“It would, however, have been very interesting for us to be able to procure this remarkable substance,” said M. Varlet.
“Certainly,” I replied. “What fine and curious experiments we could have carried out!”
“We have suddenly become extraordinary spiritualists,” my companion remarked.
“But how is it,” I asked, “that you haven’t sought to exploit your picture to carry out experiments in spiritualism? With the aid of credulity, you’d easily have become the most extraordinary medium in Paris.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I thought about that, momentarily—but on reflection, I found the idea repugnant. The spiritualists I know are worthy people, and it would have been painful for me to abuse their credulity. Then again, only possessing one picture, my experiments would not have been very varied, inasmuch as I was unaware of the new facts that I’ve just witnessed. I would have exhausted my repertoire very quickly and my powers would have seemed very mediocre.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “In your place, I’d have tried.”
“I could also relinquished the portrait,” M. Varlet continued, “by selling it to some Barnum who would have made a fortune showing it off to the entire world. But it was a gift to which I was very attached, and I didn’t want to sell it.”
“That would have been deplorable,” I remarked, “for we’d have lost the opportunity to study it and make further discoveries. Why haven’t you shown it to some scientist, who would have been very glad to have such a remarkable object in his possession?”
“A scientist!” exclaimed M. Varlet. “But scientists are the people least interested in these sorts of things. Everything that can’t be accommodated in classical theory is null and void. Many discoveries have been denied and decried by scientists.”
“No, a hundred times no!” I exclaimed. “Scientists are not what you believe them to be.”
“Come on!” my singular companion interjected. “They’ve denied hypnotism, the phonograph. What have they invented? Not the steam-engine, nor the helical propeller, nor galvanoplasty, nor gas-lighting. Inventors are never qualified scientists. Edison isn’t a scientist.”
“And Volta, Galvani, Davy, Faraday, Arago—what do you make of them?” I replied. “They were qualified scientists, and also great inventors.”
“Let’s not argue anymore,” said M. Varlet, laughing heartily. “You’d be capable of proving me wrong. Let’s get back to my portrait. Are you ready to attempt all possible means to discover the nature of the substance?”
“All,” I replied, “for I considered the properties of this substance to be extraordinarily interesting from a scientific viewpoint.”
“Then, since chemical analysis is impotent to resolve the question, only one means remains to us,” said M. Varlet.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“That of going to India to find the fakir who fabricated the picture. He alone is capable of revealing his secret to us.”
“Will he reveal it?” I asked.
“I don’t know—but he who attempts nothing, has nothing,” M. Varlet replied. “If we stay here, we’ll never find the secret of the picture.”
“Then, my dear Monsieur, let’s go to India. I’ll gladly make the voyage, all the more so because I have the opportunity to do so with a companion who already knows he country—a precious advantage when one is travelling to a region one does not know for the first time.”
“When do we leave?” asked M. Varlet.
“Whenever you wish,” I replied. “Nothing is keeping me in Paris. I no longer have any family, and I’m not married, so I’m free. As for my job in industry, it can await my return.”
I was happy to undertake a long voyage. Besides, I would have the chance to travel in the company of an amiable and educated man. Not all voyagers, I know, are of the same opinion, and many prefer to be alone. I must confess that I have a horror of solitude. To chat, to recount one’s impressions, to share one’s joys and troubles with a friend—is that nothing?
Then again, our voyage had a purpose: the investigation of a scientific problem full of interest. Everything, therefore, was propitious for me to envisage our sudden resolution as a happy event.
The departure date was fixed, by common accord, for the end of the week—which is to say, in four days time. There was not a minute to lose if I wanted to be ready at the appointed hour.
We took a steamship that would take us directly to Calcutta.
Before anything else, it was necessary to find the English officer who gave the picture to M. Varlet. That was the first link in the chain whose possession would lead us to the fakir, the author of the magical canvas.
The crossing passed without noteworthy incident. It resembled all those that conduct European travelers to the Far East. As we descended toward the equator and progress eastwards, the sky became purer and the light more dazzling. We escaped the mists that the current of the Gulf Stream brings to western Europe, having traversed the entire Atlantic.
In the Red Sea, we witnessed a curious spectacle: a mirage on the Arabian coast. Our vessel was traveling along the arid and sandy coast of that part of Asia when, all of a sudden, by virtue of torrid heat and a prodigious intensity of light, we saw a forest of palm-trees appear instead of the desert, and sumptuous cities. Marble columns were visible in thousands on the edge of the sea; domes and minarets filled the air above the palm trees.
All of that was so clear, so visible, that we initially believed in the reality of the mirage. The captain disabused as, and demonstrated our error.
“To dissipate the mirage,” he told us, “it’s sufficient to draw nearer to the coast.” He gave the orders. The helmsman turned the tiller, and we moved directly toward land.
Strange! As we approached the coast, the palaces, domes, minarets and trees drew away and rose into the air. Soon, below the apparition, we could again distinguish the arid sands of Arabia. When we were within a few hundred meters of the coast, the last minarets disappeared into the distance, in the upper regions of the atmosphere.
Now the proof of the mirage had been made. The illusion evidently resulted from the complex play of light in the hot air that covers the burning sands of the desert, and on the vapor-saturated air of the water over the sea,
We are approaching Calcutta. After the deserts of Arabia we are glad to the luxuriant vegetation of India. The coasts of Bengal are low and flat, but heavily wooded, and their color is an intense green.
We penetrate into one of the numerous branches of the Ganges—the one named the Hooghly. A little steamboat comes to take us in tow. The journey upriver is made very slowly. The approach to Calcutta reveals itself by the large number of pleasure-houses that border the two banks of the river. One might think that one were in Italy rather than India, to see the architecture of those houses.
Finally, here is Calcutta. We disembark, as always, in the midst of the most indescribable disorder. Already, since entering the Ganges, we have been accosted by a multitude of small boats. The new arrivals from Europe are brought Calcutta newspapers, with the current prices of Indian products. On the quays, it’s another matter; the parcels and merchandise that our ship has brought is unloaded. There are shouts, protests and disputes.
We give the address of the hotel where we are staying, the Commercial Hotel, run by a Frenchman, and have our luggage transported there. We are glad to get away from the ever-present noise of the ship and finally to find ourselves on form ground after such a long time at sea.
Calcutta is a magnificent city. Palaces with vast terraces and rich houses are very numerous there. The streets are broad and airy—a useful precaution in a country where the heat has an intensity unknown in the sunniest regions of Europe. By way of further precautions, large empty and grassy spaces have been accommodated between the blocks of houses. No trees, or very few—they might impede the air-currents.
It was 10 a.m. when the ship docked. An hour later, we were at the hotel, only preceding the
arrival of our luggage by a few minutes. When we had rapidly restored the disorder of our clothing, we went down to the dining-room, where the service was in the French style.
“Let’s not waste time,” said M. Varlet. “Let’s go see the officer straight away. We can visit the city afterwards.”
“Yes, serious business before anything else,” I replied. “Besides, I have a presentiment that we’ll be in India for some time and won’t be taking the boat back to France tomorrow. Finding the officer is nothing—the difficult thing will be getting our hands on the fakir.”
“I agree,” said M. Varlet. “We might be obliged to travel through in India in all directions to find him. So, I repeat, let’s not waste any time.”
The meal having been rapidly concluded, we set off in spite of the oppressive heat. In the tropical regions, sunstroke is sometimes fatal, so we equipped ourselves with parasols.
M. Varlet, having stayed in Calcutta for some considerable time, knew the city very well. He took me through a long labyrinth of streets.
“It’s been two years since you left India,” I said, “and you haven’t had any news of this officer…”
“Yes,” said my companion, interrupting. “I’ve written to him, but I haven’t had a reply.”
“As long as we can find him,” I remarked.
“I’m counting on it,” M. Varlet replied. “If not, our voyage will become pointless. Only the officer is capable of giving us information about the fakir.”
I was not reassured; the officer’s silence seemed strange to me. The chance was worth taking, though, I thought. My voyage to India would still be good for me, for one never wastes one’s time when one visits such a country. I kept my reflections to myself, deeming it unnecessary to trouble my companion.
“This is the house in which Monsieur MacFerdin lived,” said M. Varlet, stopping in front of a door and ringing the bell.
The door opened. We went in.
“Monsieur MacFerdin,” my companion said to the concierge.
“Monsieur MacFerdin!” the concierge replied. “He’s been dead for two years.”
“Dead!” exclaimed M. Varlet, his face suddenly contracted by emotion. “You must be mistaken. An officer who…”
“Yes, yes—I knew him well. He lived in the house for a long time.”
“How did he die?”
“He was kicked by a horse, full in the chest. What a state he was in when they brought him back, the poor chap! He could hardly see. He maintained his courage until the end. Two hours before he died, I showed him a letter that had come from Paris…”
“Perhaps mine!” said M. Varlet.
“He asked me to read it to him. I can still remember his last words: ‘I won’t be able to reply to the worthy Monsieur Varlet.’”
“The noble fellow!” M. Varlet exclaimed, with a sob in his voice.
“Yes,” the concierge went on. “He was a noble fellow, but he made the mistake of getting too involved with spiritualism. No good ever comes of that sort of thing. It’s necessary not to get mixed up in other-worldly affairs, you see…”
Porters are the same the world over: excessively loquacious, and waxing philosophical on all subjects, especially inappropriate ones.
M. Varlet was so distressed by the news of the death, which he certainly had not expected, that he let he concierge ramble on as he pleased.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, eventually.
V. The Fakir
“Dead! Dead!” cried M. Varlet, when we were in the street. “What can we do now?”
“It’s bad luck,” I said. “I confess that I don’t know how to reply to your question.”
We remained silent, each of us trying to think of a way out of our predicament.
For myself, the situation seemed quite clear. It only remained to visit the parts of India still unknown to M. Varlet, and then return to Europe.
My companion walked on without saying anything.
Eventually, after ten minutes or so, I thought I ought to break the silence.
“You can’t think of anything?” I queried.
“Nothing—absolutely nothing, my poor Monsieur Ranbel.”
“I seems to recall hearing you say, however,” I hazarded, “that your officer, Monsieur MacFerdin, had received his picture from another officer—one of his friends.”
“Yes, your memory is not mistaken.”
“In the that case, might there not be a way to locate that friend?”
“It’s impossible,” M. Varlet replied. “I don’t know the friend’s name, or even the name of the town he was living in then.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Monsieur MacFerdin didn’t tell you anything?”
“No,” said my companion. “Monsieur MacFerdin probably wanted to hide the provenance of his pictures from me. Besides, at that time, I didn’t even think of questioning him further, having no inkling of the importance that the pictures would later acquire for us.”
“In these circumstances,” I said, “It’s futile to think of continuing the search for the fakir any longer. We won’t find anything. We lack the essential basis that might permit us to go any further.”
“Who can tell?” M. Varlet relied. “Let’s not despair so quickly. At the present moment, it’s true, I can’t see any solution, but a stroke of good luck might put us on the track. As Monsieur Thiers{14 has said, one ought always to take everything seriously, but never anything tragically. Let’s await developments; they might be favorable to us, if we can take advantage of them.”
I deemed it futile to contradict these optimistic hopes.
“Come on,” M. Varlet went on, after a moment’s silence. “This doesn’t prevent us from visiting Calcutta. We’re here for a few days. We need to rest before undertaking a journey to another part of India.”
We devoted the whole afternoon to visiting the city. I was so absorbed by the news of M. MacFerdin’s death that I confess to only having a very vague memory of what I saw. As for my companion, chagrin also depressed him to such a point that he rarely spoke to me. In spite of my desire to interrogate him in order to ask for explanations, I preferred to respect his grief.
Before returning to the hotel for dinner, at 7 p.m., we went along the beautiful promenade that extends along the Ganges docks. The river is very broad and animated by the passage of numerous boats. The harbor was visible in the distance, a forest of masts, of ships come from all parts of the world. The inhabitants only went out when the sun set, and pedestrians were still scarce; the city’s wealthy businessmen go everywhere by carriage.
That evening, the dinner table was well-garnished. Facing us, I noticed an officer newly disembarked in Calcutta, who was seeking information about the customs of the city from an old gentleman sitting to his right.
“I’ve come straight from Madras, where I was garrisoned for five years,” he said to his neighbor.
“Have you come to join the garrison here?” asked the neighbor.
“Yes,” the officer replied. “I’m rather embarrassed, because I don’t know anyone in Calcutta.”
I don’t know why, but a presentiment led me to listen to the conversation. I didn’t know either of the interlocutors, however, and the banal exchanges were of no interest to me.
“Two years ago,” the officer continued, “I had a friend here that I liked a great deal. Unfortunately, he died after being kicked by a horse.”
At these words, I shivered. “Pardon me for interrupting you, Monsieur,” I said to the officer, “and please excuse me if this question is indiscreet, but would you tell me the name of that friend?”
“His name was MacFerdin,” the officer replied, in a slightly haughty voice, according to the custom of Englishmen to who someone speaks without having been introduced.
“Who’s talking about MacFerdin?” exclaimed M. Varlet, seemingly snatched from his torpor by the name.
“This gentleman,” I said, indicating the officer.
The latter seemed quite as
tonished. He did not understand our excitement at all. I thought it was time to give him an explanation of our conduct. In a few words, I told him that we had made the voyage from Europe to Calcutta expressly to see Monsieur MacFerdin, and how distressed we had been to hear that he was dead.
“To make such a long voyage, sir,” the officer replied, “you must have had a very good reason.”
“Very good, indeed,” my companion replied, speaking in his turn. “It was a matter of obtaining information from Monsieur MacFerdin that he alone knew. You understand our predicament now.”
“I knew Monsieur MacFerdin very well,” said the officer. “I dare say that I was his best friend. We carried out research together on the spiritualism of the fakirs of India.”
“That’s marvelous!” I exclaimed. “We came precisely to ask him for information on the subject of a certain magic picture that he…”
“Shh!” M. Varlet whispered in my ear.
I pinched my lips. I realized that I had gone too far.
The officer had not noticed my companion’s reaction, for he immediately replied: “A magic picture! I know about that, since I was the one who sent him several of them shortly before his death.”
At these words, M. Varlet and I leapt out of our chairs. The other travelers sitting at the table, astonished by what they were hearing and seeing, all looked at us curiously.
“Permit me,” I said to the officer, having recovered my composure, “to ask you something. Since you were Monsieur MacFerdin’s friend, would you be kind enough to grant us a few moments’ conversation after dinner.”
“Gladly,” he replied. “I’ll spend the rest of the evening with you, if you’ll permit it.”
The end of the meal was more cheerful. Hope was reborn; we were finally going to possess new information regarding the magic picture. The first link of the chain had disappeared, but we had a grip on the second, and most useful.
When the meal was over, we went with Monsieur Williamson—that was the officer’s name, as we learned a little later—to conclude our evening in a café run in the French style on the docks.
Ever Smaller Page 16