Читать книгу Five Weeks in a Balloon - Jules Verne - Страница 16

chapter 6

An unbelievable valet—he can see Jupiter’s moons—Dick and Joe lock horns—doubt and belief—the weigh-in—Joe honors Wellington—he gets a half-crown.

Dr. Fergusson had a valet; he answered to the name Joe and with dazzling speed; was exceptionally good-natured; swore absolute fidelity and boundless devotion to his master; anticipated his every wish and shrewdly translated it into reality; was a Caleb who never grumbled or got in a bad mood; and couldn’t have been better at his job if he had been born for it. Fergusson turned the details of his daily life completely over to him, and quite rightly. Trusty Joe, one in a thousand! A valet who knows your favorite foods, who shares your tastes, who packs your bags and doesn’t leave out a single sock or shirt, who’s the keeper of both your keys and your secrets yet doesn’t take unfair advantage of the fact!

Because, to our worthy Joe, the doctor was a man among men! How confidently and respectfully Joe received his decisions. Once Fergusson had spoken, only a moron would try to talk back. Everything he thought was correct; everything he said, reasonable; everything he ordered, doable; everything he undertook, possible; everything he finished, admirable. You could slice Joe to pieces (although you probably would rather not) without changing his opinion of his master.

Accordingly, when the doctor came up with his plan to cross Africa by air, Joe saw it as a done deal; obstacles no longer existed; the instant Dr. Fergusson decided to leave, he was as good as there—along with his loyal servant, because the gallant lad knew without being told that he would be going too.

Besides, his cleverness and his marvelous agility were bound to be a big help. If the zoological gardens had needed somebody to teach gymnastic tricks to the monkeys (who are pretty adept already), Joe would have gotten the job in a heartbeat. Leaping, climbing, soaring, performing a thousand impossible stunts—for him, kids’ stuff.

If Fergusson was the brains and Kennedy the muscles, Joe supplied the sleight of hand. He had already gone with his master on several journeys and had picked up a smidgen of science in his own way; but he was especially remarkable for his cheery outlook, his engaging optimism; he found everything easy, reasonable, and natural, consequently he never saw any need to moan or groan.

Among other gifts, he enjoyed eyesight of amazing strength and range; he shared with Maestlin, Kepler’s teacher, the rare ability to see Jupiter’s moons without a spyglass, and he could count fourteen stars in the Pleiades group, whose farthest members are of the ninth magnitude. But he didn’t let this talent go to his head; on the contrary, he waved to you from afar and sometimes could put his eyes to very good use.

Portrait of Joe

Given the confidence that Joe placed in the doctor, it isn’t surprising that continual arguments broke out, with all due deference, between Kennedy and the worthy servant.

One doubted, the other believed; one stood for farsighted caution, the other blind faith; the doctor was flanked by both doubt and belief! I must say that he didn’t worry his head over either.

“Well, Mr. Kennedy?” Joe said.

“Well, my lad?”

“The time’s coming. Looks like we’re off to the moon.”¹

“You mean the Land of the Moon, which isn’t quite as far; but don’t worry, there are just as many dangers.”

“Dangers! With a man like Dr. Fergusson!”

“I don’t want to rob you of your illusions, my dear Joe, but this undertaking of his is sheer madness: it’ll never happen.”

“Never happen! So you haven’t seen his balloon at the Mitchells’ workshop² in the Borough?”*

“I’m not going near the bloody thing.”

“You’ll miss out on quite a sight, sir! What a rare piece of work! What a smart design! What a delightful gondola! How comfy we’ll feel inside!”

“You’re seriously expecting to go with your master?”

“I am,” Joe fired back with conviction. “Why, I’ll go with him anyplace he wants! That’s all he needs! To head off by himself when we’ve traveled the world together! Who would buck him up when he’s done in? Who would give him a strong helping hand over a precipice? Who would look after him if he comes down sick? No, Mr. Dick, Joe’ll stay on duty by the doctor—where Dr. Fergusson is, I’ll always be around.”

“Good lad!”

“Anyhow you’re coming with us,” Joe went on.

“Of course!” Kennedy said. “In other words, I’ll go along and at the last minute I’ll keep Samuel from committing this piece of lunacy! I’ll follow him right to Zanzibar—that way, a friendly hand will be there to stop him from carrying out this crazy scheme.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Kennedy, you won’t be stopping anything. My master isn’t some crackpot; he gives a lot of thought to his undertakings, and when he makes up his mind, the devil himself couldn’t change it.”

“That remains to be seen!”

“Don’t get your hopes up. But the main thing is, you’re coming. For a hunter like you, Africa’s a marvelous country. So in any case, you won’t be sorry you took this trip.”

“No, I definitely won’t be—if that bullheaded doctor finally wakes up to reality.”

“By the way,” Joe said, “you know that today’s the weigh-in.”

“Huh, weigh-in?”

“That’s right, my master, you, and me—all three of us will be getting weighed.”

“Like jockeys?”

“Like jockeys. Only don’t worry, you won’t have to slim down if you’re too heavy. They’ll take you the way you are.”

“I’m positively not getting weighed,” the Scot said firmly.

“But his machinery seems to need it, sir.”

“Well, his machinery will just have to manage without it.”

“Blimey, if we don’t have the right numbers, suppose we can’t get off the ground!”

“By God, that’s all I ask!”

“Look here, Mr. Kennedy, my master will come and fetch us any second.”

“I won’t go.”

“Oh, you don’t want to give him trouble now.”

“Yes I do.”

“Fine!” Joe said with a laugh. “You’re talking like this because he isn’t here; but when he says to your face: ‘Dick!’ (with all due respect), ‘Dick, I need to know exactly what you weigh,’ I guarantee you’ll go.”

“I won’t go.”

At that moment the doctor reentered his study, where this conversation was taking place; he turned to Kennedy, who wasn’t feeling fully at ease just then.

“Dick,” the doctor said, “come along with Joe; I need to know what the two of you weigh.”

“But—”

“You can keep your hat on. Come along.”

And Kennedy did.

The three of them made their way to the Mitchells’ workshop, where one of those scales called a steelyard balance had been set up. The doctor absolutely had to know his companions’ weight in order to determine the buoyancy of his lighter-than-air vehicle. So he made Dick climb onto the platform of the scale; the hunter didn’t put up any resistance, saying under his breath:

“Fine! Fine! Doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to it.”

“A hundred and fifty-three pounds,” the doctor said, scribbling this number in his notebook.

“Am I too heavy?”

“Naw, Mr. Kennedy,” Joe shot back. “Anyhow I’m on the light side, so I’ll make up for it.”

With that Joe took the hunter’s place, and so enthusiastically that his momentum nearly tipped the scale over; he mimicked the statue of Achilles that honors Wellington at the Hyde Park entrance—and he looked impressive even without a shield.

“A hundred and twenty pounds,” scribbled the doctor.

“Hoho!” Joe threw in while grinning smugly. Why the grin? He wasn’t saying.

“Now my turn,” Fergusson said. And he scribbled 135 pounds for himself.

“The three of us,” he said, “weigh no more than 400 pounds.”

“But master,” Joe continued, “if your experiment called for it, I could easily lose another twenty pounds by skipping meals.”

“No need, my boy,” the doctor replied. “Eat all the meals you like; here’s a half-crown, take on as much ballast as you want.”

* Suburb south of London.