The Kip Brothers. Jules Verne

by a variety of physical ailments, including severe gastrointestinal problems, recurrent dizziness, rheumatism, cataracts, and diabetes. In a letter to Paul in 1894, following the June marriage of his niece Marie, the author confides, “I see that the wedding was very jolly, but it is precisely this sort of merriment that is intolerable to me now. My character is deeply altered, and I have received blows from which I shall never recover.”⁷³ When Paul Verne died of heart disease three years later, on August 27, 1897, Jules was grief-stricken, saying, “What a friend I have lost in him!” and “I never thought that I’d outlive him.”⁷⁴ According to his grandson, Verne “was so crushed and so ill that he could not attend the funeral.”⁷⁵ With memories of his deceased brother fresh in his mind, Jules Verne began work on The Kip Brothers the following summer.

      Some of Verne’s novels have been called “visionary” for their unusual scientific or technological prescience. The Kip Brothers might also be termed “visionary,” but in an entirely different way. The strongly visual nature of its thematic content—from the initial sighting of the castaways to its strange ophthalmologic conclusion—underscores Verne’s own worsening eye problems during the late 1890s. As reflected in the novel’s plot, two real-life dramas of judicial error can also be easily visualized (one acknowledged by Verne and one not): the Rorique/Degrave brothers’ trials and the infamous Dreyfus Affair. Finally, The Kip Brothers envisions—or, more correctly, re-visions—its author’s personal past as Verne builds an idealized literary memorial to his relationship with his beloved late brother, Paul. It is ironic that one of Verne’s most sight-oriented Voyages extraordinaires has become, since its publication, one of his least visible works. It is our hope that this first English translation of Verne’s Les Frères Kip will help to remedy that situation and to show the Anglophone reading public a new and different Jules Verne from the one they had thought they knew so well.

      Jean-Michel Margot

      I

      Dunedin

      1

      Tavern of the Three Magpies

      At that time—1885¹—forty-six years after its occupation by Great Britain, which had made it part of New South Wales, and thirty-two years after its independence from the Crown, New Zealand, now self-governing, was still devoured by gold fever. The disorders created by this sickness were not as destructive as they had been in certain states of the Australian continent. It did, however, lead to certain regrettable incidents that affected the population of both islands. The province of Otago,² which constitutes the southern part of Tawaï-Pounamou,³ was invaded by gold seekers looking to establish placer mines, and the Clutha⁴ deposits also attracted a number of adventurers. Evidence of this can be seen in the fact that the output of gold mines in New Zealand from 1864 to 1889 rose to a value of 1.2 francs.

      The Australians and Chinese were not the only ones to swoop down like a flock of hungry birds of prey on these rich territories. Americans and Europeans flooded in as well. It will surprise no one that the crews of the various commercial ships bound for Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, Napier, Invercargill, or Dunedin⁵ were not strong enough to resist this temptation once they reached port. In vain did captains attempt to hold back their sailors; in vain did the maritime authorities offer their assistance! Desertion was rampant and the harbors grew cluttered with ships that, for lack of a crew, were unable to leave.

      Among the latter, at Dunedin, could be seen the English brig James Cook. Of the eight sailors making up its crew, only four had remained on board ship. The other four had left with the firm intention of never coming back.⁶

      Twelve hours after their disappearance, they were probably already far from Dunedin, heading for the gold fields in the countryside. In port for some two weeks, his cargo already loaded, his ship ready to put out to sea, the captain had been unable to replace the missing crew members. Neither the lure of higher wages nor the perspective of only a few months’ passage had attracted any recruits. In fact, he was unsure whether the men who had remained on board might not be tempted to join their comrades. As the captain continued to seek more sailors, the bosun of the James Cook, Flig Balt, searched the taverns,⁷ the bars, and the inns for men to fill out their crew.

      New Zealand⁸ is composed of North Island and South Island—called by natives Tawaï-Pounamou and Ikana-Maoui respectively—which are separated by Cook Strait.⁹ Dunedin is located on the southeast coast of South Island. In 1839, at the place now occupied by the city, Dumont d’Urville¹⁰ had found a few Maori huts where today one can see mansions, hotels, parks in full greenery, streets lined with trams, railways, warehouses, markets, banks, churches, schools, hospitals, bustling neighborhoods, suburbs growing without end. It is an industrial and commercial city, wealthy and luxurious, the center of many railroad lines coming in from all directions. It numbers some fifty thousand inhabitants, a lesser population than that of Auckland, the capital of North Island, but greater than that of Wellington, the seat of the government of the New Zealand colony.

      Below the city, arranged like an amphitheater on a hill, the port spreads out like a vast semicircle where ships of every tonnage can enter thanks to a channel that had been dug from Port Chalmers.

      Among the numerous taverns in this lower quarter, one of the noisiest and most frequented, belonged to Adam Fry, tavern keeper of the Three Magpies. This corpulent fellow, of flushed complexion, was scarcely of greater worth than the drinks from his counter and no better than his usual customers, all scoundrels and drunkards.

      One evening, two customers were seated in a corner, facing their two glasses and a half-empty bottle of gin that they would probably empty to the last drop before leaving the tavern. They were seamen from the James Cook, the bosun, Flig Balt, accompanied by a sailor named Vin Mod.¹¹

      “You’re always thirsty, eh Mod?” asked Flig Balt.

      “You’re always thirsty, eh Mod?” asked Flig Balt as he filled his guest’s glass.

      “Always between meals, Mr. Balt,” replied the sailor. “Gin after whiskey, whiskey after gin! That doesn’t stop you from talking, listening, watching! Your eyes are all the sharper, your ears all the keener, your tongue all the looser!”

      One may rest assured that, in Vin Mod’s case, these various organs functioned with a marvelous ease in the midst of the hubbub in the tavern.

      A rather short fellow, this sailor, some thirty-five years old, slender, agile, muscular, with eyes like a weasel and where an alcoholic flame seemed to flicker, a cunning face you might say, intelligent yet pointed and with teeth like a rat. Perfectly capable of assisting in evil doings, just like his companion, who was well aware of this fact. They were two of a kind and could count on each other.

      “We just have to get it over with,” said Flig Balt in a harsh voice, striking the table with his fist.

      “We can just choose at random,” replied Vin Mod.

      He pointed at the groups drinking, singing, and cursing through the vapors of alcohol and tobacco that darkened the atmosphere of the room. Just breathing this air would have led to drunkenness.

      Flig Balt, some thirty-eight or thirty-nine years old, was of average size, broad shouldered, headstrong, powerfully built. One could never forget his face, even after seeing it but once: a large wart on his left cheek, eyes of a frightening hardness, eyebrows thick and frizzy, a ruddy, American-style goatee with no moustache, in short the physiognomy of a hate-filled man, jealous, vindictive. For his first voyage aboard the James Cook, he had hired on as bosun a few months before. Born in Queenstown,¹²