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Chapter XIX: A Monster Meeting
On the following day Barbicane, fearing that indiscreet
questions might be put to Michel Ardan, was desirous of reducing
the number of the audience to a few of the initiated, his own
colleagues for instance. He might as well have tried to check the
Falls of Niagara! he was compelled, therefore, to give up the idea,
and let his new friend run the chances of a public conference. The
place chosen for this monster meeting was a vast plain situated in
the rear of the town. In a few hours, thanks to the help of the
shipping in port, an immense roofing of canvas was stretched over
the parched prairie, and protected it from the burning rays of the
sun. There three hundred thousand people braved for many hours the
stifling heat while awaiting the arrival of the Frenchman. Of this
crowd of spectators a first set could both see and hear; a second
set saw badly and heard nothing at all; and as for the third, it
could neither see nor hear anything at all. At three o’clock
Michel Ardan made his appearance, accompanied by the principal
members of the Gun Club. He was supported on his right by President
Barbicane, and on his left by J. T. Maston, more radiant than the
midday sun, and nearly as ruddy. Ardan mounted a platform, from the
top of which his view extended over a sea of black hats.
He exhibited not the slightest embarrassment; he was just as
gay, familiar, and pleasant as if he were at home. To the hurrahs
which greeted him he replied by a graceful bow; then, waving his
hands to request silence, he spoke in perfectly correct English as
follows:
“Gentlemen, despite the very hot weather I request your
patience for a short time while I offer some explanations regarding
the projects which seem to have so interested you. I am neither an
orator nor a man of science, and I had no idea of addressing you in
public; but my friend Barbicane has told me that you would like to
hear me, and I am quite at your service. Listen to me, therefore,
with your six hundred thousand ears, and please excuse the faults
of the speaker. Now pray do not forget that you see before you a
perfect ignoramus whose ignorance goes so far that he cannot even
understand the difficulties! It seemed to him that it was a matter
quite simple, natural, and easy to take one’s place in a
projectile and start for the moon! That journey must be undertaken
sooner or later; and, as for the mode of locomotion adopted, it
follows simply the law of progress. Man began by walking on
all-fours; then, one fine day, on two feet; then in a carriage;
then in a stage-coach; and lastly by railway. Well, the projectile
is the vehicle of the future, and the planets themselves are
nothing else! Now some of you, gentlemen, may imagine that the
velocity we propose to impart to it is extravagant. It is nothing
of the kind. All the stars exceed it in rapidity, and the earth
herself is at this moment carrying us round the sun at three times
as rapid a rate, and yet she is a mere lounger on the way compared
with many others of the planets! And her velocity is constantly
decreasing. Is it not evident, then, I ask you, that there will
some day appear velocities far greater than these, of which light
or electricity will probably be the mechanical agent?
“Yes, gentlemen,” continued the orator, “in
spite of the opinions of certain narrow-minded people, who would
shut up the human race upon this globe, as within some magic circle
which it must never outstep, we shall one day travel to the moon,
Voyager|the planets], and the stars, with the same facility, rapidity, and
certainty as we now make the voyage from Liverpool to New York!
Distance is but a relative expression, and must end by being
reduced to zero.”
The assembly, strongly predisposed as they were in favor of the
French hero, were slightly staggered at this bold theory. Michel
Ardan perceived the fact.
“Gentlemen,” he continued with a pleasant smile,
“you do not seem quite convinced. Very good! Let us reason
the matter out. Do you know how long it would take for an express
train to reach the moon? Three hundred days; no more! And what is
that? The distance is no more than nine times the circumference of
the earth; and there are no sailors or travelers, of even moderate
activity, who have not made longer journeys than that in their
lifetime. And now consider that I shall be only ninety- seven hours
on my journey. Ah! I see you are reckoning that the moon is a long
way off from the earth, and that one must think twice before making
the experiment. What would you say, then, if we were talking of
going to Neptune, which revolves at a distance of more than two
thousand seven hundred and twenty millions of miles from the sun!
And yet what is that compared with the distance of the fixed stars,
some of which, such as Arcturus, are billions of miles distant from
us? And then you talk of the distance which separates the planets
from the sun! And there are people who affirm that such a thing as
distance exists. Absurdity, folly, idiotic nonsense! Would you know
what I think of our own solar universe? Shall I tell you my theory?
It is very simple! In my opinion the solar system is a solid
homogeneous body; the planets which compose it are in actual
contact with each other; and whatever space exists between them is
nothing more than the space which separates the molecules of the
densest metal, such as silver, iron, or platinum! I have the right,
therefore, to affirm, and I repeat, with the conviction which must
penetrate all your minds, ‘Distance is but an empty name;
distance does not really exist!’”
“Hurrah!” cried one voice (need it be said it was
that of J. T. Maston). “Distance does not exist!” And
overcome by the energy of his movements, he nearly fell from the
platform to the ground. He just escaped a severe fall, which would
have proved to him that distance was by no means an empty name.
“Gentlemen,” resumed the orator, “I repeat
that the distance between the earth and her satellite is a mere
trifle, and undeserving of serious consideration. I am convinced
that before twenty years are over one-half of our earth will have
paid a visit to the moon. Now, my worthy friends, if you have any
question to put to me, you will, I fear, sadly embarrass a poor man
like myself; still I will do my best to answer you.”
Up to this point the president of the Gun Club had been
satisfied with the turn which the discussion had assumed. It became
now, however, desirable to divert Ardan from questions of a
practical nature, with which he was doubtless far less conversant.
Barbicane, therefore, hastened to get in a word, and began by
asking his new friend whether he thought that the moon and the
planets were inhabited.
“You put before me a great problem, my worthy
president,” replied the orator, smiling. “Still, men of
great intelligence, such as Plutarch, Swedenborg, Bernardin de St.
Pierre, and others have, if I mistake not, pronounced in the
affirmative. Looking at the question from the natural
philosopher’s point of view, I should say that nothing
useless existed in the world; and, replying to your question by
another, I should venture to assert, that if these worlds are
habitable, they either are, have been, or will be
inhabited.”
“No one could answer more logically or fairly,”
replied the president. “The question then reverts to this:
Are these worlds habitable? For my own part I believe they
are.”
“For myself, I feel certain of it,” said Michel
Ardan.
“Nevertheless,” retorted one of the audience,
“there are many arguments against the habitability of the
worlds. The conditions of life must evidently be greatly modified
upon the majority of them. To mention only the planets, we should
be either broiled alive in some, or frozen to death in others,
according as they are more or less removed from the sun.”
“I regret,” replied Michel Ardan, “that I have
not the honor of personally knowing my contradictor, for I would
have attempted to answer him. His objection has its merits, I
admit; but I think we may successfully combat it, as well as all
others which affect the habitability of other worlds. If I were a
natural philosopher, I would tell him that if less of caloric were
set in motion upon the planets which are nearest to the sun, and
more, on the contrary, upon those which are farthest removed from
it, this simple fact would alone suffice to equalize the heat, and
to render the temperature of those worlds supportable by beings
organized like ourselves. If I were a naturalist, I would tell him
that, according to some illustrious men of science, nature has
furnished us with instances upon the earth of animals existing
under very varying conditions of life; that fish respire in a
medium fatal to other animals; that amphibious creatures possess a
double existence very difficult of explanation; that certain
denizens of the seas maintain life at enormous depths, and there
support a pressure equal to that of fifty or sixty atmospheres
without being crushed; that several aquatic insects, insensible to
temperature, are met with equally among boiling springs and in the
frozen plains of the Polar Sea; in fine, that we cannot help
recognizing in nature a diversity of means of operation oftentimes
incomprehensible, but not the less real. If I were a chemist, I
would tell him that the aerolites, bodies evidently formed
exteriorly of our terrestrial globe, have, upon analysis, revealed
indisputable traces of carbon, a substance which owes its origin
solely to organized beings, and which, according to the experiments
of Reichenbach, must necessarily itself have been endued with
animation. And lastly, were I a theologian, I would tell him that
the scheme of the Divine Redemption, according to St. Paul, seems
to be applicable, not merely to the earth, but to all the celestial
worlds. But, unfortunately, I am neither theologian, nor chemist,
nor naturalist, nor philosopher; therefore, in my absolute
ignorance of the great laws which govern the universe, I confine
myself to saying in reply, ‘I do not know whether the worlds
are inhabited or not: and since I do not know, I am going to
see!’”
Whether Michel Ardan’s antagonist hazarded any further
arguments or not it is impossible to say, for the uproarious shouts
of the crowd would not allow any expression of opinion to gain a
hearing. On silence being restored, the triumphant orator contented
himself with adding the following remarks:
“Gentlemen, you will observe that I have but slightly
touched upon this great question. There is another altogether
different line of argument in favor of the habitability of the
stars, which I omit for the present. I only desire to call
attention to one point. To those who maintain that the planets are
not inhabited one may reply: You might be perfectly in the right,
if you could only show that the earth is the best possible world,
in spite of what Voltaire has said. She has but one satellite,
while Jupiter, Uranus, Saturn, Neptune have each several, an
advantage by no means to be despised. But that which renders our
own globe so uncomfortable is the inclination of its axis to the
plane of its orbit. Hence the inequality of days and nights; hence
the disagreeable diversity of the seasons. On the surface of our
unhappy spheroid we are always either too hot or too cold; we are
frozen in winter, broiled in summer; it is the planet of
rheumatism, coughs, bronchitis; while on the surface of Jupiter,
for example, where the axis is but slightly inclined, the
inhabitants may enjoy uniform temperatures. It possesses zones of
perpetual springs, summers, autumns, and winters; every Jovian may
choose for himself what climate he likes, and there spend the whole
of his life in security from all variations of temperature. You
will, I am sure, readily admit this superiority of Jupiter over our
own planet, to say nothing of his years, which each equal twelve of
ours! Under such auspices and such marvelous conditions of
existence, it appears to me that the inhabitants of so fortunate a
world must be in every respect superior to ourselves. All we
require, in order to attain such perfection, is the mere trifle of
having an axis of rotation less inclined to the plane of its
orbit!”
“Hurrah!” roared an energetic voice, “let us
unite our efforts, invent the necessary machines, and rectify the
earth’s axis!”
A thunder of applause followed this proposal, the author of
which was, of course, no other than J. T. Maston. And, in all
probability, if the truth must be told, if the Yankees could only
have found a point of application for it, they would have
constructed a lever capable of raising the earth and rectifying its
axis. It was just this deficiency which baffled these daring
mechanicians.
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