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WORKS
of
JULES VERNE
EDITED BY
CHARLES F. HORNE, Ph.D.
Professor of English, College of the City of New York;
Author of “The Technique of the Novel,” etc.
[colophon omitted]
F. TYLER DANIELS COMPANY, INC.
NEW YORK : : : : LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1911
BY VINCENT PARKE AND COMPANY
_INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME NINEAmong so many effective and artistic tales, it is difficult to give
a preference to one over all the rest. Yet, certainly, even amid Verne’s
remarkable works, his “Off on a Comet” must be given high rank. Perhaps this
story will be remembered when even “Round the World in Eighty Days”
and “Michael Strogoff” have been obliterated by centuries of time.
At least, of the many books since written upon the same theme as Verne’s,
no one has yet succeeded in equaling or even approaching it.
In one way “Off on a Comet” shows a marked contrast to Verne’s earlier books.
Not only does it invade a region more remote than even the “Trip to the Moon,”
but the author here abandons his usual scrupulously scientific attitude.
In order that he may escort us through the depths of immeasurable space,
show us what astronomy really knows of conditions there and upon
the other planets, Verne asks us to accept a situation frankly impossible.
The earth and a comet are brought twice into collision without mankind
in general, or even our astronomers, becoming conscious of the fact.
Moreover several people from widely scattered places are carried
off by the comet and returned uninjured. Yet further, the comet
snatches for the convenience of its travelers, both air and water.
Little, useful tracts of earth are picked up and, as it were,
turned over and clapped down right side up again upon the comet’s surface.
Even ships pass uninjured through this remarkable somersault.
These events all belong frankly to the realm of fairyland.
If the situation were reproduced in actuality, if ever
a comet should come into collision with the earth,
we can conceive two scientifically possible results.
If the comet were of such attenuation, such almost infinitesimal
mass as some of these celestial wanderers seem to be, we can
imagine our earth self-protective and possibly unharmed.
If, on the other hand, the comet had even a hundredth part
of the size and solidity and weight which Verne confers
upon his monster so as to give his travelers a home—
in that case the collision would be unspeakably disastrous—
especially to the unlucky individuals who occupied the exact
point of contact.
But once granted the initial and the closing extravagance,
the departure and return of his characters, the alpha and omega
of his tale, how closely the author clings to facts between!
How closely he follows, and imparts to his readers, the scientific
probabilities of the universe beyond our earth, the actual knowledge
so hard won by our astronomers! Other authors who, since Verne,
have told of trips through the planetary and stellar universe
have given free rein to fancy, to dreams of what might be found.
Verne has endeavored to impart only what is known to exist.
In the same year with “Off on a Comet,” 1877, was published also the tale
variously named and translated as “The Black Indies,” “The Underground City,”
and “The Child of the Cavern.” This story, like “Round the World in
Eighty Days” was first issued in “feuilleton” by the noted Paris newspaper
“Le Temps.” Its success did not equal that of its predecessor in this style.
Some critics indeed have pointed to this work as marking the beginning
of a decline in the author’s power of awaking interest. Many of his
best works were, however, still to follow. And, as regards imagination
and the elements of mystery and awe, surely in the “Underground City”
with its cavern world, its secret, undiscoverable, unrelenting foe,
the “Harfang,” bird of evil omen, and the “fire maidens” of the ruined castle,
surely with all these “imagination” is anything but lacking.
From the realistic side, the work is painstaking and exact as all
the author’s works. The sketches of mines and miners, their courage
and their dangers, their lives and their hopes, are carefully studied.
So also is the emotional aspect of the deeps under ground, the blackness,
the endless wandering passages, the silence, and the awe._
Off on a Comet
OR
Hector Servadac
A CHALLENGE
Nothing, sir, can induce me to surrender my claim.”
“I am sorry, count, but in such a matter your views cannot modify mine.”
“But allow me to point out that my seniority unquestionably gives
me a prior right.”
“Mere seniority, I assert, in an affair of this kind, cannot possibly
entitle you to any prior claim whatever.”
“Then, captain, no alternative is left but for me to compel you
to yield at the sword’s point.”
“As you please, count; but neither sword nor pistol can force
me to forego my pretensions. Here is my card.”
“And mine.”
This rapid altercation was thus brought to an end by
the formal interchange of the names of the disputants.
On one of the cards was inscribed:
_Captain Hector Servadac,
Staff Officer, Mostaganem._
On the other was the title:
_Count Wassili Timascheff,
On board the Schooner “Dobryna.“_
It did not take long to arrange that seconds should be appointed,
who would meet in Mostaganem at two o’clock that day;
and the captain and the count were on the point of parting
from each other, with a salute of punctilious courtesy,
when Timascheff, as if struck by a sudden thought, said abruptly:
“Perhaps it would be better, captain, not to allow the real
cause of this to transpire?”
“Far better,” replied Servadac; “it is undesirable in every way
for any names to be mentioned.”
“In that case, however,” continued the count, “it will be
necessary to assign an ostensible pretext of some kind.
Shall we allege a musical dispute? a contention in which I
feel bound to defend Wagner, while you are the zealous
champion of Rossini?”
“I am quite content,” answered Servadac, with a smile;
and with another low bow they parted.
The scene, as here depicted, took place upon the extremity of a
little cape on the Algerian coast, between Mostaganem and Tenes,
about two miles from the mouth of the Shelif. The headland rose
more than sixty feet above the sea-level, and the azure waters
of the Mediterranean, as they softly kissed the strand, were tinged
with the reddish hue of the ferriferous rocks that formed its base.
It was the 31st of December. The noontide sun, which usually illuminated
the various projections of the coast with a dazzling brightness,
was hidden by a dense mass of cloud, and the fog, which for some
unaccountable cause, had hung for the last two months over nearly
every region in the world, causing serious interruption to traffic
between continent and continent, spread its dreary veil across
land and sea.
After taking leave of the staff-officer, Count Wassili Timascheff wended
his way down to a small creek, and took his seat in the stern of a light
four-oar that had been awaiting his return; this was immediately pushed off
from shore, and was soon alongside a pleasure-yacht, that was lying to,
not many cable lengths away.
At a sign from Servadac, an orderly, who had been standing at
a respectful distance, led forward a magnificent Arabian horse;
the captain vaulted into the saddle, and followed by his attendant,
well mounted as himself, started off towards Mostaganem. It was
half-past twelve when the two riders crossed the bridge that had been
recently erected over the Shelif, and a quarter of an hour later
their steeds, flecked with foam, dashed through the Mascara Gate,
which was one of five entrances opened in the embattled wall
that encircled the town.
At that date, Mostaganem contained about fifteen thousand inhabitants,
three thousand of whom were French. Besides being one of the principal
district towns of the province of Oran, it was also a military station.
Mostaganem rejoiced in a well-sheltered harbor, which enabled her to
utilize all the rich products of the Mina and the Lower Shelif. It was
the existence of so good a harbor amidst the exposed cliffs of this coast
that had induced the owner of the Dobryna to winter in these parts,
and for two months the Russian standard had been seen floating from her yard,
whilst on her mast-head was hoisted the pennant of the French Yacht Club,
with the distinctive letters M. C. W. T., the initials of Count Timascheff.
Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way towards Matmore,
the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends
on whom he might rely—a major of the 2nd Fusileers, and a captain
of the 8th Artillery. The two officers listened gravely enough
to Servadac’s request that they would act as his seconds in an affair
of honor, but could not resist a smile on hearing that the dispute
between him and the count had originated in a musical discussion.
Surely, they suggested, the matter might be easily arranged; a few
slight concessions on either side, and all might be amicably adjusted.
But no representations on their part were of any avail.
Hector Servadac was inflexible.
“No concession is possible,” he replied, resolutely. “Rossini has
been deeply injured, and I cannot suffer the injury to be unavenged.
Wagner is a fool. I shall keep my word. I am quite firm.”
“Be it so, then,” replied one of the officers; “and after all,
you know, a sword-cut need not be a very serious affair.”
“Certainly not,” rejoined Servadac; “and especially in my case,
when I have not the slightest intention of being wounded at all.”
Incredulous as they naturally were as to the assigned cause of the quarrel,
Servadac’s friends had no alternative but to accept his explanation,
and without farther parley they started for the staff office, where, at two
o’clock precisely, they were to meet the seconds of Count Timascheff.
Two hours later they had returned. All the preliminaries had been arranged;
the count, who like many Russians abroad was an aide-de-camp of the Czar,
had of course proposed swords as the most appropriate weapons, and the duel
was to take place on the following morning, the first of January, at nine
o’clock, upon the cliff at a spot about a mile and a half from the mouth
of the Shelif. With the assurance that they would not fail to keep their
appointment with military punctuality, the two officers cordially wrung
their friend’s hand and retired to the Zulma Cafe for a game at piquet.
Captain Servadac at once retraced his steps and left the town.
For the last fortnight Servadac had not been occupying his proper lodgings
in the military quarters; having been appointed to make a local levy,
he had been living in a gourbi, or native hut, on the Mostaganem coast,
between four and five miles from the Shelif. His orderly was his
sole companion, and by any other man than the captain the enforced exile
would have been esteemed little short of a severe penance.
On his way to the gourbi, his mental occupation was a very
laborious effort to put together what he was pleased to call
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