by Jules Vernes
The unknown bowed his head in his hands, and reflected for some moments; then raising his head, he said, —
‘Despite my prohibition, monsieur, you have opened the valve.’
I dropped the cord.
‘Happily,’ he resumed, ‘we have still 300 pounds of ballast.’
‘What is your purpose?’ said I.
‘Have you ever crossed the seas?’ he asked.
I turned pale.
‘It is unfortunate,’ he went on, ‘that we are being driven towards the Adriatic. That is only a stream; but higher up we may find other currents.’
And, without taking any notice of me, he threw over several bags of sand; then, in a menacing voice, he said, —
‘I let you open the valve because the expansion of the gas threatened to burst the balloon; but do not do it again!’
Then he went on as follows:—
‘You remember the voyage of Blanchard and Jeffries from Dover to Calais? It was magnificent! On the 7th of January, 1785, there being a north-west wind, their balloon was inflated with gas on the Dover coast. A mistake of equilibrium, just as they were ascending, forced them to throw out their ballast so that they might not go down again, and they only kept thirty pounds. It was too little: for, as the wind did not freshen, they only advanced very slowly towards the French coast. Besides, the permeability of the tissue served to reduce the inflation little by little, and in an hour and a half the aeronauts perceived that they were descending.
"What shall we do?" said Jeffries.
"We are only one quarter of the way over," replied Blanchard, "and very low down. On rising, we shall perhaps meet more favourable winds."
"Let us throw out the rest of the sand."
‘The balloon acquired some ascending force, but itsoon began to descend again. Towards the middle of the transit the aeronauts threw over their books and tools. A quarter of an hour after, Blanchard said to Jeffries: —
"The barometer?"
"It is going up! We are lost, and yet there is the French coast."
A loud noise was heard.
"Has the balloon burst?" asked Jeffries.
"No. The loss of the gas has reduced the inflation of the lower part of the balloon. But we are still descending. We are lost! Out with everything useless!"
‘Provisions, oars, and rudder were thrown into the sea. The aeronauts were only one hundred yards high.
"We are going up again," said the doctor.
"No. It is the spurt caused by the diminution of the weight, and not a ship in sight, not a bark on the horizon! To the sea with our clothing!"
The unfortunates stripped themselves, but the balloon continued to descend.
"Blanchard," said Jeffries, "you should have made this voyage alone; you consented to take me; I will sacrifice myself! I am going to throw myself into the water, and the balloon, relieved of my weight, will mount again."
"No. no! It is frightful!"
The balloon became less and less inflated, and as it doubled up its concavity pressed the gas against the sides, and hastened its downward course.
"Adieu, my friend," said the doctor. "God preserve you!"
He was about to throw himself over, when Blanchard held him back.
"There is one more chance," said he. "We can cut the cords which hold the car, and cling to the net! Perhaps the balloon will rise. Let us hold ourselves ready. But – the barometer is going down! The wind is freshening! We are saved!"
‘The aeronauts perceived Calais. Their joy was delirious. A few moments more, and they had fallen in the forest of Guines. I do not doubt,’ added the unknown, ‘that, under similar circumstances, you would have followed Doctor Jeffries’ example!’
The clouds rolled in glittering masses beneath us. The balloon threw large shadows on this heap of clouds, and was surrounded as by an aureola. The thunder rumbled below the car. All this was terrifying.
‘Let us descend!’ I cried.
‘Descend, when the sun is up there, waiting for us? Out with more bags!’
And more than fifty pounds of ballast were cast over.
At a height of 3,500 yards we remained stationary.
The unknown talked unceasingly. I was in a state of complete prostration, while he seemed to be in his element.
‘With a good wind, we shall go far,’ he cried. ‘In the Antilles there are currents of air which have a speed of a hundred leagues an hour. When Napoleon was crowned, Garnerin sent up a balloon with coloured lamps, at eleven o’clock at night. The wind was blowing north-north-west. The next morning, at daybreak, the inhabitants of Rome greeted its passage over the dome of St Peter’s. We shall go farther and higher!’
I scarcely heard him. Everything whirled around me. An opening appeared in the clouds.
‘See that city,’ said the unknown. ‘It is Spires!’
I leaned over the car and perceived a small blackish mass. It was Spires. The Rhine, which is so large, seemed an unrolled ribbon. The sky was a deep blue over our heads. The birds had long abandoned us, for in that rarefied air they could not have flown. We were alone in space, and I in presence of this unknown!
‘It is useless for you to know whither I am leading you,’ he said, as he threw the compass among the clouds. ‘Ah! a fall is a grand thing! You know that but few victims of ballooning are to be reckoned, from Pilatre des Rosiers to Lieutenant Gale, and that the accidents have always been the result of imprudence. Pilatre des Rosiers set out with Romain of Boulogne, on the 13th of June, 1785. To his gas balloon he had affixed a Montgolfier apparatus of hot air, so as to dispense, no doubt, with the necessity of losing gas or throwing out ballast. It was putting a torch under a powder-barrel. When they had ascended 400 yards, and were taken by opposing winds, they were driven over the open sea. Pilatre, in order to descend, essayed to open the valve, but the valve-cord became entangled in the balloon, and tore it so badly that it became empty in an instant. It fell upon the Montgolfier apparatus, overturned it, and dragged down the unfortunates, who were soon shattered to pieces! It is frightful, is it not?’
I could only reply, ‘For pity’s sake, let us descend!’
The clouds gathered around us on every side, and dreadful detonations, which reverberated in the cavity of the balloon, took place beneath us.
‘You provoke me,’ cried the unknown, ‘and you shall no longer know whether we are rising or falling!’
The barometer went the way of the compass, accompanied by several more bags of sand. We must have been 5,000 yards high. Some icicles had already attached themselves to the sides of the car, and a kind of fine snow seemed to penetrate to my very bones. Meanwhile a frightful tempest was raging under us, but we were above it.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said the unknown. ‘It is only the imprudent who are lost. Olivari, who perished at Orléans, rose in a paper "Montgolfier"; his car, suspended below the chafing-dish, and ballasted with combustible materials, caught fire; Olivari fell, and was killed! Mosment rose, at Lille, on a light tray; an oscillation disturbed his equilibrium; Mosment fell, and was killed! Bittorf, at Mannheim, saw his balloon catch fire in the air; and he, too, fell, and was killed! Harris rose in a badly constructed balloon, the valve of which was too large and would not shut; Harris fell, and was killed! Sadler, deprived of ballast by his long sojourn in the air, was dragged over the town of Boston and dashed against the chimneys; Sadler fell, and was killed! Cokling descended with a convex parachute which he pretended to have perfected; Cokling fell, and was killed! Well, I love them, these victims of their own imprudence, and I shall die as they did. Higher! still higher!’
All the phantoms of this necrology passed before my eyes. The rarefaction of the air and the sun’s rays added to the expansion of the gas, and the balloon continued to mount. I tried mechanically to open the valve, but the unknown cut the cord several feet above my head. I was lost!
‘Did you see Madame Blanchard fall?’ said he. ‘I saw her, yes, I! I was at Tivoli on the 6th of July, 1819. Madam
e Blanchard rose in a small-sized balloon, to avoid the expense of filling, and she was forced to entirely inflate it. The gas leaked out below, and left a regular train of hydrogen in its path. She carried with her a sort of pyrotechnic aureola, suspended below her car by a wire, which she was to set off in the air. This she had done many times before. On this day she also carried up a small parachute ballasted by a firework contrivance, that would go off in a shower of silver. She was to start this contrivance after having lighted it with a portfire made on purpose. She set out; the night was gloomy. At the moment of lighting her fireworks she was so imprudent as to pass the taper under the column of hydrogen which was leaking from the balloon. My eyes were fixed upon her. Suddenly an unexpected gleam lit up the darkness. I thought she was preparing a surprise. The light flashed out, suddenly disappeared and reappeared, and gave the summit of the balloon the shape of an immense jet of ignited gas. This sinister glow shed itself over the Boulevard and the whole Montmartre quarter. Then I saw the unhappy woman rise, try twice to close the appendage of the balloon, so as to put out the fire, then sit down in her car and try to guide her descent; for she did not fall. The combustion of the gas lasted for several minutes. The balloon, becoming gradually less, continued to descend, but it was not a fall. The wind blew from the north-west and drove it towards Paris. There were then some large gardens just by the house No. 16, Rue de Provence. Madame Blanchard essayed to fall there without danger: but the balloon and the car struck on the roof of the house with a light shock. "Save me!" cried the wretched woman. I got into the street at this moment. The car slid along the roof, and encountered an iron cramp. At this concussion, Madame Blanchard was thrown out of her car and precipitated upon the pavement. She was killed!’
These stories froze me with horror. The unknown was standing with bare head, dishevelled hair, haggard eyes!
There was no longer any illusion possible. I at last recognised the horrible truth. I was in the presence of a madman!
He threw out the rest of the ballast, and we must have now reached a height of at least 9,000 yards. Blood spurted from my nose and mouth!
‘Who are nobler than the martyrs of science?’ cried the lunatic. ‘They are canonised by posterity.’
But I no longer heard him. He looked about him, and, bending down to my ear, muttered, —
‘And have you forgotten Zambecarri’s catastrophe? Listen. On the 7th of October, 1804, the clouds seemed to lift a little. On the preceding days, the wind and rain had not ceased; but the announced ascension of Zambecarri could not be postponed. His enemies were already bantering him. It was necessary to ascend, to save the science and himself from becoming a public jest. It was at Boulogne. No one helped him to inflate his balloon.
‘He rose at midnight, accompanied by Andreoli and Grossetti. The balloon mounted slowly, for it had been perforated by the rain, and the gas was leaking out. The three intrepid aeronauts could only observe the state of the barometer by aid of a dark lantern. Zambecarri had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Grossetti was also fasting.
"My friends," said Zambecarri, "I am overcome by cold, and exhausted. I am dying."
He fell inanimate in the gallery. It was the same with Grossetti. Andreoli alone remained conscious. After long efforts, he succeeded in reviving Zambecarri.
"What news? Whither are we going? How is the wind? What time is it?"
"It is two o’clock."
"Where is the compass?"
"Upset!"
"Great God! The lantern has gone out!"
"It cannot burn in this rarefied air," said Zambecarri.
The moon had not risen, and the atmosphere was plunged in murky darkness.
"I am cold, Andreoli. What shall I do?"
They slowly descended through a layer of whitish clouds.
"Sh!" said Andreoli. "Do you hear?"
"What?" asked Zambecarri.
" A strange noise."
"You are mistaken."
"No."
Consider these travellers, in the middle of the night, listening to that unaccountable noise! Are they going to knock against a tower? Are they about to be precipitated on the roofs?
"Do you hear? One would say it was the noise of the sea."
"Impossible!"
"It is the groaning of the waves!"
"It is true."
"Light! light!"
After five fruitless attempts, Andreoli succeeded in obtaining light. It was three o’clock.
‘The voice of violent waves was heard. They were almost touching the surface of the sea!
"We are lost!" cried Zambecarri, seizing a large bag of sand.
"Help!" cried Andreoli.
The car touched the water, and the waves came up to their breasts.
"Throw out the instruments, clothes, money!"
‘The aeronauts completely stripped themselves. The balloon, relieved, rose with frightful rapidity. Zambecarri was taken with vomiting. Grossetti bled profusely. The unfortunate men could not speak, so short was their breathing. They were taken with cold, and they were soon crusted over with ice. The moon looked as red as blood.
‘After traversing the high regions for a half-hour, the balloon again fell into the sea. It was four in the morning. They were half submerged in the water, and the balloon dragged them along, as if under sail, for several hours.
‘At daybreak they found themselves opposite Pesaro, four miles from the coast. They were about to reach it, when a gale blew them back into the open sea. They were lost! The frightened boats fled at their approach. Happily, a more intelligent boatman accosted them, hoisted them on board, and they landed at Ferrada.
‘A frightful journey, was it not? But Zambecarri was a brave and energetic man. Scarcely recovered from his sufferings, he resumed his ascensions. During one of them he struck against a tree; his spirit-lamp was broken on his clothes; he was enveloped in fire, his balloon began to catch the flames, and he came down half consumed.
‘At last, on the 21st of September, 1812, he made another ascension at Boulogne. The balloon clung to a tree, and his lamp again set it on fire. Zambecarri fell, and was killed! And in presence of these facts, we would still hesitate! No. The higher we go, the more glorious will be our death!’
The balloon being now entirely relieved of ballast and of all it contained, we were carried to an enormous height. It vibrated in the atmosphere. The least noise resounded in the vaults of heaven. Our globe, the only object which caught my view in immensity, seemed ready to be annihilated, and above us the depths of the starry skies were lost in thick darkness.
I saw my companion rise up before me.
‘The hour is come!’ he said. ‘We must die. We are rejected of men. They despise us. Let us crush them!’
‘Mercy!’ I cried.
‘Let us cut these cords! Let this car be abandoned in space. The attractive force will change its direction, and we shall approach the sun!’
Despair galvanised me. I threw myself upon the madman, we struggled together, and a terrible conflict took place. But I was thrown down, and while he held me under his knee, the madman was cutting the cords of the car.
‘One!’ he cried.
‘My God!’
‘Two! Three!’
I made a superhuman effort, rose up, and violently repulsed the madman.
‘Four!’
The car fell, but I instinctively clung to the cords and hoisted myself into the meshes of the netting.
The madman disappeared in space!
The balloon was raised to an immeasurable height. A horrible cracking was heard. The gas, too much dilated, had burst the balloon. I shut my eyes —
Some instants after, a damp warmth revived me. I was in the midst of clouds on fire. The balloon turned over with dizzy velocity. Taken by the wind, it made a hundred leagues an hour in a horizontal course, the lightning flashing around it.
Meanwhile my fall was not a very rapid one. When I opened my eyes, I saw the country. I was two miles from the s
ea, and the tempest was driving me violently towards it, when an abrupt shock forced me to loosen my hold. My hands opened, a cord slipped swiftly between my fingers, and I found myself on the solid earth!
It was the cord of the anchor, which, sweeping along the surface of the ground, was caught in a crevice; and my balloon, unballasted for the last time, careered off to lose itself beyond the sea.
When I came to myself, I was in bed in a peasant’s cottage, at Harderwick, a village of La Gueldre, fifteen leagues from Amsterdam, on the shores of the Zuyder-Zee.
A miracle had saved my life, but my voyage had been a series of imprudences, committed by a lunatic, and I had not been able to prevent them.
May this terrible narrative, though instructing those who read it, not discourage the explorers of the air.
Master Zacharius
1-A Winter Night
The city of Geneva lies at the west end of the lake of the same name. The Rhone, which passes through the town at the outlet of the lake, divides it into two sections, and is itself divided in the centre of the city by an island placed in mid-stream. A topographical feature like this is often found in the great depots of commerce and industry. No doubt the first inhabitants were influenced by the easy means of transport which the swift currents of the rivers offered them – those ‘roads which walk along of their own accord,’ as Pascal puts it. In the case of the Rhone, it would be the road that ran along.
