D'Alembert's Principle E-Book

Andrew Crumey

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Three novellas bound together in a highly-acclaimed post-modern literary triptych

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Leseprobe

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

D’ALEMBERT’S PRINCIPLE

Andrew Crumey was born in Glasgow in 1961. He read theoretical physics and mathematics at St Andrews University and Imperial College in London, before doing post-doctoral research at Leeds University on nonlinear dynamics.

After a spell of being the literary editor at Scotland on Sunday he now combines teaching creative writing at Northumbria University with his writing. He lives in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

His first novel Music, in a Foreign Language (1994) was awarded The Saltire Best First Book Prize. His second novel Pfitz (1995) was one of the books of the year for The Observer and The New York Times. He published D’Alembert’s Principle to great acclaim in 1996. Mr Mee (2000), Mobius Dick (2004) and Sputnik Caledonia (2008) followed. His novels have been translated into 13 languages and received many awards.

Dedalus will publish Andrew Crumey’s latest novel The Secret Knowledge in July 2013 and republish Mr Mee and Mobius Dick in 2014.

COPYRIGHT

Published in the UK by Dedalus Limited,

24-26, St Judith’s Lane, Sawtry, Cambs, PE28 5XE

email: [email protected]

www.dedalusbooks.com

ISBN printed book 978 1 873982 32 7

ISBN e-book 978 1 909232 47 1

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Publishing History

First published by Dedalus in 1996

First ebook edition in 2013

D’Alembert’s Principle © Andrew Crumey 1996

Introduction copyright © John Clute 1996

The right of Andrew Crumey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Printed in Finland by Bookwell

Typeset by RefineCatch, Bungay, Suffolk

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A C.I.P. Listing for this book is available on request.

CONTENTS

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

Title

Introduction

D’Alembert’s Principle

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

The Cosmography of Magnus Ferguson

Introduction

The Cosmography

Tales from Rrinnstadt

I

II

III

IV

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

by John Clute

What you feel when you finish D’Alembert’s Principle is that you are continuing the book by shutting it. The book which is lying shut upon the lap is now part of the story of a person whose entire body encompasses the lap, but which is not explained or encompassed by the lap, any more than a clock is explained by 3pm. Which is a time upon which a book could easily rest, as upon a lap, while dusk deepens. At the moment this person is me. But whoever reads this introduction, which surrounds D’Alembert’s Principle, and which was written after the book was read, will shut me too. And a new story will then continue, or has been continuing, outside the book inside it. But we digress. D’Alembert’s Principle, which is Andrew Crumey’s third novel, though it is not exactly fair to call it a novel, is precisely the kind of text which does not end, in the mind’s eye, but continues to spin itself. Like this.

And despite the fact it cannot end but only stop, it does still boast a beautiful slingshot ending in which a series of stories within stories – the “Tales of Rreinnstadt” told by an imaginary character in a city whose reality or unreality depends in part upon another book, Crumey’s own Pfitz (1994), which is not mentioned by name here though it is quoted from – turns out itself to be told within a book of stories by a man named Müller and entitled Tales from Rreinnstadt, which means that the teller of the tales in D’Alembert’s Principle is actually a character told by the teller of the book of tales within D’Alembert’s Principle. Then, in the last sentence of the book, the author speaks for the first time in the first person, vouching for nothing, and we stop.

It might be an idea to begin again, with Jean le Rond D’Alembert (1717-1783), whose Principle is as real as he is. As published in his Traité de dynamique “Treatise on Dynamics” (1743), it expands upon Isaac Newton’s laws of motion to claim that actions and reactions in a closed system of moving bodies are in equilibrium, a Principle that can be applied in turn to problems in mechanics. In other words, Newton’s third law of motion applies to bodies able or “free” to move as well as to stationary objects. According to Crumey’s version of the man D’Alembert, whose imagined draft memoirs comprise parts of Book One of D’Alembert’s Principle “I saw a series of mathematical formulae by which all of the contradictory affairs of men – their whims and passions, and all the pain that this entails – could be reduced to a single principle. … So that I could then find some explanation for that question which has caused me [so much] thought and fruitless deliberation … ; namely whether the actions of certain people towards me have been out of malice or out of love.”

Broad is the descent to Avernus.

Though the consequences of applying the Principle to thought and Story and humans are the central subject matter of the book, D’Alembert’s Principle is constructed according to another of D’Alembert’s concepts, the “Système Figure des Connaissances Humaines”, or (roughly) the “Systematic Chart of Human Knowledge and Understanding”, which was intended to explain the underlying principles governing the construction of the famous Encyclopedia he edited (1751-59) with Denis Diderot. The Chart is broken down into three main categories: Memory, Reason and Imagination. Under Memory, D’Alembert includes everything that is already known: history; mechanics; technology; etc. Under Reason he incorporates abstract thought of all sorts. And under Imagination he compresses, very offhandedly, all the arts. The three parts of D’Alembert’s Principle are entitled “Memory: D’Alembert’s Principle”; “Reason: The Cosmography of Magnus Ferguson”; and “Imagination: Tales from Rreinnstadt”. (As we already know, that third part turns out, as well, though only in part, to be a book called Tales from Rreinnstadt.) And except for one circumstance, the whole book could be construed as an hilarious assault upon D’Alembert, his scheme of understanding, and his Principle by virtue of which human motives can be measured.

Certainly there is an assault. Much of D’Alembert’s Principle glares upon the interstices of things with the kind of cold eye Luis Bunuel had in his last years as a film director, the years of The Phantom of Liberty (1974), which (like this novel) is all about the nature of Story. But it is clear that Crumey also rather loves Jean D’Alembert, whose life story is told in the first part of the novel. D’Alembert is frail, ugly, hysterically witty, and desperately in love with Julie de L’Espinasse (also of course an historical figure). His palpable anguish, his naivety, and his vulnerability, all vividly live on the page. The contrast between the calculus of human behaviour and emotion his Principle claims to provide, and his seemingly total incapacity to perceive L’Espinasse’s own passion for another, do not make for laughter. Not exactly. Crumey’s portrait of D’Alembert, by far the most sustained character portrait in the novel, is astonishingly tender; but the man is a loon out of Molière; and his Chart is an offense against the human condition; and Crumey’s novel constitutes a profound jape against the presumption of the thing.

The second part of D’Alembert’s Principle, which contains within it a philosophical treatise in the time-honoured form of a Fantastic Journey to the planets, drives the Chart down a steep hill with the brakes off; and the third part crashes the Chart into the realms of Story. Rreinnstadt is the imaginary city constructed in Pfitz, and several of the stories told by Pfitz – the Sancho Panza-like servant who was invented by a protagonist of the previous book to occupy an ambivalent role in the invented city – mercilessly and hilariously guy D’Alembert’s Principle, which (one must remember) is a device for measuring human nature created by a man for whom Imagination occupies a derisory fraction of the Chart of Human Knowing. The most enthralling of these japes comprises the long description of a clock in the centre of the city, a clock whose innumerable intersecting discs and codes and faces tell so comprehensive a tale of the world that – when a new planet is discovered – its motions are already part of the works. It is, in other words, D’Alembert’s version of the principle of Newton’s universe made manifest; unfortunately, the citizens of the city spend huge amounts of time attempting to plumb the depths of the clock, uselessly, for the closer they get to any of its workings the more infinitely recursive seems any derivable meaning. In the end it is a clock out of Kafka, or Borges.

At the same time, some of the “Tales From Rreinnstadt” are pure narrative Story, and almost always deal with severed romances, obsessive behaviours which waste entire lives. By echoing D’Alembert’s own tragic story, these tales bring us back to the start of things, for the underlying counter–principle within the book which is D’Alembert’s Principle is Pfitz, who may well be “a ghost, or a spirit which had been invoked by malicious and unconstrained story telling”. The ghost in the machine is the Story that tells the joke, the Story which returns us to D’Alembert himself, dying of sorrow, dying of a Story he did not have the Imagination to tell. Throughout this astonishing novel, we remember him.

D’ALEMBERT’S PRINCIPLE

I

A woman, her face covered against cold and shame, hurries through the dark streets of Paris on a November night in 1717. She reaches the church of St. Jean le Rond, halts at the steps and carefully places upon them the bundle which she has carried in her arms, and which is myself, her own new-born child wrapped in a blanket.

Only a day earlier, I was nothing more than a small coagulation of unwanted flesh in her reluctant womb; and that flesh was in turn no more than the residue of certain meals, and of a certain act some months previously which might have afforded a brief moment of pleasure to one or other of its participants. I had been brought forth out of inanimate matter, and now I had a soul which my mother wished to destroy. This was the first impulse by which my life was directed. I was like an object repelled by some malevolent force.

I saw it all again, in my dream. False recollections perhaps, reconstructed from the story I learned much later from my foster mother. I don’t know how long it may have lasted, nor can I be sure, even so soon after waking, that my memory of what the dream contained is at all accurate, but I believe that while I slept I saw before me not only my birth, but the story of my entire life. I saw a copy of my Treatise on Dynamics, that great work of my early years which first brought me fame as a mathematician, and in it the equations had been rewritten in a most wonderful fashion. My life was presented to me as a sequence of propositions, driven by geometrical necessity. I saw a series of mathematical formulae by which all of the contradictory affairs of men – their whims and passions, and all the pain that this entails – could be reduced to a single principle, explained in a few lines of algebra, and hence solved. So that I could then find some explanation for that question which has caused me more thought and fruitless deliberation than any problem of planetary motion; namely whether the actions of certain people towards me have been out of malice or out of kindness. Whether, for instance, my mother might really have abandoned me in order to prevent some greater evil. And whether the rebuffs which I received some four decades later, from the only woman I ever loved, were motivated by a similar devotion, or else by the most callous selfishness.

My mother wanted only to kill me – I am sure of this. Yes, she wrapped me in a blanket, but it was hardly an adequate form of protection against the cold of the night. It was only providence (by which I mean chance) that caused my rescuer to finish her prayers and make her way out of the church. She told them later that she had a “strange feeling”, as if some urgent business needed to be attended to. It was, she maintained, a message from above. Alternatively, she may have heard a noise outside, where I was being abandoned, which prompted her to get up from her knees.

A great empty darkness above me, and then something falling out of that void – a snowflake, perhaps? Something happening, out of that emptiness above me; a blur which my day-old eyes could not resolve. Something growing huge, drawing near. In my dream, the face of an old woman, brought down close to my own. The warmth of her face, close to my own.

It was dark when she stepped outside the church, but still she noticed the little bundle of rags lying on the steps. And she would have thought little of it, except that the bundle seemed to move slightly, as if alive. Then from out of the tangle, a tiny hand, grasping helplessly into the air, and from her lips a gasp of surprise.

“By the blessed Virgin – a child!”

Her fat warm body stooping over the miracle. In my dream, something lowering itself out of the darkness – a finger perhaps. The end of a finger, coming into focus near my face. In my dream, the sweet taste of that finger.

“A baby!”

She picked me up from the steps, held me in her arms in the way that nature had told her a child should be carried, even though she had (I believe) none of her own. A little miracle, she called it. And there would be many theories, about how it was that I had come to be lying there outside the church, but she would maintain that I had been dropped straight from heaven, since I had the peaceful, thoughtful look of an angel. So she picked me up, and I was taken to the Foundling Hospital. And this was how my life began.

II

Downstairs, while their master worked, a conversation was in progress between Henri and Justine, the young married couple who served as D’Alembert’s domestic staff.

“He’s writing again,” Justine said. “Nice to see him doing something useful for a change.”

“I’m not so sure, Justine. I don’t think it’s a good sign.”

Henri was older, stouter and wiser. Though hardly past his thirtieth birthday he thought and behaved (particularly with his wife) more like a man of sixty. He had been suspicious of all his masters as a matter of good professional conduct, but for D’Alembert he had always harboured particularly deep reservations. Before his present appointment he had served the Comte de Loges; a man whose excesses were predictable and easily managed. This D’Alembert, however, was a queer old fellow. An intellectual, a bachelor, a recluse. A short, delicate, almost effeminate man, who would write strange symbols on scraps of paper, leave them lying around saying they were something to do with the positions of the planets, so that at first Henri thought he and his young wife must be dealing with an astrologer or necromancer, and he told Justine they should run away before they were both turned into chickens. But D’Alembert was a scientist, not a magician, and a few months after moving in he gave up writing altogether, preferring to spend the days staring dreamily into space. His needs were simple, this should have made him an ideal master, yet still Henri resented him, suspecting him of dark and secret vices (which Henri refused to explain to his wife). She, on the other hand, felt rather fond of the old man. She knew he had been unhappy in love.

Henri was polishing a pair of boots, Justine was boiling eggs for Monsieur d’Alembert’s breakfast.

“I hope he isn’t going back to all that astrology he was doing.”

“It’s words he’s writing, husband. And what harm can it do if he’s keeping himself occupied instead of gazing at the wall all day? Six years we’ve been with him now, and for the last five of them he’s done nothing but mope and shuffle around like a wounded dog.”

During those six years the two of them had come no closer to understanding their master than they had been on that first day in 1776 when D’Alembert took the suite to which his academic position entitled him, and Henri and his new wife were appointed to look after him. For Henri it was a promotion, and seeing the state of the old man who was to be his boss he was gratified by the thought that he probably wouldn’t last long. D’Alembert had no obvious interests, no distractions, no friends. It was as if he wanted to remove himself from the world completely. Every mirror had been hidden from view, so that he would not have to look at his own face; he wore faded clothes which he would not allow to be replaced, saying he would die in them. During the first year, most visitors were turned away, and so they stopped coming. Even his correspondence dried up like a famished stream. Now it seemed that whatever acquaintances he had, had either forgotten him or were dead.

Justine was ready to take the eggs to the master. “I’d like to know what he’s writing,” she said brightly.

“I’d say leave him well alone. Perhaps it’s a final confession. They do say he’s an unbeliever.”

Justine scowled. “That’s a shocking thing to say! Your own master, too.”

“Well I’m your master, Justine, and I’ll say what I like. I’ve never trusted Monsieur d’Alembert, and the less we have to do with him the better.”

Justine sighed, picked up the tray and left to go upstairs. Henri finished polishing the boots, which would be left for the master as usual but would probably go unworn. The domestic duties were no more than rituals, carried out more for the sake of those who did them than for their supposed beneficiary. Henri had often felt that he and his wife could pack up and leave without D’Alembert noticing any difference. He had no interest in whether a floor was dusted, whether his food was well prepared, whether or not his bed was warmed. Sometimes Henri even felt a curious nostalgia for the Comte and his raging temper, his violent outbursts if the smallest detail were overlooked. With the Comte everything was straightforward: servants were all out to cheat their masters, they had to be bullied and kept in check. It was hell at the time, but at least you knew what was what. Henri hated and respected the Comte in equal measure, since both these sentiments amounted to the same thing where the nobility were concerned.

And Henri respected Justine too, but in the manner that a father respects the child whom he must educate in the ways of the world. Justine was fifteen when they married, he twenty four. On their wedding night she seemed totally ignorant though not unwilling (he had sometimes wondered over the years if that ignorance was merely feigned in order to reassure him). That they still had no children was a relief in some ways. Justine was both wife and daughter to him, this was the way God willed it and who was he to complain?

He often allowed himself moments for reflection and philosophising during his work. There was so little to do, so much time to think. He knew that the master had written great books and was the cleverest man on earth, but really he was no different from Henri himself, no better. Why shouldn’t thoughts pass through a servant’s mind which were just as profound as those which occurred to the miserable old fellow upstairs? Were their brains really so dissimilar?

Henri had read one or two books, he’d learned a few things. He knew who Cicero was, and could list the seven wonders of the world. He knew that the earth went round the sun, and the moon went round the earth. Once during an idle moment he imagined D’Alembert as the sun, himself as the earth and Justine as the moon, and he saw in this image an illustration of the cosmic balance of their relationship. So struck was he by this insight that he considered writing it down, even going to find a pen and paper in order to make a start. But when he gazed at the blank sheet the image quickly evaporated, he found that no words could express it. One day, he promised himself, he would note down all his observations, if only he could find the time.

Justine had reached the master’s door. She pushed it quietly open and saw his back bent over the desk, his head lowered, no wig hiding his long grey hair. She placed his food on the table near the desk but he did not move, look round or acknowledge her presence. Only the slight trembling of his arm showed that he was neither dead nor asleep, but was writing rapidly.

III

I cannot say for certain where the dream began or ended – indeed, I cannot say for certain whether any dream ever has a beginning or end; we only suppose this to be the case, because we perceive the beginning and end of sleep in other people whom we observe. But I have never been able to identify, in myself, the moment at which sleep (and hence dreaming) begins; nor can I be sure that my first impressions on waking are the true conclusion (and not simply the beginning of awareness after some period of hiatus, or half-sleep). It is not unreasonable to suppose that our dreams may exist within us (or elsewhere) in some complete form, rather like a book, and the act of dreaming consists in leafing through the pages – forwards or backwards – in a way which has no reason or logic to it.

But I do clearly remember my Treatise, rewritten most marvellously. And the idea that in life, as in physics, everything is somehow reducible to a single Principle, a single law or axiom which is self-evident and unquestionable. That human life is not some chaotic event without meaning, but is explicable, and follows hidden rules by which we might make sense of it. It was a dream in which my Treatise was rewritten as my life, or alternatively it was a dream in which the story of my life was presented to me as a kind of mathematical argument. All in the brief time it takes for the head to nod!

I saw many people while I slept, since the picture which my mind presented to me spanned an entire lifetime. But to begin with (if we are to insist on there being a beginning), there was the woman who might be regarded as the prime mover of everything which was to follow. My knowledge of her is entirely second hand (how ironic that such an important figure in my life should be a complete stranger to me); but everything which I have learned about her has led me to admire her talents as much as I despise her character.

Claudine de Tencin was, in her own way, a quite remarkable woman. She tried to quell her passionate instincts early on, and took vows as a nun – but she soon broke them, and embarked on a series of affairs with men who were in one way or another useful to her. These affairs were scandalous even by the jaded standards of our scandalous age, and included (it has been alleged) a liaison with her own brother, whom she promoted through her scheming to the rank of cardinal. There were countless others; the meaningless couplings of a pretty, clever and deeply malicious woman, grown prematurely old with debauchery, whose heart remained untouched by every soul it contaminated. There was even one whom she drove so mad with love for her that he shot his brains out before her eyes, having made known the most bitter accusations against her. That man (Fresnais, I believe he was called) died in vain. Madame de Tencin’s career could not be deflected by such a “tasteless” and insignificant gesture.

She found time to write – a pastime which allowed her to demonstrate to the full her intimate knowledge of human weakness. And she held one of the most prestigious salons in Paris. Marmontel, Fontenelle … they all kissed her hand, in those days of splendour.

Whether Madame de Tencin regarded her affairs as a side-line of the salon, or whether it was the other way round, I cannot say. Most important however, from the point of view of my own story, was her liaison with the chevalier Destouches, a man who was very handsome, very dull, but nevertheless had a touch of decency quite unusual in Parisian society. They each of them made their appearance, in my strange dream (that strange Treatise); she as a great, malevolent ellipse, whilst he was a tangent to some other kind of conic section (a hyperbola, I believe). And I saw them (during those minutes or hours when I dozed) coming together in their brief moment of intersection.

How the affair began, I cannot say. Madame de Tencin’s hectic course through the noblemen of this country and several others had no particular logic to it; it was, I suppose, nothing more than chance which should have united them. And I can only guess at the circumstances under which I was conceived by them.

For so it was. Those two people reluctantly caused me to be brought forth into the world – she was the one (though I only found out many years later) who carried me through the cold streets of Paris one November night in 1717 and abandoned me on the steps of St. Jean le Rond, calmly leaving me to almost certain death.

And it was chance also, which having given me unwanted birth now also chose to save me, by bringing that old woman who happened to come out of the church (a fat woman, with a warm face; this much I am sure I can somehow remember). And so I was rescued, and carried to the Foundling Hospital.

How did that Hospital appear in my dream? As a great grey hull of screaming infants, a dismal place lined from wall to wall with the countless little O’s of wailing mouths, like the notation of some astronomical number huge beyond reckoning. It is fortunate that I did not have to spend very long there.

Madame de Tencin heard that I had been saved, and thought no more of the matter (even when I became celebrated, she still would never acknowledge me or show any interest in my existence). The dull chevalier, on the other hand, was quite shocked when word reached him of the child of his which now lay side by side with all the other abandoned waifs of Paris. He arranged at once that I should be removed from there and sent to foster parents. It was an act of decency and of unwitting kindness, since he sent me to two of the dearest people one could imagine.

Monsieur Rousseau was a glazier; his wife had recently lost her own child, and took me to her breast with a force of goodness equal and opposite to the repulsion of my natural mother. In that wonderful translation of my Treatise, her unconditional love and kindness appeared as a sort of axiom; a thing which could not be proved, but was stated as being beyond question. And it was my foster parents who coined for me the name I have always borne and which commemorates the place where I was found: Jean le Rond d’Alembert.

I have often had cause to wonder how, if I had not been abandoned but had instead been brought up by the cynical and malevolent Madame de Tencin, the course of my life might then have gone. Would I still have risen to become the most famous mathematician in France, honoured by every scientific society in Europe? Would I have found myself labouring with Diderot on that great effort, the Encyclopédie, with which I wasted some of the best years of my life? And would I have fallen, with the same tragic naivety, into that pitiful state of devotion for a woman fifteen years my junior – a woman who would spend the last years of her life deceiving me, and betraying all the love which I bestowed upon her?

In my dream, as I recall it further, I see once again that first manifestation of natural geometry, as it appeared to me all those years ago. I see myself as a young child (no more than three years old) sitting on the floor, while the sunlight falls crumpled from the flawed pane in the window above me. I watch the pattern which the light makes upon the floor; ripples of brightness, where the sunshine has been distorted in its flight. By some mysterious process, the falling light is creating an image, or at least an interpretation, of the imperfect pane through which it has passed.

It must have been then that my passion for understanding the ways of nature first took root. What was it made of, this light which fascinated me? And how could it be bent and folded like this, by a wrinkled pane of glass? Another memory: standing beside the great oak dinner table which seemed huge, dark and mighty by comparison with my small body. Upon the table – at the level of my eyes – a drinking glass stood in the bright light of the sun. I remember watching the sparkling motes of dust floating around it; billowing when I breathed gently upon them. And the glass itself, brilliant in the sunlight. The light was focussed by it somehow: on the table, the glass had cast a wonderful pattern – a bright cusp of captured sunlight. How were such things possible?

Those early years were as vivid in my dream as they are in my waking recollection. The whole world huge and unexplored around me, like a text waiting to be read and understood. My eagerness to grow and learn, even in my games. And accompanying all of this, the memory of my foster mother. Watching her pour water, steaming hot, into a metal bath, the steam rising and curling. All of this was a warm and subtle mystery: the bath, its texture, curvature, the sheen of its surface. The plumes of steam, curling and folding (why should steam do this?). My foster mother’s great breast beneath the crisp whiteness of her blouse, her smile as she turned and looked down from the lofty height of her love and wisdom at my own small face. Beneath all of this, some great answer lay waiting to be perceived.