contributed powerfully to the progress of that arm and gave an
immense impetus to experimental researches.
He was personage of the middle height, having, by a rare
exception in the Gun Club, all his limbs complete. His strongly
marked features seemed drawn by square and rule; and if it be
true that, in order to judge a man’s character one must look at
his profile, Barbicane, so examined, exhibited the most certain
indications of energy, audacity, and _sang-froid_.
At this moment he was sitting in his armchair, silent, absorbed,
lost in reflection, sheltered under his high-crowned hat– a
kind of black cylinder which always seems firmly screwed upon
the head of an American.
Just when the deep-toned clock in the great hall struck eight,
Barbicane, as if he had been set in motion by a spring, raised
himself up. A profound silence ensued, and the speaker, in a
somewhat emphatic tone of voice, commenced as follows:
“My brave, colleagues, too long already a paralyzing peace has
plunged the members of the Gun Club in deplorable inactivity.
After a period of years full of incidents we have been compelled
to abandon our labors, and to stop short on the road of progress.
I do not hesitate to state, baldly, that any war which would
recall us to arms would be welcome!” (Tremendous applause!)
“But war, gentlemen, is impossible under existing circumstances;
and, however we may desire it, many years may elapse before our
cannon shall again thunder in the field of battle. We must make
up our minds, then, to seek in another train of ideas some field
for the activity which we all pine for.”
The meeting felt that the president was now approaching the
critical point, and redoubled their attention accordingly.
“For some months past, my brave colleagues,” continued
Barbicane, “I have been asking myself whether, while confining
ourselves to our own particular objects, we could not enter upon
some grand experiment worthy of the nineteenth century; and
whether the progress of artillery science would not enable us to
carry it out to a successful issue. I have been considering,
working, calculating; and the result of my studies is the conviction
that we are safe to succeed in an enterprise which to any other
country would appear wholly impracticable. This project, the result
of long elaboration, is the object of my present communication.
It is worthy of yourselves, worthy of the antecedents of the Gun
Club; and it cannot fail to make some noise in the world.”
A thrill of excitement ran through the meeting.
Barbicane, having by a rapid movement firmly fixed his hat upon
his head, calmly continued his harangue:
“There is no one among you, my brave colleagues, who has not
seen the Moon, or, at least, heard speak of it. Don’t be
surprised if I am about to discourse to you regarding the Queen
of the Night. It is perhaps reserved for us to become the
Columbuses of this unknown world. Only enter into my plans, and
second me with all your power, and I will lead you to its
conquest, and its name shall be added to those of the thirty-six
states which compose this Great Union.”
“Three cheers for the Moon!” roared the Gun Club, with one voice.
“The moon, gentlemen, has been carefully studied,” continued
Barbicane; “her mass, density, and weight; her constitution,
motions, distance, as well as her place in the solar system,
have all been exactly determined. Selenographic charts have
been constructed with a perfection which equals, if it does not
even surpass, that of our terrestrial maps. Photography has
given us proofs of the incomparable beauty of our satellite; all
is known regarding the moon which mathematical science,
astronomy, geology, and optics can learn about her. But up to
the present moment no direct communication has been established
with her.”
A violent movement of interest and surprise here greeted this
remark of the speaker.
“Permit me,” he continued, “to recount to you briefly how
certain ardent spirits, starting on imaginary journeys, have
penetrated the secrets of our satellite. In the seventeenth
century a certain David Fabricius boasted of having seen with
his own eyes the inhabitants of the moon. In 1649 a Frenchman,