later science fiction is not – not only does it contain new ideas, but it combines them in a new way. Small wonder that it has been the exemplar of much that followed.
The Island of Dr Moreau, published the year after The Time Machine, shows Wells again worrying the bone of evolution. Wells himself pointed to its similarities with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. And he says, ‘I have never been able to get away from life in the mass and life in general as distinguished from life in the individual experience, in any book I have ever written.’ This viewpoint of Man as Statistic, typical of many an SF writer, is encouraged by Malthusian thought. Wells and Hardy and Butler, being outside the swim of middle-class society, had little to lose by a new approach; it came naturally to them to express what was not received wisdom, and to propagate the unpopular. With the unpopular, Wells caught the popular ear.
These distinguished English writers were preceded by considerable writers from across the Channel. France was the first country of the Enlightenment; in Paris in 1771 was published a book which is in every way a product of its age – except that it is recognisably kin to science fiction.
While Cook was busy discovering Botany Bay, Boston was holding its Tea Party, and the first iron bridge was being built, Sebastien Mercier published his predictive work, L’An Deux Mille Quatre Cent Quarante. Mercier visualised a time, seven centuries ahead, when society had improved and perfected itself. The actual and the metaphorical Bastilles have vanished. This futuristic utopian fiction was translated and published in other European countries and eventually in the newly independent America.
How was it that the English by contrast took, even then, a much less sanguine view of the future? I cannot resist contrasting Mercier’s dream of the future as a place of fountains and fine buildings with the typically British preoccupation with disaster. Take for instance, an anonymous squib by one ‘Antonius’ published in Lloyd’s Evening Post for 25-28 November, 1771 (and never noticed again until now). It looks two centuries ahead to a ruinous Britain overcome by an American Empire.
Two Americans are guided round London by a poor Briton. The latter provides a running commentary as follows:
‘Yonder is a field of turnips, there stood the Palace of Whitehall; as to St James’s there are no traces of that left, it stood somewhere near that pond. Here stood that venerable pile of antiquity, Westminster Abbey, which was founded in the year 796; at the west end was the famous Chapel of Henry the Seventh, in which were interred most of our English Kings. That on the right is the remains of Queen Elizabeth’s tomb; that on the left, those of King William the Third; all the rest are swept away by time.
‘The whole church had been ornamented with monuments of Admirals, Generals, Poets, Philosophers, and others, two of which only we found legible, that of Locke and Newton, some being quite defaced, and others we could not come at on account of the ruins fallen in upon them. – What a melancholy sight, we exclaimed, that this venerable dome, dedicated to God, should be now converted into a stable!’
And so on. South Sea House is a mere jakes, its infamy well known. India House was destroyed one hundred and sixty years earlier, ‘for the blood they shed in India called for vengeance, and they were expelled the Country’.
Why this dark vision? Only a generation after Antonius, a girl of eighteen was writing the melancholy and perverse Frankenstein – an English girl of eighteen. Perhaps our national lack of hope has preserved the country from some of the excesses inflicted on the rest of the world in the last two centuries.
In the erudite and naive patchwork of creations we call science fiction, there is no other figure like Jules Verne; even his fellow-countrymen have not come to terms with him. Beyond pointing out that his immense Voyages Extraordinaires stands like an Enlightenment fortress which slowly crumbles into the darkness of the twentieth century, I prefer to mention two of his honourable predecessors who also precede H. G. Wells.
Restif de la Bretonne’s La Decouverte Australe par un Homme-Volant, was published in 1781. It is a major speculative work describing flying machines, airborne fleets, and a civilisation in the wilds of Australia (something no living Australian would dare postulate). In a later work, Les Posthumes (1802), Bretonne describes other planets and extra-terrestrial beings.
But in 1854, in Paris, a much more intensely science-fictional work was published: more science-fictional because it uses for its structure those grand gloomy ideas I have already mentioned. Charles Ischir Defontenay’s novel Star ou Psi de Cassiopée combines symbolism and science fiction; the result is rather like a painting by Gustave Moreau. Star is a sophisticated story concerning a remote solar system of which Star, oddly enough, is not the sun but the planet, the sole planetary body of a system containing three suns and some satellites.
The humanoid races living on Star exhibit the features of various conflicting evolutionary theories. The Savelces result from miscegenation between a god and a small worm; the Ponarbates derive from animal species which occasionally give birth to superior types; the Nemsedes are the fruit of a kind of spontaneous generation ‘born from the sour lime of the soil heated by electric air’, and so on. One of Defontenay’s tribes is hermaphrodite, anticipating similiar themes by Theodore Sturgeon and Ursula Le Guin by a century or more.
Defontenay’s tone might be described as religious but cheerful, which possibly explains why his remarkable book was forgotten for so long.
By the end of the nineteenth century, pessimism was coming back into fashion. The Oxford English Dictionary lists as one of the meanings of the word Future, ‘A condition in times to come different (esp. in a favourable sense) from the present.’ Significantly, the usage quoted comes from 1852. The optimism of that favourable sense of the word had evaporated forty years later, when Wells’s first novels appeared. But gone forever was the eighteenth-century attitude expressed by Pope, ‘Oh, blindness to the future, Kindly given.’ Nineteenth-century findings rendered it both necessary and possible to speculate on the future; knowing the worst was a new tool in the intellectual armoury.
It may be that part of the stigma still attaching to science fiction lay originally in the fact that the men who helped create it as a form of expression were themselves outsiders, or regarded themselves as outsiders; examination of, say, one hundred typical texts would probably reinforce the theme of isolation (prominent for instance in Frankenstein). Even in overpopulation novels, which proliferated in the sixties of this century, the solitary individual occurs, almost in defiance of his context.
Isolation is manifestly one of the problems liable to crop up on a newly discovered planet, where you can find yourself alone except for a computer, a captain who has got religion, and the ship’s cat. It was particularly to the concept of new planets that American SF writers turned when they entered the science fiction lists with the launching of the pulp magazines. This phenomenon is generally explained as the Quest for the Last Frontier. It is less glib to consider imaginary planets as evidence of the fear and attraction of isolation.
Just as Hollywood on the West Coast of the USA was largely run by émigrés – Hungarians and the like – so was the pulp industry, peddling dreams and traumas on the East Coast. The émigrés came from the over-populated cities of Europe to another over-populated American city. Many SF writers, editors, and publishers were strangers in a strange land, autodidacts like Hardy and Wells. Isaac Asimov is a case in point. Born in a suburb of Smolensk in Russia, he was brought over to the United States at the age of three. His family settled in Brooklyn; his father ran a candy store. By the age of nine, Asimov Jnr was reading SF and educating himself by it; since when, with great single-mindedness, he has been trying to educate the rest of us. There can be few sciences which have not escaped his net. (The abrupt uprooting in early childhood sets him in a class with Mary Shelley, Nerval, Wells, Stapledon, Ballard, Aldiss, and many others).
Although we can point to the new science-fictional planets as logical extensions of such fictitious lands as Laputa and Butler’s Erewhon, we should bear in mind scientific considerations as well as literary ones. True, as the terrestrial globe shrinks, it is increasingly difficult to convince readers of the probability of finding even a satirical utopia in some undiscovered nook. Arthur Conan Doyle’s siting of the Lost