“How are you feeling, sir?” Bolvanius asked Sir John on the fifth day, breaking the silence at last.
“Thank you, sir,” replied Lund. He was touched. “I’m touched by your kindness. I’m suffering terribly . . . and where is my faithful Tom?”
“Sitting in the corner, chewing tobacco, and trying to look like a man who had married ten women at once.”
“Very funny, Sir William!”
“I thank you, sir!”
The two of them were about to shake hands when a terrible event took place. With a horrifying noise something cracked, a thousand cannon shots rang out at once, a boom followed, and furious whistling filled the air. The internal pressure of the copper tube had caused it to explode in that rarefied atmosphere. Its fragments were now flying through endless space.
A horrifying moment, unique in the history of the universe!
Bolvanius grabbed Snipe by the legs, Snipe grabbed Lund by the legs, and with lightning speed the three were hurtled into a mysterious abyss. No longer weighed down, the balloons pirouetted about before bursting with a tremendous bang.
“Where are we, sir?”
“In the ether.”
“If we’re in the ether, what will we breathe?”
“What, Sir John, has happened to your willpower?”
“Gentlemen!” shouted Snipe. “I have the honor to inform you that we’re flying up not down!”
“What the devil! That means we’ve escaped the gravitational pull of the earth. Our target is pulling us in! Huzzah! Sir John, how do you feel now?”
“I appreciate you asking. Sir, I can see land just above us!”
“Not land. A spot! We’re going to crash into it now!”
Crrrrrash!
CHAPTER V: JOHANN HOFF’S* ISLAND
The first to regain consciousness was Tom Snipe. He rubbed his eyes. He surveyed the place where he, Bolvanius, and Lund lay sprawled. He removed one of his socks and wiped the gentlemen’s faces with it. The gentlemen came to at once.
“Where are we?” asked Lund.
“On one of the flying islands! Huzzah!”
“Huzzah! Look, sir. We have outdone Columbus.”
Several other islands floated overhead. (A description follows of a scene that is comprehensible only to the English.) They proceeded to tour the island. Its width was —— and its length was —— (Numbers and more numbers! The hell with them!) Tom Snipe found a tree whose sap resembled Russian vodka. Oddly, the trees were even shorter than the grass. (?) The island was uninhabited. Up to now, no living creature had ever set foot on it.
“Look, sir, what’s this?” Lund asked Sir William, picking up a sheaf of paper.
“Strange! Astonishing! Astounding!” muttered Bolvanius.
It was a sheaf of ads sponsored by a man named Johann Hoff, penned in a barbaric language: Russian, apparently.
How could these writings have come to be there?
“Damnation!” shouted Bolvanius. “Was someone here before us? Who could it be? Tell me—who, who? Damnation! Aaaargh! May a bolt of lightning blow apart my illustrious brains! Let me get my hands on him! Just let me! I’ll swallow him whole, along with his ads!”
Mr. Bolvanius threw up his arms and gave a dreadful laugh. A strange light flickered in his eyes. He had gone mad.
CHAPTER VI: THE RETURN
“Huzzah!” shouted the inhabitants of Le Havre, as they crowded onto the piers of the town. Shouts of joy, bells, and music rang out everywhere. The black object that had threatened universal destruction was dropping not on the city but into the harbor. Ships were in a hurry to escape out to sea. Having blocked the sun for so many days, the black object plopped heavily (pesamment) into the harbor to triumphant shouts and thunderous music, splashing the entire pier. Once in the harbor, it sank. A minute later the harbor was open again. Waves furrowed the surface in all directions. Three men flailed about in the middle of the harbor: crazy Bolvanius, John Lund, and Tom Snipe. They were soon rescued.
“We haven’t eaten in fifty-seven days!” muttered Lund, who was as thin as a starving artist. He explained what had happened.
Johann Hoff’s Island no longer exists. These three brave men weighed it down until it fell out of the neutral zone, was drawn toward the earth, and sank in the harbor of Le Havre.
CONCLUSION
John Lund is now busy with his project of drilling through the moon. Soon the moon will be adorned by a hole. The hole will belong to the English. Tom Snipe lives in Ireland and has taken up farming. He raises chickens and beats his only daughter, whom he is bringing up like a Spartan. Science still interests him, and he is furious at himself for forgetting to take some seeds from those trees on the flying island, with the sap that tastes like Russian vodka.
*A gas made up by the chemists. They say that one can’t live without it. What rubbish. The only thing that one can’t live without is money. (Translator’s note—Chekhonte.)
†There really is such an instrument. (Translator’s note—Chekhonte.)
*Johann Hoff was a widely advertised manufacturer of beer, malt extract, etc.
BEFORE THE WEDDING
LAST THURSDAY, the worthy Podzatylkins announced the engagement of their daughter to the collegiate assessor Nazariev. The betrothal took place at the Podzatylkin residence and went off without a hitch. Refreshments consumed included two bottles of Lanin’s so-called “champagne”* and a bucket and a half of vodka; the young ladies polished off a bottle of Château Lafite. The parents of the bride and the groom cried at just the right moment. The groom and bride kissed with gusto. An eighth grader made a toast that included the phrases “O tempora! O mores!”† and “Salvete, boni future conjuges!”†—both uttered with panache. The red-haired Vanya Smyslomalov, who was doing absolutely nothing as he waited for the die to be cast, went crazy with grief at precisely the right moment, right on cue, so to speak: he ran his hands through the hair on his big head, pounded his knee with his fist, and cried out, “Dammit, I loved her and I love her still!” This afforded inexpressible pleasure to the young ladies.
The Podzatylkins’ daughter is remarkable by virtue of being completely unremarkable. Since no one has ever seen or heard any evidence of her intellect, let’s not talk about it. Her looks are as plain as can be: her papa’s nose, her mama’s chin, feline eyes, mediocre bust. She plays the piano, though she can’t read music. She helps her mama in the kitchen, wears a corset, hates Lenten fare, and considers correct spelling to be the alpha and omega of all wisdom. More than anything, she loves tall men and the name Roland.
Nazariev is a man of average height. His face is pallid and expressionless, his hair is curly, and the back of his head is flat. He works somewhere or other and makes a pittance—barely enough to cover his tobacco. He always smells of egg soap and carbolic disinfectant, fancies himself a real ladies’ man, talks loudly, and is perpetually expressing surprise. When he talks, spittle splatters. He dresses foppishly, looks down on his parents, and tells every girl, “You’re much too naive! Why don’t you read some literature!” More than anything, he loves his own handwriting, Amusement Magazine,* squeaky boots, and, most of all, himself, particularly when he is surrounded by girls, drinking sweet tea, and vehemently denying the existence of the devil.