It lay there, a shipwreck of the sky, a mass of pitiful, deformed debris, the end—and perhaps the symbol—of years of research, struggle and dogged effort, whose annihilation was total. All futile, since nothing remained of it—no more than the cadaver of something that had, however, been magical.
And in the distance, in a room in the white mansion, a man who had wanted to be the Master of the Air, in agonized, victorious and vanquished, his head washed, dressed, surrounded by bandages, his abdomen crushed. At his bedside, the woman who had exasperated his presumptuous dream, bowed down now by repentance, on her knees, weeping.
All futile?
No!
Others would continue the work, profiting from its imperfections. And those who were marching today on the heels of their elders, the young fellows who would never allow themselves to be discouraged by the casualties of art, science and industry, or anything at all—of life itself, if that is not ideal—would be able to take the torch from the hands of the ambitious great men who had fallen by the wayside, saying “Which of us will become a God?”—and would carry it further, holding it higher still: yes, higher still, burning more brightly, more intensely, for the couriers of tomorrow.
He, Henri Rozal, was perhaps about to die, young and beloved, superb, in the full flower of his genius. What, then, would survive of him? What poet would glorify his passing, celebrate his destiny, accompany his death and the mourning of the civilized world with a resounding funeral march or—at least—with an eternal fanfare of triumphal trumpets?
The great are the madmen,
misunderstood today, at whom tomorrow will marvel.
A hero or a god slumbers in all humans,
whom it is necessary to grow within us.
THE END
(OF THE HYPOTHETICAL ORIGINAL TEXT)
APPENDIX I: THE 1917 SUPPLEMENT
Part Four:
FOR THE FATHERLAND
AND FOR THE WORK
I. The Monstrous Voice of the War
The news of Rozal’s exploit, as well as that of its tragic end, arrived in Paris on August 1. The cablegram from New York summarizing the fantastic attempt, the success of the transatlantic flight and also, alas, the fatal crash at the end of the journey, appeared in the evening newspapers. Because of the formidable circumstances, however, far more dramatic than the glorious death of an inventor of genius and a hero, that sensational dispatch passed almost unnoticed by the general public.
A brutal anguish hung over Europe; everyone felt an anxiety too profound for the aviator’s magnificent long-distance flight to be the pretext for long articles; the newspapers had a subject of emotion that rendered all others minimal and imperceptible: the immediate threat of a European war.
In any event, a man had just achieved a feat that made him the equal of a god, since he had flown over the innumerable waves of the Atlantic, tamed the Ocean and the sky, before succumbing—but that prodigious deed and that triumphant death could not retain public attention any longer than an accident in the Metro or a banal fire. That great daily Le Matin, among others, relegated the moving dispatch to the last page, among the three-line items.
That evening, Paris was an impressive sight. It was the hour at which workplaces closed, on a Saturday. A crowd more numerous than usual was in the streets, because of the disturbing rumors that had been circulating since the beginning of the week. Austria had declared war on Serbia; it was now known that Russia would not allow the valiant little nation to be crushed, and that the intervention of our ally would lead to a conflagration of all the States united for years against one another. In any case, the whole world felt the necessity of that war. It had been threatening for too many years, and the consequences of that threat had weighed too heavily upon the lives of populations: better to get it over with once and for all. For, behind the initial pretext, the true causes were apparent, and the nations looked at one another mistrustfully. There was a formidable and well-prepared Germany confronting a courageous France—and perhaps, in a few hours, the Teutonic hordes would be unleashed toward our frontiers.
Six o’clock in the evening. The official dispatch announcing general mobilization has been posted everywhere—and from every workshop, from the smallest boutique and the largest department-store, from cafés, and from all the houses in France, men and women, adolescents, boys and girls, hasten to that fateful piece of paper, in which everyone attempts to read his or her destiny, and that of the Nation.
Immediately, the streets become agitated; a sort of serious and grave joy, grim and anguished, animate them; duty is bravely respired. The men, conscious of the tragic moment and the parcel of force that each of them represents within the powerful unity of the defense of the country, hurry home to make preparations to leave the next day.
Through that crowd over which the first thunderclaps, precursors of the worldwide cataclysm, are bursting, some people are moving with moist eyes, but are were so many of them, and so many more on the brink of tears, that no one pays any attention to it. Old men, who are about to see their sons and grandsons depart, have tears in their distressed gaze; wives and mothers are walking as if hallucinated, sobbing. But why does that young man with the courageous face and the determined stride have distraught features as he holds in his hand the evening paper that a newsvendor has just sold him?
The person who was moving thus through the agitated crowd at the end of that emotional day was Georges Turner. He had just read, in the sports news, relegated to the foot of a column, the Haves telegram from New York, from which he had learned, at a stroke about the realization of his friend’s glorious dream and his death. But that magnificent and dolorous news was lost in the noise of the war—just as he, Turner, was lost in the crowd of men who would be hurrying their departure, that very evening, to defend the Eastern and Northern frontiers.
II. The Hero’s Testament
Turner went home. When he had collapsed into the large English armchair in which he sometimes liked to dream, the aviator set about reliving, day by day, the phases of the labor undertaken by his friend before arriving at that ephemeral triumph, and that lamentable, magnificent and unheeded conclusion.
He recalled delightful moments of old, faithful, devoted friendship. He also thought about Nelly, Rozal’s pretty wife, who had left him after a misunderstanding from which the man had suffered cruelly. All these images of the past, filing one after another before his tearful eyes, caused him the harshest moment of his entire life.
“Poor Rozal!” he stammered, at intervals. “Poor friend! Dear hero!”
Suddenly, he shivered. A memory had just crossed his mind. He got up, opened a strong-box that had the appearance of a small item of furniture, and took out a large sealed envelope.
He contemplated the envelope for some time before daring to open it, for it bore, traced in a firm hand, the inscription: This is my testament.
Rozal, on giving that document to him, had declared: “My dear Turner, my only friend, I’m going…and no one knows whether I’ll get there! I’ve anticipated everything, with regard to putting my affairs in order. If I die while trying to accomplish my journey from Paris to New York, you can open this envelope.”
Now, the moment had come.
Turner’s hand was trembling slightly. He broke the five large red wax seals, and took out of the envelope a wad of documents and a sheet of headed notepaper, on which the hero’s last will was recorded.
This is my testament.
I, the undersigned, Henri Rozal, engineer-aviator, resident in Paris, hereby declare the institution of my friend Monsieur Georges Turner as my sole heir.
In consequence, I give and bequeath to him all the movable and immovable property, rights and shares that constitute my succession on the day of my death, without exception or reserve, to enjoy and dispose of as he wishes, from the date of my decease.
It is understood that my succession will be made up, not merely of immediately realizable goods, but all the rights in the patents that
I have been able to obtain with regard to aviation, notably, my turbine engine. Similarly, my rights and benefits in the enterprise funded by the banker Nasenberg will be transmitted to my friend Turner. The latter will find, in the office of the factory, all the personal papers belonging to me, as well as the plans, drawings and studies relating to non-realized projects.
He will find in this envelope the complete documentation concerning my latest invention, patents for which have not been taken out. These documents are indispensable for understanding the secret of the operation of the turbine engine. He alone will be able to continue my work, for the documents cannot be utilized without the knowledge of certain important particularities that I have confided to my friend orally before my departure. My aim, in acting thus, is to acquaint Georges Turner, and him alone, with my invention, in order that he might, in my memory and for the good of humankind, continue the work begun. I ask him, in exchange for my legacy, to devote his life to this scientific and humanitarian problem, as I have devoted mine.
Georges Turner will also find, in a small lemonwood chest of drawers in my home, a packet of letters and intimate papers, as well as photographs. He will want to return these to my former wife, for whom my last thoughts will be.
Written in Paris, on July 29, 1914, before my departure for the Atlantic crossing. Henri Rozal.
When he had finished reading the document, Turner’s eyes were dry; a wild gleam had replaced the dolor, and it was with a firm voice that he exclaimed: “Yes, friend, you can count on me! I’ll continue your magnificent work…not to find any personal glory therein, but in order that yours might be complete, and that it might shine, subsequently, over generations to come. You’re dead, alas, but what your brain has conceived can never disappear. The name of Rozal ought to be immortal; and in order that it might be, I shall devote my life to the task...”
Now he read the notes accompanying the technical documents with which the large envelope had been filled—and as he read, his face cleared.
I understand, I understand, he thought. How clear and powerful Rozal’s mind was! Genius…yes, genius...
And, passing from one drawing to another, following the progress of the Idea through the successive plans, he reconstituted the sublime work mentally. Soon, he was certain of being able, in his turn, to construct another steel bird, which, in the tracks of the other, would go forth to conquer the air.
Rozal had said to him, on handing over his testament: “Take this, my friend. It’s necessary to anticipate everything. To be sure, if I did not have the hope—almost the certainty—of success, I would not embark, head bowed, upon the dangerous adventure. Certainly I have confidence—but no one is master of his destiny. Perhaps I haven’t foreseen every eventuality. Perhaps a grain of sand will prove fatal, when I have triumphed over the direct difficulties. That’s why, if I die, it will be necessary for you to take my place. I confide to you, in this envelope, with my testament, precise documentation with which you will be able to obstruct another aircraft similar to the one that carries me. If I die, it will be because I have made an error, or because there’s an imperfection in my invention. Thus, my death will be useful to you; you will correct the defect that has caused my death, and then you will have in your hands, I’m sure, the definitive and victorious bolide.”
Turner remembered his friend’s words: “It’s simpler than one might think. Before the realization of a discovery, one is intimidated by the obstacle that it represents, but when everything is resolved, one is amazed by its clarity, its facility. My turbine engine is an astonishing invention in your eyes, and yet, when you consult the papers that I’m leaving you, you’ll smile at its simplicity. Except that it’s necessary to think of that very simple thing. Fundamentally, you see, it’s all a matter of luck...
“You know that the turbine has spun for hours on end, without faltering—on the bench, of course; but nothing can prevent it spinning thus, indefinitely, for as long as it has fuel. As for the aircraft itself, do you remember when we tested it, on the night of the storm? So, if I fear an accident, I expect it to be a matter of hazard, the sly destiny that lies in wait for us at every turning, the blind fatality that causes an aviator who has risked death a hundred times in the air to fall under the wheels of a road-bound automobile, or that causes an admiral who has escaped the innumerable dangers of the sea to die in a railway accident. So, anticipating the worst, let me bring you up to date, in case you have to replace me.”
Rozal had given Turner the technical explanations that revealed almost all of the secret of the turbine. Nevertheless, in order to deal honestly with the banker Nasenberg, his partner, he had not wanted to surrender while he was still alive, even to his best friend, the means of completing the invention—not that he feared any treason on Turner’s part, but out of respect for a principle of loyalty, from which he did not want to depart.
“After those necessary explanations,” he had said, on handing over the envelope, “here is my testament and the documents that you will need to continue the work. You will only open the envelope when you receive news of my death.”
That fateful news had arrived.
III. To Act or Not to Act? That is the Question
Now, his eyes fixed on the papers and the testament, it was as if George Turner were dazed.
It was very warm on the evening of August 1, 1914, and air charged with electricity was coming into the room through the open windows. The incessant cries of newsvendors howling the sensational news—“War!”—were also rising from below.
Turner thought that he ought to leave immediately, mobilized in the armed service, to do his duty. Had he not at his disposal, to serve the fatherland, the marvelous aircraft that Rozal had created? But time was lacking. It would take days—weeks, rather—to construct another apparatus. Between now and then he might kill himself, or be killed, ten times over in the course of some aerial reconnaissance over enemy lines. What should he do?
Undoubtedly, with the airplane that he was accustomed to flying, he might accomplish notable feats and useful work. With Rozal’s, he might accomplish miracles! Was it necessary, then for the marvelous creation to remain unknown? Was the name of Rozal to fall into eternal oblivion. No, no! That could not be. No, that wasn’t fair, and France was about to defend the uniquely just and noble cause of universal fraternity, against the brutal militarism of a nation of soldiers...
He was still reflecting when his manservant announced that Nasenberg wanted to see him.
IV. The Resident Alien’s Smile
The face of the naturalized Boche expressed such mixed and contradictory sentiments that it was difficult for Turner, as he observed him, to decide whether the banker was joyful or profoundly grief-stricken. There was an astonishing—or, rather, disconcerting—combination of nervous excitement, dread, dolor and uncertainty within him: such a chaos of sensations simultaneously reflected on the pale and bloated face that Turner, nonplussed, wondered what Nasenberg could possibly want.
He did not have to wait long. The businessman showed him an evening newspaper and said: “I hope we’re going to crush them this time! France is going to fight, and emerge victorious!”
Alarmed, Georges Turner studied him. “I hope so—but what perspective are you adopting? Aren’t you from Frankfurt, Monsieur Nasenberg?”
The banker went red with anger. “German, me? You’re insulting me! I’m Parisian, my friend!”
“Personally, I’m uniquely French, and that’s enough for me—but since when have you been a Parisian?”
“Always! A long time… twenty years, perhaps. Before that, I had no life. It’s only in Paris that it’s possible to live. One’s fatherland is not the land where one happens to be born…that, my friend, is for simple souls incapable of liberating themselves from narrow prejudice. I have broader ideas, thank God! When I understood that I could never again desert this admirable sky and this atmosphere, unique in all the world, I had myself naturalized. My parents were from Frankfurt, I confess
. Personally, I’ve been French for twelve years , and I’m an officer of the Légion d’honneur! German? I hope, Monsieur, that you won’t offer me that insult again...”
“I beg our pardon. We’ll be fighting together for the same cause, then.”
“A reason that put tears in my eyes has brought me to you. Poor Rozal! We shall continue his superb work together—for it’s necessary that his effort should not have been in vain, isn’t it? Have you read the dispatch. Here, read Le Temps. It has a lengthier explanation than the other papers. Rozal had succeeded…a stupid accident, as he landed...”
Meanwhile, Georges Turner was not looking without suspicion at the naturalized Boche, who was talking about Rozal with tears in his voice and about the war that had just been unleashed with contained joy. Was Nasenberg sincere? Fundamentally, however, the banker had no reason to appear different from where his interests lay; all the evidence suggested that they required France to be victorious. All Nasenberg’s businesses were French. He had built them with French capital. If they collapsed, he might be ruined. On the other hand, this Parisian from Frankfurt must surely love the life he led in Paris unreservedly. A wholehearted sensualist, he needed to hang on to that life of luxury—and voluptuousness too, for the banker’s mistresses were reputed to include the prettiest girls in the liveliest capital in the world.
Then again, Georges Turner, who was very patriotic, belonged to that category of sentimentally indulgent and indolent Frenchmen who do not care to make much effort to seek explanations of things that seem difficult or complicated. As long as appearances are fine, why try to pick holes in the underside of elegant things and quibble with rich individuals? In Paris, a smile, clenched fists and flowers are armaments sufficient for conquest—and Nasenberg was an exquisite fellow who knew how to smile at everyone and flourish marvelously. At every opportunity, he spoke about France and Paris with enthusiasm, and had had the recompense of a long attachment to his second fatherland in receiving, first, the red ribbon, and, exactly four years later, in July 1914, the rosette. Why should Turner, exhibiting more patriotism than the fatherland, suspect the good faith of the businessman who, on the day of general mobilization, wantonly desired the extermination of his former compatriots?
The Human Arrow Page 26