“Are you ready?” Rozal asks.
“Yes, boss.”
“Everyone at his post, then, and look out!”
The wall facing the entrance to the tunnel is cleared. The aides take up positions behind the sheets of steel erected for that purpose, for nothing must find itself in front of the mouths of the gigantic funnels that emit the air; everything would be carried away by the wind, already formidable, that is striking the airplane’s wings.
“Go on!”
The roar of a terrible, frightful storm-wind, and the nose of the apparatus abruptly comes up. Now it is pulling on its moorings, which resist; it tries to rise, to throw itself to the left or the right, but on every side, cables maintain it within the fearful wind, the cataclysmic tempest that the ventilators are sending forth.
“A hundred meters a second!” says Rozal, consulting a manometer. “Three hundred and sixty kilometers an hour. It’s going well! It’s going well!”
He makes sure that the monoplane has submitted to the formidable pressure without its solid framework buckling—and he calls a halt to the experiment.
“Now,” he says to Turner, “it only remains to finish the turbine.”
Smiling, his eyes illuminated by an ardent faith, he contemplates the factory in which his men are once again bending over their vices, engraving and filing the unique components that he has designed. Leaning toward his friend’s ear, he says: “Within a month, my lad, that bird will land on American soil.
Then, the worthy Turner wants to proclaim his joy, but, seeing his old comrade to fully restored by his labor, enthused and intoxicated by hope, cured by the life-giving health that is work, and close to victory, he feels such emotion that the words catch in his throat and his eyes moisten.
That atmosphere of victory, moreover, seems to fill the hall where the energy is concentrated. In the midst of the monotonous noise of machine-tools, planers, mortising-machines, lathes and polishers, the sharp detonations of hammers falling on anvils burst forth. And at the very end, at the top of his voice, a thirteen-year-old apprentice begins to sing a Montmartre ballad by Couyba,34 who subsequently became a senator and Minister of Public Works (which are not the labors of Hercules):
“What do the treasons matter,
“Of the women we are kissing,
“If their lips are luscious?”
II. The Bird that will come from France
Facing New York, on the other side of the Hudson, a long and narrow strip of land extends between the river at the Atlantic. That is Long Island. In summer, as in winter, in spite of the exceptionally low temperature and the icy north wind, that locality retains a particular charm, wild in places, cheerful in others, but always tranquil. That is doubtless why a number of multi-millionaires have properties there in which they spend their Sundays. To get there, one crosses the Hudson and takes a railway that serves the entire island, passing through thick forests or cutting through picturesque hills, whose flanks are streaked with roads snaking in long curves and losing themselves in the vegetation of the coastal valleys.
Not far from the station of Harbor Hill, a magnificent mansion stands at the top of a small hill; a lawn descends to its base, ornamented with statues patinaed by the winters, and to either side, the wooded slopes have a gentle melancholy character, that gives the place the air of a retreat, almost a refuge, where placid life goes by in days of reverie. Far away, on the horizon, in a sort of mist that rarely dissipates, is the Ocean.
On the ground floor of the mansion, in an intimate boudoir annexed to a hall of vast dimensions cluttered with works of art, a young woman, her face stuck to the panes of the window, is gazing dreamily toward the sea. Nearby, a gray-haired lady with a simple and benevolent face, who is reading a book, looks up, smiling.
“What are you thinking about, Nelly?”
“Nothing.”
“Why lie? Oh, I strongly suspected that this sojourn here wouldn’t soothe your grief. One doesn’t shut oneself up with one’s thoughts when they’re morose. Why flee like this from the world, from gaiety, from all the opportunities to forget the memory that obsesses you?”
“You’re imagining things, Aunt.”
Mrs. Flower shakes her head. “Would you care to tell me why you’ve been there behind that window-pane for an hour, with your eyes obstinately fixed on the open sea—the sea on the other side of which is France? Oh, instead of seeing you spend hours in that attitude every day, I’d a hundred times rather go back there...”
“Where? To Paris?”
“To Paris, if you like, where I’ve seen you happy, full of life and zest.”
“To risk finding myself in the presence of…no thanks.”
She hesitates over pronouncing the name, unable to do it.
Mrs. Flower gets carried away, then. “And what would that matter? What would be the harm? Isn’t Henri Rozal still your husband?”
Nelly shivers, and blushes this time. She falls into an armchair, where she remains, as if prostrate. After a brief interval, she declares, in a dull voice: “That man is nothing to me any longer. I don’t want to hear mention of him again.”
“Why not divorce him, then?”
“I’ve asked for a divorce.”
“Yes, but every time that your lawyer asks you to send him an instruction to act, you tell him to wait. Do you have some notion of reconciling yourself with your husband?”
“Oh, Aunt! Never!”
“You’re wrong. But in any case, if your resolution is definitive, separate yourself legally from the man who married you...”
“Who captured me in a snare, as a business matter.”
Mrs. Flower shrugs her shoulders. “Leave your intransigent ideas at that, then, and that wretched scheme of which the banker Nasenberg was the sole author. Look, do you want me to tell you what I think? Well, Rozal and you have been the victims of that bandit, and you’re two naughty children, to do one another so much harm! And me too, into the bargain. Oh, if I were in your shoes...”
Nelly sketches a pale smile. “You’ve always had a weakness for the fellow...”
“I don’t hide it! I’ve always liked Henri Rozal. I consider him an honest man and I almost resent you for having sent him packing the way you did.”
“He’s no longer upset about it. Be certain, Aunt, that he’s already forgotten me.
“Well, forget him too, then! Marry again! To begin with, get divorced!”
“Again! Listen, Aunt…do you want to know why I hesitate over my decision, why I’m delaying the moment when it’s necessary to throw myself into an odious procedure? Well, it’s because I’m not yet liberated from a memory that’s too painful. The events that have done me so much harm are too recent, too close to me…and when I think that it would be necessary to stir up all that mud again, to display, before the eyes of a magistrate, my prostituted love...”
“But Rozal has let you know, has avowed, that he will not appear, and will allow whatever judgment to be passed on him, by default, that you please.”
“He would have compounded the injury if he had resisted!”
“Which he would have done if he were the mercenary who revolts you. You have no valid complaint to make against him, as you know full well, for the rebellion of your pride is insufficient in the eyes of the law. So, this pirate, if he was a pirate, would have succeeded in his capture. He would be your husband, legally; he could, by demanding it, enjoy your hundreds of thousands of francs of income, your luxury, yourself, in the absence of a solid pecuniary transaction. Chivalrously, though, he renounces everything, to fall back—who knows?—into obscurity, perhaps poverty. He demands no income, no compensation—that’s very surprising in a man who, according to you, married you as a matter of business!”
Slightly ashamed, Nelly murmurs: “I was able to inspire love, even in a man devoid of conscience and morality. That dowry-hunter was able to fall in love with me regardless, afterwards, I don’t contest that. But does that alter the fact that I was nothing t
o him, in the beginning, but a prey? Always, at the source, there would be that poison: that man traded in my love; he conquered me by virtue of shady schemes, contracts—and he got rid of possible competitors by throwing them, in advance, a share in the scheme’s profits. Oh, leave me alone, I beg you. Let’s not mention that repugnant history again.”
“It can’t be put away forever, since you can’t forget the hours of true happiness that Rozal gave you.”
Nelly has stood up, trembling. “Oh, shut up! If I persist in not thinking about him, it’s in order not to have to remember what I have been in his arms.”
“A very amorous wife.”
“Shut up, shut up! Yes, I’ve been proud and happy in his embrace—and I’m ashamed of myself! For months, I submitted to the caresses of a shady adventurer, without suspecting it—and when I think of sharing so many frissons with someone who entered my intimacy like a burglar in a sanctuary, oh, I’m horrified—horrified!”
Unable to contain herself, she dissolves in tears, and the worthy aunt, distressed, takes her in her arms and rocks her like a child, for a long time. When she has shed a great many tears, and seems to have calmed down, resting her head to her knees, the substitute mother caresses her hair gently, and says to her, softly:
“That’s done you good. Now, trust in me, who loves you and only wants you to be happy…why do you persist in staying here in this house, were life isn’t cheerful? You aren’t sure of yourself, since you’re afraid of running into him if you return to Paris. If we remain buried alive, here on Long Island, there is, indeed, no danger of ever seeing him again.”
“Who knows?”
“What are you saying? Do you mean that if Rozal were to disembark here one evening, you’d welcome him? I’ll send him a telegram immediately, then.”
Nelly has resumed her cold expression. “If my former husband ever rings the doorbell of the house, I shall not receive him. I’m convinced, in any case, that he won’t attempt any such experiment…but there’s another, more terrifying, that he might dare...”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
Nelly seems to collect herself, closing her eyes. Then, as if she were remembering a dream, she says: “I remember every word that he said to me, from the first moment we met. And if he really was sincere, at those moments…if he was the man that I believed I had discovered, if his desires and ambitions had no other goal than the one he confessed to me, he might do something crazy. No, Aunt, if Rozal is not an adventurer, if he’s a hero, if he loves me...”
“If he loves you, Nelly?”
“It’s by way of the air that he’ll come to New York.”
Mrs. Flower, distressed, crosses her hands. “Poor child! And that’s why, for hours on end, you remain behind that window, with your eyes on the sky?”
In the aunt’s mind, it is certain that the young woman has had a crazy dream that is continuing, in which, alas, she is stuck. Mrs. Flower thinks about little children who believe in Father Christmas, in the Infant Jesus, who hang their stockings on the mantelpiece at Christmas. She, who no longer has those charming illusions and knows the cruel truth of life, cannot remain an impassive witness of the illusions of the dear child that she loved, and she has difficulty suppressing a strong desire to cry.
Nelly, however, with intelligent eyes widened by anxiety, divines what she is thinking—and promptly forgets her lofty attitude, her prideful vanity, and the disgusted indifference she affected, a few moments before, for the unfortunate she has condemned. Feverishly, she opens a drawer in the sideboard, extracting therefrom a stack of sporting journals, newspapers, illustrated brochures and other publications, which she sets before her aunt’s eyes.
“Here, look…just look! Look at these photographs of the factory where Rozal is working! Admire that curious bird, scarcely outlined, whose body resemble a torpedo. What a funny head it has! But read all these articles, these documents, where there’s no other topic than the work that Henri has done!”
“Henri! You just called him Henri!”
Nelly is very red-faced, and the old aunt smiles. Now she has understood, she is radiant. “Oh, you secretive little thing! What an affection for aviation and technical journals!”
But Nelly has got a grip on herself again; she hastens to gather up the leaves strewn over the table, and Mrs. Flower pretends not to see two large photographs of Rozal taking up an entire page of a magazine, Je Sais Tout, and the cover of a sporting periodical, La Vie au Grand Air—which Nelly swiftly causes to disappear. She slyly remarks, however: “For the instructions to give to the lawyer, then, we’re waiting for the results of this mechanical experiment? Go on—he could get you back by coming by steamer, like a simple traveler.”
Irritated, Nelly turns away without replying—and the genteel, happy and emotional aunt, whose heart open up again with hope, leans toward the young woman and draws her toward her, hugs her in her arms and kisses her eyelids.
“You still love him, don’t you?”
Red-faced and confused, Nelly buries her head in Mrs. Flower’s neck. She is weeping.
“Come on,” says the worthy aunt, then, “I won’t scold you any more, my little Nelly, when you gaze at the sky through the window for too long. And I want to stay here, now, for as long as you wish, waiting for the bird that will come from France.”
III. The Trial of a New Force
On the evening of Saturday July 11, 1914, well after the usual finishing time, people were still at work in Rozal’s factory. The apprentices, the assistants and a few foundry-workers had left, but the two foremen and the fitters were there, retained by the engineer. The assembly of the turbine imagined by the boss was being completed—or, rather, the new and definitive form given to his invention, for dozens of engines had already been constructed, and all of them, after various trials, had been scrapped.
That morning, Rozal had said to Turner: “I’m going to attempt my final experiment. The problem will be resolved today, or it never will be. An instinct tells me that I’m on the right path, almost at the end. I’m virtually certain that I’m not mistaken this time. A sudden ray of light appeared to me one day. We’ll see whether it dissipates the darkness in which my will has been groping thus far.” He took Turner’s arm and squeezed it hard. “I’m sure, I tell you! My calculations, formulas, designs…everything’s exact! There are no more hypotheses with surprises in store for me. I’m sure, old chap, sure!”
“Henri, I’m wondering anxiously what might happen, after a disillusionment more cruel than all the rest. I’d prefer to see you more reserved, less certain, because you’d already be thinking about new beginnings, profiting from what this new effort will has taught you.”
“After what I’ve attempted, there will be nothing more. If, by some extraordinary chance, I fail, I’ll declare myself irremediably defeated. I won’t try to penetrate the enigma any longer. What would be the point? It would be more years—how many?—running after a dream that’s too deceptive. I’d consume more money—that friends I don’t know yet, and whom I’d dupe. Look! In spite of this spring’s drama, I’m still young, solid and vigorous. In a few years, my poor friend, I’ll be old, older than my years…and who knows, then, with whom my Nelly will have forgotten me?”
“Then it’s her alone that you’re thinking about, in trying to realize your dream at any price?”
“Uniquely! If the turbine spins this evening, it’s because I’ve set it up with my head full of this idea: of stupefying the world by demonstrating, myself, an apparatus that I’ve invented, capable of braving the immensity of the Ocean and its tempests; becoming rich and reconquering my wife.”
“I understand your haste to succeed.”
“I shall succeed! I shall!”
There was such force in Rozal’s affirmation that Turner was entirely won over by his extraordinary faith. At any rate, he had not left the workshops all day, interesting himself in the assembly of the complex parts of the curious engine that proven and confi
dent were completing in a part of the factory to which strangers were never admitted. It was the first time that Rozal had let him examine the designs displayed on a table in the corner. Until then, the engineer had only shown him the separate pieces constructed by different workmen. None of them was able to determine the precise purpose of the component he was responsible for making, or one that he saw in someone else’s hands.
That day, however, in the private workshop, as the engine took form, the most intelligent workmen understood the boss’s objective—and marveled. Turner, having studied the designs for a long time—the drawings of every sort, collected in an album—was awed by admiration of the bran of the man who had found enough resources within him, not only to vanquish a moral dolor, but, together with a flash of genius, enough strength to have triumphantly completed, in three months, one of the most arduous problems ever posed to human will.
Humankind could only claim mastery of the world in being the possessor of secrets that explained all rotary motion. The true conquest of our species over others dates from the day when the first of our ancestors constructed a wheeled cart, along with fire. Rozal was not the first to formulate that aphorism, of course, since the laws of mechanical science had been determined, but he had noticed their insufficiency. An error had long been propagated, since Papin’s discovery of the steam engine. Progress had made great strides nevertheless, in less than a century, but all the engines constructed since that invention carried forward the original sin: the rotary power of machines came, by mechanical transmission, from alternating movement. There was always the system of a piston, driven back and forth, within a cylinder; it required a rod and a crankshaft to modify that movement and render it useful. Incredibly, neither gas engines, nor automobile engines had brought about the slightest change in that principle—and Rozal was astonished that inventors had not attacked that problem sooner: avoiding the formidable loss of energy by producing rotary force directly.
The Human Arrow Page 21