phenomenon.
Within eight days, the people of Hamburg, on the tip of the tower of St. Michael’s Church; the Turks, on the highest minaret of the Hagia Sophia; the people of Rouen, at the end of their cathedral’s metallic spire; the people of Strasbourg, on the pinnacle of the Münster;20 the Americans, on the head of their Statue of Liberty at the mouth of the Hudson,21 and on the top of the Washington Monument in Washing-ton;22 the Chinese, on the summit of the Temple of the Five Hundred Gods in Canton;23 the Hindus, on the seventh story of the pyramid of the Temple of Tanjavur;24 the devotees of St. Peter, on the cross of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome; the English, on the cross of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London; the Egyptians, on the tip of the Great Pyramid of Giza; the Parisians, on the lightning rod of the Iron Tower of the Exposition of 1889,25 three hundred meters high—could all observe a flag, flying at each of these all-but-inaccessible places.
And this flag was black, of thin cotton weave, scattered with stars, with a golden sun at its center.26
CHAPTER
2
In which the members of the Weldon Institute dispute without managing to reach an agreement
“And the first to say otherwise—”
“Oh really! … But people will say otherwise, if ever they need to!”
“Yes, despite all your threats! …”
“Watch your language, Bat Fyn!”
“And yours, Uncle Prudent!”
“I say the propeller must not be in the back!”
“So do we! … So do we! …” replied fifty voices, mingled in common accord.
“No! It must be in the front!” shouted Phil Evans.
“In the front!” replied fifty other voices, with a vigor no less remarkable.
“We’ll never be of the same mind!”
“Never! … Never!”
“Then what good is it to argue?”
“This isn’t an argument, it’s a discussion!”
That was difficult to believe, given the polemics, the insults, the vociferations, that had permeated the hall for a good quarter of an hour at least.
This hall, it is true, was the largest one in the Weldon Institute1—a club celebrated among all others, situated in Walnut Street, in Philadelphia, state of Pennsylvania, United States of America.
Now the previous evening, in that city, on the subject of the election of a gas lighter, there had been public demonstrations, noisy meetings, punches exchanged between sides. Hence, a wild agitation that had still not abated, and which perhaps explains the overexcited state the members of the Weldon Institute have just displayed. And yet, this was nothing more than a simple gathering of “balloonians,” debating the question—still a gripping one, even in that era—of how to steer balloons.
It was occurring in an American city whose rapid development surpasses even that of New York, Chicago, Cincinnati, or San Francisco—a city that is neither a port, nor a center for mining oil or petroleum, nor an industrial hub, nor a terminus for a group of railroads—a city larger than Berlin, Manchester, Edinburgh, Liverpool, Vienna, Saint Petersburg, Dublin—a city that possesses a park in which all seven parks in the capital of England could fit together—a city, finally, that currently counts almost twelve hundred thousand souls and calls itself the fourth city in the world, after London, Paris, and New York.
Philadelphia is almost a city of marble, with its grand houses and unrivaled public establishments. The most important of all New World high schools is Girard College, and it is in Philadelphia. The largest iron bridge in the world is the bridge over the Schuylkill River, and it is in Philadelphia. The most beautiful temple of Freemasonry is the Masonic Temple, and it is in Philadelphia. Finally, the biggest club for enthusiasts of aerial navigation is in Philadelphia. And if one wants to pay it a visit during that meeting of June 12, perhaps one will find some amusement in what one sees.
In this great hall bustled, thrashed, gesticulated, talked, discussed, disputed—all with hats on their heads—some hundred balloonians, under the high authority of a president assisted by a secretary and a treasurer. It must not be supposed that these balloonians were professional engineers. No; they were simple aficionados of all that pertained to aerostatics, but rabidly enthusiastic aficionados, and particularly sworn enemies of those who opposed balloons with “heavier-than-air” apparatuses, whether flying machines, aerial ships, or other crafts. That these good people may never find a means of steering balloons is possible. In any case, their president had some difficulty in steering them.
This president, well-known in Philadelphia, was the famous Uncle Prudent—Prudent being his family name. As for the designation Uncle, that is unsurprising in America, where one can be an uncle without having either nephew or niece. People are called Uncle there, as elsewhere people are called Father who have never undertaken a work of paternity.
Uncle Prudent was a distinguished personage, and, despite his name, known for his audacity. Very rich, which does one no harm, even in the United States. And how could he not be rich, given that he owned a large fraction of stock in Niagara Falls? In that era, a society of engineers had been founded at Buffalo for the exploitation of the cataracts. Business boomed. The 7,500 cubic meters that the Niagara discharges per second produced seven million horsepower. This enormous force, distributed to all the factories built within a radius of five hundred kilometers, made for an annual saving of fifteen hundred million francs, part of which came back to the society’s funds, and in particular into Uncle Prudent’s pockets.2 Moreover, he was a bachelor, and lived simply, having no domestic staff but his valet Frycollin, who hardly merited serving so daring a master. Such anomalies happen.
That Uncle Prudent had friends, since he was rich, goes without saying; but he also had enemies, since he was the president of the club—among others, all those who envied that position. And among the fiercest of those enemies, one must mention the secretary of the Weldon Institute.
This was Phil Evans, himself very rich, for he directed the Walton Watch Company, an important factory that makes five thousand watch movements each day and delivers products comparable to the best mechanisms in Switzerland. Phil Evans could therefore have passed for one of the happiest men in the world, or even in the United States, were it not for Uncle Prudent’s situation. Like Uncle Prudent, he was forty-five years old; like him, endowed with indestructible health; like him, undeniably daring; like him, largely uninterested in trading the certain advantages of celibacy for the more doubtful ones of marriage. Here were two men well fitted for understanding each other, but that was exactly what they did not do. And both of them, it must be said, were extremely violent in character: Uncle Prudent hotly, and Phil Evans coldly.
And on what grounds had Phil Evans not been appointed club president? The votes were split exactly between him and Uncle Prudent. Twenty times they had been recounted, and twenty times no majority had appeared for either the one or the other. An embarrassing situation, which might outlast even the lives of the two candidates.
Then one of the members of the club proposed a means of breaking the tie. This
