In A Thousand Years

by Emile Calvet

  Instead of looking at Nîmes, Avignon and Montpellier, which were almost directly beneath his feet, his attention was captured by a bright line cutting the extreme limit of the southern horizon, gradually extending. Discreetly appealing to his uncle, he asked him in a whisper what the vast watercourse was whose breadth as expanding so rapidly.

  “That’s the Mediterranean, O expert geographer,” said the scientist. “Don’t go changing its name and mistaking it for the Channel.”

  “Don’t worry. But neither you nor I have previously seen the sea from this height and at such a distance. It is, therefore, permissible to be mistaken. Isn’t that Marseilles down there to the south-west?”

  “Yes. You’re making progress.”

  Meanwhile, the balloon was traveling rapidly southwards. The Mediterranean was progressively revealed. They were still a few leagues from the coast when the immense liquid plain embraced a third of the horizon.

  A quarter of an hour later, they were directly over the sea, and the shore was fleeing rapidly northwards. Soon, solid ground no longer presented anything but a narrow gray strip, which did not take long to disappear.

  The blue waters of the immense lake extending between Europe and Africa appeared to be in a state of absolute immobility, and presented the aspect of a vat polished mirror in which the image of the balloon was reflected with perfect clarity.

  To the west, two symmetrical suns were placidly following their course, gradually inclining toward the surface of the water.

  The magnificent spectacle of the sea, seen from a height of five hundred meters, had drawn the travelers to the windows.

  Gédéon appeared to be prey to a strange fascination. Suddenly, he raised his head. “One can, strictly speaking, take account of the phenomena on land,” he murmured, “but in the open sea it defies all interpretation. Either I’m seeing things or the Mediterranean’s surface is hollow. I’ll clarify the matter.”

  He headed toward the physicist, who was leaning on the window-sill, parading his attentive gaze over the horizon. The young man took up a position beside the scientist and remained silent for a moment. “I’ll wager I can divine the cause of your astonishment,” he said, raising his head.

  “I’m not experiencing any astonishment,” Terrier replied, in a tranquil voice.

  “Personally, I’m gripped by the majesty of the spectacle, but I’m more astonished than delighted.”

  “Why?”

  “I ask you to answer me in all sincerity.”

  “Speak.”

  “You didn’t suspect that the surface of the water is concave?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “However, it’s necessary to yield to the evidence.”

  The professor looked at his former pupil with amazement.

  “In that case,” said the latter, crestfallen, “There’s something amiss with my organs of vision, which might be very serious, by reason of my future functions. Since our departure, it’s seemed to me that we’ve been flying over an immense crater.”

  The physicist burst out laughing. “You seriously believe that it’s an infirmity?”

  “I admit it.”

  “Well, my dear friend, it’s in your brain, not in your eyes. You’re the victim of an illusion common to many of those who go up in a balloon.”

  “Why is that?” asked Gédéon, now reassured.

  “Because the edges of the horizon, usually very distant, appear to us continuously from the height of an aerial trajectory, and we also have an exaggerated notion of the vertical depth—a double appearance that gives rise to the aberration you’ve just identified.”

  “Thank you—I’ll make a note of the observation.”

  At six-thirty, the coasts of Corsica, which had been extending for some time to the east of the Arago’s course, disappeared entirely, and those of Sardinia began to appear like a vague dark line in the south-east.

  Twenty minutes later, the voyagers could see the whole of the island, which extended over the ocean like a vast quadrilateral.

  As the balloon cleared the south-west of the island, several cargo-vessels were cleaving the air with extreme rapidity. The Arago was only able to salute the Lincoln, arriving from Rio de Janeiro and heading for Constantinople.

  At seven o’clock the ship caught up with the Neptune, a large vessel loaded with passengers who were going to spend the bathing season on the elegant beaches of Livingstone. Without accelerating its pace, the Arago went on ahead.

  “We’ll arrive before the Neptune, which is traveling at fifty leagues an hour,” declared Monsieur Humphrey, who came into the saloon at that moment.

  Suddenly, Guillaume Dryon, who had been aiming his binoculars in a southerly direction for a few moments, exclaimed: “Messieurs, the land of Africa!” And he handed the instrument to the doctor, who discovered a long yellow-tinted strip that was widening rapidly.

  Terrier, having recognized the African coast in his turn, handed his telescope to the young man, who thanked him but assured him that he had no need of any artificial aid. His lynx-like vision, which could have competed without any disadvantage with that of the astronomer Struve—who could see tenth-magnitude stars with the naked eye—had already recognized the exactitude of his multi-great-grandson’s affirmation.

  The airship continued to devour space with the same rapidity, and the continent gradually unfurled under the gaze of the passengers.

  When solid ground occupied half the horizon, the voyagers flew over a large city whose domes were sparkling in the blaze of the setting sun.

  “We’re over Bône,” said the engineer, from whom the historiographer, not knowing quite how to continue his journal, had asked advice. “If we were a few hundred meters higher we’d be able to see Bougie to the west, and further away Algiers, the capital of Northern Africa. In an easterly direction, our binoculars would permit us to see as far as Tunis, which is occupied during the winter by a numerous colony of foreigners from northern Europe.”

  Gédéon hastened to consign this information to his album, but, forgetting the engineer’s hypothesis, he ornamented his account with a few lines about the enchanting view that the ancient capitals of Tunisia and French Africa presented.

  A few minutes later, the Arago was flying over high hills parallel to the shore, and the rock of Constantine became visible in the south-west.

  At eight o’clock, the passengers found themselves confronted by the eastern reaches of the Atlas mountain chain, which appeared to be hurtling toward the balloon. The height of the aerial vessel was raised by five hundred meters.

  The temperature, which had been regularly maintained until then between twenty and twenty-one degrees Centigrade, fell abruptly to sixteen.

  The travelers’ gazes were following the high crests of the mountains traversing the north of the continent when Mademoiselle Dryon called their attention to the Algerian Lake, which, like an immense mirror, was growing rapidly to the south. All optical instruments were aimed in the direction of the interior sea. A magnificent scene unfolded before the delighted eyes of the strangers.

  Framed throughout its extent by hills covered with luxuriant vegetation, the lake was resplendent beneath the burning rays of the African sun. Several flourishing cities extended along its shores.

  Suddenly, the movement of the powerful elytrons sustaining the apparatus appeared to slow down, and the balloon gradually descended toward the surface of the waters.

  They were now a few hundred meters above a superb city, covered with splendid palaces and surrounded by magnificent parks. A fairly high plateau overlooked the north of the city. The balloon, maintained at three hundred meters from the ground, was advancing slowly toward the mound in question.

  Five minutes later, it descended to the ground and touched the rails of the landing-platform without any jolt.

  A few men, who had been watching the maneuvers of the aerial vessel, ran toward the voyagers.
/>   The engineer came back into the saloon and pressed a switch in the wall. The door opened slowly, while the mobile staircase unfolded to the ground.

  “Messieurs, we have arrived in Livingstone,” said Guillaume Dryon. “We’ll go to my villa while our engineer makes arrangements for our departure tomorrow morning.”

  Monsieur Humphrey bowed, and the passengers stepped down to the ground.

  XXXIII. The City of Livingstone

  The caravan took a grassy path, which descended at a gentle slope to a large semicircular plaza, from which the gaze could embrace the vast liquid expanse of the Algerian Lake.

  In this part of the city the animation was very great. A large number of bathers of all ages and both sexes were strolling in the shade, without getting far away from a large orchestra that occupied the center of the plaza and periodically performing powerful symphonies.

  On the sandy shores of the lake, several hundred multicolored tents, symmetrically arranged, produced the most picturesque effect. Elegant boats were furrowing the surface of the waters in all directions.

  The agronomist explained to his guests that the city, founded three hundred years ago, had been able to develop enormously, thanks to the mildness of its climate and the beauty of its surroundings.

  “It seems to me that the name of Livingstone, who was the first to make southern Africa and the regions in the vicinity of the equator known, would have been more judiciously adopted in the south,” Antius commented.

  “There are four large cities in Africa that bear the name of the celebrated explorer,” Guillaume Dryon replied. “They are distinguished from one another by their geographical situation, and if it had not been for fear of confusion, there would have been more than a hundred, for it is the most venerated name on the continent.”

  Guided by the agronomist, the passengers went along the quay. Two hundred meters from the plaza their host stopped and showed his friends a magnificent shady garden whose terrace, crowned by a long balustrade of white marble, overlooked the lake.

  “Messieurs,” he said, “we are home.”

  He advanced toward the door, which was wide open, and signaled his arrival by pressing an electric button fixed to one of the stone columns that ornamented the entrance to the house.

  An old servant came out and bowed to the visitors.

  A broad pathway that plunged beneath a somber vault of verdure led to the villa. The voyagers started walking along it and arrived in few minutes at a marble staircase that preceded the vestibule.

  The staff of the house, arranged in military order, were waiting for the master and his guests. Two young women hastened to meet Éva, and escorted her to her apartment.

  An hour later, all the travelers were gathered in an elegant summer-house on the terrace, around a sumptuous table. A magnificent panorama unfurled before their eyes.

  A double row of elegant country houses framed the blue waters of the Algerian Sea, which extended as far as the eye could see. A flotilla of boats of every form and method of propulsion were furrowing the edges of the lake.

  “I imagine that this enchanting abode attracts the elegant society of the five continents,” said Antius, impressed by the splendor of the spectacle.

  “And the French must be proud of counting among their 19th century ancestors the valiant Captain Roudaire, the indefatigable promoter of Algerian lakes,” added the physicist.

  “We are, indeed, proud,” replied Guillaume Dryon. “I speak thus because I’m of French origin, as the genealogy of my family testifies, established with great care all the way back to my venerable ancestor Gédéon Cahusac.”

  On hearing these words, Gédéon nearly choked. He threw his head sharply backwards.

  “Have you swallowed a fish-bone, my young friend,” asked his host, with concern.

  “Yes, Monsieur, and a big one—but so much the worse for the bone!” replied the young man, who had lost his head.

  The two scientists hastened to change the topic of conversation, which was full of perils.

  “The desert we shall be crossing tomorrow,” said Antius, “no longer opposes the insurmountable barrier that separated Central Africa from Europe for more than fifty centuries?”

  “Desert?” queried the agronomist.

  “Of course. I mean the immense plains of sand, strewn with oases, that extend from the Nile to Cap Bojador and from Ghadamès to Timbuktu, covering more than fifty degrees from east to west and more than twenty from north to south.”

  “You mean the old Sahara, Doctor.”

  “Yes,” Antius replied, fearing that he had gone too far.

  “That desert no longer exists,” said Guillaume Dryon. “The shifting sands that engulfed so many caravans repose in tranquility beneath ten meters of limpid water, and the majority of the oases are fertile and flourishing islands. You’re not unaware that the Sahara was a dried-up ancient sea. It’s nearly four centuries since human genius restored it to its original state, and it’s to the marvelous transformation of the chotts that the initiation of that gigantic task was due.”

  At the request of the strangers, the agronomist gave a rapid description of the political, scientific, industrial and commercial situation of the African continent. He cited statistics to establish that the interior seas were the most fecund centers of activity in the entire world.

  For some time, the shades of night had been invading the surface of the Algerian Lake, and the waves were scintillating like brilliant scales in the pale moonlight.

  Dryon gave the signal to retire, and an hour later, the Arago’s passengers, having retreated to the sumptuous apartments of the villa, were sound asleep.

  XXXIV. Across Africa

  At sunrise, everyone was on their feet.

  The agronomist had several baskets of food taken to the airship, the size and weight of which reassured all minds from the viewpoint of nourishment.

  In spite of the early hour, a substantial breakfast was served in the dining room, and each of the passengers took on a sufficient quantity of ballast to brave the journey without reinforcement.

  At seven o’clock Dryon and his guests went into the departure hall. Five minutes later the balloon launched forth into the air again.

  “Messieurs,” said the agronomist to the passengers gathered in the saloon, the distance that separates us from the northern extremity of the Tanganyika is exactly twelve hundred leagues away as the bird flies. Maintaining the speed that we adopted yesterday, the journey would take twenty hours, but I believe that for the sake of our guests, who are unfamiliar with Central Africa, we ought not to stick rigorously to a straight line. First we’ll head toward the region of the great tributaries of the Nile. On the other hand, as we’d miss a great many very interesting sights by traveling at night, I propose to stay overnight in Khartoum, which overlooks the sixth cataract. That city is eight hundred and twenty-five leagues away, and we’ll reach it in less than fourteen hours.”

  Antius and his companions, moved by this new evidence of interest, formulated with so much benevolence and delicacy, uttered confused thanks.

  “I promise my multi-great-grandson’s library a narrative of that flamboyant voyage,” said Gédéon, clutching his album feverishly. “What men these Cahusacs are! This one’s condemning himself to make a detour of three hundred leagues in order to enable us to admire the sources of the Nile! When one thinks that, in the good old days, the most hospitable landowner would have preferred to see his guests break their arms and legs rather than lend them his horse to make a journey of ten kilometers!”

  He tore himself away from these misanthropic reflections to cast an eye over the landscape.

  The Algerian lake was fleeing rapidly behind, and the Gulf of Gabès, illuminated by the blaze of the rising run, was shining on the eastern horizon.

  Gédéon moved his armchair to the porthole that opened in front of the aerostat and slightly to the left—a position that permitted him to embrace a very extensive horizon.

  “
To the left,” he said, “we see a series of high hills that have been running from north to south for some while, and are now turning at a right angle toward the east. Let’s consult the notebook.”

  The little book was mute on this point.

  An omission, he thought.

  It was nine-fifteen when the balloon skimmed the summit of a mountain whose name he sought in vain.

  “Uh oh!” he said. “Are we going to cross the whole of Africa without having a word to say? That would be disastrous for contemporary geography.” He slapped his forehead. “Idiot!” he exclaimed. Éva’s notebook is designed for the straight line, not for the route we’re now following. I ought to have realized that, for I was about to commit a series of blunders capable of making Messieurs Levasseur, Cortambert and Élysée Reclus spin in their graves.”

  To the physicist, who had drawn nearer quietly, surprised by his behavior, he said: “Now I’m in a pretty pickle. What am I going to do, my dear Master, to figure out where I am between here and Khartoum?”

  “What have you been doing thus far?”

  “I confess that I had a donkey’s guide.”

  “And it can’t guide you any longer?”

  “No,” the amateur historiographer replied, simply. And he listed for Terrier all the services that the timetable had rendered him.

  “I can get you out of difficulty,” said the scientist, who went to fetch a map of the African continent from the table. Having unfolded it, he traced in pencil a straight line from Livingstone to Khartoum and divided it into thirteen equal parts corresponding to the thirteen hours of the journey, reserving a fraction for the extra forty-five minutes. “You calculations will now be reduced to frequent consultation of the clock,” he added, handing the sheet of paper to the young man—and he went to sit down next to the agronomist.

  During this dialogue, the Arago passed over a chain of mountains, which separated the tormented region of the Tripolitaine from the plains of Fezzan.