From the Earth to the Moon (16 page)

These fears proved to be groundless. The most unexpected, extraordinary, incredible incident imaginable brought interest to a fever pitch again and threw the whole world into a state of breathless anticipation.

On September 30, at 3:47
P.M.,
a message that had been sent by means of the Atlantic cable that runs from Valentía, Ireland, to Newfoundland and the American coast was delivered to Barbicane.

He opened the envelope and read the message. Despite his great self-control, when he had read those few words his lips turned pale and his eyes became blurred.

Here is the text of that cablegram, which is now preserved in the archives of the Gun Club:

I
F, INSTEAD
of flashing along electric wires, this stunning message had arrived by ordinary mail and in a sealed envelope, so that a whole series of French, Irish, Newfoundland, and American employees were not necessarily aware of its contents, Barbicane would not have hesitated for a moment. He would have remained silent out of prudence and in order not to cast discredit on his project. The cablegram was perhaps a hoax, especially since it had come from a Frenchman. What likelihood was there that a man could be rash enough even to consider such a trip? And if such a man existed, was he not a lunatic who ought to be put in a padded cell rather than in a projectile?

But the cablegram was known, for the transmission services are not very discreet by nature, and the news of Michel Ardan’s proposal was already spreading over the whole country. It would therefore be pointless for Barbicane to remain silent. He called together all his colleagues in Tampa and, without revealing his thoughts or discussing the amount of credence that ought to be given to the cablegram, he calmly read its laconic text.

“Impossible!”

“Incredible!”

“Surely it’s a joke!”

“He’s only making fun of us!”

“Ridiculous!”

“Absurd!”

For several minutes there were loud expressions of doubt and incredulity, accompanied by the gestures that are customary in such cases. Each man smiled, laughed, or shrugged his shoulders, according to his humor. Only J. T. Maston responded with superb enthusiasm.

“Now
that’s
an idea!”

“Yes,” said Major Elphiston, “but it’s all right to have ideas like that only if you have no intention of carrying them out.”

“Why shouldn’t it be carried out?” J. T. Maston replied hotly, ready to argue. But none of the others wanted to push him any further.

Meanwhile the name of Michel Ardan was already being repeated in Tampa. Strangers and natives exchanged looks, questioned one another, and made jokes, not about Ardan, who was only a myth, an illusion, but about J. T. Maston for believing in the existence of that fictitious individual. When Barbicane had proposed sending a projectile to the moon, everyone had considered it a natural and practical undertaking, purely a matter of ballistics. But that a sane man should offer to book passage in the projectile, to attempt that fantastic journey—that was a whimsical idea, a joke, a hoax!

The mockery went on till evening without stopping. It can be said that the whole United States was seized with a fit of wild laughter, which is unusual in a country where impossible undertakings readily find advocates, supporters, and backers.

But, like all new ideas, Michel Ardan’s proposal bothered certain minds. It had disturbed the course of accustomed emotions. It was something that had not been
thought of before. The incident soon became an obsession because of its very strangeness. People thought about it. How many things have been denied one day, only to become realities the next! Why shouldn’t someone make a trip to the moon some day? But in any case the man who wanted to risk his life that way must be a madman, and since his plan could not be taken seriously, he would have done better to keep quiet, rather than upsetting a whole country with his ridiculous nonsense.

But first of all, did that man really exist? It was an important question. The name of Michel Ardan was not unknown in America. It belonged to a European who was often cited for his daring feats. And the cablegram sent across the bottom of the Atlantic, the naming of the ship on which the Frenchman had said he was traveling, the date set for its arrival—all these things gave the proposal a certain plausibility. The matter had to be cleared up. Isolated individuals soon formed into groups, the groups were drawn together by curiosity as atoms are drawn together by molecular attraction, and the final result was a compact crowd which moved toward Barbicane’s residence.

Since the arrival of the telegram, Barbicane had not declared his opinion. He had let J. T. Maston state his views without expressing either approval or disapproval. His intention was to remain silent and wait for events. But he had reckoned without the impatience of the public. There was a look of dissatisfaction on his face when he saw the population of Tampa gathering beneath his windows. Their vociferous clamor soon forced him to appear. He had all the duties and therefore all the annoyances of fame.

And so he appeared. A hush fell over the crowd, then one citizen spoke up and asked bluntly:

“Is the man called Michel Ardan in the cablegram on his way to America or not?”

“Gentlemen,” replied Barbicane, “I don’t know any more about it than you do.”

“We must find out!” shouted several impatient voices.

“Time will tell,” Barbicane said calmly.

“Time has no right to keep a whole country in suspense,” said the spokesman. “Have you changed your plans for the projectile, the way the cablegram says?”

“Not yet. But you’re right: we must find out. Since the Atlantic cable has caused all this commotion, it’s only fair that it should give us more complete information.”

“Send a cablegram!” cried the crowd.

Barbicane went down to the street and walked to the telegraph office, followed by the multitude.

A few minutes later, a message was on its way to the ship brokers’ central office in Liverpool, asking these questions:

“Is there a ship named the
Atlanta?
Did she recently leave Europe? Does she have a passenger named Michel Ardan?”

Two hours later, Barbicane received an answer whose precision left no room for doubt:

“The steamer
Atlanta,
of Liverpool, left port on October 2, bound for Tampa, with a Frenchman on board listed under the name of Michel Ardan.”

When he had read this confirmation of the first cablegram, Barbicane’s eyes flashed, his fists clenched violently and he was heard to murmur:

“So it’s true! It’s possible! That Frenchman exists! And in two weeks he’ll be here! But he’s a madman, a senseless lunatic! I’ll never consent …”

And yet that very evening he wrote to Breadwill
Co., asking them to postpone casting the projectile until further notice.

To describe the emotion that gripped all America, the way in which the effect of Barbicane’s original announcement was surpassed a dozen times, what the American newspapers said, how they accepted the news and trumpeted the arrival of that hero from the Old World, the feverish agitation in which everyone lived, counting the hours, minutes, and seconds; to give even a faint idea of the exhausting obsession of all those minds dominated by a single thought; to show all occupations yielding to one preoccupation, work stopped, business suspended, ships ready to put to sea remaining tied up in port in order not to miss the arrival of the
Atlanta,
trains arriving full and leaving empty, Tampa Bay constantly being crossed by steamers, packet boats, yachts, and flyboats of all sizes; to enumerate the thousands of people who quadrupled the population of Tampa in two weeks and had to camp in tents like an army in the field—all that would be a task beyond human strength, and could not be undertaken without foolhardiness.

On October 20, at nine o’clock in the morning, signal stations on the Straits of Florida reported thick smoke on the horizon. Two hours later, a big steamer exchanged recognition signals with them. The name of the
Atlanta
was immediately sent to Tampa. At four o’clock the English ship entered Tampa Bay. At five she steamed into the channel at full speed. At six she dropped anchor in the port of Tampa.

Before the anchor had bitten into the sandy bottom, the
Atlanta
was surrounded by five hundred boats and taken by storm. Barbicane was the first to step on board. He cried out in a voice whose emotion he tried to control:

“Michel Ardan!”

“Present!” replied a man standing on the poop deck.

With crossed arms, questioning eyes, and sealed lips, Barbicane scrutinized the
Atlanta
’s passenger.

He was a man of forty-two, tall but already a little round-shouldered, like those caryatids that hold balconies on their backs. He had a strong, leonine head, and he occasionally shook his mane of fiery hair. A short face, broad at the temples, a mustache that bristled like a cat’s whiskers, cheeks adorned with little tufts of yellowish hair, and round, distracted, rather nearsighted eyes completed that eminently feline physiognomy. But his nose was boldly drawn, his mouth was particularly humane, his forehead was high, intelligent, and furrowed like a field that never lies fallow. Finally, his well-developed torso firmly planted on a pair of long legs, his powerful, muscular arms, and his resolute bearing made him a vigorous, solidly built man, “forged rather than cast,” to borrow a phrase from the metallurgical art.

Disciples of Lavater or Gratiolet would easily have seen on his skull and face the incontestable signs of combativeness, that is, courage in danger and a tendency to break down obstacles. They would also have seen signs of kindness and a highly developed imagination, a faculty which inclines certain temperaments to have a passion for superhuman things. But the bumps of acquisitiveness, the need to possess and acquire, were totally lacking.

To finish describing his physical appearance, we must mention his loose, comfortable clothes, his shirt collar generously opened on his robust neck, and his invariably unbuttoned cuffs, from which his restless hands emerged. He gave the impression that, even in the middle of winter or at the peak of danger, he was never cold, and that he particularly never had cold feet.

On the deck of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd,
he paced back and forth, never staying in one place, “dragging his anchor,” as the sailors said, gesticulating, speaking familiarly to everyone, and biting his nails with nervous avidity. He was one of those originals whom the Creator invents in a moment of whimsy, then immediately breaks the mold.

Michel Ardan’s personality offered a broad field to observation and analysis. He was unfailingly inclined to exaggeration and had not yet passed the age of superlatives. Objects were registered on his retina with inordinate dimensions, and this led to his associations of gigantic ideas. He saw everything bigger than natural, except difficulties and men.

He had a luxuriant nature; he was an artist by instinct, and a witty man who used sniper tactics rather than keeping up a running fire of clever remarks. In a discussion he cared little for logic and was hostile to the syllogism, which he would never have invented, but he had his own methods of attack. He was a master of the deadly
ad hominem
argument, and he liked to defend hopeless causes tooth and claw.

Among other idiosyncrasies, he proclaimed himself to be “sublimely ignorant,” like Shakespeare, and he professed to despise scientists and scholars, who were, he said, “people who do nothing but keep score while we play the game.” He was a Bohemian from Wonderland, adventurous but not an adventurer, a daredevil, a Phaëthon driving the sun chariot at breakneck speed; an Icarus with spare wings. He never shrank from personal risk, he threw himself into insane ventures with his eyes wide open, he burned his ships behind him with more enthusiasm than Agathocles, and, ready to break his neck at any time, he invariably landed on his feet, like those little wooden acrobats that children play with.

In two words, his motto was “Even so!” and love of the impossible was his ruling passion, to use Pope’s excellent expression.

But he also had the defects that went with his good qualities. Nothing ventured, nothing gained; he ventured often, but he still had little. He was a spendthrift, a wastrel. He was completely unselfish and obeyed his heart as often as he did his head. Obliging and chivalrous, he would not have signed the death warrant of his cruelest enemy, and he would have sold himself into slavery in order to free a slave.

In France and all over Europe, everyone knew that sparkling, noisy man. The hundred voices of fame had talked themselves hoarse about him. He lived in a glass house and confided his most intimate secrets to the whole world. He also had an admirable collection of enemies among those whom he had jostled, bruised, or mercilessly knocked down as he elbowed his way through the crowd.