The Self-Propelled Island

by Jules Verne, Marie-Thérèse Noiset (Translator), Volker Dehs (Introduction)

Overview

The Self-Propelled Island is the first unabridged English translation of Jules Verne's original story featuring a famous French string quartet that is abducted by an American businessman and taken to Standard Island to perform for its millionaire inhabitants. The quartet soon discovers that Standard Island is not an island at all, but an immense, futuristic ship possessing all the features of an idyllic haven. Equipped with the most opulent amenities, Standard Island travels the Pacific Ocean, traversing the south archipelagos and stopping at many "sister" islands for the pleasure of its well-heeled inhabitants. These inhabitants soon meet with the danger, in its various forms, that is inherent in ocean travel. Meanwhile, the French quartet is witness to the rivalry that exists between the two most powerful families onboard, a rivalry that keeps the future of the island balancing on the edge of a knife.

First published in English in 1896, the novel was originally censored in translation. Dozens of pages were cut from the story because English translators felt they were too critical of Americans as well as the British. Here, for the first time, readers have the pleasure of reading The Self-Propelled Island as Verne intended it.

Jules Verne (1828-1905), the world's most translated author, wrote numerous classics of adventure and science fiction, including The Meteor Hunt, Lighthouse at the End of the World, The Golden Volcano, and Magellania, which are all available from the University of Nebraska Press. Marie-Thérèse Noiset is a professor emerita of French and translation at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She has also translated Caught in the Storm by Seydou Badian. Volker Dehs is a German literary critic and leading Jules Verne specialist and biographer.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780803245822
Publisher:	UNP - Bison Books
Publication date:	07/01/2015
Series:	Bison Frontiers of Imagination
Pages:	352
Product dimensions:	5.90(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.20(d)

About the Author

Jules Verne (1828–1905), the world’s most translated author, wrote numerous classics of adventure and science fiction, including The Meteor Hunt, Lighthouse at the End of the World, The Golden Volcano, and Magellania, which are all available from the University of Nebraska Press. Marie-Thérèse Noiset is a professor emerita of French and translation at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She has also translated Caught in the Storm by Seydou Badian. Volker Dehs is a German literary critic and leading Jules Verne specialist and biographer.

Date of Birth:

February 8, 1828

Date of Death:

March 24, 1905

Place of Birth:

Nantes, France

Place of Death:

Amiens, France

Education:

Nantes lycée and law studies in Paris

Read an Excerpt

The Self-Propelled Island

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By Jules Verne, Marie-Thérèse Noiset

UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS

Copyright © 2013 Jules Verne
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8032-7671-0

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CHAPTER 1

The Concerting Quartet

When a trip begins badly, it rarely ends well. At least this is an opinion that the four musicians, whose instruments were lying on the ground, would surely have a right to maintain. Indeed, the carriage they had taken at the final station of the railroad had just tipped over onto the shoulder of the road.

"Anyone hurt?" asked the first musician who quickly stood up.

"All I have is a scratch," answered the second, wiping his cheek nicked by broken glass.

"Me, I was hardly grazed," said the third, who had a few drops of blood trickling from his calf.

"Where is my cello ...?" asked the fourth. "I hope nothing happened to my cello!"

Luckily, the instrument cases were intact. The cello, the two violins, and the viola had not been damaged by the jolting. They would hardly need tuning. Top-quality instruments they were.

"That damned railroad left us stranded halfway ...," said one.

"That damned carriage dumped us in the middle of this deserted land ...!" replied the other.

"Right as night is falling ...!" added the third.

"Luckily, our concert is only scheduled for the day after tomorrow!" observed the fourth.

Then several comical exchanges took place among these musicians, who accepted their misadventure cheerfully. One of them, following his ingrained habit of borrowing his jokes from musical terms, said,

"In the meantime, our carriage went 'out of tune'!"

"Pinchinat!" admonished one of his companions.

"And my opinion is," continued Pinchinat, "that too many of our adventures 'end up off key.'"

"Will you be quiet ...?"

"And that we would do well to 'transpose our pieces' to another carriage!" Pinchinat dared to add.

Yes, they had had a few dreadful adventures indeed, as the reader will soon find out.

This entire exchange took place in French, but it could as well have been carried out in English. The quartet spoke Walter Scott's and Cooper's language like their own, thanks to their many peregrinations through countries of Anglo-Saxon origin. Thus it was in this language that they addressed the driver of the carriage.

The good man was the worst off, since he had been thrown from his seat at the very moment the front axle broke. But he only received a few contusions that were more painful than serious. True, he could not walk because of a sprain. They would thus have to find a way of transporting him to the next village.

It was indeed a miracle that the accident did not cause any fatalities. The road meandered through a mountainous countryside, at times coming dangerously close to steep cliffs. In many places it ran alongside turbulent torrents and was cut by fords that were unfit for carriages. If the front axle had broken a few steps earlier, there is no doubt that the vehicle would have rolled down into these abysses and perhaps no one would have survived the disaster.

At any rate, the carriage was useless now. One of the two horses had hit its head on a stone and was groaning on the ground. The other had a deep cut on its hip. Thus, they had no carriage or horses left.

In short, bad luck had not spared them, these four musicians, in the territory of Southern California. They had suffered two accidents in twenty-four hours and, unless one is a philosopher, ...

At that time, San Francisco, the capital of the state, was in direct communication by rail with San Diego, situated almost at the border of the old Californian province. It was toward this important city, where they were to give a much publicized and anticipated concert two days later, that the four travelers were heading. The train, having left San Francisco the day before, was only about fifty miles outside of San Diego when the first "contretemps" occurred.

Yes, the jolliest member of the gang called it a "contretemps" indeed, and we will ask you to tolerate this expression from the former student of musical notation.

If there had been an unavoidable stop at the Paschal station, it was because the tracks had been swept away by a flash flood for a distance of three to four miles. It had been impossible to catch the train two miles farther on, because a transfer had not yet been organized, the train accident having happened only a few hours earlier.

The passengers had to make a choice: either wait for the track to reopen or, at the next village, take any carriage they could find for San Diego.

The quartet decided on this last option. In a neighboring village, they found a rickety, old, moth-eaten carriage that was not in the least comfortable. They haggled over the price with the owner and lured the driver with the promise of a generous tip. They left with their instruments but not with their luggage. It was about two in the afternoon and, until seven, the trip continued without too much trouble or fatigue. But then a second "contretemps" occurred: the carriage toppled over in such an unfortunate way that they could not use it to go on.

And the quartet was still a good twenty miles from San Diego!

But why would four musicians, of French nationality and born in Paris moreover, venture through this incredible region of Southern California?

Why ...? We are going to briefly explain this and paint, with a few strokes, the four virtuosos whom fate, that whimsical distributor of roles, was going to put in contact with the characters of this astonishing story.

During that year—we cannot precisely tell you what year this was, give or take thirty years—the United States had doubled the number of stars on its federal flag. Its industrial and commercial powers were in full bloom after annexing the Canadian Dominion to the farthest border of the Polar Sea and the Mexican, Guatemalan, Honduran, Nicaraguan, and Costa Rican provinces up to the Panama Canal. At the same time, the aesthetic sense of these Yankee invaders had developed. Though their production was still very limited in the field of fine arts, and their national genius rather closed to painting, sculpture, and music, the taste for beautiful artwork had become widespread among them. By regularly buying the paintings of the Old Masters for outrageous prices in order to build up their private or public collections, by hiring famous singers and actors as well as the most talented musicians for exorbitant fees, they had finally acquired an appreciation for beautiful, noble things that had escaped them for so long.

In music, it was the famous composers of the second half of the nineteenth century, Meyerbeer, Halévy, Gounod, Berlioz, Wagner, Verdi, Massé, Saint-Saëns, Reyer, Massenet, Delibes, who had first fascinated the dilettantes of the New World. Later, little by little, they began to understand the more profound works of Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven, going back to the source of this sublime art that had started pouring out during the eighteenth century. After the operas came the operettas, the dramas, the symphonies, the sonatas, the orchestral suites. And now the sonata was extremely popular in the various states of the Union. The people would gladly have paid for one, musical note by musical note, twenty dollars for a full note, ten for a half, and five for an eighth.

It was at this very moment that, aware of this extreme craze, four very talented musicians decided to seek success and fortune in the United States of America. They were four close friends, all former students at the Conservatory, well-known in Paris and much appreciated in the world of what we call "chamber music," which, until then, was not widespread in North America. It was with rare perfection, marvelous unity, and deep feelings that they interpreted the works for four string instruments, a first and second violin, a viola, and a cello, written by Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Haydn, and Chopin. We will add that their music was not in the least raucous and not performed to show off their expertise but had such an impeccable interpretation and incomparable virtuosity! The success of this quartet can better be understood if we recall that at that time people were starting to tire of the formidable harmonic and symphonic orchestras. Music may be nothing but a shaking of artistically combined sound waves, but there is no need to unleash these waves in earsplitting storms.

In short, our four musicians had decided to initiate the Americans into the fine and ineffable enjoyment of chamber music. They left together for the New World and, in the last two years, the Yankee music lovers had not begrudged them their hurrahs or their dollars. Their musical matinees and evenings attracted large audiences. The Concerting Quartet—as they were called—could hardly manage to accept all the private invitations of the rich. Without them, no party, gathering, reception, five o'clock, or garden party attracted the attention of the public. Thanks to this infatuation, the quartet had pocketed large sums of money, which would already have amounted to a nice bundle if it had been deposited in the Bank of New York. But why not admit it? They were big spenders, our Americanized Parisians! They did not give much thought to saving, these princes of the bow, these kings of the four strings! They had acquired a taste for this adventurous life, certain as they were to be welcomed and rewarded accordingly, while running from New York to San Francisco, from Quebec to New Orleans, and from Nova Scotia to Texas. In a word, they were rather Bohemian—they belonged to the Bohemia of youth, which is the oldest, the most charming, the most enviable, and the best-liked province of our old France!

Unless we are seriously mistaken, it now seems time to introduce them to you one by one, especially to those among our readers who have never had and who will never have the pleasure of hearing them.

Yvernès, the first violin, was thirty-two years old and taller than average. He had had the good sense to stay skinny; his hair was blond and curly at the ends, and his face was clean-shaven. He had big brown eyes and long fingers constructed to deploy lavishly at the touch of his Guarnerius. He looked elegant and enjoyed draping himself in a dark-colored cloak topped by a silk stovepipe hat. He was a bit of a showoff, perhaps, and certainly the most carefree of the group, the least preoccupied with financial questions, a prodigious musician, an admirer of beautiful things, and a virtuoso of great talent with a promising future.

Frascolin, the second violin, was thirty and short with a tendency toward obesity that made him fume. His hair was dark as well as his beard. He had a big head, brown eyes, a long nose with quivering nostrils, and a red spot where his gold, forever-present pince-nez—he was hopelessly nearsighted—left its mark. He was a fine fellow, kind and helpful, taking on chores to relieve his companions. He kept the books for the quartet, preaching thrift, but was never listened to. He did not at all envy the success of his friend Yvernès, since he was not ambitious enough to climb to the heights of first violinist. He was an excellent musician, though, and, at that moment, was wearing an enormous smock over his travel clothes.

Pinchinat was the alto; they usually called him "Your Highness." At twenty-seven, he was the youngest of the troupe, the most playful also, one of those incorrigible types who remain children their entire lives. He had fine features and witty, alert eyes. His hair was rather red and he sported a pointy mustache. His tongue was constantly darting between his sharp white teeth. He was an inveterate lover of jokes and puns and was always ready for an attack or a retort. His mind was in perpetual motion, a fact that he attributed to his reading of the many C keys that his instrument required: "It's a real assortment of housewifely tasks," he used to say. He was always in a good mood, enjoying his pranks without thinking of the trouble they could bring to his comrades, and for this he was many times scolded, rebuked, and "caught" by the head of the Concerting Quartet.

Indeed, the quartet had a leader; he was Sébastien Zorn, the cellist, who was their boss because of his talent and also because of his age. He was fifty-five, short, and round. His heavy hair, still blond, formed spit curls at his temples. His bristling mustache blended with his untidy sideburns that ended in points. He had a brick-red complexion; his eyes shone through the lenses of glasses, to which he added a pince-nez when he read music. His hands were chubby; the right one, accustomed to the undulating movements of the bow, was adorned with large rings on the third and little fingers.

We believe that this brief sketch will suffice to present the man and the artist. But a fellow does not hold a sound box between his legs for over forty years without being affected by it. It transforms his life, alters his character. Most cellists are loquacious and ill-tempered; they speak in high-and-mighty tones and are witty to boot. And so was Sébastien Zorn, to whom Yvernès, Frascolin, and Pinchinat gladly left the leadership of their musical tours. They let him speak and act as he saw fit because he knew what he was doing. Accustomed to his haughty ways, they laughed when his outbursts went "over the bar," which was unfortunate for a musical performer, remarked the disrespectful Pinchinat. The arrangement of their programs, the decisions regarding their itineraries, and the correspondence with their impresarios were among Zorn's numerous responsibilities that often caused his fiery temper to flare up. But he did not intervene in the fees they received and the money they spent. These items were entrusted to their second violin and first accountant, the meticulous and fastidious Frascolin.

Now the quartet has been presented to you as it would have been onstage. The very different if not highly original characters who made it up are known to the reader. We now ask him to let the incidents of this strange story unfold. He will see what role these four Parisians were called to play, how, after receiving so many bravos throughout the states of the American Confederation, they were going to be transported ... But let's not anticipate, "let's not accelerate the beat," as His Highness would say; let's be patient.

The four Parisians thus found themselves on a deserted road in Southern California at eight o'clock at night, next to the pieces of their "Upturned Carriage"—music by Boieldieu—said Pinchinat. If he, Frascolin, and Yvernès philosophically accepted their misadventure, if it even inspired them to turn out a few professional jokes, you will understand that for the quartet's leader it was the occasion to indulge in a fit of rage. What do you expect? The cellist was irritable; he was, as they say, hot-tempered. That is why Yvernès advanced that he was a descendant of Ajax and Achilles, those two ferocious heroes of antiquity.

So that we will not forget, let us mention once again that Zorn was irascible, Yvernès phlegmatic, Frascolin calm, and Pinchinat overflowing with joviality. They were all excellent friends, as close as brothers. They felt bound by ties that no discussion of interest or self-esteem could break, by common tastes all drawn from the same source. Their hearts, like their well-crafted instruments, were always in tune.

While Sébastien Zorn was cursing and examining the case of his cello to make sure it was not damaged, Frascolin went up to the driver:

"Well, my friend," he asked, "tell me what we are going to do."

"What people do when they have no carriage or horses left ... wait ..."

"Wait for one to show up!" cried Pinchinat.

"And what if none showed up ..."

"Then you look for one," observed Frascolin, who never abandoned his practical bent.

"Where ...?" demanded Sébastien Zorn, still struggling with his case on the road, in a frenzy.

"Where there is one!" replied the driver.

"Hey! Just a minute, mister driver," continued the cellist, gradually raising his voice, "is that an answer? What? Here is a clumsy fellow who tips us over, smashes his carriage, and maims his horses, and then he simply says, 'Get out of this mess on your own' ...!"

Carried away by his natural verbosity, Sébastien Zorn was starting to pour out an endless series of completely useless arguments when Frascolin interrupted him with the following words:

"Let me take care of this, my dear Zorn."

Then, again addressing the driver, he asked, "Where are we, my friend ...?"

"Five miles away from Freschal."

"Is that a railway station ...?"

"No ... It's a village near the coast."

"Will we be able to find another carriage there?"

"A carriage ... no ... but maybe a cart ..."

"A cart pulled by oxen as in the time of the Merovingian kings!" exclaimed Pinchinat.

"It does not matter!" said Frascolin.

"Well!" snorted Sébastien Zorn, "you should rather ask him if there is an inn in this dump called Freschal ... I am fed up with traveling at night ..."

"My friend," asked Frascolin, "is there any sort of an inn in Freschal?"

"Yes, the inn where we were supposed to change horses."

"And to find this village, all we have to do is follow the main road ...?"

"Yes, straight ahead."

"Let's go!" shouted the cellist.

"But it would be cruel to abandon this poor man here ... in distress," observed Pinchinat.

"Let's see, my friend, couldn't you ... if we helped you ...?"

"That's impossible!" answered the driver. "Anyway, I prefer to stay here ... with my carriage ... When daylight comes, I will find a way to get out of this mess ..."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Self-Propelled Island by Jules Verne, Marie-Thérèse Noiset. Copyright © 2013 Jules Verne. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Introduction by Volker Dehs
Translator’s Note
Part One
I. The Concerting Quartet
II. The Power of a Cacophonous Sonata
III. A Chatty Mentor
IV. The Concerting Quartet Disconcerted
V. Standard Island and Milliard City
VI. Invitees . . . Inviti
VII. Heading West
VIII. Navigation
IX. The Hawaiian Archipelago
X. Crossing the Line
XI. The Marquesas Islands
XII. Three Weeks in the Tuamotus
XIII. Stopping at Tahiti
XIV. Parties and More Parties
Part Two
I. In the Cook Islands
II. From Island to Island
III. Concert at the Court
IV. British Ultimatum
V. The Taboo at Tonga Tabu
VI. A Collection of Wild Animals
VII. The Hunt
VIII. The Fiji Islands and Their Inhabitants
IX. A Casus Belli
X. Change of Owners
XI. Offense and Defense
XII. Taking the Helm, Starboard or Larboard?
XIII. The Last Word by Pinchinat
XIV. Denouement

Editorial Reviews

We’re in the midst of a marvelous Verne renaissance. . . . The Self-Propelled Island is a novel of great appeal, especially to Americans: by sending northern and southern aristocrats to sea in literally the same boat, it not only features one of Verne’s fabulous futuristic vehicles but also unfolds one of his shrewdest, wittiest political satires.”—Frederick Paul Walter, Verne translator and former vice president of the North American Jules Verne Society

Frederick Paul Walter