Off on a Comet

by 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.
INTRODUCTION

Among 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 emotionalaspect of the deeps under ground, the blackness,
the endless wandering passages, the silence, and the awe._

Off on a Comet OR Hector Servadac
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 forego my pretensions. Here is my card."
"And mine."

This rapid altercation was thus brought to an end by
the formalinterchange 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 musicaldispute? 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