“Because I want to go further!” cried Ludwig, enthusiastically. “Yes, I want to cross the barriers imposed on humankind. Look! The balloon, free of all ballast, is still rising; let’s break the gondola, hang on to the cords and reach the Heavens!”
He began to put this plan into operation. Bitorff launched himself toward the valve and opened it, in spite of the despairing efforts of his companion. The balloon descended; the air gradually became less cold as they arrived in less elevated atmospheric layers. The Earth reappeared beneath them, initially as an indistinct grey mass; then it gradually took on a more precise form. Its rivers and roads became visible, details reappeared, people and animals increased in size…and the balloon finally touched down about two leagues from Hamburg.
Bitorff exploded in transports of joy.
Ludwig Klopstock wept with rage and disappointment. “We could have gone into the darkness of infinity!” he repeated to his companion.
“We would have perished!” the latter replied.
Without paying the slightest attention to the delight of the crowd that surrounded the two courageous voyagers and lavished applause upon them, without replying to members of the Hamburg Academy, who were imploring him to write a memoir on what he had observed and experienced, without even shaking the hand of his companion in peril, Ludwig drew away silently, climbed back on his horse, and rode back to Altona without stopping.
There, he bought large quantities of gummed fabric, loaded his purchases on to the rump of his horse, and shut himself up in his little house in Oltenzen, from which he did not emerge for an entire month. No one was able to see him during that retreat—not the farm laborers, nor a deputation from the Academy of Hamburg, nor even the village pastor. He did not even deign to reply to them though the door, which he refused to open. Were it not for the walk he took with his wife toward nightfall, and a few purchases of food, he might have been thought to be lying dead in his house.
Needless to say, this mysterious retreat gave rise to many strange suppositions. Some favored the hypothesis that Ludwig had lost his reason during his aerial excursion, others that he was devoting himself to a work of magic. The latter belief was not entirely implausible, for it was eventually discovered that Klopstock was building a strangely-shaped machine, which resembled a fish armed with large oars similar to fins; they were moved by means of a mechanism of cogwheels that was both simple and admirable.
That judgment became possible one morning when the inhabitants of Oltenzen saw Ludwig in mid-air, seated on his huge fish, maneuvering it more easily than a horseman guides a docile horse. In spite of the violence of contrary winds, he steered it to the right and the left, forwards and backwards, up and down. He finished by descending into his courtyard, so tightly that the two ends of the machine almost touched the sides.
The pastor, a learned man, in his admiration and at the risk of being indiscreet, went to knock on Klopstock’s door , and begged him so insistently to open it that the scientists gave in. He took the pastor into his courtyard. At the first glace it was easy to see that Ludwig had found the secret of steering balloons.
“Your name is immortal, my friend!” cried the minister. “The entire universe will repeat it with enthusiasm! What glory will be yours!”
“Earth! Glory!” Ludwig repeated, disdainfully. “What does that matter to me? It’s the Heavens I want! No one has been able to go higher than 8000 meters; I shall go to 20,000! I shall go to 200,000! I shall go into the realm of other worlds! I shall go to other worlds! I shall go beyond! I shall study nature! The immensity and the unknown will belong to me. I’ve found the means of steering my aerostat. That was an easy problem to resolve. But I’ve done better. The hydrogen gas that my machine contains expands or contracts as I dictate, without loss. These canisters contain the means of procuring me vital air, even in places where it is impossible to breathe. Cold itself, I have vanquished; it will be unable to hurt me!”
The pastor stood there, astounded by so much genius and madness at the same time.
“Farewell,” said Ludwig. “Here is my will. If I fail in my enterprise, or if I no longer deign to return to the Earth, I leave it to you to look after that poor woman. Farewell!”
Without paying any heed to the remonstrations of the worthy churchman, he climbed into his balloon. He was about to take off when Ebba suddenly ran toward him, gazing at him with haggard eyes, clung on to the machine and shouted: “Don’t go! Don’t go!”
“You’re right,” said the scientist, after a moment’s reflection. “Come! You shall share my fortune and my joy.”
He picked her up. He seated her next to him. He waved to the pastor, and flew off into the sky.
The minister watched him for some time, maneuvering his machine easily, which ended up rising rapidly, soon appearing as nothing more than a black dot that gradually melted away into the azure of the Heavens.
The worthy cleric awaited Ludwig Klopstock’s return with great anxiety.
Ludwig Klopstock never returned.
S. Henry Berthoud: The Second Sun
(1862)
If there is a charming place in the world to take the waters, it is surely Spa. One finds in combination there all the picturesque qualities of wild nature and all the comforts of the most exquisite research. One can be a poet in the morning and an epicure in the evening—and only a few hours on the railway separates Spa from Paris.
Here is the approximate genre of hygienic treatment followed by one of the so-called invalids who found himself at Spa 15 years ago. A poor writer, pursued during the winter by balls, dramatic spectacles, study and the social whirlwind, in order to cure himself he needed pure air, verdant countryside, undemanding distractions and perhaps, strictly speaking, a little water extracted from a mineral spring.
Thus, waking up late in the morning, he roamed the countryside, visited the magnificent manor of Justenville, sat down in the shade of the ruins of the old Château de Franchement, and always came back from these artistic excursions fairly early, so as not to miss the pleasures of the evening.
Among the brilliant and joyful host that gathered at Spa, an old phantom of sorts was seen wandering, whose status as an invalid no one could conscientiously contest. Lazarus emerged from the tomb could surely not have displayed a more livid and emaciated face. Sometimes he followed fervently the prescriptions of the doctor who presides over the waters and seemed to be clinging to life with all his strength. At other times he threw himself into the most dangerous excesses, drinking like four Englishmen—not water, but wine—consuming his nights gambling, and passing disdainfully by the fuming waves of the fountain of Pouchon.
The irregularity of the hygienic habits of the stranger was reproduced in his social habits. Sometimes he stayed alone and apart, and scarcely replied to the servants who asked for his instructions. At other times he was gracious, assiduous, amiable and witty with everyone, and caused the strangeness of his appearance to be forgotten by means of the section of his speech and the melodious softness of his voice.
One day, when the Parisian feuilletonist was walking past the spring of Sauvenière, preoccupied by some novel or other whose idea he was developing, the stranger suddenly accosted him.
“Monsieur,” he said, without any other preamble, “If you’re looking for a subject to write about, I’ll give you one that would, I think, lend itself to dramatic development in a singular fashion. Sit down here, if you please, and lend me your ear.
“The story opens in Copenhagen…”
The man of letters found the opening sufficiently original and unexpected for it to be worth the trouble of listening to the story. The old invalid, who expressed himself quite fluently in French, collected his thoughts for a few moments, placed his hands on his knees, and fixed the strange gaze of his large green-tinted eyes upon his auditor.
The story, as I have just told you, Monsieur, begins in Copenhagen. No city in Europe, especially if one considers its population, has a greater number of colleges t
han Copenhagen. In 1479, Christian I founded an alma universitas with statutes drawn up by the Archbishop of Uppsala, endowments of land and various privileges. Christian II enriched it with wealth confiscated from the clergy. Christian VII increased the number of professors and modified the statutes in such a way as to rejuvenate them and render them useful and practicable. Today, numerous royal or private foundations give bursaries to two hundred pupils; a cloister serves as lodging for a hundred others, who also receive free books and food.
The university of Copenhagen has a dozen extraordinary professors and 16 ordinary ones; the rank and salary of the former correspond to the rank and salary of a major, without counting the four écus paid annually and personally by the majority of the pupils that they instruct.
Doctor Magnussen had been the Extraordinary Professor of Philosophy at the University of Copenhagen for 19 years, 11 months and two days when he fell gravely ill and died.
The death of that man, one of the most knowledgeable in Denmark, whose modest and laborious life had been as honorable and pure before God as before men, left is widow and his daughter Stierna in a state verging on poverty. He bequeathed them nothing for a heritage by his library, a few scientific instruments, a little house in the suburbs and a sum of 300 or 400 écus, which would give them an income of 100 livres at the very most. In order to live, the two women had been counting on the pension to which the widows of professors were entitled after 20 years service on the part of their husbands. Alas, those 20 years were 28 days short of accomplishment, and the rector, after consulting the other professors and the minister himself, declared to Madame Magnussen with tears in his eyes that the letter of the law had to be rigorously observed, and that she would not be inscribed on the pension list.
The widow received this sad response to her application with more resignation that she had expected of herself. She accepted her fate courageously and resolved to live on her industry and handiwork.
This proved more difficult to do than she thought. In vain she asked everyone she knew for embroidery work, or even dressmaking, but no one wanted to entrust a lady with work that professional seamstresses would inevitably do better and at a lower price. The resource on which the widow and her daughter were counting was therefore lacking; they decided, as a last resort, to take advantage of their house, and to let the dead man’s bedroom and library to two boarders.
It cost Madame Magnussen a great deal to introduce strangers into her home in this way, and to become, in a way, their servant, but she was able to put so much dignity and noble simplicity into the manner in which she carried out her humble duties, that she only seemed more worthy of consideration and respect. Her first guests were, in any case, persons attached to the University and thus, so to speak friends.
One of them was an old Extraordinary Professor who taught Theology, the other a young man appointed, by virtue of the modifications caused by the death of Dr. Magnussen, to the Ordinary chair of Medicine. His name was Bertel Granh, and did not take long to obtain pardon from the widow for his 26 years, thanks to his correct conduct, the mildness of his mores and his passionate love of study. He only came down from his room at meal-times, said a few kind words to Madame Magnussen, bowed timidly to Stierna, and, on leaving the table, returned to his scientific labor—unless it was a holiday, and he was invited to take tea in company with his old colleague and two or three friends of the professor’s widow.
A year after her husband’s death, Madame Magnussen fell dangerously ill. Dr. Bertel Granh lavished his care upon her, so devotedly and so expertly that he succeeded in warding off the fever that had put the poor woman’s life in jeopardy. The recovery of the convalescent was celebrated by a family feast. Stierna embroidered a tobacco-pouch for Dr. Granh, and the latter resumed his solitary and laborious life as before.
In the meantime, the old Extraordinary Professor completed the 20 years that gave him the right to retire from the University, and he resolved to spend the days that remained to him in the village where he had been born. The loss of the boarder was a significant matter in Madame Magnussen’s household, raising the serious question of how he might be replaced. Bertel, when consulted, proposed a new professor, a childhood friend, who had come to teach medicine in one of the University’s three Ordinary Chairs. Ole Matthiesen thus came to occupy the room that had fallen vacant, and was not long delayed, like his friend, in gaining the affection of their hostess.
Good fortune seemed to have returned in full to the widow’s house, and her prayers thanked God every day for the consolations he deigned to accord her; a mother would not have been happier and more contented in the midst of her children than she was in the company of the two young men. Stierna lived alongside them as if she were their sister; she supervised the bleaching of their linen, put her care and pride into keeping it in good condition, and the last thing in the world she would have wanted was to leave them the least concern regarding their material life. You should have seen her in the morning, in her little corset and a short skirt, with her lovely arms bare, putting the cravats and vests she had just bleached out to dry on the washing-line in the courtyard, and hastening to make breakfast as soon as the cathedral clock struck 7:30. The two professors never had to wait a minute for their first meal, and they set off for the University afterwards with their arms fraternally linked, not without having received a maternal greeting from Madame Magnussen and a smile from Stierna’s rosy lips that said: “Au revoir!”
When they came back at midday, the young woman had replaced her pretty morning garb with a dress that was simple, but did justice to the suppleness of her figure and left the smooth contour of her swan-like neck all its grace and purity. Ordinarily, she knotted her blonde hair with ashy gleams on top of her head, which thus left uncovered a forehead as white as ivory, on which an angelic serenity was ensconced. The large near-black lashes that veiled her blue eyes gave her naïve and noble physiognomy an expression of ineffable candor that had nothing terrestrial about it. That glint of another world, moreover, was evident in her entire person; her feet did not seem to be made for trampling earthly dust; her hands, before which Thorvaldsen8 would have knelt, retained a divine whiteness in spite of her domestic chores; finally, one could not hear her vibrant and melodious voice without being moved. Everything—including her name, Stierna, which means star in Danish—concurred in rendering that harmony of grace and celestial virginity more complete and irresistible.
To see the two young professors going to the University, arm in arm, knowing that they had been childhood friends and were living under the same roof, one would naturally have believed them to be united by the most tender amity and the most absolute confidence. That was not the case, however. Under the appearances of a cordial fraternity, they lived more isolated from one another than if they had been separated by a great distance. Always ready to exchange the little services of which they might mutually have need, to settle a bill, to lend a book or to explain the obscure meaning of a difficult passage, they had never felt the need to say an affectionate word or to deposit in one another’s hearts the slightest intimate thought. Grave and melancholy during meals, scarcely raising their eyes toward Stierna, they only spoke to her in order to reply to her questions; Matthiesen never showed her more intimacy than Granh, and Granh made every effort never to cross the respectful limits at which Matthiesen stopped.
Madame Magnussen and Stierna put no difference into their affection and their conduct with regard to the two lodgers—but in each of them, that fashion of acting was natural, while in the two young men it resulted from real calculation, tacit convention and a set purpose that would have been evident to souls less naïve and confident than those of the professors widow and her daughter.
For two entire years, nothing changed, at least in appearance, in the relationships between these four individuals—except that Ole and Bertel became increasingly somber, and an amicable reproach from Madame Magnussen or an affectionate reprimand from Stierna could not always succ
eed in restoring a little serenity to their brows.
The young woman and her mother attributed this sadness to the fatigue of study. As for the two professors, neither of them was unaware of the true cause of their mutual and somber depression. Each of them had read his comrade’s heart. However careful they were not to meet one another’s eyes, hazard occasionally brought the glances of hatred that they darted at one another into collision.
One night, Ole Matthiesen, who could not sleep, had got out of bed and tried to distract himself with study, that opium which, perhaps better than any other, can numb the passions, suspend thought and daze the mind by means of intoxicating vertigo. Absorbed in his reading, he suddenly shivered, for the door opened abruptly and Bertel’s pale and somber face appeared.
“We can’t go on living like this,” said the latter. “Don’t you agree, Ole Matthiesen?”
“Yes, Bertel Granh,” Ole replied, getting to his feet to take down two pistols that were hanging on the wall. What you’ve just said, I’ve been thinking for a long time. When you came in, I was wondering whether I ought to go find you. The death of one of us, that’s what’s required.”
“Listen to me, Ole—a duel would put the whole city in turmoil. The survivor would be lost forever, forced to renounce his title of professor, obliged to flee Demark or submit to the rigor of the law. He would only be satisfied in his hatred—and we want more than that, don’t we. Ole?”
“I understand you, Bertel. Yes, let the hazards of chance decide between us. The one who is not favored must die, but die in secret, without anyone knowing his fate, without anyone in the world being able to discover what has become of him.”
“That’s what I wanted to propose to you. Very well, pick up that Bible and that dagger I see in your belt. Here’s mine, for we’ve been wearing daggers for a year. In a few seconds, the cathedral bells will chime midnight. At the moment when the last chime begins to sound, we’ll each bury our blade in the pages of the book. The one who picks out the letter closest to the beginning of the alphabet will dispose of the destiny of the other.”
The World Above The World Page 4
