“I need to resume my work, though...”
“Let’s not leave immediately. Don’t tear me away, brutally, from that which is most dear to me, that which sings in my ears and my eyes the sweet story of our marriage. Do you understand? Let’s not go yet! Let’s not go yet!”
There was so much pleading in her gaze, which was that of a lascivious child, and so much coaxing in her widespread arms, that he was caught in spite of himself, reconquered, enslaved.
“Nelly, Nelly mine! I will always do as you wish. I’m yours, yes, entirely given over to the desire of your eyes, the appeal of your mouth.”
She was happy then—but as she was about to envelop him with a reckless gesture of nuptial tenderness, she suddenly perceived the rapid monoplane on the horizon, which was coming back. Then she placed her two hands, like flowers with petals bathed in pearls and sapphires, over her husband’s ears, and kissed his closed eyes wildly, alternately, in order that he would not hear the human wings in the divine sky.
II. The Guardian of Her Man
On another day, another day of sunlight, another cheerful day, as they all were in that privileged land of light, they were drinking coffee on the white terrace, in the shade of a clump of mimosas. The breeze brought heady odors of carnations from the countryside above them, which faded away, invisible and mysterious, over the silver-patterned sea.
Georges Turner had turned his head, discreetly, leaving the amorous couple to gaze at one another, their eyes meeting and their lips trembling. Thoughtfully, he contemplated a picturesque rock at the top of the hill, on which a village was posed like an eagle’s nest.
Suddenly, he broke the silence. “Why don’t you live up there?”
“Eze? Eeze, as they say here, in their musical dialect. Why?” It was Nelly who had replied.
“For a couple of birds,” Turner went on, “that’s the designated spot. I can’t see any road ending there.”
Henri Rozal smiled. “Indeed—to reach that village of eagles, and airplane seems entirely indicated—but the place is grim. Once, it was a pirates’ lair, from which the Moors kept watch on the entire coast, from Nice to Cap Martin.”
“And this,” Nelly added, “is a lovers’ nest. We’d rather be gentle finches than birds of prey. Isn’t that right, my darling?”
She had taken her husband’s hands and was waiting for a passionate comment with smiling lips. Rozal, however, maintained a constrained gravity; his happiness had been drowned by an excess of love. Without replying to her, he murmured, doubtless continuing a thought prompted by Turner’s remark: “They would have been very astonished, those men of old, if they had seen their eyrie suddenly invaded by birds of canvas and steel, coming over the blue sea. Next week, though, you’re doubtless intent on accomplishing that feat.”
“Excellent idea!” Turner exclaimed. “We’ll descend from the clouds on to that peak, near the old Moorish castle. Would you like to come with me?”
Rozal was ashamed to confess to Turner that his wife had extracted a promise from him never to go up in an airplane again. He sketched a vague gesture—and Nelly, anxious because he had not said “No,” looked at him with a somber expression.
She got to her feet, though. “You’re going to talk about your machines again. I’ll leave you to it—I’m going to pick some flowers for the dinner table.”
She went away, along a path bordered with aloes and laurier-roses, toward the fields of anemones that were visible beyond the olive groves. Rozal watched the white-clad young woman’s slender silhouette as it drew away. His artistic eyes admired the scene that she animated in the pastel grey of the landscape, for she was truly pretty and curious, so supple and slender, pink and white, standing out, with a bouquet of violets at her waist and a branch in her hand. At the turning of the path, a light breeze caused the green scarf binding her golden hair to flutter. Before disappearing, she turned to blow kisses to her husband with both hands—and the latter uttered a sigh.
“How she loves you!” said Georges Turner. “Oh, you lucky chap, you’ll have had all kinds of happiness at the same time.”
“Yes…I’m happy…too happy!”
Turner looked at Rozal in surprise, and noticed for the first time the hint of melancholy that the engineer’s eyes betrayed. He leaned closer to him and took his hand. “Is something wrong, old chap? If you still find me worthy of your confidence, if you believe in my affection...”
“You’re my comrade, my brother. Well, yes, I wasn’t lying to you. I’m too happy. Far too happy.”
“Oh! Have I turned up in the home of two newly-weds who’ve just had a quarrel?”
“There’s no misunderstanding between Nelly and me. It’s true love, grand passion, with kisses and more kisses, tenderness—everything that makes, for humans, what is conventionally known as Heaven on Earth.”
“Explain, then...”
“It’s quite simple—and yet. I wonder if I can analyze how I feel. It’s a complicated sort of joy, in which the excess of happiness comprises my pain. I love my wife madly, but her love makes me anxious, because it’s so complete, so sensual, that I ask myself, in anguish, whether it’s possible that the exaggeration can last a lifetime.”
“I understand. You’re savoring a magnificent, regal peach, and while you’re tucking into it to the delectation of your tongue, instead of enjoying it to the full in the present, you’re afraid, stupidly, of not having enough appetite to keeping eating forever with your initial enthusiasm, your initial avidity, all the fruits—which will be renew every year—of the tree from which you picked that admirable, velvety, blonde peach.”
“I’m attached to the peach-tree, to continue your metaphor, by a chain of gold and roses, and I regret the past somewhat: hours of joy that I shall never know again. Because she loves me too much, my wife wants me to give up aviation.”
Turner started. “What! You aren’t going to fly anymore? You’re renouncing your proud dream, your life’s ideal—the non-stop aerial crossing of the Atlantic?”
His face contracted, Henri Rozal sketched a discouraged gesture. “I still have the right to pursue my research, my work as a inventor—but the sensations of speed, of traversing blue space, I’ll never experience again.”
“Poor chap!”
They reached out to one another, and for two men, who had known the violent and unforgettable sensations of a sublime vocation—difficult ascents into the sky, in terrible turbulence, in spite of disconcerting pitching and rolling; abrupt descents through the air; gentle glides; with glorious or tragic uncertainty ahead of them—were oppressed by the same anguish, and the same frisson made them shiver, in response to the sentence passed by a pretty woman whose amorous whim resembled a condemnation. Henry Rozal understood all the affection and pity there was in Turner’s exclamation: “Poor chap!”
“You, at least,” Rozal went on, “have the right to smash yourself up in order to take the new science one step further, or for your own pleasure. I, to whom all dreams were permitted, am no longer anything but a man who is loved, a lover...”
With a cordial vehemence, Georges Turner exclaimed: “But perhaps it’s better thus? By trying out your machines yourself, you risked your life—which is to say, the interruption of a grandiose research. And if you remain master and commander of your body and you mind, what beautiful things you might realize! You’ll invent, you’ll create. And it’s me, if you wish, who’ll risk the great trials. Oh, it’s still your wife, with her instinct, her sensitive divination, who’s right!”
Rozal shook his head. “I’d like to believe you. And if what you propose, with your bravery and our friendship, were realizable, it would indeed be pure happiness.”
“What will stop you?”
“Love!” And he repeated, hatefully: “Love!”
Rozal’s voice became deeper, almost hoarse, and, at the same time, passionate: “Listen. I’ll make a frightful confession to you: I no longer have confidence in myself. Oh, you don’t know what I’v
e become—me, the fearsome fighter whom nothing could deflect from his march toward the Goal! Me, who, in order to arrive more quickly at the problem that has haunted me, ever since I raised my eyes to the space to be conquered, has never had time for pleasure and luxury! Me, who lived grimly and doggedly in my voluntary isolation—do you know what has happened to me? I’m no longer good for anything but numbing myself and sinking, body and mind alike, into delightful embraces. For that’s the terrible thing: I adore my wife and I sense that I will sacrifice everything—everything, do you hear—because my flesh is being poisoned, my soul invaded, by the voluptuous love that she is pouring into me.”
“Oh, how you complain…but you’ve only been married a month. How could it be otherwise?”
Rozal shook his head. “It will be the same for as long as we live—or, at least, while we’re young and handsome, vigorous and healthy. That is to say, during the years when my intelligence and my ardor might have been able to realize the Miracle. Afterwards? Well, afterwards, I imagine, I’ll be no more than a ruin, upon which no new architecture will have been built. I shall only have accomplished one famous deed: that of having married, as a poor man, a dowry of thirty million. For others, that would be an achievement; for me, I dread that it will only be, as for so many others who dream of nothing but idleness, an end.”
“Don’t exaggerate. When Nelly Mackay singled you out, from many other men, it wasn’t merely because you’re a handsome man.”
“I understand what you’re getting at. It’s the aviator, evidently, who seduced her—for there are other handsome men more impressive than me. But all that, old chap, was before the marriage, before the profound intimacy of the flesh. Now, it’s the handsome man with the moving parts that is appreciated, and the poor engineer, along with his future, no longer counts for anything. I assure you, in the amorous mind of the woman who owns me. Oh, look! Imagine that, tomorrow, I suddenly cease to be the man you knew. I discover in myself the ideas of a snob, the instincts of a clubman; I start to play baccarat, to go to the races; I become, in a word, a perfectly useless and stupid individual—well, I’m sure that I’d retain her entirely for myself, that I’d please her, even in that guise, which would have horrified her before, provided that I don’t cease to be what I am: a servile and passionate lover!”
Turner tried to return hope to Rozal’s mind. “You’ve told me that she wants you to continue your scientific researching. So what prevents you, on your return to Paris, from resuming the direction of our factory and going back to work?”
“She’ll permit it, that’s agreed. When we go down to the sea in the bay, we both move through that enervating and magnificent décor, through that prestigious principality where everything is beautiful, where the sun makes an olive-leaf into a gem, a split grenadine into a casket full of rubies, an orange into a golden fruit…where the flowers are too strongly and sweetly scented…where the sea-breeze is a caress…how do you expect me to find the courage to break the enchantment to which we’ve abandoned ourselves? Oh, my poor friend, I’m caught, utterly caught!”
George Turner made a fateful gesture. “What does it matter, since you’re happy?”
“Yes, I’m happy…happy! If you only knew! In the evenings, when everything is calm, and the moon silvers the sea in the bay down there, we go out, the two of us, in a boat that I steer, to isolate ourselves at sea. I get as far away from the coast as possible, and when we’re alone, in the silence of the night…we have the sensation that all the beauty that surrounds us is ours, for it isn’t possible to suspect, then, the existence of other beings. And from the land come the scents of vegetation, effluvia that cause our veins to dilate, our nostrils to palpitate. It seems that a duty is ordering us to create life in the nature that seems dead, and our mouths come together…you understand?”
“Yes,” said Turner, in a low voice. “Yes, I understand…you’re both mad. She’s in love! You’re in love! But it’s a madness for which I don’t reproach you. Except that...”
Rozal shivered. “Except that…?”
“Such happiness doesn’t stand up well with the dolor that menaces every one of us, at the various turning-points of life, because it’s too absolute. What would be a difficult moment for others, any sentimental upheaval, will be a veritable drama for you, in those circumstances. Make sure that your felicity remains cloudless.”
Rozal took his friend’s hands and said, fearfully: “What do you mean?”
“Nasenberg.”
“Ah!” Henri Rozal released Turner’s hands, unsteadily. He was frightfully pale. “I’d forgotten him,” he murmured.
“But he remembers you—or, rather, the paper you signed. As he knows that there’s nothing to be gained by sticking his nose in, he’ll let you alone—he won’t permit himself to present his bill during your honeymoon—but if you return to Paris, or your sojourn here goes on too long...”
“Oh, don’t exaggerate—he promised me six months, a year...”
“Verbally. But you signed a contract! He’s shown me the undertaking. Following my marriage to Miss Nelly Mackay, I will pay…without any date. And if he perceives that you’re neglecting the discovery of the formidable engine, definitively, if he knows that you’ve abandoned your great Paris-New York flight, whose success in our own aircraft, with the new engine, would make your personal fortune, be certain that he’ll bring the settlement forward. It’s necessary to strike, he said to me, while the iron’s hot.”
Henri Rozal made no reply. He was thinking. In the face of his love, now, Nasenberg reared up, with his demand for payment. The agony! All that he had experienced of divine joy, for a month, all his happiness, all his dear wife’s kisses, all their moments of tenderness, was the result of a bargain he had made. He had savored the intoxicating, delirious joys that he could not deny himself—and it as necessary to pay for them now, before having exhausted the sensuality. If he didn’t pay...! Sweat pearled on his brow. He was white, his hands trembling. He stammered: “I’m doomed!”
But Turner pulled him toward him and looked him in the eyes. “Let me look at you—no, you’re not doomed. The flame’s still there. Work—go back, within a fortnight, to your workers, your collaborators, who are waiting for you, impatient and heartsick. Put your blue overalls on again, and set your hands to the sublime task, and with the idea that you have to be victorious, to keep the woman you love, march confidently toward the Goal!”
Rozal’s face lit up then. “Yes!” he cried. “You’re right. For her, for our love, I shall be victorious! And when I’m rich—I can complete my discovery within a month—I’ll throw Nasenberg’s commission in his face!”
“Calm down. I’d prefer to see you cooler. What a nervous temperament you have!”
At that moment, Nelly’s elegant and graceful silhouette appeared at the end of the path, between the laurier-roses. The young woman’s arms were laden with flowers. Gaily, she ran toward him.
“My Henri!”
“My darling!”
She put her flowers into his arms, laughing, heaping them against his breast, up to the chin—and as his hands were now encumbered, she took hold of his robust neck and drew his head toward her.
“How beautiful he is!” she cried. “Look, Turner!”
She had put her cheek against her husband’s cheek, and their happy faces appeared amid a mss of flowers, with eyes ablaze. Pertly, the young woman said: “We’re crazy, Henry and I. See how we love one another! And you want me to let him climb into one of your dangerous machines again? He’s mine, my handsome husband, and I’m keeping him!”
III. Hydroplanes and Motor Boats
Under the skillful and passionate direction of George Turner, amazing hydroplane races were to be held in Monaco. In the clear blue sky of that land of dreams, for an entire week, great fantastic birds were seen circling, gliding and flying at top speed, while motor boats leapt about on the transparent waters of the sea, like the flying fish that stripe the surface of the sea in the tropics.
On the shore, especially on the terraces of Monte Carlo, the marveling spectators contemplated these sensational manifestations. The boldness and creative power of humankind was palpable around them. One of those spectators was also experiencing the impression that inferior beings were crouching or hiding in the corners of that violated nature, frightened of such an upheaval after so many centuries of security. That was doubtless why, while the birdmen flew through the air, and their steel automobiles went around the bends of the marvelous coast-road in whirlwinds, and monstrous and rapid motor-boats ploughed the sea, he could not see a single bird in the sky. The spectator imagined, confidently, that the fish must be diving into the darkness of the marine depths, and that the beasts in the fields were afraid.
It was impressive. On certain days, at the same time, on to the calm waters of Monaco’s harbor, an aircraft was suddenly launched, while, not far away, the sharp bow of a motor-boast opened up the mass of azure liquid through which it was plowing. The mechanical bird glided on its floats for a short distance, then, smoothly leaving the surface of the sea, headed for the distant vault. Another aircraft took off, then another motor boat, and yet another new bird. Soon, there were great winged beasts in the sky, which competed for speed with the impetuous marine monsters, whose power was such that their minuscule pointed blocks caused tumultuous masses of foam-flecked water to rise up to their sides and behind them, swirling like torrents.
Sometimes, though, the spectacle did not have that suggestion of battle or conquest; the vision remained magically graceful and poetic.
In a line with harmonious curves and a picturesque sinuosity, the Côte d’Azur extends from west to east, facing the sun, like a unique panorama in which the terrestrial beauties were artfully spaced out. From Cap Ferrat to Cap Martin, in fact, the sea, cuts out in gray, green and red a blue indentation fringed with silver, to which the sun adds spangles, flamboyances and—when evening comes—magnificent conflagrations. Every cove is a nest, every bay and admirable altar in which nature—always peaceful, in an eternal spring with imperishable flowers—wants to resemble a paradise.
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