The Rival Mechanicians

A famous watchmaker of Geneva sat wiping his spectacles as he examined several chronometers that his two apprentices had laid before him. "I am growing old," he said, "and my sight is failing fast. Well done, my lads, very well done. I hardly know which of you will best take the place of old Antoine Breguet. Thirty years ago—pardon an old man's vanity—I could have outdone a hundred like you. But my sight is dim, and my hands tremble. I must retire from the place I have occupied in this busy world, and I confess I should like to give up my famous old stand to a worthy successor. Whichever of you produces the most perfect piece of mechanism before the end of two years shall be my partner and representative, if Rosabella and I both agree in the decision."

His granddaughter, who was busy spinning flax, looked up bashfully and met the gaze of the two young men. The face of one flushed, and his eye sparkled; the other turned very pale, and there was a painfully deep intensity in his fixed stare.

The one who blushed was Florien Arnaud, a youth from the French Cantons. He was slender and graceful, with beautiful features, clear blue eyes, and a complexion as fresh as Hylas when the enamored water nymphs carried him away in their arms. He danced like a zephyr and sang little airy French romances in the sweetest of tenor voices.

The one who turned pale was Pierre Berthoud, of Geneva. He had heavy features, a broad frame, and clumsy movements. But the shape of his head hinted at powerful intellect, and his great dark eyes glowed from under the shelter of his brows like a forge at midnight. He played the bass viol and the trombone, and when he sang, the tones sounded as if they arose from deep iron mines.

Rosabella quickly turned away from their expressive glances and, blushing deeply, resumed her spinning. The Frenchman felt certain the blush was for him; the Genevan thought he would willingly give his life to be certain it was for him. But unlike as the young men were in person and character, and though both were drawn to the same lovely maiden, they remained extremely friendly toward each other and usually found pleasure in the harmonious contrast of their different gifts. The first feeling of estrangement between them came one evening when Florien sang remarkably well and Rosabella accompanied him on her guitar. She evidently enjoyed the graceful music with all her soul. Her countenance was more radiantly beautiful than usual, and when the fascinating singer rose to go, she begged him to sing another favorite song, and then another and another. "She never urges me to sing with her," said Pierre as they retired for the night.

"And with very good reason," replied his friend, laughing. "Your stentorian tones would quite drown her weak, sweet voice and her light touch on the guitar. You might as well have a hammer-and-anvil accompaniment to a canary bird." Seeing discontent on his companion's face, he added soothingly, "Nay, my good friend, don't be offended by this playful comparison. Your voice is magnificently strong and beautifully correct, but it is made for grander things than those graceful little garlands of sound that Rosabella and I weave so easily."

Pierre sprang up quickly and went to the other side of the room. "Rosabella and I," were sounds that went hissing through his heart like a red-hot arrow. But his manly efforts soon conquered the jealous feeling, and he said cheerfully, "Well, Florien, let us accept the offer of good Father Breguet. We will try our skill fairly and honorably, and leave him and Rosabella to decide, without knowing which is your work and which is mine."

Florien suppressed a rising smile, for he thought to himself, "She will know my workmanship as easily as she could distinguish my fairy romances from your Samson solos." But he replied right cordially, "Honestly and truly, Pierre, I think we are as mechanicians very nearly equal in skill. But let us both tax our ingenuity to invent something best to please Rosabella. Her birthday comes in about six months. In honor of the occasion, I will make some ornaments for the little arbor facing the brook, where she loves to sit in pleasant weather and read to the good old grandfather."

"I will do the same," answered Pierre; "only let both our ornaments be machines." They clasped hands and, looking frankly into each other's eyes, ratified the agreement. From that hour they spoke no more to each other on the subject until the long-anticipated day arrived. The old watchmaker and his granddaughter were invited to the arbor to pass judgment on the productions of his pupils. A screen was placed before a portion of the brook, and they sat quietly waiting for it to be removed. "That duck is of a singular color," exclaimed the young girl. "What a solemn looking fellow he is!" The bird, without paying any attention to her remarks, waddled into the water, drank, lifted up his bill to the sky as if giving thanks for his refreshment, flapped his wings, floated to the edge of the brook, and waddled onto the grass again. When Father Breguet threw some crumbs of cake on the ground, the duck picked them up with apparent satisfaction.

He was about to scatter more crumbs when Rosabella exclaimed, "Why, grandfather, this is not a duck! It is made of bronze. See how well it is done."

The old man took it up and examined it. "Really, I do not think anything could be more perfect than this," he said. "How exquisitely the feathers are carved! And truly the creature seems alive. He who beats this must be a skillful mechanician."

At these words, Pierre and Florien stepped forward, hand in hand, and bowing to their master, removed the temporary screen. On a black marble pedestal in the brook was seated a bronze Naiad, leaning on an overflowing vase. The figure was inexpressibly graceful; a silver star with brilliant points gleamed on her forehead, and in her hand she held a silver bell, beautifully inlaid with gold and steel. There was a smile about her mouth, and she leaned over as if watching for something in a little cascade that flowed down a channel in the pedestal. Presently she raised her hand and sounded the bell. A beautiful little goldfish obeyed the summons and glided down the channel, its burnished sides glittering in the sun. Eleven times more she rang the bell, and each time the goldfish darted forth. It was exactly noon, and the water nymph was a clock.

The watchmaker and his granddaughter were silent. It was so beautiful that they could not easily find words to express their pleasure. "You need not speak, my master," said Pierre in a manly but sorrowful tone. "I myself decide in favor of Florien. The clock is his."

"The interior workmanship is not yet examined," rejoined his amiable competitor. "There is not a better mechanician in all Switzerland than Pierre Berthoud."

"Ah, but you know how to invest equally good workmanship with grace and beauty," replied the more heavily built Genevan.

"Study the Graces, my boy; make yourself familiar with models of beauty," said old Antoine Breguet, laying a friendly hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"I should but imitate, and he creates," answered Pierre despondently. "And worst of all, my good master, I hate myself because I envy him."

"But you have many and noble gifts, Pierre," said Rosabella gently. "You know how delightfully very different instruments combine in harmony. Grandfather says your workmanship will be far more durable than Florien's. Perhaps you may both be his partners."

"But which of us will be thine?" thought Pierre. He smothered a deep sigh and only answered, "I thank you, Rosabella."

Well aware that these envious feelings were unworthy of a noble soul, he contended with them bravely and treated Florien even more cordially than usual. "I will follow our good master's advice," said he. "I will try to clothe my good machinery in forms of beauty. Let us both make a watch for Rosabella and present it to her on her next birthday. You will rival me, no doubt, for the Graces threw their garlands on you when you were born." "Bravo!" shouted Florien, laughing and clapping his hands. "The poetry is kindling up in your soul. I always told you that you would be a poet if you could only express what was in you."

"And your soul expresses itself so easily, so fluently!" said Pierre with a sigh.

"Because my springs lie so near the surface, and yours have depths to come from," replied his good-natured companion.

"The worst of it is, the cord is apt to break before I can draw up my weighty treasures," rejoined Pierre with a smile. "There is no help for it. There will always be the same difference between us that there is in our names. I am a rock, and you are a flower. I might be hewed and chiseled into harmonious proportions; but you grow into beauty."

"Then be a rock, and a magnificent one," replied his friend, "and let the flower grow at your feet."

"That sounds modestly and well," answered Pierre; "but I wish to be a flower, because—"

"Because what?" inquired Florien, though he half guessed the secret from his embarrassed manner.

"Because I think Rosabella likes flowers better than rocks," replied Pierre with uncommon quickness, as if the words gave him pain.

On New Year's Day, the offerings, enclosed in one box, were presented by the good grandfather. The first was a golden apple, which opened and revealed on one side an exquisitely neat watch, surrounded by a garland tastefully wrought in rich damaskeening of steel and gold; on the other side was a rose intertwined with forget-me-nots, very perfectly done in mosaic. When the stem of the apple was turned, a favorite little tune of Rosabella's sounded from within.

"This is surely Florien's," thought she; and she looked for the other gift with less interest. It was an elegant little gold watch, with a Persian landscape, a gazelle, and birds of Paradise beautifully engraved on the back. When a spring was touched, the watch opened, a little circular plate of gold slid away, and up came a beautiful rose, round which a jeweled bee buzzed audibly. On the edge of the golden circle below were the words "Rosa bella" in ultramarine enamel. When another spring was touched, the rose went away, and the same melody that sounded from the heart of the golden apple seemed to be played by fairies on tinkling dew drops. It paused a moment, then struck up a lively dance.

The circular plate again rolled away, and up sprang an inch-tall opera dancer with an enamelled scarf and a very small diamond on her brow. Leaping and whirling on an almost invisible thread of gold, she kept perfect time to the music and turned her scarf most gracefully. Rosabella drew a long breath, and a rosy tinge mantled her beautiful face as she met her grandfather's gaze fixed lovingly upon her. She thought to herself, "There is no doubt now which is Florien's;" but she said aloud, "They are both very beautiful; are they not, dear grandfather? I am not worthy that so much pains should be taken to please me." The old man smiled upon her and fondly patted the luxuriant brown hair that shone like threads of amber in the sun. "Which dost thou think most beautiful?" said he.

She evaded the question by asking, "Which do you?"

"I will tell thee when thou hast decided," answered he.

She twisted and untwisted the strings of her bodice and said she was afraid she should not be impartial. "Why not?" he inquired. She looked down bashfully and murmured in a very low voice, "Because I can easily guess which is Florien's."

"Ah, ha," exclaimed the kind old man, and he playfully chucked her under the chin as he added, "Then I suppose I shall offend thee when I give a verdict for the bee and the opera dancer?"

She looked up blushing, and her large serious brown eyes had for a moment a comical expression as she said, "I shall do the same."

Never were disciples of the beautiful placed in circumstances more favorable to the development of poetic souls. The cottage of Antoine Breguet was in a glade where the sun harbors, and one side of it listens to bees, another to a brook. Lovers that have just parted for the night dream of such spots when they have said their prayers; or some tired parent, holding by the hand a child, and walking toward the setting sun. In the stillness of the night, they could hear the rushing of the arrowy Rhone. From a neighboring eminence could be seen the transparent Lake of Geneva, reflecting the deep blue heaven above. Mountains, in all fantastic forms, enclosed them round; now draped in heavy masses of somber clouds, now half revealed through sun-lighted vapor like a veil of gold. The flowing silver of little waterfalls gleamed among the dark rocks.

Grapevines hung their rich festoons by the roadside, and the beautiful barberry bush embroidered their leaves with scarlet clusters. They lived under the same roof with a guileless good old man and with an innocent maiden just merging into beautiful womanhood; and more than all, they were both under the influence of that great inspirer, Love.

Rosabella was so uniformly kind to both that Pierre could never relinquish the hope that constant devotedness might in time win her affections for himself. Florien, having a more cheerful character and more reliance on his own fascinations, was merely anxious that the lovely maiden should prefer his workmanship as decidedly as she did his person and manners. Under this powerful stimulus, in addition to the ambition excited by the old watchmaker's proposal, the competition between them was active and incessant. But the groundwork of their characters was so good that all little heartburnings of envy or jealousy were quickly checked by the predominance of generous and kindly sentiments.

One evening, Rosabella was reading to her grandfather a description of an albino squirrel. The pure white animal, with pink eyes and a feathery tail, pleased her fancy extremely, and she expressed a strong desire to see one. Pierre said nothing; but not long after, as they sat eating grapes after dinner, a white squirrel leaped onto the table, frisked from shoulder to shoulder, and at last sat up with a grape in its paws. Rosabella uttered an exclamation of delight. "Is it alive?" she said. "Do you not see that it is?" rejoined Pierre. "Call the dog, and see what he thinks about it."

"We have so many things here which are alive and yet not alive," she replied, smiling.

Florien warmly praised the pretty automaton; but he was somewhat vexed that he himself had not thought of making the graceful little animal for which the maiden had expressed a wish. Her pet canary had died the day before, and his eye happened to rest on the empty cage hanging over the flower stand. "I too will give her a pleasure," thought he. A few weeks later, as they sat at breakfast, sweet notes were heard from the cage, precisely the same the canary used to sing; and, looking up, the astonished maiden saw him hopping about, nibbling at the sugar and pecking his feathers, as lively as ever. Florien smiled and said, "Is it as much alive as Pierre's squirrel?"

The approach of the next birthday was watched with eager expectation; for even the old man began to feel keen pleasure in the competition, as if he had witnessed a race between fleet horses. Pierre, excited by the maiden's declaration that she mistook his golden apple for Florien's workmanship, produced a much more elegant specimen of art than he had ever before conceived. It was a barometer supported by two knights in silver chain armor, who went in when it rained and came out when the sun shone. On top of the barometer was a small silver basket of exceedingly delicate workmanship, filled with such flowers as close in damp weather. When the knights retired, these flowers closed their enameled petals, and when the knights returned, the flowers expanded.

Florien produced a silver chariot with two spirited and finely proportioned horses. A revolving circle in the wheels showed on what day of the month occurred each day of the week throughout the year. Each month was surmounted by its zodiacal sign, beautifully enameled in green, crimson, and gold. At ten o'clock the figure of a young girl, wearing Rosabella's usual costume and resembling her in form and features, ascended slowly from behind the wheel, and at the same moment the three Graces rose up in the chariot and held garlands over her. From the axle tree emerged a young man in Florien's dress, and kneeling offered a rose to the maiden.

It was so beautiful as a whole and so exquisitely finished in all its details that Pierre clenched his fingers until the nails cut him, so hard did he try to conceal the bitterness of his disappointment at his own manifest inferiority. Could he have been an hour alone, all would have been well. But as he stepped out onto the piazza, followed by Florien, he saw him kiss his hand triumphantly to Rosabella, and she returned it with a modest but expressive glance. Unfortunately, he held in his hand a jeweled dagger of Turkish workmanship, which Antoine Breguet had asked him to return to its case in the workshop.

Stung with disappointed love and ambition, the tempestuous feelings so painfully restrained burst forth like a whirlwind. Quick as a flash of lightning, he made a thrust at his graceful rival. Then, frightened at what he had done and full of horror at the thought of Rosabella's distress, he rushed into the road and up the sides of the mountain like a madman.

A year passed, and no one heard tidings of him. On the anniversary of Rosabella's birth, the aged grandsire sat alone, sunning his white locks at the open window, when Pierre Berthoud entered, pale and haggard.

He was such a skeleton of his former self that his master did not recognize him until he knelt at his feet and said, "Forgive me, father. I am Pierre."

The poor old man shook violently and covered his face with trembling hands. "Ah, thou wretched one," said he, "how darest thou come hither, with murder on thy soul?"

"Murder?" exclaimed Pierre in a voice so terribly deep and distinct that it seemed to freeze the feeble blood of him who listened. "Is he then dead? Did I kill the beautiful youth whom I loved so much?" He fell forward on the floor, and the groan that came from his strong chest was like an earthquake tearing up trees by the roots.

Antoine Breguet was deeply moved, and tears flowed fast over his furrowed face.

"Rise, my son," said he, "and make thy escape, lest they come to arrest thee."

"Let them come," replied Pierre gloomily; "why should I live?" Then raising his head from the floor, he said slowly and with great fear, "Father, where is Rosabella?"

The old man covered his face and sobbed out, "I shall never see her again! These old eyes will never again look on her blessed face." Many minutes they remained thus, and when he repeated, "I shall never see her again!" the young man clasped his feet convulsively and groaned in agony.

At last the housekeeper came in, a woman whom Pierre had known and loved in boyhood. When her first surprise was over, she promised to conceal his arrival and persuaded him to go to the garret and try to compose his too strongly excited feelings. In the course of the day she explained to him how Florien had died of his wound and how Rosabella pined away in silent melancholy, often sitting at the spinning wheel with the suspended thread in her hand, as if unconscious where she was. During all that wretched night the young man could not close his eyes in sleep. Phantoms of the past flitted through his brain, and remorse gnawed at his heartstrings. In the deep stillness of midnight, he seemed to hear the voice of the bereaved old man sounding mournfully distinct: "I shall never see her again!" He prayed earnestly to die; but suddenly an idea flashed into his mind and revived his desire to live.

Full of his new project, he rose early and sought his good old master. Sinking on his knees he exclaimed, "Oh, my father, say that you forgive me! I implore you to give my guilty soul that one gleam of consolation. Believe me, I would sooner have died myself than have killed him. But my passions were by nature so strong! Oh, God forgive me, they were so strong! How I have curbed them, He alone knows. Alas, that they should have burst their bounds in that one mad moment and destroyed the two I best loved on earth. Oh, father, can you say that you forgive me?"

With quivering voice he replied, "I do forgive you, and bless you, my poor son." He laid his hand affectionately on the thick matted hair and added, "I too have need of forgiveness. I did very wrong thus to put two generous natures in rivalship with each other. A genuine love of beauty for its own sake is the only healthy stimulus to produce the beautiful. The spirit of competition took you out of your sphere and placed you in a false position. In grand conceptions and in works of durability and strength, you would always have excelled Florien as much as he surpassed you in tastefulness and elegance. By striving to be what he was, you parted with your own gifts without attaining to his. Every man in the natural sphere of his own talent, and all in harmony; this is the true order, my son; and I tempted you to violate it. In my foolish pride, I earnestly desired to have a world-renowned successor to the famous Antoine Breguet.

I wanted the old stand to be kept up in all its glory and continue to rival all competitors. I thought you could superadd Florien's gifts to your own and yet retain your own characteristic excellencies. Therefore I stimulated your intellect and imagination to the utmost without reflecting that your heart might break in the process. God forgive me; it was too severe a trial for poor human nature. And do thou, my son, forgive this insane ambition; for severely has my pride been humbled."

Pierre could not speak, but he covered the wrinkled hands with kisses and clasped his knees convulsively. At last he said, "Let me remain concealed here for a while. You shall see her again; only give me time." When he explained that he would make Rosabella's likeness from memory, the sorrowing parent shook his head and sighed as he answered, "Ah, my son, the soul in her eye and the light grace of her motions, no art can restore."

But to Pierre's excited imagination there was henceforth only one object in life, and that was to reproduce Rosabella. In the keen conflict of competition, under the fiery stimulus of love and ambition, his strong impetuous soul had become machine-mad; and now overwhelming grief centered all his stormy energies on one object. Day by day, in the loneliness of his garret, he worked upon the image until he came to love it almost as much as he had loved the maiden herself. Antoine Breguet readily supplied materials. From childhood he had been interested in all forms of mechanism; and this image, so intertwined with his affections, took strong hold of his imagination also. Nearly a year had passed away when the housekeeper, who was in the secret, came to ask for Rosabella's hair and the dress she usually wore. The old man gave her the keys and wiped the starting tears as he turned silently away.

A few days later, Pierre invited him to come and look upon his work. "Do not go too suddenly," he said; "prepare yourself for a shock; for indeed it is very like our lost one."

"I will go, I will go," replied the old man eagerly. "Am I not accustomed to see all manner of automata and androids? Did I not myself make a flute player which performed sixteen tunes, to the admiration of all who heard him? And think you I am to be frightened by an image?"

"Not frightened, dear father," answered Pierre; "but I was afraid you might be overcome with emotion." He led him into the apartment and said, "Shall I remove the veil now? Can you bear it, dear father?"

"I can," was the calm reply. But when the curtain was withdrawn, he started and exclaimed, "Santa Maria! It is Rosabella! She is not dead!" He tottered forward and kissed the cold lips and the cold hands, and tears rained on the bright brown hair as he cried out, "My child! My child!"

When the tumult of feeling had subsided, the aged mourner kissed Pierre's hands and said, "It is wonderfully like her, in every feature and every tint. It seems as if it would move and breathe."

"She will move and breathe," replied Pierre; "only give me time."

His voice sounded so wildly, and his great deep-set eyes burned with such intense enthusiasm, that his friend was alarmed. They clasped each other's hands and spoke more quietly of the beloved one. "This is all that remains to us, Pierre," said the old man. "We are alone in the world. You were a friendless orphan when you came to me, and I am childless."

With a passionate outburst of grief, the young man replied, "And it was I, my benefactor, who made you so. Wretch that I am!"

From that time the work went on with greater zeal than ever. Pierre often forgot to taste food, so absorbed was he in the perfection of his machine. First, the arms moved obedient to his wishes; then the eyes turned, and the lips parted. Meanwhile, his own face grew thinner and paler, and his eyes glowed with a wilder fire.

Finally, it was whispered in the village that Pierre Berthoud was concealed in Antoine Breguet's cottage, and officers came to arrest him. But the venerable old watchmaker told the story so touchingly and painted so strongly the young man's consuming agony of grief and remorse, and pleaded so earnestly that he might be allowed to finish a wonderful image of his beautiful granddaughter, that they promised not to disturb him until the work was accomplished.

Two years from the day of Pierre's return, on the anniversary of the memorable birthday, he said, "Now, my father, I have done all that art can do. Come and see the beautiful one." He led him into the little room where Rosabella used to work.

There she sat, spinning diligently. The beautifully formed bust rose and fell under her neat bodice. Her lips were parted, and her eyes followed the direction of the thread. But what made it seem more fearfully like life was the fact that ever and anon the wheel rested and the maiden held the suspended thread, with her eyelids lowered, as if she were lost in thought. Above, the flower stand, near by, hung the birdcage with Florien's artificial canary. The pretty little automaton had been silent long; but now its springs were set in motion, and it poured forth all its melodies.

The bereaved old man pressed Pierre's hand and gazed upon his darling granddaughter silently.

He caused his armchair to be brought into the room, and ever after, while he retained his faculties, he refused to sit elsewhere.

The fame of this remarkable android soon spread through all the region round about. The citizens of Geneva united in an earnest petition that the artist might be excused from any penalty for the accidental murder he had committed. Members of the State Council came and looked at the breathing maiden and touched the beautiful flesh, which seemed as if it would yield to their pressure. They saw the wild haggard artist, with lines of suffering cut so deeply in his youthful brow, and they at once granted the prayer of the citizens.

But Pierre had nothing more to live for. His work in the world was done. The artificial energy supplied by one absorbing idea was gone, and the contemplation of his own work was driving him to madness. It so closely resembled life that he longed more and more to have it live. The lustrous eyes moved, but they had no light from the soul, and they would not answer to his earnest gaze. The beautiful lips parted, but they never spoke kind words as in days of yore. The image began to fill him with supernatural awe, yet he was continually drawn toward it by a magic influence.

Three months after its completion, he was found at daylight, lying at its feet, stone dead.

Antoine Breguet survived him two years. During the first eighteen months, he was never willing to have the image of his lost darling out of sight. The latter part of the time, he often whistled to the bird and talked to her and seemed to imagine that she answered him. But with increasing imbecility, Rosabella was forgotten. He sometimes asked, "Who is that young woman?" At last he said, "Send her away. She looks at me."

The magic lantern of departing memory then presented a phantom of his wife, dead long ago. He busied himself with making imaginary watches and rings for her and held long conversations as if she were present. Afterward, the wife was likewise forgotten, and he was occupied entirely with his mother and the scenes of early childhood. Finally he wept often and repeated continually, "They are all waiting for me; and I want to go home." When he was little more than eighty years old, compassionate angels took the weary pilgrim in their arms and carried him home.