The Supreme Progress

by Brian Stableford

  After a fortnight, Georges fearfully perceived that the treatise on the Archeosaurians was almost complete, and that he would have to return to Martinville. Then he became desperate. He spent his nights tossing and turning in his bed, repeating all the words and phrases that had been addressed to him by Clotilde, constructing entire worlds on some banal interjection or insignificant remark. Sometimes he was full of hope; at other times, he was profoundly discouraged, sensing the enormous distance that separated the charming Clotilde, the daughter of Monsieur Lissardière, from the humble Georges Perron, amateur geologist, more than half bumpkin.

  Meanwhile, Monsieur Lissardière followed Clotilde’s maneuvers and Georges’ hesitations with a keen eye. He decided to hurry things along. One morning, after a long session on Jurassic herpetology, he asked Georges point-blank whether he wanted to get married.

  Georges stammered; it seemed to him that the ground had given way beneath his feet. He hesitated momentarily, not knowing what to say or do. He had to reply, though.

  At the decisive moment, he experienced an instant of extraordinary clairvoyance. Like an unfortunate who falls into a precipice while measuring with a glance the depth of the abyss into which he is plunging, he understood that Lissardière had only brought him to Villeneuve to marry him off. He divined that Clotilde did not love him and never would love him. Yes, it would mean losing contentment and gaiety! It would mean leaving Martinville, and Frantz and Nonotte, to embark upon a miserable existence bristling with strife, worries, sleepless nights and joyless days.

  He saw all that, and yet he felt himself weakening.

  “Well?” demanded Monsieur Lissardière, smiling encouragingly.

  And Georges, stammering, admitted that Clotilde was a superior woman, that he was assuredly quite unworthy of her, but that, after all, he must think of the future…

  In brief, he asked for Coltilde’s hand.

  Monsieur Lissardière did what he had to do, coldly and affectionately. He weighed up the services that he, Lissardière, had rendered to science and the fatherland; he spoke about a successor worthy of him, and praised Clotilde’s extraordinary intelligence to the skies. For his part, he held Georges in high esteem, but still, he must consult his wife and daughter. In sum, he asked for a week to reflect, and, in order to observe all the conventions, he enjoined Georges to return to Martinville to await Clotilde’s response.

  When poor Frantz heard the disastrous news, he uttered a dolorous roar. So that was why Monsieir Lissardière had dragged Georges to Villeneuve-sur-Oise! Into what an infernal trap, and with what cunning! In spite of his innate generosity, the worthy musician felt himself animated by a ferocious hatred against all the Lissardières, great and small.

  But the roaring and the hatred did no good. Frantz was obliged to listen submissively to the tale of Georges’ anguish, when he came back still enfevered by Clotilde’s piano-playing and coquetry. Confusedly, in spite of his despair, Frantz understood that Georges was in the right. The bizarre association that had brought an old musician and a young geologist together under the same roof really could not go on indefinitely. It was an abnormal phenomenon, contrary to all custom, which, sooner or later, had to run into the hard reality of things and come to an end. By taking a wife, Georges would be re-entering the common run of things, from which he should never have absented himself. His existence could not offend the common sense of his fellow citizens and contemporaries in perpetuity. It is not good to live otherwise than one’s peers, and it is only decent, before getting too old, to return to the bosom of bourgeois routine.

  The two friends felt, however, as if an invisible barrier had been erected within their communal intimacy.

  “Don’t worry, my worthy Frantz,” Georges said. “I shan’t leave you. Could we really draw apart? Is it possible that we could ever be strangers to one another? You will have two friends now, instead of one.”

  In speaking thus, Georges was lying to himself.

  “Let’s go see the Mirosaurus,” said Frantz, after a pause.

  The Mirosaurus was still there, solemn and silent, swaying its denuded head. Before the skeleton that reminded them of so many common joys, so many collective dreams and so many conversations, Georges and Frantz were penetrated by a bitter sadness.

  O poverty of human thought! We do not know how to live. What should be our supreme science is the one of which we are most ignorant. When the present smiles upon us, instead of pausing, we think about the future. But the future does not keep its promises, and the present that has been happy is no longer any more than a memory. We can no longer recover the happy days of yesteryear. We shall no longer have those gigantic bones to disinter and classify. Amity, sweet amity, will never smile upon us again. “Madman thrice over,” Frantz said to himself, “why did you not pause in the passage of those hours, so gentle, that you regret?”

  During the week that followed, Frantz, against all expectation, continued to hope. Monsieur Lissardière did not reply. Who could tell? Perhaps he would refuse.

  As for Georges, he no longer knew whether he ought to live in hope or dread. An immense lassitude overcame him. He no longer thought about anything. Every time he tried to pull himself together, the image of Clotilde came to trouble him. He saw her in the little house in Martinville, sometimes sweet and tender, leaning on his arm, sometimes haughty and imperious, imposing her will harshly, cleaning house, chasing away Frantz and Nonotte, sweeping the shells away, selling the Mirosaurus to the highest bidder. He saw all the Lissardières installed at the peaceful old hearth, importing the prejudices, passions, disgusts and idolatries of another caste. Sometimes, he heard a kind of insulting laughter; Clotilde rejected his advances scornfully. Then, seized by self-pity, he closed his eyes, as patient animals do which no longer resist the insults heaped upon them, tolerating blows in silence and awaiting a better destiny.

  You have doubtless seen, from a river-bank, an unfortunate cork agitated by various currents. One wave carries it away, another brings it back, and the feeble object bumps into obstacles to the right and the left, ahead and behind, shaken in every direction, dragged along by the changing caprices of the flow, alternately sinking and surfacing, colliding with every projection, swayed by contrary eddies, eternally recommencing the same blind curse without reacting to those superior forces.

  It was thus that Georges, thrown into the midst of the events, passions and conflicts of real life, allowed himself to be guided by things and people. Over the cork tossed by the waves he had the sad superiority of being able to reflect and meditate upon the agitations that drew him along.

  It was not a letter that arrived; it was Monsieur Lissardière himself. He had come to Martinville to bring his provisional consent to the marriage.

  “It’s true that Clotilde is very young,” he added, “but it’s unnecessary to conclude the matter right away. While waiting, I’ve decided that it’s necessary to come to Paris. If you follow my advice and direction, a fine future is in prospect for you. You will show me your drawings, your collections.” He added, modestly: “I have some experience—at least, people are kind enough to think so—and I can be very useful to you. We shall work together, and, with me, you might do anything.”

  He said very little about Clotilde, though, and seemed scarcely to be concerned with anything but the immense labors that awaited Georges as soon as he had arrived in Paris—so our friend was more alarmed than satisfied. Frantz tried to put on a brave face, but, in spite of his efforts, he was unable to appear cheerful.

  Before leaving, Monsieur Lissardière wanted to see the Mirosaurus again. “Let’s take a look at my Mirosaurus,” he said. “Yes, that’s what it is. Admit that it’s a fine discovery.” And he admired the magnificent fossil with a paternal affection.

  A few days later, Georges was in Paris.

  He rented a small furnished apartment near the Sorbonne. The accommodation was ugly, dirty and cold, quite miserable by comparison with the little house in Martinville, but what
did it matter? Was not Clotilde here, and would her sweet smile not chase away all the clouds?

  In truth, he found Paris less frightening than he had had first thought. He discovered unfamiliar satisfactions there.

  Monsieur Lissardière introduced him to a few eminent masters: Professor Valuzot, the director of the fossil museum; Monsieur Le Croquet, the engineer of several railways; Monsieur Durant, a superior employee at the ministry—that was his only superiority; Monsieur Riffard, a senator, considered by his family to be a genius of the first order. All these illustrious men heaped eulogies upon Georges; they took an interested in the Mirosaurus, affirming that it was a fundamental discovery and that after such a glorious conquest it was not permissible to bury oneself in a provincial hole.

  All these eulogies resounded in Georges’ ears and troubled him. It was an agreeable noise, a soft and sonorous harmony by which he allowed himself to be lulled. Truly, he was soon convinced. He deigned to believe what was said about is importance. He took himself seriously, observed himself, contemplated himself. In the street, he walked with a certain dignity, saying to himself: “The son-in-law of Monsieur Lissardière and the inventor of the Mirosaurus is certainly not just anybody.”

  He soon became acquainted with the great men of the capital. He was shown the exceedingly formal manner in which men are judged by success, in the opinion of society—Parisian society, of course. That was the real and enviable thing here, and one could not be happy if one was not well-placed in the opinion of society.

  Georges was rapidly initiated into the mysteries of Parisian high society. He even received an invitation from Madame de Crussac, whose salon is the antechamber of al the Academies. Madame de Crussac congratulated Georges, and congratulated Monsieur Lissardière.

  There was an enormous crowd at the salon, everyone greeting one another, detesting one another, bowing to one another, shaking hands and, once backs were turned, tearing one another apart. One would be too bored otherwise. Occasionally, the buzz of slander suddenly paused. There was a celebrated virtuoso, the illustrious Raggiletti, who was playing a symphony; then everyone listened. The symphony was one that Frantz loved. How many times Georges had heard it back home! As the celebrated Raggiletti developed the melody, with strange contortions, Georges felt himself gripped, as he had been in Martinville, by a sort of exaltation. All the flatteries, the engaging words, went to his head life a deadly blast. Their bitter perfume had intoxicated him. He told himself that he was able to do better than all the marionettes surrounding him; that one day, he too would have positions, salaries, medals, that people would come from one end of the salon to the other to greet him, to admire him, to congratulate him. This was no longer, as it had been by the Ocean, a vague aspiration toward a mysterious future, toward an ideal and ungraspable science; it was a sort of ambitious rage, a determination to succeed, to crush rivals, to dominate an elite assembly—to be, in a word, like the great Lissardière family, into which he was entering triumphantly.

  He felt pity for the humble condition of the people of Martinville. Was it possible to live like that, semi-fossilized, in an obscure village? Martinville was nothing but a hamlet, a tongue of land lost in the waves. Glory would not seek out anyone there. Glory was in Paris, in Madame de Crussac’s salon. What good did it do Frantz to play his divine melodies? There was only Nonotte, the Mirosaurus and the seagulls to hear them. But Raggiletti, what a marvel! He was surrounded, congratulated; ladies of the first rank were giving him an enthusiastic ovation; journalists were there, who would make the name of Raggilletti famous tomorrow, and spread its echoes throughout the civilized universe.

  To begin with, Georges had been full of ardor; he visited museums, followed courses, listened, while taking notes, to Monsieur Lissardière’s savant lessons. Now, however, his zeal has relented; the hope of a vacancy at the École des Arts finds him less enthusiastic.

  That vacancy is an invention of Clotilde’s. For the first time, Clotilde has not shared the opinion of her father, and, although Monsieur Lissardière does not approve, she has convinced Georges to apply for one. In the meantime, in order to be nominated, it is necessary to take an examination for which the preparation is long, difficult and fastidious. Sulkily, Monsieur Lissardière has promised to put in a good word for his future son-in-law with the assessors, but it is still necessary not to appear too ignorant.

  So Georges has shut himself up in his study. He re-reads chapter LXVII of the Traité des coquilles. He gets up and walks around the room, numbed and sickened by the monotonous reading. He has forgotten Madame de Crussac’s salon, and tells himself that the Traité des coquilles is a high price to pay for the honor of being seated to the right of that illustrious lady on gala days. The weather is superb; it is one of the first fine days of the summer. From his window, Georges can see students walking gaily in twos and threes, chatting. The trees have that spring greenery that is so charming after winter stripped bare. The orchestra in the Luxembourg sends forth gusts of joyful sonority.

  Chapter LXVIII: Distinctive characteristics of the Brachiopods of the lias.48

  “What are you doing at this moment, my poor Frantz? Perhaps it’s low tide, and you’re doubtless walking in the rocks, amid the seaweed that the tide has just abandoned. You’re watching the flow of the limpid streams heading out to sea; the pools are slowly emptying; the little crabs are hiding under stones. Don’t forget our old cavern, with its seashells, though. One never knows whether someone else…”

  Chapter LXIX. Distinctive characteristics…

  The door opens suddenly. It is Monsieur Lissardière.

  “Look,” he said to Georges, showing him a newspaper, “this will make you rejoice! You’ve been given a dispensation from the examination; in a fortnight, you’ll make your debut at the École des Arts.”

  An immense sigh of relief filled Georges’ breast; with an indescribable satisfaction, he closed the Traité des coquilles noisily and shoved it away. He was no longer listening to Monsieur Lissardière, who was talking about his influence, the benevolence of the minister, and the considerable importance of a debut at the École des Arts.

  “Oh yes,” he said to Georges, “it’s necessary to do me honor, my friend. You know that I always have 400 people at each of my lectures; you need no fewer. I’m counting on you. You’ll draw your own glory from it, of course, but you’ll have to work. Hold on, here’s the exact Traité des coquilles you need, on your table—you’ll find all the necessary information in that excellent work.”

  Alas, Georges understood only too well. It was the end of contentment, of repose, of patient and obscure research. And for what? Must he grow pale spending long hours over that odious book?

  “You haven’t thought of thanking me,” said Monsieur Lissardière, with a hint of discontent. “It’s a very good appointment, though, my dear Georges, and everyone will envy you. Think about it: that’s worth some gratitude, damn it! You don’t have a degree from the École des Arts, and it’s an exceptional favor to be given a dispensation from diplomas. Here you are, introduced to a position without having passed through the twists and turns of the hierarchy.”

  And Georges was obliged to thank Monsieur Lissardière.

  The decisive moment—the opening lecture at the École des Arts, that is—approached with fearful rapidity. Georges had never spoken in public, and he trembled at the idea of confronting the 400 auditors of Lissardière’s course in the great amphitheater of the École des Arts. How should he make his entrance? How should he explain the principles of Jurassic paleontology? How should he begin? Georges was paralyzed by terror in advance; a cold sweat and little shivers overcame him when he thought about the solemn moment of his arrival in the lecture-hall. 400 listeners—perhaps 400 enemies?

  Sometimes, though, he became more hopeful. He looked at himself in the mirror, studied the rhythm of his first sentence, and draped himself in his dressing-gown to judge the effect produced. Then he cast his eyes over the list of the professors who h
ad taught at the École des Arts in the last two centuries, and found the most illustrious names in France there. He swelled up with a vast pride then, when he thought of the immense honor of succeeding all those glorious masters.

  He passed from triumph to despair and from despair to triumph.

  He was no longer living any but a feverish, insupportable life. In front of Monsieur Lissardière he put on a brave face, and feigned all the confidence that he did not have, but when he found himself alone, he was unable to hide his anxiety, his discouragement or his anguish. Sometimes, he shared his dread with his fiancée. With some hauteur, Clotilde reassured him, but only half-heartedly. Involuntarily, she felt herself gripped by a sort of disdainful sympathy for the poor young man—the pity that kills affection more effectively than the bloodiest offenses.

  To lift Georges’ spirits, a spectacular success was needed. There was, instead, a spectacular failure.

  When he appeared in the amphitheater he was welcomed very coldly; the young students of the École, well known for mockery, had already made a joke of the Mirosaurus. Like a stone falling into a pond, the sudden arrival of this provincial had raised up a concert of indignation and jealousy. Monsieur Lissardière’s assistant, Monsieur Michenot, who had passed all his examinations with flying colors and had his eye on the chair of the École des Arts, had fomented a kind of cabal. All his friends were there; a dull hostility was circulating through the assembly. A caricature was passed from hand to hand in which the Mirosaurus, decked in a miter, was solemnly blessing Georges and Lissardière.

  Perhaps, by force of eloquence and knowledge, Georges might have been able to avert the storm, but from the very start he was nervous; he stammered, said silly things, and talked about Monsieur Lissardière, his illustrious master. When he pronounced the word Mirosaurus, he was interrupted by a gale of laughter. Then there was a profound silence, during which Georges thought that such a torture was worse than death. He tried to summon up his courage and stammered a few inconsequential words; the audience laughed and shouted. Then our unfortunate friend, suddenly sensing the enormity of the disaster, left the room in the midst of booing.