VERNANIA: The Celebrated Works of Jules Verne in One Edition. Жюль Верн

emotion of which he tried in vain to suppress—

      “Michel Ardan!” he exclaimed.

      “Present!” answered an individual mounted on the poop.

      Barbicane, with his arms crossed, questioning eyes, and silent mouth, looked fixedly at the passenger of the Atlanta.

      He was a man forty-two years of age, tall, but already rather stooping, like caryatides which support balconies on their shoulders. His large head shook every now and then a shock of red hair like a lion’s mane; a short face, wide forehead, a moustache bristling like a cat’s whiskers, and little bunches of yellow hair on the middle of his cheeks, round and rather wild-looking, short-sighted eyes completed this eminently feline physiognomy. But the nose was boldly cut, the mouth particularly humane, the forehead high, intelligent, and ploughed like a field that was never allowed to remain fallow. Lastly, a muscular body well poised on long limbs, muscular arms, powerful and well-set levers, and a decided gait made a solidly built fellow of this European, “rather wrought than cast,” to borrow one of his expressions from metallurgic art.

      The disciples of Lavater or Gratiolet would have easily deciphered in the cranium and physiognomy of this personage indisputable signs of combativity—that is to say, of courage in danger and tendency to overcome obstacles, those of benevolence, and a belief in the marvellous, an instinct that makes many natures dwell much on superhuman things; but, on the other hand, the bumps of acquisivity, the need of possessing and acquiring, were absolutely wanting.

      To put the finishing touches to the physical type of the passenger of the Atlanta, his garments wide, loose, and flowing, open cravat, wide collar, and cuffs always unbuttoned, through which came nervous hands. People felt that even in the midst of winter and dangers that man was never cold.

      On the deck of the steamer, amongst the crowd, he bustled about, never still for a moment, “dragging his anchors,” in nautical speech, gesticulating, making friends with everybody, and biting his nails nervously. He was one of those original beings whom the Creator invents in a moment of fantasy, and of whom He immediately breaks the cast.

      In fact, the character of Michel Ardan offered a large field for physiological analysis. This astonishing man lived in a perpetual disposition to hyperbole, and had not yet passed the age of superlatives; objects depicted themselves on the retina of his eye with exaggerated dimensions; from thence an association of gigantic ideas; he saw everything on a large scale except difficulties and men.

      He was besides of a luxuriant nature, an artist by instinct, and witty fellow; he loved arguments ad hominem, and defended the weak side tooth and nail.

      Amongst other peculiarities he gave himself out as “sublimely ignorant,” like Shakspeare, and professed supreme contempt for all savants, “people,” said he, “who only score our points.” He was, in short, a Bohemian of the country of brains, adventurous but not an adventurer, a harebrained fellow, a Phaeton running away with the horses of the sun, a kind of Icarus with relays of wings. He had a wonderful facility for getting into scrapes, and an equally wonderful facility for getting out of them again, falling on his feet like a cat.

      In short, his motto was, “Whatever it may cost!” and the love of the impossible his “ruling passion,” according to Pope’s fine expression.

      But this enterprising fellow had the defects of his qualities. Who risks nothing wins nothing, it is said. Ardan often risked much and got nothing. He was perfectly disinterested and chivalric; he would not have signed the death-warrant of his worst enemy, and would have sold himself into slavery to redeem a negro.

      In France and Europe everybody knew this brilliant, bustling person. Did he not get talked of ceaselessly by the hundred voices of Fame, hoarse in his service? Did he not live in a glass house, taking the entire universe as confidant of his most intimate secrets? But he also possessed an admirable collection of enemies amongst those he had cuffed and wounded whilst using his elbows to make a passage in the crowd.

      Still he was generally liked and treated like a spoiled child. Every one was interested in his bold enterprises, and followed them with uneasy mind. He was known to be so imprudent! When some friend wished to stop him by predicting an approaching catastrophe, “The forest is only burnt by its own trees,” he answered with an amiable smile, not knowing that he was quoting the prettiest of Arabian proverbs.

      Such was the passenger of the Atlanta, always in a bustle, always boiling under the action of inward fire, always moved, not by what he had come to do in America—he did not even think about it—but on account of his feverish organisation. If ever individuals offered a striking contrast they were the Frenchman Michel Ardan and the Yankee Barbicane, both, however, enterprising, bold, and audacious, each in his own way.

      Barbicane’s contemplation of his rival was quickly interrupted by the cheers of the crowd. These cries became even so frantic and the enthusiasm took such a personal form that Michel Ardan, after having shaken a thousand hands in which he nearly left his ten fingers, was obliged to take refuge in his cabin.

      Barbicane followed him without having uttered a word.

      “You are Barbicane?” Michel Ardan asked him as soon as they were alone, and in the same tone as he would have spoken to a friend of twenty years’ standing.

      “Yes,” answered the president of the Gun Club.

      “Well, good morning, Barbicane. How are you? Very well? That’s right! that’s right!”

      “Then,” said Barbicane, without further preliminary, “you have decided to go?”

      “Quite decided.”

      “Nothing will stop you?”

      “Nothing. Have you altered your projectile as I told you in my message?”

      “I waited till you came. But,” asked Barbicane, insisting once more, “you have quite reflected?”

      “Reflected! have I any time to lose? I find the occasion to go for a trip to the moon, I profit by it, and that is all. It seems to me that does not want so much reflection.”

      Barbicane looked eagerly at the man who spoke of his project of journey with so much carelessness, and with such absence of anxiety.

      “But at least,” he said, “you have some plan, some means of execution?”

      “Excellent means. But allow me to tell you one thing. I like to say my say once and for all, and to everybody, and to hear no more about it. Then, unless you can think of something better, call together your friends, your colleagues, all the town, all Florida, all America if you like, and tomorrow I shall be ready to state my means of execution, and answer any objections, whatever they may be. Will that do?”

      “Yes, that will do,” answered Barbicane.

      Whereupon the president left the cabin, and told the crowd about Michel Ardan’s proposition. His words were received with great demonstrations of joy. That cut short all difficulties. The next day every one could contemplate the European hero at their ease. Still some of the most obstinate spectators would not leave the deck of the Atlanta; they passed the night on board. Amongst others, J.T. Maston had screwed his steel hook into the combing of the poop, and it would have taken the capstan to get it out again.

      “He is a hero! a hero!” cried he in every tone, “and we are only old women compared to that European!”

      As to the president, after having requested the spectators to withdraw, he reentered the passenger’s cabin, and did not leave it till the bell of the steamer rang out the midnight quarter.

      But then the two rivals in popularity shook each other warmly by the hand, and separated friends.

CHAPTER XIX.

      A MEETING.

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