Off on a Comet
Autor Jules Verneen Limba Engleză Hardback – 3 apr 2018
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781515420200
ISBN-10: 1515420205
Pagini: 278
Dimensiuni: 161 x 235 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.56 kg
Editura: Wilder Publications
ISBN-10: 1515420205
Pagini: 278
Dimensiuni: 161 x 235 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.56 kg
Editura: Wilder Publications
Notă biografică
Jules Verne (1828-1905) was a French novelist, playwright, and poet who is best known for his enduring tales of adventure and discovery that include Journey to the Center of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, and Around the World in Eighty Days. Verne's books about a variety of innovations and technological advancements-including the submarine, space travel, terrestrial flight and deep-sea exploration-years before they were practical realities, laid much of the foundation of modern science fiction. One of the most prolific, famous French novelists of all time, Verne has been the second most-translated author in the world since 1979, ranking between Agatha Christie and William Shakespeare.
Extras
Chapter I: 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 forgo 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 Ténès, about two miles from the mouth of the Chelif. 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, as well mounted as himself, started off toward Mostaganem. It was half past twelve when the two riders crossed the bridge that had been recently erected over the Chelif, 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 Mîna and the lower Chelif. It was the existence of so good a harbor amid 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 masthead was hoisted the pennant of the French Yacht Club, with the distinctive letters MCWT, the initials of Count Timascheff.
Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way toward Matmore, the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends on whom he might rely—a major of the Second Fusileers, and a captain of the Eighth 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.”
As 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 1st of January, at nine o’clock, upon the cliff at a spot about a mile and a half from the mouth of the Chelif. 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 Café 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 Chelif. 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 a rondo, upon a model of versification all but obsolete. This rondo, it is unnecessary to conceal, was to be an ode addressed to a young widow by whom he had been captivated, and whom he was anxious to marry, and the tenor of his muse was intended to prove that when once a man has found an object in all respects worthy of his affections, he should love her “in all simplicity.” Whether the aphorism were universally true was not very material to the gallant captain, whose sole ambition at present was to construct a roundelay of which this should be the prevailing sentiment. He indulged the fancy that he might succeed in producing a composition which would have a fine effect here in Algeria, where poetry in that form was all but unknown.
“I know well enough,” he said repeatedly to himself, “what I want to say. I want to tell her that I love her sincerely, and wish to marry her; but, confound it! The words won’t rhyme. Plague on it! Does nothing rhyme with ‘simplicity’? Ah! I have it now:
“Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity.”
“But what next? How am I to go on? I say, Ben Zoof,” he called aloud to his orderly, who was trotting silently close in his rear, “did you ever compose any poetry?”
“No, Captain,” answered the man promptly. “I have never made any verses, but I have seen them made fast enough at a booth during the fête of Montmartre.”
“Can you remember them?”
“Remember them! To be sure I can. This is the way they began:
“Come in! Come in! You’ll not repent
The entrance money you have spent;
The wondrous mirror in this place
Reveals your future sweetheart’s face.”
“Bosh!” cried Servadac in disgust. “Your verses are detestable trash.”
“As good as any others, Captain, squeaked through a reed pipe.”
“Hold your tongue, man,” said Servadac peremptorily. “I have made another couplet.
“Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity;
Lover, loving honestly,
Offer I myself to thee.”
Beyond this, however, the captain’s poetical genius was impotent to carry him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o’clock he reached the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his composition.
![]()
Chapter I ![]()
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 forgo 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 Ténès, about two miles from the mouth of the Chelif. 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, as well mounted as himself, started off toward Mostaganem. It was half past twelve when the two riders crossed the bridge that had been recently erected over the Chelif, 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 Mîna and the lower Chelif. It was the existence of so good a harbor amid 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 masthead was hoisted the pennant of the French Yacht Club, with the distinctive letters MCWT, the initials of Count Timascheff.
Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way toward Matmore, the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends on whom he might rely—a major of the Second Fusileers, and a captain of the Eighth 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.”
As 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 1st of January, at nine o’clock, upon the cliff at a spot about a mile and a half from the mouth of the Chelif. 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 Café 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 Chelif. 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 a rondo, upon a model of versification all but obsolete. This rondo, it is unnecessary to conceal, was to be an ode addressed to a young widow by whom he had been captivated, and whom he was anxious to marry, and the tenor of his muse was intended to prove that when once a man has found an object in all respects worthy of his affections, he should love her “in all simplicity.” Whether the aphorism were universally true was not very material to the gallant captain, whose sole ambition at present was to construct a roundelay of which this should be the prevailing sentiment. He indulged the fancy that he might succeed in producing a composition which would have a fine effect here in Algeria, where poetry in that form was all but unknown.
“I know well enough,” he said repeatedly to himself, “what I want to say. I want to tell her that I love her sincerely, and wish to marry her; but, confound it! The words won’t rhyme. Plague on it! Does nothing rhyme with ‘simplicity’? Ah! I have it now:
“Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity.”
“But what next? How am I to go on? I say, Ben Zoof,” he called aloud to his orderly, who was trotting silently close in his rear, “did you ever compose any poetry?”
“No, Captain,” answered the man promptly. “I have never made any verses, but I have seen them made fast enough at a booth during the fête of Montmartre.”
“Can you remember them?”
“Remember them! To be sure I can. This is the way they began:
“Come in! Come in! You’ll not repent
The entrance money you have spent;
The wondrous mirror in this place
Reveals your future sweetheart’s face.”
“Bosh!” cried Servadac in disgust. “Your verses are detestable trash.”
“As good as any others, Captain, squeaked through a reed pipe.”
“Hold your tongue, man,” said Servadac peremptorily. “I have made another couplet.
“Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity;
Lover, loving honestly,
Offer I myself to thee.”
Beyond this, however, the captain’s poetical genius was impotent to carry him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o’clock he reached the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his composition.
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Brace yourself! A piece of Earth has been torn apart and sent off into space in this Jules Verne classic.
Brace yourself! A piece of Earth has been torn apart and sent off into space in this Jules Verne classic.