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INTRODUCTION

Voyage sous les flots, rédige d’après le journal de bord de L’Éclair, which also bears the heading Aventures extraordinaires de Trinitus and the signature Aristide Roger, was first published in book form by “P. Brunet” (Paul Bory) in 1868; it was also serialized in Le Petit Journal, beginning in October 1867. The book version was issued in Brunet’s Bibliothéque de la Science Pittoresque, and advertised as an exercise in the popularization of science, more specifically as “a fantastic voyage in which the author describes, in an exceedingly curious and interesting fashion, the innumerable marvels of the submarine world.”

Jules Verne, who came across the serial version of Voyage sous les flots while the serial version of his own Vingt mille lieues sous les mers (1870 in book form; tr. as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea) was in preparation, wrote to Le Petit Journal in order to make it clear that he had come up with the notion independently of “Aristide Roger”—or, more accurately, of Pierre-Jules Rengade, the author behind that pseudonym—his own story of an underwater voyage having been advertised as forthcoming in P.-J. Hetzel’s Magasin d’Éducation et de Récréation in September 1867. Verne probably did that because his sensitivity to such issues had been considerably sharpened by an attempt made to sue him for plagiarism by René de Pont-Jest, on account of similarities between the initiating incident of Voyage au centre de la terre (1864; tr. as Journey to the Centre of the Earth) and the one featured in his story “La Tête de Miner” (tr. as “Mimer’s Head”) in the September 1863 issue of the Revue Contemporaine.

Pont-Jest had abandoned his suit, presumably persuaded that he could not win it—although he was probably right to assume that Verne had “stolen” his idea of prompting a voyage of exotic discovery to Scandinavia by means of a runic cryptogram—but the incident had been unfortunate. George Sand was later to allege that it was she who had fed the suggestion of writing a novel about an underwater voyage to Hetzel, who had then passed it on to Verne, so Verne was probably correct to feel that people might get the wrong idea if he did not make his position clear.

There was, of course, nothing new about the notion of a submarine, and previous literary use had been made of one by Théophile Gautier in Les Deux étoiles (1848; tr. as The Quartette), which features a plot to rescue Napoléon from his exile in Saint Helena by that means, but the point at issue was not that Verne’s Nautilus might seem to have been inspired by Rengade’s Éclair; the real question was that the wonders of the undersea world that the vessels in question revealed might seem excessively similar. There is, in fact, little similarity between the magnificent Nautilus and the rather petty Éclair, but it is not surprising that the imagery of the undersea worlds glimpsed by their passengers should have much in common, because the authors were drawing on the same meager resources, not only in terms of the scant knowledge provided by divers and fishermen but in terms of traditional melodramatic potential.

Having made that point, however, the most striking aspect of any comparison made between the two texts is not the similarities due to common research but the differences resulting from Verne’s far greater sophistication as a thinker and writer. There was, of course, some direct inspiration involved in the coincidence between the two works, but it was not to do with the machines that provided their central motifs, and the flow of that inspiration was undoubtedly from Verne to Rengade—or, more likely, from Hetzel to Brunet. Voyage sous les flots is, in fact, one of the earliest examples of imitative “Vernian fiction,” the rapid accumulation of which established Verne’s “voyages extraordinaires” as a genre rather than an idiosyncratic endeavor. The relative crudity of Rengade’s novel also serves to illustrate the fact that, within the genre who creation he had inspired, Verne had an unmatchable talent and intelligence. Other people could do what he was doing, on a prolific scale, but they could not do it anywhere near as well.

The 1860s was a boom period in France for the popularization of science; there was a rapid proliferation of sections in popular periodicals dedicated to that task, and several specialist publications were launched with that objective. One annual of the latter kind was edited by Samuel Berthoud, a physician who had been a successful feuilletonist twenty years earlier, and Berthoud made extensive use of fiction in dramatizing the history and progress of science, although only a handful of his works in that vein are speculative. On the other hand, scientists like the astronomer Camille Flammarion also tried to extend their range and appeal of their essays by clever fictionalization. Most such work was a trifle clumsy, because scientific fact does not lend itself well to fictional transfiguration—as demonstrated by the elaborate newspaper hoax produced by the pioneering science journalist Henri de Parville, whose episodes were collected as Un Habitant de le planète Mars (1865; tr. as An Inhabitant of the Planet Mars), most of which simply records the speeches made at an imaginary scientific conference.

It was probably Hetzel rather than Verne who decided, before he persuaded Verne to turn a series of projected articles on ballooning into a novel—which materialized as Cinq semaines en ballon (1863; tr. as Five Weeks in a Balloon)—that the appropriate strategy was to reverse the priority and write a adventure story in which the various phases of the adventure might provide hooks on which scientific observations and discussions could be hung, but that idea was only one per cent of the genius of Vernian fiction, and it was Verne’s hard labor that provided the other ninety-nine. As Voyage sous les flots illustrates very obviously, the strategy was relatively impotent in the absence of the craftsmanship to put it into practice with due artistry. Rengade also demonstrated, as Verne did –again, more successfully—that once the priorities have been reversed, there is a tendency for the popularization of science to fade away entirely, so that the climactic phases of such endeavors become pure and unalloyed melodrama.

Voyage sous les flots was by no means a commercial failure, however. The Brunet edition went through half a dozen printings, and the story was given a further lease of life in 1889 when Louis Figuier reprinted a slightly-revised serial version in La Science Illustrée, which led to a new book edition—with a preface by the author in which he proudly reprinted Verne’s letter, in order to demonstrate his ideative kinship with the great man. The other book of a similar kind that “Aristide Roger” contributed to the series in which Voyages sous les flots appeared—Les Monstres invisibles [Invisible Monsters] (1868), a fictionalized study of life in the microcosm revealed by microscopy—also went through half a dozen editions, but Rengade made no further attempt to repeat the trick. Brunet advertised a third Aristide Roger title in the series, La Machine humaine [The Human Machine], but it did not appear, although Rengade used the title on a series of articles featuring different organs of the body, and it might well be the case that the projected book would simply have been a collection of those articles. Its non-appearance might indicate that Rengade and Brunet had quarreled, but that would not have prevented Rengade from writing more Vernian fiction had he had the urge to do so.

In fact, the only subsequent work of prose fiction that Rengade published after Les Monstres invisibles was a naturalistic roman de moeurs detailing the exploits of a Parisian physician during the siege of Paris in 1870, Le Docteur Fabrice (1888), issued under his own name. He did, however, publish the texts of several plays including a “revue-féerie en 2 actes et 5 tableaux,” Vers l’Avenir! [Toward the Future], addressed to the workers of the Exposition Universelle of 1900, and he seems to have thought of himself as a writer in the tradition of Molière; one of his endeavors was the one-act comedy Le Médicin de Molière (1878). His last works to be published included two advertised under the heading “roman scénique contemporain” [contemporary fiction in dramatic form], Alma mater! Les Victimes de la Sorbonne (1909) and La Bête à concours [The Beast in Competition] (1910).

Like Samuel Berthoud, Rengade was a qualified physician—he always signed his plays “Dr. J. Rengade”—but, unlike Berthoud, he does not seem ever to have practiced medicine after finishing his qualificatory stints as an intern in two Parisian hospitals. Instead, he preferred to follow Parville’s example in launching a career as one of the first generation of scientific journalists; he launched a popular periodical of his own in 1867, La Santé, journal de vulgarisation médicale et scientific [Health, a magazine of medical and scientific popularization], although it ceased publication a year later. Given that he was a full time professional writer, and that his two exercises in fictional popularization sold so well, it is perhaps surprising that he did not do more in that vein, but it is possible that he simply realized that he could not compete with Verne, and conceded defeat in that particular arena. If the idea of writing Voyage sous les flots and Les Monstres invisibles had, in fact, been Brunet’s rather than Rengade’s, it is also possible that Rengade regarded them as mere hackwork, perhaps not entirely unworthy of one Molière’s heirs, but nevertheless an occasion for dabbling rather than the adoption of a vocation.

Juxtaposed with Vingt mille lieues sous les mers, Voyages sous les flots is certainly a crude affair, especially seen from a contemporary viewpoint, from which its treatment of the natives of Polynesia exhibits all the most unacceptable features of crude racism, but that probably did not work entirely to its disadvantage in terms of appealing to its intended audience. Indeed, its crudity makes it all the clearer as a demonstration of how little was known about the undersea world in 1867. We are so familiar nowadays with the results of sophisticated underwater camera-work that we all know what the world of the sea-bed looks like, in terms of its décor and population, and we also know how difficult it is to see anything at all down there in all but the clearest and calmest of waters, and what vast spaces there are between the surface of the oceans and their abyssal depths. In 1867, however, even the most advanced diving-bells could not go down very far and had not brought back very much in the way of eye-witness accounts, and although the catches of fishermen and other dredgers of the sea-bed had brought back vast numbers of samples of underwater organisms, it was by no means easy to perform the imaginative gymnastics required to envision those specimens in their natural state.

Modern readers know full well that the sea-bed is not brightly illuminated by vast hosts of phosphorescent organisms, that the notion of the weed-choked Sargasso Sea popular in the nineteenth century was more myth than reality, that narwhals do not engage in titanic battles with whales, and that the notion of dangling a trapeze underneath a fast-moving submarine to serve as a viewing platform for men in canvas suits breathing air from the interior of the submarine through long rubber tubes is monumentally silly. The fact that such narrative devices did not seem entirely ridiculous to Rengade and his contemporary readers, however, serves to remind us that the reason that no one prior to 1867 had dared to write a novel about an underwater voyage is that no one had any but the slightest idea of what such a voyage might reveal.

The project was just as difficult, in its own way, as constructing a plausible account of a journey to Mars, whose surface was at least visible to astronomical observation—albeit, as it turned out, somewhat unreliably. Verne’s and Rengade’s novels were, quite literally, imaginative leaps in the dark, taking their authors and readers into a world in which large-scale imaginative constructions had to be based on woefully inadequate informational foundations. If Rengade went spectacularly awry, he did not do so to a much greater extent than Verne, and the latter writer’s enormous literary achievement was more a matter of glossing over his inadequacy of his resources than any spectacular anticipatory success. If Verne did not reproduce all of Rengade’s errors in chronicling the exploits of Captain Nemo, that was partly because he had already made many of them before, in Les Enfants du capitaine Grant, serialized in the Magasin d’Éducation et de Récréation in 1865-67, from which Rengade seems to have borrowed considerable inspiration in shaping his plot—which is, in essence, a brutal abridgement of Verne’s, in which the submarine functions as a means of curtailment as well as a vehicle of revelation. (The novel in question was translated into English in three separately-titled volumes, but is best-known nowadays as In Search of the Castaways, under which title the story was filmed by Walt Disney’s company.)

Both Verne and Rengade deserve credit for taking on the task that they did; it really was a bold attempt to explore the unknown by means of the imagination. The lack of success they enjoyed in terms of accurate prediction of what future underwater exploration would actually reveal is somewhat beside the point; no one can know today what will only be discovered tomorrow. The real issue at stake is whether such journeys are worth undertaking, regardless of the scant chance of predictive success. Verne surely demonstrated that they are, and that entitled him to become the figurehead of an entire genre, which not only collated such attempts but also enabled them to achieve a measure of collective progress. Contrary to what René Pont-Jest thought, it is actually healthy for writers to take inspiration from one another, borrowing one another’s ideas in order to extract further mileage from them and exhibit the true breadth of their potential. Mere copying is fruitless, but development is anything but, and although much of the material contained in Voyage sous les flots is mere and somewhat inept copying, the narrative does have developmental ambitions, and Brunet and Rengade were correct in their belief that there really was additional mileage to be obtained from jumping on to the Hetzel-Verne bandwagon, in terms of seeing how far it could go, and in what directions.

It is difficult to judge the particular influence of Voyage sous les flots, which was bound to be eclipsed by its own model and by its accidental parallels with the serial novel Verne was writing alongside it, but it probably did serve as a significant exemplar to the other writers who soon began to flock to the Vernian banner, including Alphonse Brown, whose own career as a dedicated Vernian was launched in 1875 with La Conquête de l’air (1875; tr. as The Conquest of the Air), and Albert Robida, whose parodic Vernian fantasy Voyages trés extraordinaire de Saturnin Farandoul (1879; tr. as The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul) surely has Voyage sous les flots in mind in one of the key incidents in the first of its five parts, in which the characters witness an undersea battle that results in one of them being carried away and temporarily lost.

Seen from the viewpoint of 1889, let alone from 2013, Voyage sous les flots is a historical curiosity, a strange specimen dredged up from the literary deeps, but, just as Louis Figuier was right in thinking that it was worth reprinting then, it is still worth translating now, precisely because it is such a revealing historical illustration. It was, in essence, the first Vernian novel written by someone other than Verne; the novel that demonstrated that the track, once beaten, was well worth treading repeatedly, and that there were potential rewards to be gained from a genre of voyages extraordinaires as well as a single series by a single author.

Seen as an adventure story, Voyage sous les flots is a cardinal example of what would later be considered to be “pulp fiction”—but that too is illuminating, given that there was not yet any such thing in 1867, which was prior to the advent of the cheap wood-pulp paper that made it possible to produce printed text at a price poor people could afford, thus encouraging the mass-production of fiction aimed at the uneducated and semi-literate. The fact that the novel seems so stereotyped and obsolete now, in its method as well as its content, is partly due to the fact that it was one of the models that helped to create the relevant stereotypes, and to pioneer the melodramatic fashions that were subsequently to become standardized in popular globetrotting action-adventure fiction. It is undoubtedly a bad book, but it is bad in interesting ways, and although it is not a great book, as some bad books are, it is nevertheless a narrative that has virtues, not only in addition to its badness but at their very heart. It is not entirely surprising that it was popular when it was first published in the 1860s, or that it posted a useful signpost for other writers, which Louis Figuier still thought important when he attempted to define, circumscribe and promote the genre of roman scientifique two decades later.

This translation was made from the copy of the second Brunet edition reproduced electronically in the Bibliothèque Nationale’s gallica website.