THE NEW ADAM (5)
By:
August 14, 2025
The New Adam is a 1926 proto-sf novel by the Swiss author Hélène Dufour Pittard (writing as “Noëlle Roger”). The book concerns, one reads in the Science Fiction Encyclopedia, “a wholly logical and unpleasant Superman created by gland transplants.” HILOBROW is pleased to serialize Book IV from The New Adam in Josh Glenn’s translation, from the original serialized in the 23 February 1924 issue of the journal La Petite Illustration.
FRENCH PROTO-SF TRANSLATIONS BY JOSH GLENN: Raymond Roussel’s LOCUS SOLUS [excerpt] | Noëlle Roger’s THE NEW ADAM [excerpt] | Alfred Jarry’s THE SUPERMALE [excerpt] | Jean de La Hire’s THE MYSTERY OF THE XV [excerpt].
THE NEW ADAM: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10.
— You want me to tell you the truth, don’t you, my dear Master? asked Michel de Javerne.
There was some impatience in his voice. Dr. Fléchère, breaking the rules, had come to call on him at Douceville and asked to see Silenrieux — “too soon!” thought the alienist.
— The truth, of course! replied Fléchère. Your letter contained such reservations [réticences]… I couldn’t wait any longer…
Michel de Javerne sat back in his chair.
— For the fifteen days he’s been here, I haven’t stopped watching your protégé. At first he had a rather singular reaction: an outburst of violent words punctuated by bursts of laughter. Yes, he laughed all one afternoon… Then he asked me to come and see him and assured me, as they all do, of his perfect rectitude of mind. Since then, he has remained silent.
— Like they all do… Fléchère repeated in a low voice. But you know very well, Javerne, that Silenrieux isn’t… well, we took a public safety measure.
He looked at his colleague, who remained silent, with an ambiguous expression.
— Well, you know very well, Michel, that specialists always have the tendency to…
— No, the alienist grated. I believe he’s mad. Really, and perhaps incurably mad.
His voice, often caustic, had become grave, seeming to hammer home a definitive condemnation. Doctor Fléchère jerked involuntarily [eut un haut-le-corps]. He stood up. He walked slowly. The parquet floor that gleamed, that cruel daylight reflected by the white varnish, gave him vertigo. The secrets buried deep within the folds of being, shouldn’t they spring forth at the call of this inexorable light that he found even in Javerne’s eyes fixed on him?
— My dear friend, the alienist continued calmly, my director and my interns will assure you as I do. Our conviction frees you from these scruples, from this remorse that I sense in you. Silenrieux is suffering from lucid madness. He reasons with dazzling accuracy. But the starting point of his reasoning betrays his imbalance.
— And this starting point? asked Fléchère, trembling.
— Imagine, my dear friend, that he told me, with supporting evidence — he had me feel a scar on his scalp — that you had subjected his brain to a physiological transformation…. Yes, he claims that by means of a graft inserted into one of his lobes you have increased his cerebral activity a hundredfold and made him a sort of precursor… that’s right, the homo superior [l’homme future], endowed with infinite creative possibilities… What do you say to that? A decent fantasy, right?
Fléchère had fallen back into his chair. He was supporting his forehead with his hands, where beads of sweat were beading. His voice muffled, he said:
— He told the truth…
— What?
— The truth…
There was a silence. Michel de Javerne, stunned, surreptitiously examined Fléchère, and a terrible doubt was beginning to appear in his gaze.
Fléchère finally straightened up, noticed this look, and said with a weak smile:
— No, my dear friend, I’m not mad… Though perhaps I was, for an hour… And that hour weighs heavily on my life… The other day, in Puybronde, I didn’t tell you everything… I couldn’t… Yes, I did that… It was the realization of the dream of my entire scientific career. I attempted it almost without hope, on a dying man… succeeded… by virtue of a terrible luck perhaps… and paid for it… Ah! I’ve already paid dearly, as one always pays for reckless dreams that come true… I paid for it with the life of my son first, who wanted to practice [this surgery] on himself…
His voice failed him. At this tone of despair, Michel de Javerne felt his involuntary suspicion drain away.
—I had no right… Doctor Fléchère continued in a low voice. I wanted to reverse the order, suppress time, the time that allows nature to make the boldest adaptations. The homo superior, how many generations would it take to prepare him, to adjust him, to allow the evolution of his consciousness parallel to the evolution of his brain? Silenrieux ought to have to died… I see clearly now. My punishment is that he lived… Can you imagine my existence now? A bond stronger than life binds me to this being I created. I try in vain to halt the atrocious effects of his genius… He is not responsible. A brain in motion [un cerveau en marche]… a mind that sweeps away all obstacles between him and its discovery. What does human life matter to those who dream of universal domination? And he… he dreams even higher, he dreams of knowing everything….
A silence fell between them, heavy with thoughts they dared not express, yet which were hinted at in their gazes, which sought each other, then avoided each other…
— Your Silenrieux is an abnormal [un anormal], Michel de Javerne continued eventually. His place is here. Perhaps with time, he will balance his mental faculties, his emotional faculties, and his nervous system. Perhaps… Besides, my dear friend, in your own interest…
— Let’s go see him! Fléchère said abruptly, getting up.
— Be very careful, Michel de Javerne warned. One must avoid unleashing a crisis similar to the one the other day. Try to make him accept that his overworked nervous system needs a rest…
They exited the director’s pavilion. And Fléchère saw the large, brand-new white building appear through the trees in the park, flanked by two wings surrounded by gardens. He looked away. But on all sides, amidst lawns bordered by rose hedges, similar pavilions were springing up, reproducing, with discouraged docility, the inflexible lines and dazzling plasterwork of the clinic. It was getting closer, overlapping its barred windows. The ground-floor [rez-de-chaussée] doors opened onto terraces divided by walls covered with climbing plants into a series of narrow, identical gardens that were like extensions of the cells.
— These are the apartments of the privileged, Michel de Javerne explained, the high-flying unbalanced [les déséquilibrés de haut vol]. I have many clients of this category: writers, actors, politicians… A former minister… diplomats… Yes, overwork, nervous exhaustion, too many responsibilities… Your Silenrieux is in good company!
He stopped Fléchère in the middle of the passageway.
— Look, the third French window [porte-fenêtre] on the right is his. They each have their own two-room apartment, with a bathroom, and their own garden. They are served their meals at home. And they never see their companions.
Doctor Fléchère was no longer listening to him. He was thinking about Silenrieux’s humiliation, locked in those two rooms and that enclosed garden…
— On the first floor [i.e., what Americans would call the second floor — ed.], Michel de Javerne continued, the padded cells [cellules matelassées]… And here, he added, turning the corner of the immense building, on this side, less favored by the sun, we have the category of madmen of more modest means, the quiet madmen, of course. See, they are gathered in the same garden, the men on the right, the women on the left. Oh! They are very comfortable here! And what a view, isn’t it? We overlook the whole countryside!
Having climbed the steps, he stopped, turned around, with a circular gesture. Two beautiful gardens alike, cultivated with extreme care. Roses… roses…. where had Fléchère seen such roses? Ah! yes, the roses of Puybronde, which Silenrieux wanted to give to Marie… Did they see them, these beings whose frenzied steps Fléchère followed with his gaze, along the sandy paths, the forced marches?
Incoherent gestures, grimacing or inert faces, and those piercing, stupid laughs that burst out at intervals… the fallen whose fate Silenrieux shared.
His heart sank.
— I assure you, my dear Master, they are not to be pitied! More than one of my friends has asked me to reserve an apartment for him for a cure.
Fléchère sensed that Michel de Javerne, whom he had loved for many years, was becoming odious to him.
— Come on! he said impatiently. Take me to Hervé.
They crossed a vestibule and followed a corridor.
— It’s here, said Michel de Javerne. I’ll leave you…
He signaled to the nurse who was inserting a key into the lock.
— Take note, this nurse will stay there, in the hallway, ready to rush in at the first call.
Fléchère watched the door open slowly, as if cautiously. He entered. It closed behind him.
At first, he couldn’t see anything in the warm darkness. The blinds were drawn over the windows protected by the thick mesh.
RADIUM AGE PROTO-SF: “Radium Age” is Josh Glenn’s name for the nascent sf genre’s c. 1900–1935 era, a period which saw the discovery of radioactivity, i.e., the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. More info here.
SERIALIZED BY HILOBOOKS: James Parker’s Cocky the Fox | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Matthew Battles’s “Imago” | & many more original and reissued novels and stories.