soul, that is, one as fragile and sensitive as his, understood … The frivolous courtesans don’t give a damn; they see only ridiculous manias. No surprise for you, these things are becoming known … I myself have witnessed them. His Majesty is capable of the most difficult observations, measurements, and calculations … There’s more than one step from there to saying that the Newtonian party is going to win the metaphysical and political battle, no doubt about it. Let’s take that step, and one more, come now, with a bit of hope!” A faint smile. “In contrast, His Majesty has a devil of a distrust of the literati …”

  Claude-Siméon doesn’t have a word to say. Clearly the world is not precise enough for him. From Port-Royal to Furetière and Voltaire, God is present everywhere. Without really being present. He’s slipping through his fingers. Is it God, or is it Nature yielding and withdrawing? An engineer should not ask himself such questions; an engineer owes it to himself to stay in his place. Humans are artisans, clockmakers, it can be said. Passemant grasps this. Then are clockmakers gods without a capital letter? It would be dangerously pretentious to think so, certainly a sin. Or are they the outcome of the Incarnation, its definitive reality … for the moment? The despair of solitude. Unless one has faith in the Great Clockmaker. Or performs like an automaton … The visitor isn’t quite sure.