by Jules Verne
“A nice pair of gloves, Mr. Munbar!”
“Just so.”
“And these two notables, Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley, are enemies, naturally?”
“Rivals, at least! each striving for preponderance in the city’s affairs, jealous of one another.”
“Will they end by eating one another?” asked Zorn.
“Perhaps, and if one devours the other—” “What an attack of indigestion will follow!” And Calistus Munbar absolutely shook with laughter, so much was he amused at the reply.
The Catholic church rises in a vast open space so as to give a good view of its fine proportions. It is in the Gothic style, the style that can be admired close to, for the vertical lines which constitute its beauty lose their character when seen from a distance. St. Mary’s Church merits admiration for the slenderness of its pinnacles, the delicacy of its rose work, the elegance of its flamboyant pointed arches, the gracefulness of its windows.
“A fine specimen of Anglo-Saxon Gothic,” said Yvernès, who was a good judge of architecture. “You are right, Mr. Munbar, the two sections of your town have no more resemblance between them than the temple of the one and the cathedral of the other!”
“And yet, Monsieur Yvernès, these two sections are born of the same mother—”
“But not of the same father, probably?” said Pinchinat. “Yes, of the same father, my excellent friends. Only they have been built in a different way. They were designed for the convenience of those in search of an existence, tranquil, happy, free from all care, an existence offered by no other city of the old or new world.”
“By Apollo, Mr. Munbar,” replied Yvernès, “take care not to excite our curiosity too much. It is as if you were singing one of those musical phrases which make you long for the key-note.”
“And the result is that they tire your ear,” added Zorn. “Has the moment come when you will consent to tell us the name of this extraordinary town?”
“Not yet, my dear guests,” replied the American, adjusting his gold eyeglasses on his nasal appendage. “Wait until we have finished our walk—let us go on now.”
“Before going on,” said Frascolin, who felt a sort of vague uneasiness mingling with his curiosity, “I have a proposition to make.”
“And what is that?”
“Why not ascend the spire of St. Mary’s church? From there we could see—”
“Oh, no,” said Munbar, shaking his bushy head, “not now, later on.”
“And when?” asked the violoncellist, getting provoked at so many evasions.
“At the end of our excursion, Monsieur Zorn.”
“Then we shall return to this church?”
“No, my friends, our walk will end with a visit to the observatory, the tower of which is a third higher than the spire of St. Mary’s church.”
“But why not take advantage of this opportunity?” asked Frascolin.
“Because it would spoil the effect I have in view.”
And there was no means of extracting any further reply from this enigmatic personage.
The best thing being to submit, the various avenues of this part of the town were conscientiously explored. A visit was paid to the commercial quarters, those of the tailors, boot-makers, hatters, butchers, grocers, bakers, fruiterers, &c. Calistus Munbar, saluted by most of the people he met, returned the salutes with vainglorious satisfaction. He talked incessantly, this exhibitor of wonders, and the rattle of his tongue was like the ringing of a bell on a feast day.
In about two hours the quartette had arrived at the boundary of the town, which was marked by a superb iron railing, adorned with flowers and climbing plants. Beyond was the country, the circular line of which blended with the horizon of the sky.
And here Frascolin noticed something which he did not think it his duty to communicate to his comrades. Everything would doubtless be explained from the summit of the observatory tower. What he noticed was that the sun, instead of being in the south-west at two o’clock, was in the south-east.
This was something to astonish a mind as reflective as that of Frascolin, and he had begun to rack his brains when Calistus Munbar changed the course of his ideas by exclaiming, —
“Gentlemen, the tram starts in a few minutes. Let us be off to the harbour.”
“The harbour?” asked Zorn.
“Yes, it is only about a mile—and that will enable you to admire our park?”
The harbour, if it existed, ought to be a little below or a little above this town on the coast of Lower California. In truth, where could it be if it were not on some point of the coast?
The artistes, rather perplexed, sat down on the seats of an elegant car, in which were several other passengers, all of whom shook hands with Munbar, who seemed to know everybody, and then the dynamos of the train began to drive them along. That which Munbar called a park was the country extending round the city. There were paths running out of sight, and verdant lawns, and painted barriers, straight and zigzagged, known as fences, around preserves, and clumps of trees—oaks, maples, ashes, chestnuts, nettle-trees, elms, cedars—all of them young, but the haunts of a world of birds of a thousand species. It was a regular English garden, with leaping fountains, baskets of flowers then in all the abundance of spring, masses of shrubs of the most diversified species, giant geraniums like those of Monte Carlo, orange trees, lemon trees, olive trees, oleanders, lentisks, aloes, camellias, dahlias, roses of Alexandria with their white flowers, hortensias, white and pink lotuses, South American passion-flowers, rich collections of fuchsias, salvias, begonias, hyacinths, tulips, crocuses, narcissi, anemones, Persian ranunculi, bearded irises, cyclamens, orchids, calceolarias, tree ferns, and also species characteristic of the tropics, such as cannas, palms, date trees, fig trees, eucalypti, mimosas, banana trees, guava trees, calabash trees, cocoanut trees; in a word, all that a connoisseur could ask for in the richest botanic garden.
With his propensity for evoking the memories of ancient poetry, Yvernès thought he was transported to the bucolic landscapes of the romance of Astrea. It is true if sheep were not wanting in these fresh pastures, if ruddy cows grazed between the fences, if deer and other elegant quadrupeds of the forest fauna bounded among the trees, it was the absence of the shepherds of D’Urfé and their charming shepherdesses which they had to regret. As to the Lignon, it was represented by a serpentine river, whose vivifying waters followed the valleys of the landscape.
But at the same time it all seemed artificial.
This provoked the ironical Pinchinat to exclaim, —
“Ah! is that all you have in the shape of a river?”
And Calistus Munbar to reply, —
“Rivers? What is the good of them?”
“To have water, of course.”
“Water! That is to say, a substance generally unhealthy, microbian, and typhoic?”
“Yes, but it can be purified.”
“And why give yourself that trouble when it is easy to make a water pure, hygienic, free from all impurity, and even gaseous or ferruginous, if. you please.”
“You manufacture this water?” asked Frascolin.
“Certainly, and we distribute it hot or cold to the houses as we distribute light, sound, the time, heat, cold, power, the antiseptic agents, electrization by auto-conduction.”
“Allow me,” said Yvernès, “to believe that you also make the rain for watering your lawns and flowers.”
“And so we do, sir,” said the American, making the jewels on his fingers sparkle across the flowing masses of his hand.
“Do you have your rain on tap?” exclaimed Sebastien Zorn.
“Yes, my dear friends, rain which the conduits arranged underground distribute in a way that is regular, controllable, opportune, and practical. Is not that better than waiting for nature’s good pleasure, and submitting to the climate’s caprices, better than complaining against excesses without the power of remedying them, sometimes a too persistent humidity, sometimes too long a drought?�
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“I have you there, Mr. Munbar,” declared Frascolin. “That you can produce your rain at will may be all very well, but how do you prevent it falling from the sky?”
“The sky? What has that got to do with it?”
“The sky, or, if you prefer it, the clouds which break, the atmospheric currents with their accompaniment of cyclones, tornadoes, storms, squalls, hurricanes. During the bad season, for example.”
“The bad season?” repeated Calistus Munbar.
“Yes; the winter.”
“The winter? What do you mean by that?”
“We said winter—hail, snow, ice!” exclaimed Zorn, enraged at the Yankee’s ironical replies.
“We know them not!” was Munbar’s tranquil reply.
The four Parisians looked at one another. Were they in the presence of a madman or a mystificator? In the first case he ought to be shut up; in the second he ought to be taken down.
Meanwhile the tramcar continued its somewhat leisurely journey through these enchanting gardens. To Zorn and his companions it seemed as though beyond the limits of this immense park were pieces of ground, methodically cultivated, displaying their different colours like the patterns of cloth formerly shown at tailors’ doors. These were, no doubt, fields of vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, carrots, turnips, leeks, in fact, everything required for the composition of a perfect pot-au-feu. At the same time, they would have been glad to get out into the open country to discover what this singular region produced in corn, oats, maize, barley, rye, buckwheat, and other cereals.
But here a factory appeared, its iron chimneys rising from its low, rough glass roofs. These chimneys, strengthened by iron stays, resembled those of a steamer under way, of a Great Eastern whose hundred thousand horses were driving her powerful screws, with this difference, that instead of black smoke they were only emitting mere threads which in no way injured the atmosphere.
This factory covered about ten thousand square yards. It was the first industrial establishment the quartette had seen since they had started on their excursion, under the American’s guidance.
“And what is that establishment?” asked Pinchinat.
“It is a factory worked with petroleum,” replied Munbar, looking as though his eyes would perforate his glasses.
“And what does this factory manufacture?”
“Electrical energy, which is distributed through the town, the park, the country, in producing motive force and light. At the same time, it keeps going our telegraphs, telautographs, telephones, telephotes, bells, cooking stoves, machinery, arc lights, incandescent lights, aluminium moons, and submarine cables.”
“Your submarine cables?” observed Frascolin, sharply.
“Yes, those that connect the town with the different points of the American coast.”
“And is it necessary to have a factory of such size for that purpose?”
“I think so, considering what we do with our electrical energy, and also our mental energy!” replied Munbar. “Believe me, gentlemen, it required a pretty strong dose to found this incomparable city without a rival in the world!”
They could hear the dull rumbling of the huge factory, the vigorous belchings of the steam, the clanking of the machines, the thuds on the ground, bearing witness to a mechanical effort greater than any in modern industry. Who could have imagined that such power was necessary to move dynamos or charge accumulators?
The tram passed, and a quarter of a mile further on stopped at the harbour.
The travellers alighted, and their guide, still profuse in his praises of everything, took them along the quays by the warehouses and docks. The harbour was oval in form, and large enough to hold some twenty ships. It was more of a wet dock than a harbour terminated by jetties; two piers, supported on iron piles, and lighted by two lamps, facilitating the entry of vessels from the sea.
On that day the wet dock contained only half a dozen steamers, some destined for the transport of petroleum, others for the transport of the goods needed for daily consumption, and a few barques fitted with electrical apparatus employed in sea fishing.
Frascolin noticed that the entrance of the harbour faced the north, and concluded that it must be on the north shore of one of those points which jut out from Lower California into the Pacific. He also noticed that there was a current in the sea running eastward at an appreciable speed, as it ran against the pierheads like the water along the side of a ship when under way—an effect due doubtless to the action of the rising tide, although the tide does not run very strong on the western coast of America.
“Where is the river we crossed yesterday in the ferry boat?” asked Frascolin.
“That is at the back of us,” the Yankee was content to reply.
But it would not do to delay if they wished to return to the town in time to take the evening train to San Diego.
Zorn mentioned this to Munbar, who answered, —
“Never fear, my dear friends. We have plenty of time. A tram will take us back to the town after we have followed the shore, a little. You wished to have a bird’s-eye view of the place, and in less than an hour you will get that from the top of the observatory.”
“You guarantee that?” said Zorn.
“I guarantee that at sunrise to-morrow you will no longer be where you are now.”
This enigmatic reply had to be accepted; although Frascolin’s curiosity, which was much greater than that of his comrades, was excited to the utmost. He was impatient to find himself at the summit of this tower, from which the American affirmed that the view extended to a horizon of at least a hundred miles in circumference. After that, if he could not fix the geographical position of this extraordinary city, he would have to give up the problem for ever.
At the head of the dock was a second tram line running along the coast. There was a train of cars, six in number, in which a number of passengers had already taken their seats. These cars were drawn by an electric locomotive, with a capacity of two hundred ampères-ohms, and their speed was from nine to twelve miles an hour.
Calistus Munbar invited the quartette to take their places in the tram, and it seemed as though it had only been waiting for our Parisians. The country appeared to differ very little from the park which lay between the town and the harbour. The same flat soil, and as carefully looked after. Green fields and meadows instead of lawns, that was all, fields of vegetables, not of cereals. At this moment artificial rain, projected from subterranean conduits, was falling in a beneficent shower on the long rectangles traced by line and square. The sky could not have distributed it more mathematically or more opportunely.
The tram road skirted the coast, with the sea on one side, the fields on the other. The cars ran along in this way for about four miles. Then they stopped before a battery of twelve guns of heavy calibre, the entrance to which bore the inscription “Prow Battery.”
“Cannons which load but do not discharge by the breech, like so many of those in Old Europe,” said Calistus Munbar.
Hereabouts the coast was deeply indented. A sort of cape ran out, very long and narrow, like the prow of a ship, or the ram of a man-of-war, on which the waves divided, sprinkling it with their white foam. The effect of the current probably, for the sea in the offing was reduced to long undulations, which were getting smaller and smaller with the setting of the sun.
From this point another line of rails went off towards the centre, while the other continued to follow the curve of the coast; and Calistus Munbar made his friends change cars, announcing that they would return direct towards the city.
The excursion had lasted long enough.
Calistus Munbar drew out his watch, a masterpiece of Sivan, of Geneva—a talking watch, a phonographic watch —of which he pressed the button, and which distinctly spoke, “Thirteen minutes past four.”
“You will not forget the ascent of the observatory?” Frascolin reminded him.
“Forget it, my dear, and I may say my old, friends! I would sooner forget my ow
n name, which enjoys a certain celebrity, I believe. In another four miles we shall be in front of the magnificent edifice, built at the end of First Avenue, that which divides the two sections of our town.”
The tram started. Beyond were the fields, on which fell the afternoon rain, as the American called it; here again was the enclosed park with its fences, its lawns, its beds and its shrubberies.
Half-past four then chimed. Two hands indicated the hour on a gigantic dial, like that of the Houses of Parliament at Westminster, on the face of a quadrangular tower.
At the foot of this tower were the buildings of the observatory, devoted to different duties, some of which, with round metal roofs and glass windows, allowed the astronomers to follow the circuit of the stars. There were arranged round a central court, from the midst of which rose the tower for a hundred and fifty feet. From its upper gallery the view around would extend over a radius of sixteen miles, if the horizon were not bounded by any high ground or mountains.
Calistus Munbar, preceding his guests, entered a door which was opened to him by a porter in superb livery.
At the end of the hall the lift cage was waiting, which was worked by electricity. The quartette took their places in it with their guide. The cage ascended slowly and quietly. Forty-five seconds after they stopped at the level of the upper platform of the tower. From this platform rose the staff of a gigantic flag, of which the bunting floated out in the northerly breeze.
Of what nationality was this flag? None of our Parisians could recognize it. It was like the American ensign, with its lateral stripes of white and red, but the upper canton, instead of the sixty-seven stars which twinkled in the Confederation at this epoch, bore only one, a star or rather a sun of gold on a blue ground, which seemed to rival in brilliancy the star of day.
“Our flag, gentlemen,” said Calistus Munbar, taking off his hat as a mark of respect.
Sebastien Zorn and his comrades could not do otherwise than follow his example. Then they advanced to the parapet and looked over.
What a shriek—at first of surprise and then of anger— escaped them!