On the morning of July 8th I received the following telegram: “Fine day. Always my predictions. Belgian frontier. Baggage and servants left at noon at the social session. Beginning of manoeuvres at three. So I will wait for you at the works from five o'clock on. Jovis.”
At five o'clock sharp I entered the gas works of La Villette. It might have been mistaken for the colossal1 ruins of an old town inhabited by Cyclops. There were immense dark avenues separating heavy gasometers standing2 one behind another, like monstrous3 columns, unequally high and, undoubtedly4, in the past the supports of some tremendous, some fearful iron edifice5.
The balloon was lying in the courtyard and had the appearance of a cake made of yellow cloth, flattened6 on the ground under a rope. That is called placing a balloon in a sweep-net, and, in fact, it appeared like an enormous fish.
Two or three hundred people were looking at it, sitting or standing, and some were examining the basket, a nice little square basket for a human cargo7, bearing on its side in gold letters on a mahogany plate the words: Le Horla.
Suddenly the people began to stand back, for the gas was beginning to enter into the balloon through a long tube of yellow cloth, which lay on the soil, swelling8 and undulating like an enormous worm. But another thought, another picture occurs to every mind. It is thus that nature itself nourishes beings until their birth. The creature that will rise soon begins to move, and the attendants of Captain Jovis, as Le Horla grew larger, spread and put in place the net which covers it, so that the pressure will be regular and equally distributed at every point.
The operation is very delicate and very important, for the resistance of the cotton cloth of which the balloon is made is figured not in proportion to the contact surface of this cloth with the net, but in proportion to the links of the basket.
Le Horla, moreover, has been designed by M. Mallet9, constructed under his own eyes and made by himself. Everything had been made in the shops of M. Jovis by his own working staff and nothing was made outside.
We must add that everything was new in this balloon, from the varnish10 to the valve, those two essential parts of a balloon. Both must render the cloth gas-proof, as the sides of a ship are waterproof11. The old varnishes12, made with a base of linseed oil, sometimes fermented13 and thus burned the cloth, which in a short time would tear like a piece of paper.
The valves were apt to close imperfectly after being opened and when the covering called “cataplasme” was injured. The fall of M. L'Hoste in the open sea during the night proved the imperfection of the old system.
The two discoveries of Captain Jovis, the varnish principally, are of inestimable value in the art of ballooning.
The crowd has begun to talk, and some men, who appear to be specialists, affirm with authority that we shall come down before reaching the fortifications. Several other things have been criticized in this novel type of balloon with which we are about to experiment with so much pleasure and success.
It is growing slowly but surely. Some small holes and scratches made in transit14 have been discovered, and we cover them and plug them with a little piece of paper applied15 on the cloth while wet. This method of repairing alarms and mystifies the public.
While Captain Jovis and his assistants are busy with the last details, the travellers go to dine in the canteen of the gas-works, according to the established custom.
When we come out again the balloon is swaying, enormous and transparent16, a prodigious17 golden fruit, a fantastic pear which is still ripening18, covered by the last rays of the setting sun. Now the basket is attached, the barometers19 are brought, the siren, which we will blow to our hearts' content, is also brought, also the two trumpets20, the eatables, the overcoats and raincoats, all the small articles that can go with the men in that flying basket.
As the wind pushes the balloon against the gasometers, it is necessary to steady it now and then, to avoid an accident at the start.
Captain Jovis is now ready and calls all the passengers.
Lieutenant21 Mallet jumps aboard, climbing first on the aerial net between the basket and the balloon, from which he will watch during the night the movements of Le Horla across the skies, as the officer on watch, standing on starboard, watches the course of a ship.
M. Etierine Beer gets in after him, then comes M. Paul Bessand, then M. Patrice Eyries and I get in last.
But the basket is too heavy for the balloon, considering the long trip to be taken, and M. Eyries has to get out, not without great regret.
M. Joliet, standing erect22 on the edge of the basket, begs the ladies, in very gallant23 terms, to stand aside a little, for he is afraid he might throw sand on their hats in rising. Then he commands:
“Let it loose,” and, cutting with one stroke of his knife the ropes that hold the balloon to the ground, he gives Le Horla its liberty.
In one second we fly skyward. Nothing can be heard; we float, we rise, we fly, we glide24. Our friends shout with glee and applaud, but we hardly hear them, we hardly see them. We are already so far, so high! What? Are we really leaving these people down there? Is it possible? Paris spreads out beneath us, a dark bluish patch, cut by its streets, from which rise, here and there, domes25, towers, steeples, then around it the plain, the country, traversed by long roads, thin and white, amidst green fields of a tender or dark green, and woods almost black.
The Seine appears like a coiled snake, asleep, of which we see neither head nor tail; it crosses Paris, and the entire field resembles an immense basin of prairies and forests dotted here and there by mountains, hardly visible in the horizon.
The sun, which we could no longer see down below, now reappears as though it were about to rise again, and our balloon seems to be lighted; it must appear like a star to the people who are looking up. M. Mallet every few seconds throws a cigarette paper intospace and says quietly: “We are rising, always rising,” while Captain Jovis, radiant with joy, rubs his hands together and repeats: “Eh? this varnish? Isn't it good?”
In fact, we can see whether we are rising or sinking only by throwing a cigarette paper out of the basket now and then. If this paper appears to fall down like a stone, it means that the balloon is rising; if it appears to shoot skyward the balloon is descending26.
The two barometers mark about five hundred meters, and we gaze with enthusiastic admiration28 at the earth we are leaving and to which we are not attached in any way; it looks like a colored map, an immense plan of the country. All its noises, however, rise to our ears very distinctly, easily recognizable. We hear the sound of the wheels rolling in the streets, the snap of a whip, the cries of drivers, the rolling and whistling of trains and the laughter of small boys running after one another. Every time we pass over a village the noise of children's voices is heard above the rest and with the greatest distinctness. Some men are calling us; the locomotives whistle; we answer with the siren, which emits plaintive29, fearfully shrill30 wails31 like the voice of a weird32 being wandering through the world.
We perceive lights here and there, some isolated33 fire in the farms, and lines of gas in the towns. We are going toward the northwest, after roaming for some time over the little lake of Enghien. Now we see a river; it is the Oise, and we begin to argue about the exact spot we are passing. Is that town Creil or Pontoise—the one with so many lights? But if we were over Pontoise we could see the junction34 of the Seine and the Oise; and that enormous fire to the left, isn't it the blast furnaces of Montataire? So then we are above Creil. The view is superb; it is dark on the earth, but we are still in the light, and it is now past ten o'clock. Now we begin to hear slight country noises, the double cry of the quail35 in particular, then the mewing of cats and the barking of dogs. Surely the dogs have scented36 the balloon; they have seen it and have given the alarm. We can hear them barking all over the plain and making the identical noise they make when baying at the moon. The cows also seem to wake up in the barns, for we can hear them lowing; all the beasts are scared and moved before the aerial monster that is passing.
The delicious odors of the soil rise toward us, the smell of hay, of flowers, of the moist, verdant37 earth, perfuming the air-a light air, in fact, so light, so sweet, so delightful38 that I realize I never was so fortunate as to breathe before. A profound sense of well-being39, unknown to me heretofore, pervades40 me, a well-being of body and spirit, composed of supineness, of infinite rest, of forgetfulness, of indifference41 to everything and of this novel sensation of traversing space without any of the sensations that make motion unbearable42, without noise, without shocks and without fear.
At times we rise and then descend27. Every few minutes Lieutenant Mallet, suspended in his cobweb of netting, says to Captain Jovis: “We are descending; throw down half a handful.” And the captain, who is talking and laughing with us, with a bag of ballast between his legs, takes a handful of sand out of the bag and throws it overboard.
Nothing is more amusing, more delicate, more interesting than the manoeuvring of a balloon. It is an enormous toy, free and docile43, which obeys with surprising sensitiveness, but it is also, and before all, the slave of the wind, which we cannot control. A pinch of sand, half a sheet of paper, one or two drops of water, the bones of a chicken which we had just eaten, thrown overboard, makes it go up quickly.
A breath of cool, damp air rising from the river or the wood we are traversing makes the balloon descend two hundred metres. It does not vary when passing over fields of ripe grain, and it rises when it passes over towns.
The earth sleeps now, or, rather, men sleep on the earth, for the beasts awakened44 by the sight of our balloon announce our approach everywhere. Now and then the rolling of a train or the whistling of a locomotive is plainly distinguishable. We sound our siren as we pass over inhabited places; and the peasants, terrified in their beds, must surely tremble and ask themselves if the Angel Gabriel is not passing by.
A strong and continuous odor of gas can be plainly observed. We must have encountered a current of warm air, and the balloon expands, losing its invisible blood by the escape-valve, which is called the appendix, and which closes of itself as soon as the expansion ceases.
We are rising. The earth no longer gives back the echo of our trumpets; we have risen almost two thousand feet. It is not light enough for us to consult the instruments; we only know that the rice paper falls from us like dead butterflies, that we are rising, always rising. We can no longer see the earth; a light mist separates us from it; and above our head twinkles a world of stars.
A silvery light appears before us and makes the sky turn pale, and suddenly, as if it were rising from unknown depths behind the horizon below us rises the moon on the edge of a cloud. It seems to be coming from below, while we are looking down upon it from a great height, leaning on the edge of our basket like an audience on a balcony. Clear and round, it emerges from the clouds and slowly rises in the sky.
The earth no longer seems to exist, it is buried in milky45 vapors46 that resemble a sea. We are now alone in space with the moon, which looks like another balloon travelling opposite us; and our balloon, which shines in the air, appears like another, larger moon, a world wandering in the sky amid the stars, through infinity47. We no longer speak, think nor live; we float along through space in delicious inertia48. The air which is bearing us up has made of us all beings which resemble itself, silent, joyous49, irresponsible beings, intoxicated50 by this stupendous flight, peculiarly alert, although motionless. One is no longer conscious of one's flesh or one's bones; one's heart seems to have ceased beating; we have become something indescribable, birds who do not even have to flap their wings.
All memory has disappeared from our minds, all trouble from our thoughts; we have no more regrets, plans nor hopes. We look, we feel, we wildly enjoy this fantastic journey; nothing in the sky but the moon and ourselves! We are a wandering, travelling world, like our sisters, the planets; and this little world carries five men who have left the earth and who have almost forgotten it. We can now see as plainly as in daylight; we look at each other, surprised at this brightness, for we have nothing to look at but ourselves and a few silvery clouds floating below us. The barometers mark twelve hundred metres, then thirteen, fourteen, fifteen hundred; and the little rice papers still fall about us.
Captain Jovis claims that the moon has often made balloons act thus, and that the upward journey will continue.
We are now at two thousand metres; we go up to two thousand three hundred and fifty; then the balloon stops: We blow the siren and are surprised that no one answers us from the stars.
We are now going down rapidly. M. Mallet keeps crying: “Throw out more ballast! throw out more ballast!” And the sand and stones that we throw over come back into our faces, as if they were going up, thrown from below toward the stars, so rapid is our descent.
Here is the earth! Where are we? It is now past midnight, and we are crossing a broad, dry, well-cultivated country, with many roads and well populated.
To the right is a large city and farther away to the left is another. But suddenly from the earth appears a bright fairy light; it disappears, reappears and once more disappears. Jovis, intoxicated by space, exclaims: “Look, look at this phenomenon of the moon in the water. One can see nothing more beautiful at night!”
Nothing indeed can give one an idea of the wonderful brightness of these spots of light which are not fire, which do not look like reflections, which appear quickly here or there and immediately go out again. These shining lights appear on the winding51 rivers at every turn, but one hardly has time to see them as the balloon passes as quickly as the wind.
We are now quite near the earth, and Beer exclaims:—“Look at that! What is that running over there in the fields? Isn't it a dog?” Indeed, something is running along the ground with great speed, and this something seems to jump over ditches, roads, trees with such ease that we could not understand what it might be. The captain laughed: “It is the shadow of our balloon. It will grow as we descend.”
I distinctly hear a great noise of foundries in the distance. And, according to the polar star, which we have been observing all night, 'and which I have so often watched and consulted from the bridge of my little yacht on the Mediterranean52, we are heading straight for Belgium.
Our siren and our two horns are continually calling. A few cries from some truck driver or belated reveler answer us. We bellow53: “Where are we?” But the balloon is going so rapidly that the bewildered man has not even time to answer us. The growing shadow of Le Horla, as large as a child's ball, is fleeing before us over the fields, roads and woods. It goes along steadily54, preceding us by about a quarter of a mile; and now I am leaning out of the basket, listening to the roaring of the wind in the trees and across the harvest fields. I say to Captain Jovis: “How the wind blows!”
He answers: “No, those are probably waterfalls.” I insist, sure of my ear that knows the sound of the wind, from hearing it so often whistle through the rigging. Then Jovis nudges me; he fears to frighten his happy, quiet passengers, for he knows full well that a storm is pursuing us.
At last a man manages to understand us; he answers: “Nord!” We get the same reply from another.
Suddenly the lights of a town, which seems to be of considerable size, appear before us. Perhaps it is Lille. As we approach it, such a wonderful flow of fire appears below us that I think myself transported into some fairyland where precious stones are manufactured for giants.
It seems that it is a brick factory. Here are others, two, three. The fusing material bubbles, sparkles, throws out blue, red, yellow, green sparks, reflections from giant diamonds, rubies55, emeralds, turquoises56, sapphires57, topazes. And near by are great foundries roaring like apocalyptic58 lions; high chimneys belch59 forth60 their clouds of smoke and flame, and we can hear the noise of metal striking against metal.
“Where are we?”
The voice of some joker or of a crazy person answers: “In a balloon!”
“Where are we?”
“At Lille!”
We were not mistaken. We are already out of sight of the town, and we see Roubaix to the right, then some well-cultivated, rectangular fields, of different colors according to the crops, some yellow, some gray or brown. But the clouds are gathering61 behind us, hiding the moon, whereas toward the east the sky is growing lighter62, becoming a clear blue tinged63 with red. It is dawn. It grows rapidly, now showing us all the little details of the earth, the trains, the brooks64, the cows, the goats. And all this passes beneath us with surprising speed. One hardly has time to notice that other fields, other meadows, other houses have already disappeared. Cocks are crowing, but the voice of ducks drowns everything. One might think the world to be peopled, covered with them, they make so much noise.
The early rising peasants are waving their arms and crying to us: “Let yourselves drop!” But we go along steadily, neither rising nor falling, leaning over the edge of the basket and watching the world fleeing under our feet.
Jovis sights another city far off in the distance. It approaches; everywhere are old church spires65. They are delightful, seen thus from above. Where are we? Is this Courtrai? Is it Ghent?
We are already very near it, and we see that it is surrounded by water and crossed in every direction by canals. One might think it a Venice of the north. Just as we are passing so near to a church tower that our long guy-rope almost touches it, the chimes begin to ring three o'clock. The sweet, clear sounds rise to us from this frail66 roof which we have almost touched in our wandering course. It is a charming greeting, a friendly welcome from Holland. We answer with our siren, whose raucous67 voice echoes throughout the streets.
It was Bruges. But we have hardly lost sight of it when my neighbor, Paul Bessand, asks me: “Don't you see something over there, to the right, in front of us? It looks like a river.”
And, indeed, far ahead of us stretches a bright highway, in the light of the dawning day. Yes, it looks like a river, an immense river full of islands.
“Get ready for the descent,” cried the captain. He makes M. Mallet leave his net and return to the basket; then we pack the barometers and everything that could be injured by possible shocks. M. Bessand exclaims: “Look at the masts over there to the left! We are at the sea!”
Fogs had hidden it from us until then. The sea was everywhere, to the left and opposite us, while to our right the Scheldt, which had joined the Moselle, extended as far as the sea, its mouths vaster than a lake.
It was necessary to descend within a minute or two. The rope to the escape-valve, which had been religiously enclosed in a little white bag and placed in sight of all so that no one would touch it, is unrolled, and M. Mallet holds it in his hand while Captain Jovis looks for a favorable landing.
“Pull!” cried Jovis.
We were passing over a canal. The basket trembled and tipped over slightly. The guy-rope touched the tall trees on both banks. But our speed is so great that the long rope now trailing does not seem to slow down, and we pass with frightful69 rapidity over a large farm, from which the bewildered chickens, pigeons and ducks fly away, while the cows, cats and dogs run, terrified, toward the house.
Just one-half bag of ballast is left. Jovis throws it overboard, and Le Horla flies lightly across the roof.
The captain once more cries: “The escape-valve!”
M. Mallet reaches for the rope and hangs to it, and we drop like an arrow. With a slash70 of a knife the cord which retains the anchor is cut, and we drag this grapple behind us, through a field of beets71. Here are the trees.
“Take care! Hold fast! Look out for your heads!”
We pass over them. Then a strong shock shakes us. The anchor has taken hold.
“Look out! Take a good hold! Raise yourselves by your wrists. We are going to touch ground.”
The basket does indeed strike the earth. Then it flies up again. Once more it falls and bounds upward again, and at last it settles on the ground, while the balloon struggles madly, like a wounded beast.
Peasants run toward us, but they do not dare approach. They were a long time before they decided72 to come and deliver us, for one cannot set foot on the ground until the bag is almost completely deflated73.
Then, almost at the same time as the bewildered men, some of whom showed their astonishment74 by jumping, with the wild gestures of savages75, all the cows that were grazing along the coast came toward us, surrounding our balloon with a strange and comical circle of horns, big eyes and blowing nostrils76.
With the help of the accommodating and hospitable77 Belgian peasants, we were able in a short time to pack up all our material and carry it to the station at Heyst, where at twenty minutes past eight we took the train for Paris.
The descent occurred at three-fifteen in the morning, preceding by only a few seconds the torrent78 of rain and the blinding lightning of the storm which had been chasing us before it.
Thanks to Captain Jovis, of whom I had heard much from my colleague, Paul Ginisty—for both of them had fallen together and voluntarily into the sea opposite Mentone—thanks to this brave man, we were able to see, in a single night, from far up in the sky, the setting of the sun, the rising of the moon and the dawn of day and to go from Paris to the mouth of the Scheldt through the skies.
[This story appeared in “Figaro” on July 16, 1887, under the title:
“From Paris to Heyst.”]
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1
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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varnishes
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| 清漆的面（尤指木器或金属制品上的）( varnish的名词复数 )； 光泽面； 罩光漆 | |
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fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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barometers
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| 气压计，晴雨表( barometer的名词复数 ) | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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turquoises
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| n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 )；青绿色 | |
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sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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apocalyptic
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| adj.预示灾祸的，启示的 | |
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belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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beets
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| 甜菜( beet的名词复数 )； 甜菜根； （因愤怒、难堪或觉得热而）脸红 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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deflated
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| adj. 灰心丧气的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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