Suddenly, the clock chimed five. The young woman shivered, passed her hand over her eyes—the gesture of a sleeper waking up—and murmured:
“5 p.m… He won’t come now. Madame Bakunin promised me, though…”
Her gaze fixed itself momentarily upon the snow, whose flakes were swirling in the air and softly flattening themselves upon the windows. “Perhaps it’s the weather that’s delayed him,” she added, seeking to give herself the excuses that the latecomer might well offer. Her lips formed a charming moue. “If he loves me, though, as he told Madame Bakunin,” she muttered, “the snow wouldn’t stop him…”
As she finished this speech, a violent explosion resounded, shaking the house to its deepest foundations, giving the impression that it was about to be torn out of the ground. At the same time, the window-panes shattered. A side-table set against the wall and loaded with instruments of every sort collapsed with a frightful racket, spraying the floor with debris, and the tall bookcases arranged along the walls released mountains of volumes through their broken glass fronts.
A profound silence followed, untroubled even by the ticking of the clock, which had been stopped by the shock.
The young woman had stood up with a single motion, as if activated by a spring, but once standing she remained motionless, both hands leaning on the back of the armchair, more astonished than truly afraid, with her eyebrows frowning slightly and her eyelids half-closed, in the attitude of a person trying to take stock of a situation.
“Poor father,” she eventually murmured, with a smile. “He’ll end up blowing us up once and for all.”
Suddenly, shaking her shoulders, which had caught an icy blast coming through the broken window-panes, she took a few steps toward a table and rang a bell.
A domestic came in immediately, dressed in a muzjik’s long red blouse and cotton trousers sunk into calf-length boots.
“That will need repairing, Vassily,” the young girl instructed, pointing to the window.
“Your old father’s done it again,” the servant muttered, between his teeth. Then, noticing the debris strewn on the floor, he lifted his arms to heaven in a fearful gesture. “Ah, Holy Virgin!” he exclaimed, in a voice choked with emotion. “What will your old father say? His beautiful telescope…his photographs…his lenses…his spectacles…his books…!” Vassily had dropped to his knees and was crawling across the carpet on all fours, pausing at each disaster he encountered to deliver further lamentations.
“Vassily!” said the young woman, impatiently. “The window, quickly. It’s freezing cold in here….”
The domestic got up and ran out.
As soon as he had disappeared, a door opened and someone else burst into the room like a bomb. It was an old man of short stature, apparently some 60 years old, lively and alert, with a pink and white face like a doll’s, haloed by wispy grey hair that left the top of his head exposed, as shiny as polished ivory. Little could be seen of his clothing but an immense leather apron that covered him almost entirely, which was stained, frayed and corroded by acids and other chemical products. His hands and arms, which were bare to the elbows, bore the scars of numerous burns. In one hand he was holding a thick glass mask covered with tightly-knit steel mesh; in the other he was brandishing a metal tube blackened by the effects of a powerful explosion.
“Ah, Selena, Selena!” he cried, running toward his daughter. “I’ve found it!” And the old man kissed the forehead that the young woman extended to him several times over. Showing her the tube that he was holding and putting his finger on a narrow fissure, whose length he traced, he went on in a vibrant tone: “See—the formula is found…and no one in the world will dispute it. One gram—you heard right—just one gram of this explosive material, ignited by a spark and expanded by a temperature of 450 degrees, produces 10 cubic meters of gas. Do you understand, Selena? 10 cubic meters of gas! In an ordinary rifle, I dispense with the cartridge and leave nothing but a disk as large, at the most, as a silver coin…and do you know what the explosion of that simple disk produces? No? Well, it produces a platinum bullet weighing 100 grams, with an initial velocity of 2000 meters per second, and projects it 16 kilometers…”
The young woman put her hands together and opened her mouth to reply, but the old man did not give her the time. “Do you understand what a revolution this is in ballistics? All known explosives, from gunpowder to dynamite, roburite, and even melinite, are sunk…”
He shook his tube with a terrible expression.
“With a kilogram of this, you see, Selena, I could send the city of St. Petersburg into the clouds, and with a few tons one could blast the Earth that carries us into little pieces.” His face radiant and his eyes sparkling, he started striding back and forth along the length of the small room, taking steps as large as his small legs could contrive. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped short in front of his daughter. “And do you know,” he exclaimed, “what I’m going to call my powder? I want you to be its godmother, and I baptize it Selenite!”
The young woman made a gesture of horror. “Give my name to such a frightful thing!” she cried. “Never, never…” And she added in a reproachful tone: “Well, father? Is it really the art of destroying your peers to which you’ve devoted so much time and effort?”
The old man started, as if offended by his daughter’s words. “Is that really you talking, Selena?” he asked. How can you suppose me capable…? Don’t worry; if I want to give you name to a substance as terrible as the one I’ve just succeeded in formulating, it’s not to procure me the pleasure of destroying anything at all. The goal that I’m pursuing is more noble, more grandiose and more worthy of Mikhail Ossipoff, member of the Scientific Institute of St. Petersburg and Vozduhoplavatel.”
In saying this he had raised himself up to the full height of his short stature, and it seemed that his attitude was ennobled. Then, suddenly softening, he moved closer to Selena, took her hands in his, drew her to his breast and held her there for a little while. “Dear child,” he said, eventually, “She and you are my entire life, as you know very well. She occupies all my thoughts and you fill my entire heart. Often, at night, in my dreams, I see you, as beautiful and chaste as the Virgin, your gracious face aureoled in gold, like that of a saint, by her luminous disk.”
“Father…” murmured the young woman, emotionally.
“Oh, I’m so happy today,” he added. “So very happy—and I want you to share in my happiness.” He undid his belt and, suddenly pensive, went to sit in a leather-clad armchair near the stove, where he remained, head bowed, letting a vague gaze filter through his half-lowered eyelids, while his lips muttered silent words. “Selena,” he said, suddenly, looking at his daughter, who was standing before him, motionless and surprised, “I have something to confess to you.”
“To me, father?” the young woman murmured, immediately becoming anxious.
“Yes, my girl; you’re grown up now and I want to tell you about a project that I’ve been nursing for a long time.”
Selena’s anxiety increased. Her cheeks were colored by a sudden pinkness and her long silky eyelashes, suddenly lowered, mirrored a shadow on her pale complexion. Then, as her father opened his mouth to continue, the young woman put her finger over the old man’s lips, with a gracefully coaxing gesture. “Me too, father,” she stammered. “I have something to tell you.”
He looked at her in surprise. “A secret! You too?” he said.
She nodded her head affirmatively.
“Bah! What can it be?”
By way of reply, the young woman sat down on Mikhail Ossipoff’s knees, put her arms around his neck, leaned her head on the old man’s shoulder, and said—in a low voice as if she were ashamed—“I’m in love.”
“You’re in love!” he groaned. “You’re in love? What does that mean?”
Then, very rapidly with her eyes fixed on the floor, the young woman replied: “You know, grandfather, that I go every Thursday and Sunday to hear mass at Our Lady of Kazan…no
w, about two months ago, as I got up again after kneeling down for the elevation, my foot caught in my dress—and I would certainly have fallen if, by the greatest of luck, a young man had not been there and caught me by the arm…”
She stopped for a moment to get her breath back and waited for a word of encouragement—but her father remained silent. “Since that day,” she went on, “I’ve seen that young man every Thursday and every Sunday, leaning on the same pillar, never taking his eyes off me as long as the mass lasts, looking at me with a great deal of respect, and also with…how shall I put it?...all in all, in a manner that troubles me and gives me pleasure at the same time. Then, one day, on the floor of the church, I found him near the font, offering me holy water…my fingers brushed his and—I don’t know why—I suddenly started to tremble…so much that I had to take the arm of Maria Petrovna to come back to the house.”
She fell silent again and darted a sideways glance at her father, who continued to listen in silence, without the slightest sign of approval or disapproval appearing on his motionless face. Emboldened by the old man’s attitude, Selena went on: “A few days later, Maria Petrovna mentioned to me, as we were approaching the house, that a man had been following us since we came out of Our Lady of Kazan. Without seeing him, I guessed that it was him; I didn’t turn round, so afraid was I of showing him how troubled I was. However, as Vassily came to open the door, I couldn’t resist. I turned my head ever so slightly, and I saw him 15 paces behind, stopped at the corner of the street, his eyes fixed on me…
“That was a Thursday, I think, and on the following Sunday there was a dance at Madame Bakunin’s house—only you weren’t able to go with me because there was a big meeting of scientists that evening at the Observatory, to discuss an eclipse of…I don’t remember…and when I went into Madame Bakunin’s drawing room, the first person I saw was him, leaning on a window-sill, looking at me, smiling…”
Selena stopped, all a-tremble, expecting to see her father leap to his feet. He did not do anything. He did not even flinch. The she added: “A few minutes later, Madame Bakunin introduced me to him as an excellent waltzer, and I danced with him. Since then, I’ve gone back to Madame Bakunin’s every Sunday evening, and I’ve always found him…increasingly friendly…increasingly gallant…to such a extent that I wasn’t surprised when, a week ago, Madame Bakunin told me that he’s in love with me, that he had asked to tell me so and to find out whether he might hope…then I hugged that good Madame Bakunin. She understood, and it was agreed that she would bring him here today to make his formal request….” After a short pause, she added: “He has a little money…he’s a diplomat, and his name is Gontran de Flammermont.”
The old man started at the name and, seizing his daughter’s hands, he cried: “Did you say Flammermont? Did you just pronounce the name of Flammermont?”
“Yes, father,” the young woman replied, startled. “His name is Flammermont, he loves me, and he was supposed to come today to ask you for my hand.”
The old man stood up abruptly and began striding back and forth feverishly. “Flammermont here!” he murmured, raising his arms in the air. “Flammermont, who loves you and wants to become my son-in-law. Ah, I never hoped for a happiness so great…”
Selena opened her eyes wide. “Do you know him, then, father?” she stammered, astonished.
“Do I know him!” exclaimed the old man. “Who in the world of science does not know Flammermont, the French scientist whose discoveries have constituted such astonishing progress in the study of astronomy? There, in my library, I have all his works; I’ve read them and re-read them…I know them by heart. Oh, he’s an astonishing man—truly astonishing!”
The young woman looked at her father with a fearful expression. “But it’s a mix-up,” she murmured. “Doubtless there is a French scientist who has that name, but Gontran is only a diplomat…he doesn’t know anything about science, and even less about astronomy.” The truth suddenly became obvious to her. The old man had not heard a single word of the explanations she had given him; his mind had obviously been absorbed by some astronomical problem and only the name of Flammermont—the last word Selena had pronounced—had attracted his attention.
As the young woman opened her mouth to correct the error into which her father had been caused to fall by his customary distraction, however, the electric doorbell rang, announcing a visitor.
“It’s him,” Selena murmured, flushed with emotion.
“It’s him,” Mikhail Ossipoff repeated, radiantly. Then, immediately looking down at his stained, frayed and burned clothing, he added: “I can’t receive him decently like this. Keep him company, my dear child, while I change my clothes.” Without waiting for a reply, he lifted up a curtain and disappeared.
At the same moment, Vassily opened the door and announced: “Monsieur le Comte Gontran de Flammermont.” Standing aside, he ceded passage to a young man of about 25 or 26, with an elegant figure, well wrapped-up in an irreproachably-tailored frock-coat, holding his head high. His face was divided horizontally by a broad russet moustache with a military trim, set over a mouth suggestive of ironic wit. His rather small brown eyes shone with a bright gleam, opening beneath bushy eyebrows that met at the top of his nose like two curved sabers. His broad and clear forehead was framed by a forest of carefully-trimmed and combed hair the same color as his moustache.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing deeply and enveloping the young woman with a loving gaze. “Madame Bakunin, having been suddenly taken ill, was unable to accompany me; nevertheless, seeing how very impatient I was to know my fate, she asked me to come anyway, assuring me that you would be good enough to introduce me to your father…so, in spite of the slightly irregular nature of this step…”
Selena smiled delicately, and replied, blushing slightly: “Indeed, it’s perhaps not very…diplomatic…but, at the end of the day, it’s a case of force majeure….” She offered the young man a seat, very graciously, and said: “Excuse my father, Monsieur; he left me just a moment ago to exchange his laboratory clothes for a more suitable costume.” Then, drawing nearer to the Comte de Flammermont, she added: “Oh, Monsieur, if you knew…”
He became instantly anxious and asked: “What’s happened?”
As she was about to reply, Monsieur Ossipoff appeared, grotesquely clad in an outmoded frock-coat covering a crumpled shirt soiled by laboratory work, around the neck of which a creased white tie was knotted like a piece of string. Arms extended, he advanced toward the young man, who went to meet him.
“Excuse me, Monsieur,” said Flammermont, “for coming in this fashion to disturb the work and study of the man of genius to whom Russia and the entire world owe so many fine and great discoveries.”
“You’re entirely excused, Monsieur,” Ossipoff replied, “for it’s a great pleasure for me to shake the hand of the author of Les Continents du ciel and Astronomie du peuple…”8
Gontran looked at the old man, quite nonplussed, opening his eyes wide—then his gaze strayed to Selena, and his surprise increased further as he saw the young woman put a finger to her lips.
Monsieur Ossipoff noticed the young man’s expression and said: “You seem surprised—but my dear Monsieur, Russia is not a land of savages. We are familiar with the scientific progress of other nations, and, with particular respect to you…” He took him by the hand in a familiar manner, drew him to one of the immense glass-fronted bookcases that were arranged along the wall, and showed him the shelves crammed with books. “There,” he said, pointing to enormous folio volumes bound in morocco leather, on the spines of which shone inscriptions in gold leaf. “You have the place of honor, you see.”
Gontran was stunned, for a glance darted at those volumes had just made him understand the confusion to which the old man was victim. They were all works from the pen of the celebrated French astronomer Flammermont: Les Continents du ciel, L’Astronomie du peuple, Les Mondes planétaires, L’Atmosphère terrestre…9 Mikhail Ossipoff thought he was deali
ng with the author of those remarkable works, whereas he, Gontran de Flammermont, a Comte by birth and a diplomat by profession, was completely at a loss with regard to anything resembling science. The mere words “equation,” “polynomial” and “bisection” gave him a migraine, and here he was, being confused with one of the scientists who were the glory of his country.
In truth, chance plays some strange tricks. Straight away, Gontran saw how close his matrimonial projects were to running aground, now that the old man believed that the man aspiring to the hand of his daughter was a scientist like himself, a man navigating the infinity of space, more familiar with the stars than the Earth, more interested in lunar volcanoes and sunspots than the high tides and volcanic eruptions of our own poor planet. Honest and frank by nature, however, he could not bring himself to entertain the scientist’s error, and he said: “I don’t know how your error arose, Monsieur Ossipoff, but I must humbly confess that I am not the man you believe me to be.”
As if by magic, the old man’s attitude changed. “What did you say, then?” he asked, addressing Selena, in an offended tone. “Didn’t you tell me that this gentleman was named Flammermont?”
“Certainly, Father dear,” the young woman replied, “but I didn’t tell you that he was the scientist you assumed him to be.”
The old man immediately pulled away and stood up straight, with a suspicious expression. “What is Monsieur doing here, then?” he asked.
The Comte turned to Selena. “I thought,” he murmured, “that your daughter had explained….”
Selena interrupted him. “I told you, Father, that Monsieur de Flammermont loves me, and that he was coming today to ask for my hand.” Seeing the old man’s contracted eyebrows and hostile attitude, she added, by way of mollification: “Moreover, Madame Bakunin and I only encouraged the gentleman to take such a step once we were sure that you and he had ideas in common.”
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 3