Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

by Marie Sexton

  Then I heard the hatches close. The sea’s undulations, which had been creating a gentle rocking motion, now ceased. Had the Nautilus left the surface of the ocean? Was it re-entering the motionless strata deep in the sea?

  I tried to fight off this drowsiness. It was impossible. My breathing grew weaker. I felt a mortal chill freeze my dull, nearly paralysed limbs. Like little domes of lead, my lids fell over my eyes. I couldn’t raise them. A morbid sleep, full of hallucinations, seized my whole being.

  Then the visions disappeared and left me in utter oblivion.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Coral Realm

  The next day I woke up with my head unusually clear. Much to my surprise, I was in my stateroom. No doubt my companions had been put back in their cabin without noticing it any more than I had. Like me, they would have no idea what took place during the night, and to unravel this mystery I could count only on some future happenstance.

  I then considered leaving my stateroom. Was I free or still a prisoner? Perfectly free. I opened my door, headed down the gangways, and climbed the central companionway.

  Hatches that had been closed the day before were now open. I arrived on the platform.

  Ned Land and Conseil were there waiting for me. I questioned them. They knew nothing. Lost in a heavy sleep of which they had no memory, they were quite startled to be back in their cabin.

  As for the Nautilus, it seemed as tranquil and mysterious as ever. It was cruising on the surface of the waves at a moderate speed. Nothing seemed to have changed on board.

  Ned Land observed the sea with his penetrating eyes. It was deserted. The Canadian sighted nothing new on the horizon, neither sail nor shore. A breeze was blowing noisily from the west, and dishevelled by the wind, long billows made the submersible roll very noticeably.

  After renewing its air, the Nautilus stayed at an average depth of fifteen metres, enabling it to return quickly to the surface of the waves. And, contrary to custom, it executed such a manoeuvre several times during that day of January 19. The chief officer would then climb onto the platform, and his usual phrase would ring through the ship’s interior.

  As for Captain Nemo, he didn’t appear. Of the other men on board, I saw only my emotionless steward, who served me with his usual mute efficiency.

  Near two o’clock I was busy organising my notes in the lounge, when the captain opened the door and appeared. I bowed to him. He gave me an almost imperceptible bow in return, without saying a word to me. I resumed my work, hoping he might give me some explanation of the previous afternoon’s events. He did nothing of the sort. I stared at him.

  His face looked exhausted, his reddened eyes hadn’t been refreshed by sleep, his facial features expressed profound sadness, real chagrin. He walked up and down, sat and stood, picked up a book at random, discarded it immediately, consulted his instruments without taking his customary notes, and seemed unable to rest easy for an instant.

  Finally he came over to me and said, “Are you a physician, Professor Aronnax?”

  This enquiry was so unexpected that I stared at him a good while without replying.

  “Are you a physician?” he repeated. “Several of your scientific colleagues took their degrees in medicine, such as Gratiolet, Moquin-Tandon, and others.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “I am a doctor, I used to be on call at the hospitals. I was in practice for several years before joining the museum.”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  My reply obviously pleased Captain Nemo. But not knowing what he was driving at, I waited for further questions, ready to reply as circumstances dictated.

  “Professor Aronnax,” the captain said to me, “would you consent to give your medical attentions to one of my men?”

  “Someone is sick?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m ready to go with you.”

  “Come.”

  I admit that my heart was pounding. Lord knows why, but I saw a definite connection between this sick crewman and yesterday’s happenings, and the mystery of those events concerned me at least as much as the man’s sickness.

  Captain Nemo led me to the Nautilus’s stern and invited me into a cabin located next to the sailors’ quarters.

  On a bed there lay a man some forty years old, with strongly moulded features, the very image of an Anglo-Saxon.

  I bent over him. Not only was he sick, he was wounded. Swathed in blood-soaked linen, his head was resting on a folded pillow. I undid the linen bandages, while the wounded man gazed with great staring eyes and let me proceed without making a single complaint.

  It was a horrible wound. The cranium had been smashed open by some blunt instrument, leaving the naked brains exposed, and the cerebral matter had suffered deep abrasions. Blood clots had formed in this dissolving mass, taking on the colour of wine dregs.

  Both contusion and concussion of the brain had occurred. The sick man’s breathing was laboured, and muscle spasms quivered in his face. Cerebral inflammation was complete and had brought on a paralysis of movement and sensation.

  I took the wounded man’s pulse. It was intermittent. The body’s extremities were already growing cold, and I saw that death was approaching without any possibility of my holding it in check. After dressing the poor man’s wound, I redid the linen bandages around his head, and I turned to Captain Nemo.

  “How did he get this wound?” I asked him.

  “That’s not important,” the captain replied evasively. “The Nautilus suffered a collision that cracked one of the engine levers, and it struck this man. My chief officer was standing beside him. This man leapt forward to intercept the blow. A brother lays down his life for his brother, a friend for his friend, what could be simpler? That’s the law for everyone on board the Nautilus. But what’s your diagnosis of his condition?”

  I hesitated to speak my mind.

  “You may talk freely,” the captain told me. “This man doesn’t understand French.”

  I took a last look at the wounded man, then I replied, “This man will be dead in two hours.”

  “Nothing can save him?”

  “Nothing.”

  Captain Nemo clenched his fists, and tears slid from his eyes, which I had thought incapable of weeping.

  For a few moments more I observed the dying man, whose life was ebbing little by little. He grew still more pale under the electric light that bathed his deathbed. I looked at his intelligent head, furrowed with premature wrinkles that misfortune, perhaps misery, had etched long before. I was hoping to detect the secret of his life in the last words that might escape from his lips.

  “You may go, Professor Aronnax,” Captain Nemo told me.

  I left the captain in the dying man’s cabin and I repaired to my stateroom, very moved by this scene. All day long I was aquiver with gruesome forebodings. That night I slept poorly, and between my fitful dreams, I thought I heard a distant moaning, like a funeral dirge. Was it a prayer for the dead, murmured in that language I couldn’t understand?

  The next morning I climbed on deck. Captain Nemo was already there. As soon as he saw me, he came over.

  “Professor,” he said to me, “would it be convenient for you to make an underwater excursion today?”

  “With my companions?” I asked.

  “If they’re agreeable.”

  “We’re yours to command, Captain.”

  “Then kindly put on your diving suits.”

  As for the dead or dying man, he hadn’t come into the picture. I rejoined Ned Land and Conseil. I informed them of Captain Nemo’s proposition. Conseil was eager to accept, and this time the Canadian proved perfectly amenable to going with us.

  It was eight o’clock in the morning. By 8:30 we were suited up for this new stroll and equipped with our two devices for lighting and breathing. The double door opened, and accompanied by Captain Nemo with a dozen crewmen following, we set foot on the firm seafloor where the Nautilus was resting, ten metres down.

  A ge
ntle slope gravitated to an uneven bottom whose depth was about fifteen fathoms.

  This bottom was completely different from the one I had visited during my first excursion under the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Here I saw no fine-grained sand, no underwater prairies, not one open-sea forest. I immediately recognised the wondrous region in which Captain Nemo did the honours that day. It was the coral realm.

  We turned on our Ruhmkorff devices and went along a coral shoal in the process of forming, which, given time, will someday close off this whole part of the Indian Ocean. Our path was bordered by hopelessly tangled bushes, formed from snarls of shrubs all covered with little star-shaped, white-streaked flowers. Only, contrary to plants on shore, these tree forms become attached to rocks on the seafloor by heading from top to bottom.

  Our lights produced a thousand delightful effects while playing over these brightly coloured boughs. I fancied I saw these cylindrical, membrane-filled tubes trembling beneath the water’s undulations. I was tempted to gather their fresh petals, which were adorned with delicate tentacles, some newly in bloom, others barely opened, while nimble fish with fluttering fins brushed past them like flocks of birds. But if my hands came near the moving flowers of these sensitive, lively creatures, an alarm would instantly sound throughout the colony. The white petals retracted into their red sheaths, the flowers vanished before my eyes, and the bush changed into a chunk of stony nipples.

  Sheer chance had placed me in the presence of the most valuable specimens of this zoophyte. This coral was the equal of those fished up from the Mediterranean off the Barbary Coast or the shores of France and Italy. With its bright colours, it lived up to those poetic names of blood flower and blood foam that the industry confers on its finest exhibits. Coral sells for as much as five-hundred francs per kilogram, and in this locality the liquid strata hid enough to make the fortunes of a whole host of coral fishermen. This valuable substance often merges with other polyparies, forming compact, hopelessly tangled units known as

  “macciota,” and I noted some wonderful pink samples of this coral.

  But as the bushes shrank, the tree forms magnified. Actual petrified thickets and long alcoves from some fantastic school of architecture kept opening up before our steps. Captain Nemo entered beneath a dark gallery whose gentle slope took us to a depth of one-hundred metres. The light from our glass coils produced magical effects at times, lingering on the wrinkled roughness of some natural arch, or some overhang suspended like a chandelier, which our lamps flecked with fiery sparks. Amid these shrubs of precious coral, I observed other polyps no less unusual, melita coral, rainbow coral with jointed outgrowths, then a few tufts of genus Corallina, some green and others red, actually a type of seaweed encrusted with limestone salts, which, after long disputes, naturalists have finally placed in the vegetable kingdom. But as one intellectual has remarked, “Here, perhaps, is the actual point where life rises humbly out of slumbering stone, but without breaking away from its crude starting point.”

  Finally, after two hours of walking, we reached a depth of about three-hundred metres, in other words, the lowermost limit at which coral can begin to form. But here it was no longer some isolated bush or a modest grove of low timber. It was an immense forest, huge mineral vegetation, enormous petrified trees linked by garlands of elegant hydras from the genus Plumularia, those tropical creepers of the sea, all decked out in shades and gleams. We passed freely under their lofty boughs, lost up in the shadows of the waves, while at our feet organ-pipe coral, stony coral, star coral, fungus coral, and sea anemone from the genus Caryophylia formed a carpet of flowers all strewn with dazzling gems.

  What an indescribable sight! Oh, if only we could share our feelings. Why were we imprisoned behind these masks of metal and glass. Why were we forbidden to talk with each other. At least let us lead the lives of the fish that populate this liquid element, or better yet, the lives of amphibians, which can spend long hours either at sea or on shore, travelling through their double domain as their whims dictate.

  Meanwhile Captain Nemo had called a halt. My companions and I stopped walking, and turning around, I saw the crewmen form a semicircle around their leader. Looking with greater care, I observed that four of them were carrying on their shoulders an object that was oblong in shape.

  At this locality we stood in the centre of a huge clearing surrounded by the tall tree forms of this underwater forest. Our lamps cast a sort of brilliant twilight over the area, making inordinately long shadows on the seafloor. Past the boundaries of the clearing, the darkness deepened again, relieved only by little sparkles given off by the sharp crests of coral.

  Ned Land and Conseil stood next to me. We stared, and it dawned on me that I was about to witness a strange scene. Observing the seafloor, I saw that it swelled at certain points from low bulges that were encrusted with limestone deposits and arranged with a symmetry that betrayed the hand of man.

  In the middle of the clearing, on a pedestal of roughly piled rocks, there stood a cross of coral, extending long arms you would have thought were made of petrified blood.

  At a signal from Captain Nemo, one of his men stepped forward and, a few feet from this cross, detached a mattock from his belt and began to dig a hole.

  I finally understood. This clearing was a cemetery, this hole a grave, that oblong object the body of the man who must have died during the night. Captain Nemo and his men had come to bury their companion in this communal resting place on the inaccessible ocean floor.

  No. My mind was reeling as never before. Never had ideas of such impact raced through my brain. I didn’t want to see what my eyes saw. I reached out, and although the suits made it awkward, I took Ned’s hand and clung to it.

  Meanwhile the grave digging went slowly. Fish fled here and there as their retreat was disturbed. I heard the pick ringing on the limestone soil, its iron tip sometimes giving off sparks when it hit a stray piece of flint on the sea bottom. The hole grew longer, wider, and soon was deep enough to receive the body.

  Then the pallbearers approached. Wrapped in white fabric made from filaments of the fan mussel, the body was lowered into its watery grave. Captain Nemo, arms crossed over his chest, knelt in a posture of prayer, as did all the friends of him who had loved them… My two companions and I bowed reverently.

  The grave was then covered over with the rubble dug from the seafloor, and it formed a low mound.

  When this was done, Captain Nemo and his men stood up, then they all approached the grave, sank again on bended knee, and extended their hands in a sign of final farewell…

  Then the funeral party went back up the path to the Nautilus, returning beneath the arches of the forest, through the thickets, along the coral bushes, going steadily higher.

  Finally the ship’s rays appeared. Their luminous trail guided us to the Nautilus. By one o’clock we had returned.

  After changing clothes, I climbed onto the platform, and in the grip of dreadfully obsessive thoughts, I sat next to the beacon.

  Captain Nemo rejoined me. I stood up and said to him, “So, as I predicted, that man died during the night?”

  “Yes, Professor Aronnax,” Captain Nemo replied.

  “And now he rests beside his companions in that coral cemetery?”

  “Yes, forgotten by the world but not by us. We dig the graves, then entrust the polyps with sealing away our dead for eternity.”

  And with a sudden gesture, the captain hid his face in his clenched fists, vainly trying to hold back a sob. Then he added, “There lies our peaceful cemetery, hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the waves.”

  “At least, captain, your dead can sleep serenely there, out of the reach of sharks.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Nemo replied solemnly, “of sharks and men.”

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  The Indian Ocean

  Now we begin the second part of this voyage under the seas. The first ended in that moving scene at the coral cemetery, which left
a profound impression on my mind. And so Captain Nemo would live out his life entirely in the heart of this immense sea, and even his grave lay ready in its impenetrable depths. There the last sleep of the Nautilus’s occupants, friends bound together in death as in life, would be disturbed by no monster of the deep.

  “No man either,” the captain had added.

  Always that same fierce, implacable defiance of human society.

  As for me, I was no longer content with the hypotheses that satisfied Conseil. That fine lad persisted in seeing the Nautilus’s commander as merely one of those unappreciated scientists who repay humanity’s indifference with contempt. For Conseil, the captain was still a misunderstood genius who, tired of the world’s deceptions, had been driven to take refuge in this inaccessible environment where he was free to follow his instincts. But to my mind, this hypothesis explained only one side of Captain Nemo.

  In fact, the mystery of that last afternoon when we were locked in prison and put to sleep, the captain’s violent precaution of snatching from my grasp a spyglass poised to scour the horizon, and the fatal wound given that man during some unexplained collision suffered by the Nautilus, all led me down a plain trail. No. Captain Nemo wasn’t content simply to avoid humanity. His fearsome submersible served not only his quest for freedom, but also, perhaps, it was used in Lord-knows-what schemes of dreadful revenge.

  Right now, nothing is clear to me, I still glimpse only glimmers in the dark, and I must limit my pen, as it were, to taking dictation from events.

  But nothing binds us to Captain Nemo. He believes that escaping from the Nautilus is impossible. We are not even constrained by our word of honour. No promises fetter us.