When the alarm was over, Noël, wishing to know the cause of the curious red expectorations, opened the bird’s beak and noticed that the membrane at the back of its throat must bleed easily, since it was very inflamed. Fleeting tremors crossed its richly innervated surface, adorning it with many shapes, whose slender outlines in relief were even more suffused than the rest on account of the unconscious effort being made, and could be seen to be covered with a crimson sweat. Suddenly the young man moved aside to avoid the effect of a belated cough by which the cock was again convulsed and, as he did so, recognized in the fresh bloody mark that immediately stained the floor the very pattern he had seen on the membrane at the last moment.
Reverting to his old idea, Noël considered making use of the phenomenon in order to teach the gallinaceous bird to write and ordered a full alphabet of twenty-six little stamps, each bearing a single incised capital letter. Contrary to the normal practice, the asymmetrical letters were placed the right way round, with a view to reproduction at one remove.
When the metal surface of the first stamp was removed from the sensitive membrane against which it had been pressed for a few moments, it left an A behind, traced in relief. Soon, as a result of training based on frequent repetition of this experiment, the letter was formed spontaneously to the exclusion of any other pattern; then, instead of moving haphazardly, the nerves began to obey Mopsus, who could at will create or efface the vowel — incessantly repeated by Noël throughout these various stages, so as to associate the sound and the shape in the bird’s mind.
When all the stamps had performed the same work in turn, the cock was able to make whatever letter the youth pronounced appear upon its membrane; he then went on to teach it to cough of its own accord at the right moment. Since the inflammation was always most pronounced in the projecting parts moistened with blood, the spurt always printed the relevant letter where it hit. Next, as a result of additional instruction, Mopsus became accustomed to cause a rush of blood to the membrane when required, by a spasm of his neck.
In quest of some stiff, approximately vertical white surface that could be washed, Noël acquired a leaf of ivory which, when set on a little easel, provided a perfect recipient for the red letters.
Once Mopsus had been trained progressively to turn his letters into syllables, then to compose words, he was in possession of a written language and gave expression to his own ideas, as the boy had hoped. The latter was now emboldened to instil into him many rules of prosody, with particular emphasis on acrostics. Henceforth, at each fortune-telling session, the cock would set out a few lines of verse based on the name of the person whose fortune was being told.
Mopsus meanwhile had been relentlessly at work, and there were now six alexandrines strung out on the ivory plaque, composed of small red capitals just like the first eight and spat out one by one. He had renewed his tic from time to time to maintain the inflammation of his throat. Two final verses, due to the same frequent cough engendering the bloody letters, rounded off the mysterious acrostic with a curiously deep and obscure commentary on the parable of Chrysomallo . . .
All of us read it several times, along with Faustine, who was left in a surprised and thoughtful state of mind.
∗ ∗ ∗
While she remained lost in thought, Noël put away the easel and the plaque and showed us a light object consisting of a small rectangular tray of asbestos netting supported by the very slender metal of a scanty, four-legged frame. Beside it he placed a transparent, carefully shut box made of mica, within which we discerned a leaf of metal rolled up many times upon itself; it was of negligible thickness and perforated with such delicacy that only a powerful microscope could have revealed every detail. With the naked eye we could make out only the general outlines of this fairy work, its minute cylinder scarcely occupying a twentieth part of its container.
The young man opened a canvas bag several centimeters high, from which he split into the tray of netting an even layer of charcoal crushed into tiny fragments. Then, striking a match and moving its flame about underneath the tray so that it set fire to all the fuel, he placed the transparent box on the improvised brazier, which it did not overlap at any point.
Having enjoined us to keep a watchful eye on the delicate metal roll, which was about to undergo a marvelous transformation, he began to reminisce aloud about his early life.
From earliest childhood, Noël had been apprenticed to the wandering life with an old musician named Vascody, who used to call up the remnants of a fine tenor voice to sing in the street to the accompaniment of his guitar. At the end of each performance Noël would dance and hand round the hat. During their halts Vascody used to entertain the child with tales of his youth, often reverting to a certain glorious period between his twentieth and his thirtieth years, when he had enjoyed his triumphs in the theatre. He had reached the zenith of his brief career in La Vendetta, in which he had the principal role at the Opéra in 1839. The author, Count Ruolz-Montchal, had previously contributed a small work to the Opéra-Comique: Waiting and Running, composed in collaboration with Fromental Halévy. Vascody, then a mere novice, had been given a modest part, in which he had impressed Count Ruolz with his splendid voice, so that, on a later occasion, the latter had promptly chosen him from among all the applicants to star in La Vendetta.
Vascody had brilliant success in his interpretation of this latter work. Every evening the purity and nobility of his voice unchained a storm of applause.
But as the outcome of an accident to his larynx, he had been obliged to leave the theatre at the height of his fame and live by giving singing lessons. Being without pupils in his extreme old age, he sang in the streets, guitar in hand, and, thanks to some fine notes still remaining to him, managed to collect some alms.
One day, when the fortunes of his nomadic existence had brought him to Neuilly, he passed through the open gate of a garden and began to sing the leading aria from La Vendetta before a quiet house. After a few bars, an old man appeared on the doorstep, murmuring with emotion:
“Ah! That voice . . . that voice . . . Lord, is it possible? . . .”
Then, stepping forward, the new arrival clasped his hands together and suddenly cried out:
“Vascody! . . . It’s him — in the flesh! . . .”
Stopping short Vascody quavered:
“Count Ruolz-Montchal! . . .”
The two men fell weeping into each other’s arms, overwhelmed by the youthful memories that awoke in them as they gazed on one another.
Invited into the house, Vascody related his lamentable story to his friend, who afterward provided him with the details of his own life.
Impelled by misfortune to take up the study of chemistry at a time when his musical work was already extensive, Count Ruolz had discovered his well-known method of silvering and gilding metals and then his process for smelting steel. Later, he had invented his phosphor metal, which was at once employed in the manufacture of French cannon.
Now, after several years of research, Ruolz had just made a new and secret discovery. He resolved to offer the first fruits of it to his old friend, whose unexpected song had joyously brought back the good old days with a charm that still filled him with delight. Leading him to his laboratory, he spread a thin layer of live embers before him on a small tray of asbestos netting fitted with four legs — and upon this fiery bed he placed a light mica box at the bottom of which there glittered a stiff, fairy-like tracery of metal, shaped like a tiny scroll, its details invisible to the naked eye. The diaphanous character of the asbestos netting was intended to exclude the slightest suspicion from people’s minds that any trickery with a false bottom was involved.
Gradually, under the influence of the heat, the strange tracery grew larger in all directions, visibly increasing in width and thickness while, as a consequence of its elongated form, the inner surfaces slid over one another. Furthermore, the metal became soft, and the pr
ocess of expansion made every tiny detail visible. The long, glittering strip of tracery, rolled up tightly upon itself, finally occupied all the available space, touching the mica walls in every direction.
Ruolz set the box down at a distance from the fragile furnace, holding it by two small insulated handles at the sides. Then, after letting the apparatus cool, he lifted the lid and removed the tracery, which promptly unrolled. In Vascody’s hands the fabulous network displayed greater softness and delicate beauty than the most sought-after embroidery, despite its metallic nature — betrayed by its residual warmth and a surprising weight combined with a brilliant luster.
The bewildering delicacy of the stitches and design, even after considerable enlargement, proved the fairy-like minuteness of the original work, which Ruolz had indeed carried out with the aid of a powerful microscope that he pointed out to Vascody. But the merit inherent in the accomplishment of such a task was of little matter to the Count, whose only pride lay in having discovered an astounding metal which, without changing its nature, swelled up prodigiously under the influence of heat and became as manageable as the frothiest of tissues.
As a becoming ornament for dresses, its splendor bound to arouse the covetous desires of women, this sumptuous tracery promised large profits, in which Ruolz decided to make Vascody participate. As well as the transparent box and the tray of netting (which was promptly emptied), he handed over four new rolls of metal just like the first and ready for metamorphosis — the only specimens of their kind then in existence. By being the first to exploit the precious secret before its forthcoming wide dissemination, Vascody would have the benefit of a large and early profit; he could display each of the four experiments in transformation as an expensive sideshow, then sell the results for a goodly sum. Vascody was overwhelmed by this magnificent gift and parted from his benefactor with tears of gratitude in his eyes.
When he returned the next day, on 30th September, 1887, he learnt to his sorrow that Count Ruolz had suddenly died from a long-standing heart condition, taking the secret of his last invention with him to the grave.
Vascody published an account of his final interview with the deceased and gave a display of metallic expansion to a select gathering in the drawing room of a rich amateur of science, for which he charged a high entrance fee. This man afterward gave a good price for the dazzling tracery formed in the mica box before his eyes, by the embers in the tray of netting.
In order to use his nest egg sparingly, since it was only enough to provide him with temporary assistance, the old artiste carried on with his life as a strolling singer, while affording his ancient, worn-out body a greater share of comfort and repose.
Five years later, when his little hoard was running low, he obtained fresh means by employing the same method elsewhere — after which only two specimens of the metal remained in his possession.
Several years went by, alleviated by the supplement which his plentiful reserve provided to his ever more precarious earnings. Each day he blessed the memory of Ruolz, without whom he would have known nothing but misery and hardship in his old age.
In the course of his wanderings, Vascody occupied a room next to a certain brutal and drunken workman, recently a widower, who lived alone with his six-year-old son Noël. Through the wall the child could be heard crying out when he was beaten by this monster who begrudged him his food. The youngster often used to go and weep in the arms of the old musician, who lavished kindness and consolation upon him.
Vascody was horrified and asked to take Noël on as his assistant, for his artless grace might help him to win the favor of the crowd. The brute accepted the proposal gladly and shed not a single tear at parting from the little boy, who left with his rescuer that very day.
Noël was filled with wonder at his new life, which he contrasted with the hell of his past, and learnt several lively dances from the old man to the rhythm of his guitar — which increased the uncertain takings.
Later Vascody noted that the child, whom he was trying to interest in singing, completely lacked any vocal ability, his inclinations lying in another sphere. Noël was initiated by a conjuror into the rudiments of vaticination, an art which he afterward perfected in his own way.
One day Vascody found that his second hoard was finished, having gradually been dispersed. A third time the usual experiment provided him with a long spell of relative ease.
But soon afterward the old man, whose voice had still retained some limpid and moving notes, died aged nearly a hundred in the first frosts of an early winter. Besides the recently acquired sum of money, he bequeathed to Noël the last of the four precious rolls of metal given him by Count Ruolz.
Noël was stricken, and regarded the departure of his benefactor and only friend with terror. Sobbing brokenly, he followed the old musician’s body to the cemetery alone, quite alone . . . Then he staggered back to the room where his dear companion had lain in his last agony.
From now on, Noël was his own master. The previous year, while he and Vascody were passing through the town where they had first met, he had learnt of the death of his father, whose health had gradually been undermined by drink.
He continued to travel incessantly to and fro telling fortunes, and, to relieve his loneliness, he acquired some animals, which strengthened his repertoire once they were trained. The curious public were in turn amazed by the divinatory antics of a dog, a cat and a monkey, which had since died. Last of all came Mopsus who, after his ingenious training, far exceeded the skill of his three predecessors.
Noël still kept the last of Count Ruolz’s metallic specimens in reserve. While waiting for a chance to make a large profit out of it, the youth used to spice up his programme by exhibiting it at all his performances, together with the tray and the box, giving a short account of their history.
As Canterel had paid royally on our behalf to view the transformation, and for the tracery resulting from it, Noël had supplied himself with a small supply of charcoal for today.
During the boy’s explanations the metal specimen, heated by the glowing charcoal, had swollen up progressively in the box, which was now almost filled by the mobile roll with its continually sliding interior.
It seemed to Noël that it had not fully opened, so he waited until the tracery, which still continued to unfold, touched the six mica walls. He now put on a pair of thickly knitted winter gloves to ward off burns, opened the box and emptied it, without using its insulated handles. Then he spread the tracery out on the table so as to make it cool more rapidly.
We gasped with delight at this marvelous piece of work, which could only be compared to the most ruinously expensive Valenciennes lace. Despite the infinite finesses of the product, the material composing it was still metallic, and sparkled in the moonlight. We were amazed by the softness of the heavy network, which we could soon handle without fear, for it rivalled that of the flimsiest of gauzes.
Canterel took the tracery and handed it to Faustine, who was abashed by this magnificent gift and at once tried out its effect upon her breast. The stitching looked wonderful against the pink background of her costume, and everyone wanted to feel the shimmering panel again, which was now quite cold and gave a cool, metallic sensation to the touch.
Noël carefully gathered together all the objects of the performance — the book of ephemerides, the steel rod, the rosary, the box of straws, the crystal sphere, the star code, the magnifying glass, the sage branch, the ivory leaf, the easel, the mica box, the charcoal sack and the netting tray, emptied of its embers — and replaced them in the pannier. This was soon fitted to the back of Mopsus, who was set on the ground.
After folding up his table to carry it away, the youth took his leave — but not before he had received an unsolicited round of silver coins and friendly words.
As he moved off, followed by the cock, the professor, who had received certain confidences from him, explained to us the seemingly inex
plicable intelligence of the magic die. Noël used to read the answer to the twofold mystery of the mental question in the eyes of his subjects, which betrayed the subtle signs of alertness or vagueness, joy or sorrow — and by furtively shaking the die to operate an internal weight, he was able to make it fall just as he wished.
∗ ∗ ∗
Then Canterel, declaring that all the secrets of his park were now known to us, took the path back to the villa where all of us were soon united at a cheerful dinner.
Copyright © 2017 by New Directions
Translation copyright © 1970 by John Calder (Publishers) Ltd
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Originally published in Paris in 1914 and reissued by Jean-Jacques Pauvert Editeur, 1965; English edition first published by Calder & Boyars Ltd in 1970 and reissued by Alma Classics Ltd in 2008
Manufactured in the United States of America
New Directions Books are printed on acid-free paper
Locus Solus Page 26
