The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Stories

by Mike Ashley

  As this whisper fell silent, the tower vanished. In the excitement of his arrival in this new world, Verne chastised himself for letting his imagination take the helm of his faculties. There were enough genuine marvels on this American continent to propel a score of novels.

  “At least we have been made welcome,” said Jules to Paul, as the brothers cleared the Customs station at quayside, summoning porters for assistance with their steamer trunks. “See, Paul? This time, I do not imagine what I behold. The streets and buildings of Manhattan are draped with buntings in homage to our French tricoleur. Do not tell me that this is the custom for America’s streets.”

  Indeed, the lamp-posts and rooftops of Manhattan were garlanded with draperies striped in patterns of red, white and blue. Paul Verne – a former naval officer, now a stockbroker, and in consequence more practical than his brother – seemed sceptical. “It does indeed seem out of the common, frère Jules. Yet I scarce believe that these decorations are in honour of France . . .”

  An officer of the English steamship, overhearing these words and conversant in French, touched his visor and explained: “Messieurs Verne, today is April ninth. By good fortune, we have arrived in New York on the very day when these Yanks are celebrating the second anniversary of the end to their long Civil War. You will find the Yankees more jubilant than usual, today at least.”

  “A pity that we have only one week in which to taste their hospitality,” said Paul Verne as his brother summoned a cabriolet.

  “As we have only one day and one night in New York City before journeying north to the mighty Niagara,” Jules Verne decreed, “let us billet ourselves in the finest hotel available.”

  This proved to be at the northwest corner of the crossroads where 23rd Street intersected Broadway: the magnificent Fifth Avenue Hotel, a six-storey edifice of white marble. As the Verne brothers strode between the six Corinthian pillars at the hotel’s entrance, Paul remarked: “Let us take lodgings on the ground floor, so as to avoid any stairs.”

  His brother waved airily. “I am a collector of wonders! Let us have berths on the topmost flight, to obtain the best view of this magnificent city!”

  Inside the hotel, an astonishment awaited . . . for it was possible for both travellers to achieve their desires in tandem: a view from a height with an absence of stairs. To their delight, the Verne brothers discovered that the Fifth Avenue Hotel contained the first and only passenger-lift in New York City. As the brothers stepped into the brass-gated cage, an attendant in mauve livery touched his cap and pressed a lever . . . and rapidly they ascended.

  While Paul Verne marvelled at the counterweights enabling the brass cage to rise through the building, Jules Verne expressed astonishment at the elevator’s ingenious gas-fitting. A long flexible tube of caoutchouc India rubber connected the elevator’s twin gas-lamps to a pipeline in the hotel’s cellar, where a spool on a revolving spindle paid out a reel of tubing as the elevator ascended, then shortened it again as the elevator came downwards . . . so that the interior of the passenger-lift was always lighted by a steady flow of coal-gas. The attendant explained that the elevator was steam-powered, and that the hotel’s management was pleased to advertise it as “the vertical railway”.

  The Verne brothers’ suite in the hotel’s topmost storey faced east, on to Broadway. While Paul admired the bedroom’s marble fireplace, Jules stepped on to the balcony and was gratified to behold a magnificent view of Madison Square Park directly across and below. Slightly north of the hotel – in the small island of asphalt where Fifth Avenue met Broadway – was an obelisk in the Egyptian fashion, more than fifty feet tall. At the foot of the spire appeared to be a tomb. Jules Verne found himself wondering who might be entombed there, and at once came a voice at his ear:

  “Brigadier-General William Jenkins Worth, late of the Mexican war. At your service, Mr Verne. I died of cholera in Texas in 1849, but the good citizens of my native New York reinterred me here in ’55, and now you behold my . . .”

  “Are you well, brother Jules?” asked Paul Verne. Jules stared at his brother, then gazed once more at the whispering obelisk. The spire was silent now.

  The two voyagers put on fresh clothes and prepared for their evening’s amusement. As Jules Verne was clean-shaven, his grooming took scarcely a moment. Paul Verne, however, was the owner of a dark brown spade beard, full moustaches, and deep side-whiskers grown well past his chin, so there was much delay in the brushing of his facial topiary. “While you are pruning your hedgerows, I will descend in that delightful machine once again,” Jules Verne proposed to his younger brother. “Perhaps I can reserve a table d’hôte for us both.”

  The downward journey in the hotel’s elevator was nearly as pleasurable as the ascent. The attendant opened the brass gate upon reaching the lobby, and Jules Verne stepped forth . . . into the sudden thundering path of a Roman chariot, pulled by four galloping black steeds with roached manes. Verne leapt out of the way, glimpsing the contorted face and plumed bronze helmet of the charioteer as the steeds rumbled forth.

  As the four black stallions galloped past him, Verne saw the leftmost horse turn to confront him. Now he heard the beast whisper: “Your pardon, Monsieur Verne. Eight years yester-wards, where the Fifth Avenue Hotel now stands, this selfsame spot was the site of Franconi’s Hippodrome, where chariot races were . . .” The stallion’s voice broke off in midsentence as black steeds and bronzed charioteer vanished into the white marble balustrades of the lobby’s staircase.

  “Are you ill, brother?” A familiar voice, a firm hand on his arm. Regaining his balance, Jules looked into the hazel eyes of his slightly shorter brother. The lobby of the Fifth Avenue Hotel showed no glance of chariots. Nearby, two businessmen were calmly discussing whether the United States Congress proposed to intervene in Mexico on behalf of Emperor Maximilian.

  “I am . . . disoriented, Paul.” The novelist smiled as a thought struck him. “You know, while we two are Frenchmen abroad in New York, we naturally say that our hearts are still in Paris. There are six hours’ difference between Broadway and my little house in Le Crotoy, yes? That explains why I seem to be in two moments at once. I have fallen between the clocks.”

  “Then a good meal is called for, and a self-respecting wine,” said faithful Paul, gently guiding his brother towards the nearby sounds of tinkling wineglasses and violin music. “And then, as we have only one night to spend in New York City, let us take our evening’s entertainment in whatever place offers the greatest number of wonders in the smallest possible space.”

  BARNUM & VAN AMBURGH’S MUSEUM & MENAGERIE proclaimed the lettering on the roof of the three-storey clapboard building at 539 Broadway between Spring and Prince Streets.

  The admission price was reasonable: only thirty centimes, or cents as these Americans called them. Jules Verne and his brother entered, and found themselves among astonishments. From the antechamber, a profusion of finger-posts pointed down a series of corridors: “COSMORAMAS”, “GRAND AQUARIA”, “THE LEARNED SEA-LION”. “THIS WAY TO THE HAPPY FAMILY”. To avoid the surging crowd, the Verne brothers stepped into a small vestibule to one side, from which Jules could see an adjoining salon, filled with a double row of glass exhibition cases and waxworks. Some of the gawking customers outside the glass cases seemed more grotesque to him than anything within the cases.

  “Which of these miracles shall we behold first?” Jules asked his brother. Before Paul could reply, a distinguished figure strode towards them: a man in a tailcoat with a gold chain across his waistcoat. The newcomer had distinctly Levantine features – a long curly beard, a hooked nose, thick eyebrows – and Paul Verne was distressed to see his older brother cringe at this man’s arrival.

  “Which of you is Jules Verne?” asked the bearded man, glancing at Paul and then settling on his brother. “Ah, monsieur! I welcome you!” He extended his hand. “The concierge of the Fifth Avenue sent word of your visit. As proprietor of this museum, I . . . is something wrong?”

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sp; Verne had recoiled visibly from the Levantine’s attempt to shake his hand. “You are . . . are you Mister Barnum?” Jules Verne asked.

  Directly behind the bearded stranger, Jules Verne could see a crowd of spectators gaping at a life-sized waxwork of the famous Siamese brothers. Suddenly these people and the waxwork vanished. In their place stood a weird effigy: the likeness of a naked man, ten feet tall, carved in what appeared to be black obsidian, with arms folded across his muscular chest, his stone body contorted in a semblance of pain.

  The dark effigy turned its head, and spoke: “Greetings, monsieur. I am the Cardiff Giant: a notorious hoax that will make headlines two years from now. Well, actually I am not the genuine hoax: I am the hoax of the hoax. Mister Barnum will attempt to purchase the original for exhibition in this very hall. Upon being rebuffed, Barnum commissioned sculptors to construct me as a counterfeit of the original. In 1871, I will be . . .”

  “Explain yourself, please!” said Verne sharply to the stone giant.

  “Very well. Mister Verne, you are famous where I come from . . .” the giant began.

  “I am famous in a stone quarry?” asked Jules Verne.

  “Nice one, monsieur. It is a pity that the humour in your novels is often lost in their translated editions,” the Cardiff Giant resumed calmly. “A more regrettable aspect of your novels is your penchant for unsavoury depictions of Jewish villains. There is one you have not written yet, which . . .”

  The giant vanished in mid-sentence, replaced by the previous spectators and the double waxwork of the Siamese brothers. “You spoke strangely, Jules. Are you well?” Paul Verne asked.

  The bearded man, whose distinctly Semitic features had repelled Jules Verne, now spoke again: “Erm, you asked if I was Mister Barnum, sir. I have the honour to be his business partner, and co-owner of this house of wonders. I am Isaac Van Amburgh, of the famous menagerie.”

  He again extended his hand. Paul Verne clasped it, offering a half-hearted handshake. Jules merely scowled.

  “VERNE!” bellowed a voice at the far end of the salon. Through the huzzabuzzing crowd pushed a self-important figure: a stout Yankee, balding, careless in dress, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his cravat undone. “How d’ye do, sir?” crowed this newcomer, seizing Jules Verne’s hand and pumping it freely. “Barnum’s the name: the one and only, warranted genuine.” At the edge of his vision, Verne saw Isaac Van Amburgh discreetly slipping into the crowd. “Delighted to have you here among our wonders, Mister Verne!” resumed Barnum, in a rapid American accent which Paul Verne was obliged to translate for his less fluent brother. “Your novels are among my favourite reading, and . . .”

  “You have read my nouvelles?” Jules Verne interrupted.

  “Well, ah, no,” harrumphed Barnum. “You must pardon a humbug. My French is not of the best. But here in New York, the Weekly Magazine of Popular Literature began to serialize your From the Earth to the Moon this past January, and . . .”

  “Did they, indeed?” asked Paul Verne, who oversaw his brother’s business arrangements. “I do not recall them troubling themselves with the trifling matter of copyright.”

  Barnum attempted a deep bow, and halfway succeeded.“Plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery . . . and I speak from personal experience, having been on both sides of such tributes. Ahem! May I escort your good sirs through the halls of my Museum? There are thousands of exhibits here, so permit me to show you the choicest of my astonishments.”

  Escorted by Barnum, the Verne brothers passed through the main salon. Between a waxwork effigy of a Chinese mandarin and a replica of the Venus of Canova was a prominent signpost reading “THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS”. With a chuckle, Barnum explained this: “My museum, sirs, opens at ten sharp every day, except the Sabbath. By half-past ten, the place is chock-full of suckers, staring at my exhibits and gawping fit to kill, so’s you’d think their eyeballs would bust. Plenty more people are outside the box-office, waiting to get in . . . but there’s no room for ’em, on account the place is full!” Laughing, Barnum jerked his thumb towards the doorway leading to the Egress. “Sooner or later, they go through that door to find out what an Egress is . . . and find themselves in the alley, back of Prince Street.” Barnum guffawed, and slapped his pinstriped knee. “They have to pay to get back in again, and meantime they’ve made room for a fresh crop of rubes!”

  Barnum led his guests to the Cosmorama room. This proved to contain a series of displays, each depicting a lifelike tableau of some human drama of the present or the past. Jules Verne gazed at something captioned “The Drunkard’s Family”. This depicted a one-room hovel. At its centre stood a broken-backed chair in which a red-faced man slumbered in soiled clothing. On the table before him, a half-empty bottle lay sideways, its amber contents spilt on to the threadbare tablecloth. In the far corner, a ragged woman covered her face with both hands, her posture grief-stricken. Starving children beckoned piteously. Near the wife stood a bare cot, with one more child dead within it. For one moment, Verne was shocked that Barnum would exploit this anguished family by putting them on public display. Then, with a greater shock, Verne realized that all of these figures were nothing more than waxworks. Even the bright puddle of liquid on the tablecloth was a trompe l’oeil, achieved with a polished piece of tinted glass.

  At this moment a bell rang, and a bellboy spoke with great ceremony: “Ladies and gentlemen, if you please! Ten days ago our nation’s Secretary of State, Mr William H. Seward, paid seven million of our tax dollars to Czar Alexander of Russia in order to purchase a piece of real estate known as Alaska.” There was some murmuring among the spectators present as the bellboy spoke again: “This afternoon, at enormous expense, Mr Barnum and Mr Van Amburgh have brought to New York City, for your inspection and approval, a genuine fragment of Alaska!”

  Cymbals clashed, and now a dainty chambermaid entered the salon, bearing a blue velvet pillow. In the centre of this pillow, slightly melted, was a large chunk of ice. The spectators laughed at the humbug, and several of the men present made discourteous remarks about Seward’s folly.

  Barnum bowed to the Verne brothers. “I must stage a few jests, as you see, so that my customers never suspect that they are being educated.” The showman beckoned. “May I show you something to astonish you?”

  There were, indeed, so many marvels in this place that it was clearly impossible to sample them all in the brief time available, so the Verne brothers permitted Barnum to escort them passed a cage containing the Happy Family – this proved to be animals of several species, carnivores placidly co-habiting with herbivores – and then onward into a wide hall, its ceiling bracketed in a double row of globed gas-fittings. And here the exhibits were alive, “This is my hall of Freaks and Prodigies,” explained Barnum.

  Jules Verne felt a rush of emotions – delight, and shock, and dismay – when he beheld the entertainment that was offered here. The dismay was for himself, as he realized the thrill of his initial delight. For each of the occupants of this room was some sort of human anomaly, displayed as a curiosity to be stared at.

  There were two dwarves – one of either sex – alongside a Circassian girl, whose pale skin was utterly milk-white. Her eyes, like red garnets, peered accusingly at Jules Verne while she absently plaited her pale yellow hair. A nearby kiosk offered something called the Leopard Child. Jules Verne peered within, and beheld a very young child, nearly naked, of indeterminate sex. The child’s pale skin was stippled and piebald with a grotesque pattern of dark brown spots, covering its entire body and face. Verne shuddered.

  His brother Paul had seen the horror too. “Fear not, Jules. This man Barnum is legendary for his humbugs. Perhaps the unfortunate child is one more fraud, garnished with paint.”

  At the sound of women’s voices nearby, engaged in pleasant conversation, Jules Verne hurried onward to the next kiosk. Here a fashionably-dressed lady stood with her back to him. Her long hair was stylishly arranged, her body gracefully proportioned, and she spoke in a ligh
t gentle voice. The other woman, who appeared to be standing on a chair, was conversing in a voice that was strangely deep yet clearly feminine.

  As Verne stepped closer, he gasped. The deep-voiced woman was standing on the floor, yet she towered above him. A giantess!

  At that moment, the other woman turned round and faced Verne. The lower half of her face was resplendent with a chestnut-coloured beard! In one graceful hand she held a tortoise-shell comb, in her other a mirror. As she posed, she admired her own beard and combed it carefully.

  A man in disguise, surely? No; the corseted figure was quite female, and her face – its unbearded portions, at least – satisfyingly feminine. In his experience as a playwright, Jules Verne was aware of crepe beards that could be affixed with spirit-gum. Perhaps this . . . ?

  As if reading his thoughts, the bearded woman raised her manicured fingers to her chin. She pinched one of her own hairs, then suddenly plucked it. Jules Verne clearly saw the skin distend for an instant as the hair was uprooted. Smiling prettily, the bearded woman – now less bearded, by a single hair’s worth – rolled the hair between finger and thumb, and extended it towards him. “Would you like a souvenir, sir?”

  The giantess guffawed. “Go on and take it,” she boomed in her deep hearty voice. “Madame Hines doesn’t give a hair off her chin to just anyone.”

  Jules Verne now gave his full attention to the giantess. She was attractive of face and figure, except for a thick dewlap in her throat indicating a goitre . . . might that be the explanation for her prodigious size? Barely twenty years old, she seemed gigantically girlish. The giant lady stood at least eight feet tall – the upswept coiffure of her auburn hair added another few inches – and she must have weighed nearly two hundred kilos, yet the upper half of her body was elegantly proportioned. The regions below the giantess’s waist were indeterminate, for she was dressed in an elaborate hoop skirt and crinoline frame that extended to the floor, entirely concealing her nether portions. Such a framework, Verne realized, could conceal nearly anything . . .