While Rugel was saying that, Marcel had drawn nearer to Orealis. “My heart did not deceive me,” he told her, “when it drew me toward you. I had understood that your heart enclosed great virtues, and I shall retain far from you the regret of not having been able to vanquish your indifference.”
She made a gesture of protest. “You have never been indifferent to me, friend; you know that; but you dreamed the impossible, and I would have been culpable not to open your eyes. Far from me you’ll forget, and I hope that a companion worthy of you will soon give you the happiness you deserve.”
“Never,” Marcel replied. “If I have been obliged to renounce the hope of uniting my life with yours, I have not renounced the sentiment that you have inspired in me. The love that is in my heart will never leave it; I shall retain it there with jealous care; it will be my strength and consolation in the ordeals that await me.”
“Time will do its work, friend, believe me,” Orealis replied. “It scars all wounds.”
Marcel bowed without making any reply, but the expression on his face seemed to belie the hopes that the young woman’s words had just expressed.
Azali, who had conceived a sincere affection for those who owed their lives to him, and in whom Marcel’s character inspired more than esteem, had wanted to be near them during the final days that they were to spend in the lunar world. By virtue of a sentiment of reserve and delicacy, he had postponed his marriage to Rugel’s daughter. The love that Marcel had felt for her had not put any cloud between them. Azali’s mind was too elevated to be accessible to paltry mistrust or troubling jealousy; never had the slightest doubt crossed his mind with regard to the woman he loved. He knew very well, in any case, that if her heart had been touched by Marcel’s affection, she would neither have wanted nor been able to conceal the change in her inclination—but nothing had ever troubled the serenity of her face or veiled the limpid charity of her gaze.
In any case, a profound transformation had been wrought in Marcel’s sentiments: the noble virtue of Orealis, and the eventual conviction that his desires could not be realized, hand ended up triumphing over his initial ardor. Certainly, he still loved the young woman with all the force of his being, and he was sincere when he affirmed that no other woman would ever take her place in his heart, but that sentiment was purified; disengaged from any vulgar aspiration, it was no more than an ideal worship to which he wanted to remain piously faithful, an exquisite flower whose perfume was to embalm his entire life.
A sympathy had developed between the two men, and the love they experienced only made it stronger. Azali took an interest in the projects that Marcel had often mentioned to his hosts. He questioned him frequently; he wanted to know about the state of mind of the disinherited masses curbed by the wind of misery, and what might be attempted on Earth to remedy such frightful iniquities. Marcel told him about everything that generous souls, animated by a profound love of humanity accomplished in favor of their unfortunate brethren, inspired by the divine word that had once resounded over the world: “Love one another.”
Azali listened, and could not help feeling admiration when Marcel told him about the devoted men who, braving mortal contagions, risked cruel death in order to steal from nature some secret from which their fellows would profit, and the saintly women who sacrificed their youth and beauty, renouncing the pure joys of the family in order to devote themselves entirely to the service of the wretched, who lived in poisonous atmospheres, always in the presence of the most horrible wounds and the most frightful agonies, and often died as victims of their abnegation.
“That is great, and beautiful,” he murmured. “You have the right to be proud of such courage and such magnificent virtue. And I bow down respectfully before the Sovereign Wisdom that has permitted such precious flowers to blossom, in a humanity less well endowed than ours. In truth, one cannot regret injustice and misery too much, if they are the condition of such sublime actions.
“Yes,” said Marcel, “good and evil share our poor world, but there are somber hours in the existence of the people who live on Earth, when evil seems to have the upper hand. I won’t hide it from you, friend, that the most advanced nations of our humankind seem, at this moment, to be going through one of those fatal crises.
“A wind of hatred and anger that is blowing revolt into the hearts of the poor has risen among us. Men of bad faith, exploiting an ignorant and unfortunate crowd to the profit of their ambitions and their avarice are exciting the most detestable passions. They willingly close their eyes to all the good that people attempt to do; devotion appears suspect to them and charity an offense; they envelop in the same disapproval those who exploit the poor, enriching themselves on the fruit of their labor and those who make the most noble use of their fortune. They cause to shine in the eyes of those they deceive the mirage of some unrealizable city in which the leveling of a brutal equality will pass over all heads, in which, in a society from which all initiative and all love are excluded, silence and immobility will reign with the most implacable egotism. And to conquer that monstrous ideal, they dream of the destruction of the established order; they do not hesitate to arm fanatical hands, and it’s through ruins, blood and tears that they claim to be founding the happiness of humankind.
“It is to be feared that, perhaps in the near future, the passions thus overexcited will be unleashed and that formidable struggles might hold back—God only knows for how long—all progress.”
With a hint of melancholy, Marcel added: “I hope that with the treasures that the noble Orealis has just placed at our disposal, it will be possible for us to do some good. If we can neither prevent nor delay the fratricidal struggles that the wisest minds anticipate, we shall try, by diminishing the causes of misery for young generations and devoting ourselves to educating and moralizing them, to enlighten the ranks of that criminal army whose sacrilegious preaching launches them to assault society.”
“The objective you propose, friend,” Azali replied, “is worthy of you and your courage. If, as everything now permits the belief, regular communications continue between our world and yours, you can keep us informed of your attempts and your success. We shall follow them with all the interest inspired by the affection we have for you, and will be happy to have been able to help you in some small degree.”
Thus they conversed while awaiting the moment determined for the separation.
XVI. The Farewells
Everything was ready for the departure, which had been fixed for 25 February.
The shell in which the three voyagers had made their entrance into the lunar world had been placed in one of the rooms of the governmental palace and had been piously conserved as a monument of the most audacious enterprise that the genius of mortal creatures had ever attempted.
They had been obliged to construct another, equal in dimensions to the one that had made the first journey. They had chosen for its construction a violet metal as light as aluminum but even stronger—of which, it will be remembered, the metal plate had been made on which Marcel had read the invitation that had determined his departure from Earth. Only a few modifications had been made to it.
As seven-tenths of the surface of the Earth is covered by water there was a seventy per cent chance that the projectile would not fall on a continent. To those already considerable odds, the astronomers of the Moon had added the precision of their calculations.
Taking account of the givens of the problem—initial velocity, terrestrial and lunar gravity, the axial and orbital rotation of the Earth, and the orbital movement of the Moon—the shell ought to fall in a part of the Pacific Ocean in which its waters attained a depth between four and six thousand meters—more than sufficient to deaden the impact. The target area was on the equator, 130 degrees of longitude east of the Paris meridian—which is to say, in a region about fifty degrees distant from the American continent. The nearest land to that point is more than six hundred leagues away, which left a margin of error of twelve or thirteen hundred lea
gues, sufficient for a deviation, should any occur, not to offer any danger.
As the shell was to fall into the Pacific a long way from any land, it was necessary to provide it with sufficient navigability for it to be able to sail to any given point, if it were not picked up by a ship somewhere in the region. As it could float and was completely airtight, there was nothing to fear from the most furious tempests. In bad weather, it could only be tossed by the waves; it was only on a calm sea that it could be steered.
The scientists of the Moon, who did not want to leave anything to chance if they could provide for it be calculation and foresight, provided it with an ingenious mechanism. On the underside of the shell, in the vertical wall, a kind of chamber was fitted containing a helical propeller solidly secured between two strong metal plates. When the projectile came back to the surface after plunging into the ocean depths, it would be sufficient, by loosening the bolts holding it in position, to project it outside the exterior plate and using the thrust of the propeller, then able to rotate freely in the water, to move the novel kind of boat. In order that the vessel could be steered—which its cylindrical shape would render difficult—two cavities were placed a short distance above the chamber containing the propeller, in such a fashion that a movable rudder could be inserted therein, kept inside the shell until required and then passed through the upper porthole. The propeller would be powered by electrical accumulators capable of keeping it going at a sufficient speed for several weeks.
With such an apparatus they could not expect to make very rapid progress, nor to maintain a reliable direction, but as the imminent departure of the voyagers had been announced to their friends, with an approximate indication of the region in which they ought to fall, it was permissible to believe that vessels would be sent to search for them and that they would not be left at the mercy of the waves for long.
The system of breaking partitions destined to suppress the violence of the shock produced on the shell by the deflagration of the explosive that would project it into space, as well as the three sets of rockets intended to show its fall had been adopted by the constructors of the new projectile. All that had seemed to them to be ingeniously planned and sufficient.
As for the explosive itself, the lunar scientists, who possessed a very abundant collection, had been spoiled for choice. The one they had selected developed, in a very restricted volume, a formidable expansive force, and only occupied a height of eighteen meters in the barrel of the cannon—which, given that the total length of the gun was a hundred and fifty meters, left the projectile a hundred and thirty-two meters to travel before being launched into space.
According to the calculations, and in order that the shell would encounter the Earth at the target point, or at least in the region of which it formed the center, the departure on 25 February had to be effected at eight forty-five and twenty-seven seconds, calculated with reference to the Paris meridian. A month still separated the voyagers from that date. The weeks that followed were employed by them in visiting the world in which they had been living for two years one last time.
In that relatively limited population, in which everyone was interested in everything concerning public life, the news of the imminent departure of the strangers had produced a painful impression. In the long months that they had seen them living the common life, coming and going through the regions they had explored in every direction, everyone had got to know them, had become used to them and learned to love them.
Marcel’s exuberant frankness, Jacques’ slightly melancholy gravity and Lord Rodilan’s familiar humor, with its unexpected sallies of wit, made a contrast, in the midst of that calm and thoughtful population, that rendered the sympathy of which they were the object even keener. For some time their hosts doubted it, because they could not get used to the idea of no longer seeing them, but when it became certain that their resolution was immutable, and it was known that the means for their departure were fully prepared and complete, there was a veritable sadness. Everywhere they went, crowds gathered; people wanted to see them one last time, to shake their hands and collect their final words.
By the marks of sympathy lavished upon them and the expressions of regret legible in all faces, the voyagers were able to judge the place that they had acquired in the life of that humankind, the importance in everyone’s eyes of what they had accomplished, and the gap that they would leave behind.
They manifested their intention of bidding farewell to the Head of State.
“You’ve anticipated his own desire,” Rugel told them. “The prudent Aldeovaze does not want to let you leave out planet without bidding you adieu. He’s ready to see you.”
Rugel and his guests returned to the capital, therefore, and went to the palace of government. They were introduced into the great hall, where Aldeovaze was surrounded by his Council.
As they contemplated, for the last time, that venerable assembly of men, whose wisdom and virtue elevated them so far above their own humankind, the three voyagers felt their hearts fill with respectful admiration.
In the two years that they had been living on the Moon, they had often been admitted to observe its solemn deliberations, and had always been struck by the calm and dignity that reigned in its grave debates. When they recalled the sessions of the legislative assemblies of the States that gloried in being the most civilized on Earth, they blushed for their compatriots. Here, there’re was nothing similar to those gatherings of undisciplined schoolboys, turbulent and loquacious, which a quasi-pedagogical president had great difficulty in controlling, during which, in stormy sessions, abuse was exchanged, insults rained down, threats burst forth, and the sacred interests of the fatherland were bargained away in the clash of personal ambitions and paltry competition.
It seemed to them that they had before their eyes a rare cenacle that might have gathered together all the great figures that history had consecrated, and whom terrestrial humankind would always honor with a quasi-divine reverence: Socrates and Plato, Solon and Marcus Aurelius, John Chrysostom and Vincent de Paul, Michel de l’Hôpital and Descartes: all the geniuses, great in heart and intellect, that our inferior world honors, who seem to be the ransom of its vices and weaknesses.
The sages who formed the Council had, in their very nature, something more ideal and closer to absolute perfection than the purest terrestrial glories.
The envoy of the king of Epirus had thought, in the presence of the Roman sensate, that he was before and assembly of kings; the three friends could have believed that they were before an assembly of gods.
“Venerated leader of the lunar world,” said Marcel, after having bowed profoundly, “we wanted, before returning to Earth, to express the sentiments of respect and gratitude with which our hearts are penetrated. Thanks to you, we have been able to attain the goal that we glimpsed, never daring to hope for such a complete realization. The communications between our two worlds are now an accomplished fact; the noble thought that you expressed when we arrived among you has been put into practice; the vast horizon of fraternal exchanges and progress accomplished in common now becomes accessible to two human races. Our work is done. Our duty, in accord with our affections, recalls us to our homeland. Others will continue what we have commenced, and we shall always retain in the depths of our hearts and eternal memory of your benevolence and generosity.”
Aldeovaze had risen to his feet, and in spite of the austere gravity of his attitude, a contained emotion made his voice tremble slightly.
“Friends,” he said to them, “we never expected that you would remain here forever, but we hoped that you would not think of leaving us so soon. We understand the sentiments animating you, however, and far from seeking to retain you, we have done everything possible to ensure that you could depart at the moment you have chosen. It will not be without sadness that we shall see those to whom so many bonds already attach us go away, but the memory of the great things you have done will not perish. Your courage has rendered possible what has only
been until now a vain utopia, and for as long as the two worlds go side by side along the eternal route that divine wisdom has traced for them, your names will be repeated and blessed from one age to the next. Perhaps our globe, which has aged faster than yours in its sidereal evolution, is destined to end sooner, but so long as human life persists here, it will have the consolation of no longer being alone in space, and will know that it owes that inappreciable benefit to you. Return to our brothers on Earth, then; tell them that we love them and want to work in accord with them for the common happiness of our two humankinds.”
The moment of departure arrived.
Aldeovaze wanted to give the voyagers, at the moment when they were about to undertake the hazardous journey so audaciously for a second time, a mark of his esteem and sympathy. With the members of the Supreme Council, he had gone to the observatory where the final adieux were to be exchanged.
All those who had lived in intimacy with Marcel, Jacques and Lord Rodilan were there: Rugel and his daughter, Merovar and Azali, and the two young men and the young woman brought from so far away, who would never forget those whose courage had contributed in such large measure to their salvation. They all felt gripped by a cruel sentiment of anguish.
No matter how exact the calculations of the scientists were that had fixed the moment of departure and marked the time of arrival, no one was unaware that the slightest error might suffice for the projectile, instead of plunging into the oceanic abyss, to crash on a continent. But those fears, which they all felt without daring to formulate them, had not troubled the intrepid souls of the three friends.
As the decisive moment approached, their valor seemed to increase. Now the resolution was firm, they were departing without casting a backward glance, and their gaze was rising into space toward the terrestrial world to which they were about to return.
Everyone had gathered on the terrace of the observatory, and the Earth, full at that moment, was brilliantly illuminated. They drank in the sight with all the ardor of their souls; they were impatient to be on their way.
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