20,000 Leagues Under The Sea

‘What, Ned? You seriously think of seizing this vessel?’

‘Quite seriously,’ answered the Canadian.

‘It is impossible.’

‘How so, sir? A favourable chance may occur, and I do not see what could prevent us profiting by it. If there are twenty men on board this machine they will not frighten two Frenchmen and a Canadian, I suppose.’

It was better to admit the proposition of the harpooner than to discuss it. So I contented myself with answering, –

‘Let such circumstances come, Mr Land, and we will see. But until they do I beg of you to contain your impatience. We can only act by stratagem, and you will not make yourself master of favourable chances by getting in a rage. Promise me, therefore, that you will accept the situation without too much anger.’

‘I promise you, professor,’ answered Ned Land in a not very assuring tone; ‘not a violent word shall leave my mouth, not an angry movement shall betray me, not even if we are not waited upon at table with desirable regularity.’

‘I have your word, Ned,’ I answered.

Then the conversation was suspended, and each of us began to reflect on his own account. I acknowledge that, for my own part, and notwithstanding the assurance of the harpooner, I kept no illusion. I did not admit the probability of the favourable occasions of which Ned Land had spoken. To be so well worked, the submarine boat must have a numerous crew, and consequently, in case of a struggle, we should have to do with numbers too great. Besides, before aught else, we must be free, and we were not. I did not even see any means of leaving this iron cell so hermetically closed. And should the strange commander of the boat have a secret to keep – which appeared at least probable – he would not allow us freedom of movement on board. Now, would he get rid of us by violence, or would he throw us upon some corner of earth? All that was the unknown. All these hypotheses seemed to me extremely plausible, and one must be a harpooner to hope to conquer liberty again.

I understood, though, that Ned Land should get more exasperated with the thoughts that took possession of his brain. I heard him swearing in a gruff undertone, and saw his looks again become threatening. He rose, moved about like a wild beast in a cage, and struck the wall with his fist and foot. Moreover, time was going, hunger was cruelly felt, and this time the steward did not appear. If they had really good intentions towards us they had too long forgotten our shipwrecked condition.

Ned Land, tormented by the twinges of his robust stomach, became more and more enraged, and notwithstanding his promise I really feared an explosion when he would again be in the presence of the men on board.

Two more hours rolled on, and Ned’s anger increased; he cried and called at the top of his voice, but in vain. The iron walls were deaf. The boat seemed quite still. The silence became quite oppressive.

I dare no longer think how long our abandonment and isolation in this cell might last. The hopes that I had conceived after our interview with the commander of the vessel vanished one by one. The gentle look of this man, the generous expression of his face, the nobility of his carriage, all disappeared from my memory. I again saw this enigmatical personage such as he must necessarily be, pitiless and cruel. I felt him to be outside the pale of humanity, inaccessible to all sentiment of pity, the implacable enemy of his fellow men, to whom he had vowed imperishable hatred.

But was this man going, then, to let us perish from inanition, shut up in this narrow prison, given up to the horrible temptations to which ferocious famine leads? This frightful thought took a terrible intensity in my mind, and imagination helping, I felt myself invaded by unreasoning fear. Conseil remained calm. Ned was roaring. At that moment a noise was heard outside. Steps clanged on the metal slabs. The bolts were withdrawn, the door opened, the steward appeared.

Before I could make a movement to prevent him, the Canadian had rushed upon the unfortunate fellow, knocked him down, and fastened on his throat. The steward was choking under his powerful hand.

Conseil was trying to rescue his half-suffocated victim from the hands of the harpooner, and I was going to join my efforts to his, when, suddenly, I was riveted to my place by these words, spoken in French: –

‘Calm yourself, Mr Land, and you, professor, please to listen to me.’

CHAPTER 10 Nemo

The man who spoke thus was the commander of the vessel.

When Ned Land heard these words he rose suddenly.

The almost strangled steward went tottering out on a sign from his master; but such was the power of the commander on his vessel that not a gesture betrayed the resentment the man must have felt towards the Canadian. Conseil, interested in spite of himself, and I stupefied, awaited the result of this scene in silence.

The commander, leaning against the angle of the table, with his arms folded, looked at us with profound attention. After some minutes of a silence which none of us thought of interrupting, he said in a calm and penetrating voice, –

‘Gentlemen, I speak French, English, German, and Latin equally well. I might, therefore, have answered you at our last interview, but I wished to know you first, and afterwards to ponder on what you said. The stories told by each of you agreed in the main, and assured me of your identity. I know now that accident has brought me into the presence of M. Pierre Aronnax, Professor of Natural History in the Paris Museum, charged with a foreign scientific mission, his servant Conseil, and Ned Land, of Canadian origin, harpooner on board the frigate Abraham Lincoln, of the United States navy.’

I bent my head in sign of assent. There was no answer necessary. This man expressed himself with perfect ease, and without the least foreign accent. And yet I felt that he was not one of my countrymen. He continued the conversation in these terms: –

‘I dare say you thought me a long time in coming to pay you this second visit. It was because, after once knowing your identity, I wished to ponder upon what to do with you. I hesitated long. The most unfortunate conjuncture of circumstances has brought you into the presence of a man who has broken all ties that bound him to humanity. You came here to trouble my existence—’

‘Unintentionally,’ said I.

‘Unintentionally,’ he repeated, raising his voice a little. ‘Is it unintentionally that the Abraham Lincoln pursues me in every sea? Was it unintentionally that you took passage on board her? Was it unintentionally that your bullets struck my vessel? Did Mr Land throw his harpoon unintentionally?’

‘You are doubtless unaware,’ I answered, ‘of the commotion you have caused in Europe and America. When the Abraham Lincoln pursued you on the high seas, every one on board believed they were pursuing a marine monster.’

A slight smile curled round the commander’s lips, then he went on in a calmer tone, –

‘Dare you affirm, M. Aronnax, that your frigate would not have pursued a submarine vessel as well as a marine monster?’

This question embarrassed me, for it was certain that Captain Farragut would not have hesitated. He would have thought it as much his duty to destroy such a machine as the gigantic narwhal he took it to be.

‘You see, sir,’ continued the commander, ‘I have the right to treat you as enemies.’

I answered nothing, and for a very good reason; the unknown had force on his side, and it can destroy the best arguments.

‘I have long hesitated,’ continued the commander. ‘Nothing obliges me to give you hospitality. I could place you upon the platform of this vessel, upon which you took refuge; I might sink it beneath the waters and forget that you ever existed. I should only be using my right.’

‘The right of a savage, perhaps,’ I answered, ‘but not that of a civilised man.’

‘Professor,’ quickly answered the commander, ‘I am not what is called a civilised man. I have done with society entirely for reasons that seem to me good, therefore I do not obey its laws, and I desire you never to allude to them before me again.’

This was uttered clearly. A flash of anger and contempt had kindled in the man’s eyes, and I had a glimpse of a terrible past in his life. He had not only put himself out of the pale of human laws, but he had made himself independent of them, free, in the most rigorous sense of the word, entirely out of their reach. Who, then, would dare to pursue him in the depths of the sea, when on its surface he baffled all efforts attempted against him? What armour, however thick, could support the blows of his spur? No man could ask him for an account of his works. God, if he believed in Him, his conscience, if he had one, were the only judges he could depend upon.

These reflections rapidly crossed my mind, whilst the strange personage was silent, absorbed, withdrawn into himself. I looked at him with terror mingled with interest, doubtless as Oedipus considered the Sphinx.

After a rather long silence the commander went on speaking.

‘I have hesitated, therefore,’ said he, ‘but I thought that my interest might be reconciled with that natural pity to which every human being has a right. You may remain on my vessel, since fate has brought you to it. You will be free, and in exchange for this liberty which, after all, will be relative, I shall only impose one condition upon you. Your word of honour to submit to it will be sufficient.’

‘Speak, sir,’ I answered. ‘I suppose this condition is one that an honest man can accept?’

‘Yes; it is this: It is possible that certain unforeseen events may force me to consign you to your cabin for some hours, or even days. As I do not wish to use violence, I expect from you, in such a case, more than from all others, passive obedience. By acting thus I take all the responsibility; I acquit you entirely, by making it impossible for you to see what ought not to be seen. Do you accept the condition?’

So things took place on board which were, at least, singular and not to be seen by people who were not placed beyond the pale of social laws.

‘We accept,’ I replied. ‘Only I ask your permission to address to you one question – only one. What degree of liberty do you intend giving us?’

‘The liberty to move about freely and observe even all that passes here – except under rare circumstances – in short, the liberty that my companions and I enjoy ourselves.’

It was evident that we did not understand each other.

‘Pardon me, sir,’ I continued, ‘but this liberty is only that of every prisoner to pace his prison. It is not enough for us.’

‘You must make it enough.’

‘Do you mean to say we must for ever renounce the idea of seeing country, friends, and relations again?’

‘Yes, sir. But to renounce the unendurable worldly yoke that men call liberty is not perhaps so painful as you think.’

‘I declare,’ said Ned Land, I’ll never give my word of honour not to try to escape.’

‘I did not ask for your word of honour, Mr Land,’ answered the commander coldly.

‘Sir,’ I replied, carried away in spite of myself, ‘you take advantage of your position towards us. It is cruel!’

‘No, sir, it is kind. You are my prisoners of war. I keep you when I could, by a word, plunge you into the depths of the ocean. You attacked me. You came and surprised a secret that I mean no man inhabiting the world to penetrate – the secret of my whole existence. And you think that I am going to send you back to that world? Never! In retaining you, it is not you I guard, it is myself!’

These words indicated that the commander’s mind was made up, and that argument was useless.

‘Then, sir,’ I answered, ‘you give us the simple choice between life and death?’

‘As you say.’

‘My friends,’ said I, ‘to a question thus put there is nothing to answer. But no word of honour binds us to the master of this vessel.’

‘None, sir,’ answered the unknown.

Then, in a gentler voice, he went on, –

‘Now, allow me to finish what I have to say to you. I know you, M. Aronnax. You, if not your companions, will not have so much to complain of in the chance that has bound you to my lot. You have carried your investigations as far as terrestrial science allowed you. But on board my vessel you will have an opportunity of seeing what no man has seen before. Thanks to me, our planet will give up her last secrets.’

I cannot deny that these words had a great effect upon me. My weak point was touched, and I forgot for a moment that the contemplation of these divine things was not worth the loss of liberty. Besides, I counted upon the future to decide that grave question, and so contented myself with saying, –

‘What name am I to call you by, sir?’

‘Captain Nemo,’ answered the commander. ‘That is all I am to you, and you and your companions are nothing to me but the passengers of the Nautilus.’

The captain called, and a steward appeared. The captain gave him his orders in that foreign tongue which I could not understand. Then turning to the Canadian and Conseil, –

‘Your meal is prepared in your cabin,’ he said to them. ‘Be so good as to follow that man.’

My two companions in misfortune left the cell where they had been confined for more than thirty hours.

‘And now, M. Aronnax, our breakfast is ready. Allow me to lead the way.’

I followed Captain Nemo into a sort of corridor lighted by electricity, similar to the waist of a ship. After going about a dozen yards, a second door opened before me into a kind of dining-room, decorated and furnished with severe taste. High oaken sideboards, inlaid with ebony ornaments, stood at either end of the room, and on their shelves glittered china, porcelain, and glass of inestimable value. The plate that was on them sparkled in the light which shone from the ceiling, tempered and softened by fine painting. In the centre of the room was a table richly spread. Captain Nemo pointed to my seat.

‘Sit down,’ said he, ‘and eat like a man who must be dying of hunger.’

The breakfast consisted of a number of dishes, the contents of which were all furnished by the sea; of some I neither knew the nature nor mode of preparation. They were good, but had a peculiar flavour which I soon became accustomed to. They appeared to be rich in phosphorus.

Captain Nemo looked at me. I asked him no questions, but he guessed my thoughts, and said, –

‘Most of these dishes are unknown to you, but you can eat of them without fear. They are wholesome and nourishing. I have long renounced the food of the earth, and I am none the worse for it. My crew, who are healthy, have the same food.’

‘Then all these dishes are the produce of the sea?’ said I.

‘Yes, professor, the sea supplies all my needs. Sometimes I cast my nets in tow, and they are drawn in ready to break. Sometimes I go and hunt in the midst of this element, which seems inaccessible to man, and run down the game of submarine forests. My flocks, like those of Neptune’s old shepherd, graze fearlessly the immense ocean meadows. I have a vast estate there, which I cultivate myself, and which is always stocked by the Creator of all things.’

I looked at Captain Nemo with some astonishment, and answered, –

‘I can quite understand that your nets should furnish excellent fish for your table, and that you should pursue aquatic game in your submarine forests; but I do not understand how a particle of meat can find its way into your bill of fare.’

‘What you believe to be meat, professor, is nothing but fillet of turtle. Here also are dolphins’ livers, which you might take for ragout of pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who excels in preparing these various products of the sea. Taste all these dishes. Here is a conserve of holothuria, which a Malay would declare to be unrivalled in the world; here is a cream furnished by the cetacea, and the sugar by the great fucus of the North Sea; and, lastly, allow me to offer you some anemone preserve, which equals that made from the most delicious fruits.’

Whilst I was tasting, more from curiosity than as a gourmet, Captain Nemo enchanted me with extraordinary stories.

‘Not only does the sea feed me,’ he continued, ‘but it clothes me too. These materials that clothe you are wrought from the byssus of certain shells; they are dyed with the purple of the ancients, and the violet shades which I extract from the aplysis of the Mediterranean. The perfumes you will find on the toilet of your cabin are produced from the distillation of marine plants. Your bed is made with the softest wrack-grass of the ocean. Your pen will be a whale’s fin, your ink the liquor secreted by the calamary. Everything now comes to me from the sea, and everything will one day return to it!’

‘You love the sea, captain?’

‘Yes, I love it. The sea is everything. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert where man is never alone, for he feels life quivering around him on every side. The sea does not belong to despots. On its surface iniquitous rights can still be exercised, men can fight there, devour each other there, and transport all terrestrial horrors there. But at thirty feet below its level their power ceases, their influence dies out, their might disappears. Ah, sir, live in the bosom of the waters! There alone is independence! There I recognise no masters! There I am free!’

Captain Nemo stopped suddenly in the midst of this burst of enthusiasm. Had he let himself be carried out of his habitual reserve? Had he said too much? During some moments he walked about much agitated. Then his nerves became calmer, his face regained its usual calm expression, and turning towards me, –

‘Now, professor,’ said he, ‘if you wish to visit the Nautilus, I am at your service.’

CHAPTER 11 The ‘Nautilus’

Captain Nemo rose, and I followed him. A folding door, contrived at the back of the room, opened, and I entered a room about the same size as the one I had just left.

It was a library. High bookcases of black rosewood supported on their shelves a great number of books in uniform binding. They went round the room, terminating at their lower part in large divans, covered with brown leather, curved so as to afford the greatest comfort. Light, movable desks, made to slide in and out at will, were there to rest one’s book while reading. In the centre was a vast table, covered with pamphlets, amongst which appeared some newspapers, already old. The electric light flooded this harmonious whole, and was shed from four polished globes half sunk in the volutes of the ceiling. This room, so ingeniously fitted up, excited my admiration, and I could scarcely believe my eyes.

‘Captain Nemo,’ said I to my host, who had just thrown himself on one of the divans, ‘you have a library here that would do honour to more than one continental palace, and I am lost in wonder when I think that it can follow you to the greatest depths of the ocean.’

‘Where could there be more solitude or more silence, professor?’ answered Captain Nemo. ‘Did your study in the museum offer you as complete quiet?’

‘No, and I must acknowledge it is a very poor one compared with yours. You must have from six to seven thousand volumes here.’

‘Twelve thousand, M. Aronnax. These are the only ties between me and the earth. But the day that my Nautilus plunged for the first time beneath the waters the world was at an end for me. That day I bought my last books, my last pamphlets, and my last newspapers; and since then I wish to believe that men no longer think nor write. These books, professor, are at your disposition, and you can use them freely.’

I thanked Captain Nemo, and went up to the library shelves. Books of science, ethics, and literature – written in every language – were there in quantities; but I did not see a single work on political economy amongst them; they seemed to be severely prohibited on board. A curious detail was that all these books were classified indistinctly, in whatever language they were written, and this confusion showed that the captain of the Nautilus could read with the utmost facility any volume he might take up by chance.

‘This room is not only a library,’ said Captain Nemo; ‘it is a smoking-room too.’

‘A smoking-room?’ cried I. ‘Do you smoke here, then?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then, sir, I am forced to believe that you have kept up relations with Havana?’

‘No, I have not,’ answered the captain. Accept this cigar, M. Aronnax; although it does not come from Havana, you will be pleased with it if you are a connoisseur.’

I took the cigar that was offered me; its shape was something like that of a Londres, but it seemed to be made of leaves of gold. I lighted it at a little brazier which was supported on an elegant bronze pedestal, and drew the first whiffs with the delight of an amateur who has not smoked for two days.

‘It is excellent,’ said I, ‘but it is not tobacco.’

‘No,’ answered the captain. ‘This tobacco comes neither from Havana nor the East. It is a sort of seaweed, rich in nicotine, with which the sea supplies me, but somewhat sparingly. If you do not regret the Londres, M. Aronnax, smoke these as much as you like.’

As Captain Nemo spoke he opened the opposite door to the one by which we had entered the library, and I passed into an immense and brilliantly-lighted saloon. It was a vast four-sided room, with panelled walls, measuring thirty feet by eighteen, and about fifteen feet high. A luminous ceiling, decorated with light arabesques, distributed a soft, clear light over all the marvels collected in the museum. For it was, in fact, a museum in which an intelligent and prodigal hand had gathered together all the treasures of nature and art with the artistic confusion of a painter’s studio.

About thirty pictures by the first artists, uniformly framed and separated by brilliant drapery, were hung on tapestry of severe design. I saw there works of great value, most of which I had admired in the special collections of Europe, and in exhibitions of paintings. The amazement which the captain of the Nautilus had predicted had already begun to take possession of me.

‘Professor,’ then said this strange man, ‘you must excuse the unceremonious way in which I receive you, and the disorder of this room.’

‘Sir,’ I answered, ‘without seeking to know who you are, may I be allowed to recognise in you an artist?’

‘Only an amateur, sir. Formerly I liked to collect these works of art. I was a greedy collector and an indefatigable antiquary, and have been able to get together some objects of great value. These are my last gatherings from that world which is now dead to me. In my eyes your modern artists are already old; they have two or three thousand years of existence, and all masters are of the same age in my mind.’

‘And these musicians?’ said I, pointing to the works of Weber, Rossini, Mozart, and many others, scattered over a large piano-organ fixed in one of the panels of the room.

‘These musicians,’ answered Captain Nemo, ‘are contemporaries of Orpheus, for all chronological differences are effaced in the memory of the dead; and I am dead, as much dead as those of your friends who are resting six feet under the earth!

Captain Nemo ceased talking, and seemed lost in a profound reverie. I looked at him with great interest, analysing in silence the strange expressions of his face.

I respected his meditation, and went on passing in review the curiosities that enriched the saloon. They consisted principally of marine plants, shells, and other productions of the ocean, which must have been found by Captain Nemo himself. In the centre of the saloon rose a jet of water lighted up by electricity, and falling into a basin formed of a single tridacne shell, measuring about seven yards in circumference; it, therefore, surpassed in size the beautiful tridacnes given to Francis I. of France by the Venetian Republic, and that now form two basins for holy water in the church of Saint Sulpice in Paris.