CHAPTER V.A REVISED CALENDAR.
All previous hypotheses, then, were now forgotten in the
presence of the one great fact that Gallia was a comet and
gravitating through remote solar regions. Captain Servadac
became aware that the huge disc that had been
looming through the clouds after the shock was the form
of the retreating earth, to the proximity of which the one
high tide they had experienced was also to be attributed.
As to the fulfilment of the professor's prediction of an
ultimate return to the terrestrial sphere, that was a point
on which it must be owned that the captain, after the first
flush of his excitement was over, was not without many
misgivings.
The next day or two were spent in providing for the
accommodation of the new comer. Fortunately his desires
were very moderate; he seemed to live among the stars,
and as long as he was well provided with coffee, he cared
little for luxuries, and paid little or no regard to the ingenuity
with which all the internal arrangements of Nina's
Hive had been devised. Anxious to show all proper respect
to his former tutor, Servadac proposed to leave the
most comfortable apartment of the place at his disposal;
but the professor resolutely declined to occupy it, saying
that what he required was a small chamber, no matter how
small, provided that it was elevated and secluded, which
he could use as an observatory and where he might
prosecute his studies without disturbance. A general search
was instituted, and before long they were lucky enough to
find, about a hundred feet above the central grotto, a small
recess or reduct hollowed as it were in the mountain-side,
which would exactly answer their purpose. It contained
room enough for a bed, a table, an arm-chair, a chest of
drawers, and, what was of still more consequence, for the
indispensable telescope. One small stream of lava, an offshoot
of the great torrent, sufficed to warm the apartment
enough.
In these retired quarters the astronomer took up his
abode. It was on all hands acknowledged to be advisable
to let him go on entirely in his own way. His meals were
taken to him at stated intervals; he slept but little; carried
on his calculations by day, his observations by night, and
very rarely made his appearance amongst the rest of the
little community.
The cold now became very intense, the thermometer
registering 30°C. below zero. The mercury, however, never
exhibited any of those fluctuations that are ever and
again to be observed in variable climates, but continued
slowly and steadily to fall, and in all probability would
continue to do so until it reached the normal temperature
of the regions of outlying space.
This steady sinking of the mercury was accompanied
by a complete stillness of the atmosphere; the very air
seemed to be congealed; no particle of it stirred; from
zenith to horizon there was never a cloud; neither were
there any of the damp mists or dry fogs which so often
extend over the polar regions of the earth; the sky was
always clear; the sun shone by day and the stars by night
without causing any perceptible difference in the temperature.
These peculiar conditions rendered the cold endurable
even in the open air. The cause of so many of the diseases
that prove fatal to Arctic explorers resides in the
cutting winds, unwholesome fogs, or terrible snow-drifts,
which, by drying up, relaxing, or otherwise affecting the
lungs, make them incapable of fulfilling their propel
functions. But during periods of calm weather, when the
air has been absolutely still, many polar navigators, well-clothed
and properly fed, have been known to withstand a
temperature when the spirit in the thermometer has fallen
to 60° below zero. It was the experience of Parry upon
Melville Island, of Kane beyond lat. 81° N., and of
Hall and the crew of the Polaris, that, however intense the
cold, in the absence of the wind they could always brave
its rigour.
Notwithstanding, then, the extreme lowness of the
temperature, the little population found that they were able
to move about in the open air with perfect immunity.
The governour-general made it his special care to see
that his people were all well fed and warmly clad. Food
was both wholesome and abundant, and besides the furs
brought from the Dobryna's stores, fresh skins could very
easily be procured and made up into wearing apparel. A
daily course of out-door exercise was enforced upon every
one; not even Pablo and Nina were exempted from the
general rule; the two children, muffled up in furs, looking
like little Esquimeaux, skated along together, Pablo ever at
his companion's side, ready to give her a helping hand
whenever she was weary with the exertions of her recreation.
After his interview with the newly arrived astronomer,
Isaac Hakkabut slunk back again to his tartan. A change
had come over his ideas; he could no longer resist the
conviction that he was indeed millions and millions of
miles away from the earth, where he had carried on so
varied and remunerative a traffic. It might be imagined
that this realization of his true position would have led
him to a better mind, and that, in some degree at least he
would have been induced to regard the few fellow-creatures
with whom his lot had been so strangely cast, otherwise
than as mere instruments to be turned to his own personal
and pecuniary advantage; but no—the desire of gain was
too thoroughly ingrained into his hard nature ever to be
eradicated, and secure in his knowledge that he was under
the protection of a French officer, who, except under the
most urgent necessity, would not permit him to be
molested in retaining his property, he determined to wait
for some emergency to arise which should enable him to
use his present situation for his own profit.
On the one hand, the Jew took it into account that
although the chances of returning to the earth might be
remote, yet from what he had heard from the professor he
could not believe that they were improbable; on the other,
he knew that a considerable sum of money, in English and
Russian coinage, was in the possession of various members
of the little colony, and this, although valueless now, would
be worth as much as ever if the proper condition of things
should be restored; accordingly, he set his heart on getting
all the monetary wealth of Gallia into his possession, and
to do this he must sell his goods. But he would not sell
them yet; there might come a time when for many articles
the supply would not be equal to the demand; that would
be the time for him; by waiting he reckoned he should be
able to transact some lucrative business.
Such in his solitude were old Isaac's cogitations, whilst
the universal population of Nina's Hive were congratulating
themselves upon being rid of his odious presence.
As already stated in the message brought by the
carrier pigeon, the distance travelled by Gallia in April
was 39,000,000 leagues, and at the end of the month she
was 110,000,000 leagues from the sun. A diagram representing
the elliptical orbit of the planet, accompanied by
an ephemeris made out in minute detail, had been drawn
out by the professor. The curve was divided into twenty-four
sections of unequal length, representing respectively
the distance described in the twenty-four months of the
Gallian year, the twelve former divisions, according to
Kepler's law, gradually diminishing in length as they
approached the point denoting the aphelion and increasing
as they neared the perihelion.
It was on the 12th of May that Rosette exhibited this
result of his labours to Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant,
who visited his apartment and naturally examined
the drawing with the keenest interest. Gallia's path,
extending beyond the orbit of Jupiter, lay clearly defined
before their eyes, the progress along the orbit and the
solar distances being inserted for each month separately.
Nothing could look plainer, and if the professor's calculations
were correct (a point upon which they dared not,
if they would, express the semblance of a doubt), Gallia
would accomplish her revolution in precisely two years,
and would meet the earth, which would in the same period
of time have completed two annual revolutions, in the very
same spot as before. What would be the consequences of
a second collision they scarcely ventured to think.
Without lifting his eye from the diagram, which he
was still carefully scrutinizing, Servadac said:
“I see that during the month of May, Gallia will only
travel 30,400,000 leagues, and that this will leave her about
140,000,000 leagues distant from the sun.”
“Just so,” replied the professor.
“Then we have already passed the zone of the telescopic
planets, have we not?” asked the count.
“Can you not use your eyes?” said the professor,
testily. “If you will look you will see the zone marked
clearly enough upon the map.”
Without noticing the interruption, Servadac continued
his own remarks:
“The comet then, I see, is to reach its aphelion on the
15th of January, exactly a twelvemonth after passing its
perihelion.”
“A twelvemonth! Not a Gallian twelvemonth?” exclaimed
Rosette.
Servadac looked bewildered. Lieutenant Procope
could not suppress a smile.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded the professor,
turning round upon him angrily.
“Nothing, sir; only it amuses me to see how you want
to revise the terrestrial calendar.”
“I want to be logical, that's all.”
“By all manner of means, my dear professor, let us be
logical.”
“Well, then, listen to me,” resumed the professor, stiffly.
“I presume you are taking it for granted that the Gallian
year—by which I mean the time in which Gallia makes
one revolution round the sun—is equal in length to two
terrestrial years.”
They signified their assent.
“And that year, like every other year, ought to be
divided into twelve months.”
“Yes, certainly, if you wish it,” said the captain,
acquiescing.
“If I wish it!” exclaimed Rosette. “Nothing of the
sort! Of course a year must have twelve months!”
“Of course,” said the captain.
“And how many days will make a month?”asked the
professor.
“I suppose sixty or sixty-two, as the case may be.
The days now are only half as long as they used to be,”
answered the captain.
“Servadac, don't be thoughtless!” cried Rosette, with
all the petulant impatience of the old pedagogue. “If the
days are only half as long as they were, sixty of them
cannot make up a twelfth part of Gallia's year—cannot be
a month.”
“I suppose not,” replied the confused captain.
“Do you not see, then,” continued the astronomer,
“that if a Gallian month is twice as long as a terrestrial
month, and a Gallian day is only half as long as a terrestrial
day, there must be a hundred and twenty days in
every month?”
“No doubt you are right, professor,” said Count Timascheff;
“but do you not think that the use of a new
calendar such as this would practically be very troublesome?”
“Not at all! not at all! I do not intend to use any
other,” was the professor's bluff reply.
After pondering for a few moments, the captain spoke
again:
“According, then, to this new calendar, it isn't the
middle of May at all; it must now be some time in
March.”
“Yes,” said the professor, “to-day is the 26th of March.
It is the 266th day of the Gallian year. It corresponds
with the 133rd day of the terrestrial year. You are quite
correct, it is the 26th of March.”
“Strange!” muttered Servadac.
“And a month, a terrestrial month, thirty old days,
sixty new days hence, it will be the 86th of March.”
“Ha, ha!” roared the captain; “this is logic with
a vengeance!”
The old professor had an undefined consciousness that
his former pupil was laughing at him; and as it was
growing late, he made an excuse that he had no more
leisure. The visitors accordingly quitted the observatory.
It must be owned that the revised calendar was left to
the professor's sole use, and the colony was fairly puzzled
whenever he referred to such unheard-of dates as the 47th
of April or the 118th of May.
According to the old calendar, June had now arrived;
and by the professor's tables Gallia during the month
would have advanced 27,500,000 leagues further along its
orbit, and would have attained a distance of 155,000,000
leagues from the sun. The thermometer continued to fall;
the atmosphere remained clear as heretofore. The population
performed their daily avocations with systematic
routine; and almost the only thing that broke the monotony
of existence was an occasional visit from the blustering,
nervous, little professor, when some sudden fancy
induced him to throw aside his astronomical studies for a
time, and pay a visit to the common hall His arrival
there was generally hailed as the precursor of a little
season of excitement. Somehow or other the conversation
would eventually work its way round to the topic of a
future collision between the comet and the earth; and in
the same degree as this was a matter of sanguine anticipation
to Captain Servadac and his friends, it was a matter
of aversion to the astronomical enthusiast, who had no
desire to quit his present quarters in a sphere which, being
of his own discovery, he could hardly have cared for more
if it had been of his own creation. The interview would
often terminate in a scene of considerable animation.
On the 27th of June (old calendar) the professor burst
like a cannon-ball into the central hall, where they were all
assembled, and without a word of salutation or of preface,
accosted the lieutenant in the way in which in earlier days
he had been accustomed to speak to an idle school-boy:
“Now, lieutenant! no evasions! no shufflings! Tell
me, have you or have you not circumnavigated Gallia?”
The lieutenant drew himself up stiffly.
“Evasions! shufflings! I am not accustomed, sir....”
he began in a tone evidencing no little resentment; but
catching a hint from the count he subdued his voice, and
simply said, “We have.”
“And may I ask,” continued the professor, quite
unaware of his previous discourtesy, “whether, when you
made your voyage, you took any account of distances?”
“As approximately as I could,” replied the lieutenant;
“I did what I could by log and compass. I was unable
to take the altitude of sun or star.”
“At what result did you arrive? What is the measurement
of our equator?”
“I estimate the total circumference of the equator to
be about 1400 miles.”
“Ah!” said the professor, more than half speaking to
himself, “a circumference of 1400 miles would give a
diameter of about 450 miles. That would be approximately
about one-sixteenth of the diameter of the earth.”
Raising his voice, he continued:
“Gentlemen, in order to complete my account of my
comet Gallia, I require to know its area, its mass, its
volume, its density, its specific gravity.”
“Since we know the diameter,” remarked the lieutenant,
“there can be no difficulty in finding its surface
and its volume.”
“And did I say there was any difficulty?” asked the
professor, fiercely. “I have been able to reckon that ever
since I was born.”
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried Ben Zoof, delighted at
any opportunity of paying off his old grudge.
The professor looked at him, but did not vouchsafe
a word. Addressing the captain, he said:
“Now, Servadac, take your paper and a pen, and find
me the surface of Gallia.”
With more submission than when he was a school-boy,
the captain sat down and endeavoured to recall the proper
formula.
“The surface of a sphere? Multiply circumference by
diameter.”
“Right!” cried Rosette; “but it ought to be done by
this time.”
“Circumference, 1400; diameter, 450; area of surface,
630,000,” read the captain.
“True,” replied Rosette, “630,000 square miles; just
292 times less than that of the earth.”
“Pretty little comet! nice little comet!” muttered Ben
Zoof.
The astronomer bit his lip, frowned, snorted, and cast
at him a withering look, but did not take any further
notice.
“Now, Captain Servadac,” said the professor, “take
your pen again, if you please, and find me the volume of
Gallia.”
The captain hesitated.
“Quick, quick!” cried the professor, impatiently;
“surely you have not forgotten how to find the volume
of a sphere!”
“A moment's breathing time, please.”
“Breathing time, indeed! A mathematician should
not want breathing time! Come, multiply the surface by
the third of the radius. Don't you recollect?”
Captain Servadac applied himself to his task while the
by-standers waited, with some difficulty suppressing their
inclination to laugh. There was a short silence, at the end
of which Servadac announced that the volume of the comet
was 47,880,000 cubic miles.
“Just about 5000 times less than the earth,” observed
the lieutenant
“Nice little comet! pretty little comet!” again said
Ben Zoof.
The professor scowled at him, and was manifestly
annoyed at having the insignificant dimensions of his
comet pointed out in so disparaging a manner. Lieutenant
Procope further remarked that from the earth he supposed
it to be about as conspicuous as a star of the seventh
magnitude, and would require a good telescope to see it.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the orderly, aloud; “charming
little comet! so pretty! and so modest!”
“You rascal!” roared the professor, and clenched his
hand in passion, as if about to strike him. Ben Zoof
laughed the more, and was on the point of repeating his
satirical comments, when a stern order from the captain
made him hold his tongue. The truth was that the professor
was just as sensitive about his comet as the orderly
was about Montmartre, and if the contention between the
two had been allowed to go on unchecked, it is impossible
to say what serious quarrel might not have arisen.
When Professor Rosette's equanimity had been
restored, he said:
“Thus, then, gentlemen, the diameter, the surface, the
volume of my comet are settled; but there is more to be
done. I shall not be satisfied until, by actual measurement,
I have determined its mass, its density, and the
force of gravity at its surface.”
“A laborious problem,” remarked Count Timascheff.
“Laborious or not, it has to be accomplished. I am
resolved to find out what my comet weighs.”
“Would it not be of some assistance, if we knew of
what substance it is composed?” asked the lieutenant
“That is of no moment at all,” replied the professor;
“the problem is independent of it.”
“Then we await your orders,” was the captain's reply.
“You must understand, however,” said Rosette, “that
there are various preliminary calculations to be made; you
will have to wait till they are finished.”
“As long as you please,” said the count.
“No hurry at all,” observed the captain, who was not
in the least impatient to continue his mathematical exercises.
“Then, gentlemen,” said the astronomer, “with your
leave we will for this purpose make an appointment a few
weeks hence. What do you say to the 62nd of April?”
Without noticing the general smile which the novel
date provoked, the astronomer left the hall, and retired to
his observatory.
