Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Seas

by Jules Verne

  Captain Anderson had the engines stopped at once, while one of the sailors dived to assess the damage. Shortly afterwards, the existence of a 2-metre hole in the hull was confirmed. Such damage could not be repaired and the Scotia, its wheels half underwater, had to continue its journey in the same condition. It lay 300 miles off Cape Clear,* and was three days late sailing into the company docks, having greatly worried Liverpool.

  The engineers then carried out a dry-dock inspection of the Scotia. They couldn’t believe their eyes. Two-and-a-half metres below the waterline appeared a neat incision in the form of an isosceles triangle.* The break in the plate was perfectly clean, and could not have been cut with greater precision by a punch. The perforating implement in question had therefore to be of uncommon temper — and, having in this way been propelled with prodigious strength through the 4-centimetre-thick metal plate, it must then have withdrawn in a reverse movement that was truly inexplicable.

  Such was the most recent event, which resulted in public opinion being stirred up once more. Starting from that moment, maritime losses from unknown causes were simply attributed to the monster. The fantastic animal shouldered the blame for all such shipwrecks, which unfortunately occur in considerable numbers; for, out of the three thousand ships whose losses are recorded each year by the Bureau Veritas,* the number of steam or sailing ships presumed lost with all hands through lack of news reaches two hundred!

  It was now ‘the monster’ that was being blamed, rightly or wrongly, for their disappearance. Because of this, and because travel between the various continents was getting more and more dangerous, the public spoke its mind and categorically demanded that the oceans be finally rid of this formidable cetacean, whatever the cost.

  1 About 106 metres. The British foot is only 30.40 centimetres long. [JV]

  2

  Pros and Cons

  At the time of these events, I was returning from a scientific exploration of the Badlands of Nebraska, in the United States. The French government had attached me to this expedition in my capacity as a part-time lecturer* at the Museum of Natural History in Paris. After six months in Nebraska, I had arrived in New York towards the end of March, laden down with my precious collections. My departure for France was scheduled for the beginning of May. In the meantime, I was attending to the classification of my mineralogical, botanical, and zoological treasures — when the Scotia incident happened.

  I was perfectly aware of the topic in the news, for how could it have been otherwise? I had read and reread the European and American newspapers without getting any closer to a solution. This mystery fascinated me. Unable to form an opinion about it, I had drifted from one extreme to the other. That there was something, there could be no question, for doubting Thomases could be invited to touch the wound in the Scotia’s side.*

  When I reached New York the question was a hot one. The theory of a floating island or elusive reef, put forward by a few unqualified individuals, had been totally discredited. And in truth, unless the reef had an engine in its belly, how could it move around with such awesome speed?

  In the same way, the idea of a floating hulk, an enormous wreck, was rejected, and again because of the speed at which it moved.

  This left two possible answers to the problem, which in turn produced two very distinct groups of supporters: on the one hand, those who swore by a monster of colossal strength; and on the other, those who argued for a ‘submarine’ vessel* of immense locomotive power.

  Now the latter theory, admissible after all, failed to survive the research carried out in the Old and New Worlds. That a private individual had at his disposal a mechanical contrivance of this sort was improbable. When and where could he have had it built, and how could he have kept its construction secret?

  Only a government might have possessed such a weapon of destruction, and in these disastrous times, when humanity endeavours to increase the power of its weapons of war, it could not be thought impossible that a country had tested this formidable device unbeknownst to the others. After the chassepot rifles came floating mines; after floating mines, underwater rams;* then . . . a reaction. At least, I hope there will be one.

  But all the same the idea of a war machine had to be abandoned, in the light of what the governments declared. As it was a matter of public interest, since intercontinental communications were suffering, the governments’ truthfulness could not be doubted for one moment. In any case, how could it be imagined that this submarine vessel’s construction had escaped public notice? Keeping a secret under such circumstances is very difficult for a private individual, and certainly impossible for states, whose every act is continually observed by rival powers.

  Consequently, after research had been carried out in Great Britain, France, Russia, Prussia, Spain, Italy, America, and even Turkey, the hypothesis of a submarine Monitor* was rejected once and for all.

  The monster therefore surfaced once more, despite the constant witticisms that the popular press showered on it; and people’s imaginations soon followed this path and allowed themselves to culminate in the absurdest dreams of fantastic ichthyology.

  At my arrival in New York, several people had done me the honour of consulting me on the phenomenon in question. In France I had published a two-volume in-quarto work entitled The Mysteries of the Ocean Deeps. This book, particularly relished in scholarly circles, had made of me a specialist in that relatively obscure field of natural history. My views were sought. So long as I was able to deny the reality of the fact, I cloaked myself in total denial. But soon, with my back against the wall, I was forced to explain unequivocally. The New York Herald even challenged ‘the honourable Pierre Aronnax,* lecturer at the Paris Museum’, to express a view of some sort.

  I complied. I spoke, since I was unable to remain silent. I analysed the question from every angle, whether political or scientific; and will provide here an extract from a very comprehensive study that I published in the newspaper on 30 April:

  As a result of the above, and having successively examined the various hypotheses, and since every other supposition is precluded, we are necessarily obliged to accept the existence of a marine animal of immense power.

  The great depths of the ocean are totally unknown to us. Sounding lines have been unable to reach them. What transpires in those remote abysses? What beings live or can live 12 or 15 miles below the surface?* What is the constitution of these animals? We can scarcely even guess.

  Nevertheless, the solution to the problem which has been submitted to me can be formulated in terms of a two-pronged alternative.

  Either we know every variety of beings which inhabit our planet, or we do not.

  If we do not know them all, if nature still holds ichthyologic secrets for us, it is quite acceptable to recognize the existence of fish or cetaceans of unknown species or even genera, of an essentially ‘deep-based’ composition, which inhabit the depths inaccessible to the sounding line and which some event, a whim, a caprice as it were, brings to the top of the sea at infrequent intervals.

  If, on the contrary, we know all living species, we are necessarily compelled to seek the said animal amongst marine beings that are already catalogued, and, in this case, I should be disposed to accept the existence of a Giant Narwhal.*

  The common narwhal or sea-unicorn often attains a length of 60 feet. Multiply this dimension by five, by ten even, endow this cetacean with a strength proportional to its size, enlarge its offensive weapon, and you will obtain the required animal. It will have the dimensions ascertained by the officers of the Shannon, the instrument required to pierce the Scotia, and the force necessary to breach the hull of a steamship.

  The narwhal is armed with a kind of ivory sword, a halberd in the terminology of certain naturalists. This is a principal tooth with the hardness of steel. Some of these teeth have been found embedded in the bodies of whales, which the narwhal attacks with unvarying success. Others have been removed, not without difficulty, from the hulls of vessels t
hat have been pierced through and through, like a drill through a barrel. The museum of the Faculty of Medicine in Paris possesses one of these tusks that is 2.25 metres long and 48 centimetres wide at its base!

  Now imagine a weapon ten times as great and a creature ten times as strong, launch it at a speed of 20 knots, multiply its mass by its velocity, and you obtain a shock capable of producing the required catastrophe.

  Accordingly, until further information becomes available, I shall vote for a sea-unicorn of colossal dimension, armed not with a halberd, but with a genuine spur, like the armoured frigates called ‘war rams’, whose weight and motive power it would also have.

  Thus the inexplicable phenomenon would be explained — unless there is nothing there at all, which is always possible, in spite of what has been glimpsed, seen, felt, and experienced!

  These last words were an equivocation on my part; but I wished to a certain extent to protect my dignity as a scholar and avert the danger of becoming a laughing-stock for the Americans, for they laugh wholeheartedly when they do laugh. I left myself a way out, but, in the final analysis, I admitted that ‘the monster’ did exist.

  My article was hotly debated, and produced quite a stir. It won over a number of supporters. But in any case, my proposed solution left full scope for the imagination. The human mind enjoys grandiose conceptions of supernatural beings. Now the sea is their best medium, for it is the only environment that can produce and develop such giants: beside them the land animals, the elephants or rhinoceroses, are mere dwarves. The liquid masses support the biggest known species of mammals, and perhaps harbour molluscs of extraordinary size, crustaceans terrible to contemplate, lobsters 100 metres long, crabs weighing 200 tons! Why ever not? The land animals of long-gone geological eras, the quadrupeds, quadrumanes, reptiles, and birds, used to be built on a gigantic template. The Creator cast them in a colossal mould which slowly reduced with time. Why could the unknown depths of the sea not have conserved these vast specimens from another age, that sea which never changes, unlike the terrestrial core which is almost continuously being modified?* Why should she not conceal in her bosom the last varieties of those titanic species, whose years are as centuries and centuries as millennia?

  However, I am allowing myself to be carried away by these musings which I no longer have the right to entertain! Enough of these chimeras which time has changed for me into terrible realities! I repeat: at that time people made up their minds on the nature of the phenomenon, and the public accepted without question the existence of a prodigious being that had nothing in common with the sea serpents of legend.

  But if some saw a purely scientific problem to be solved, others of a more positive nature, especially in America and Britain, agreed to purge the seas of this redoubtable monster, in order to safeguard cross-ocean communications once more. The industrial and commercial journals treated the question chiefly from this point of view. The Shipping & Mercantile Gazette and Lloyd’s List, the Paquebot, and the Revue maritime et coloniale,* together with every newsletter devoted to the insurance companies, who were threatening to raise their premiums — all were in agreement on this point.

  Since public opinion had come to a decision, the States of the Union were the first to speak out. Preparations were made in New York for an expedition to hunt down the narwhal. A fast frigate, the Abraham Lincoln, made ready to sail at a moment’s notice. The arsenals were opened up for Captain Farragut,* who spared no effort to arm his frigate.

  But as it happened, as it always happens, once it had been decided to hunt for the monster, it disappeared from sight. For two months it was not heard of at all. No ship came upon it. It seemed as if the unicorn knew about the plots being hatched against it. It had been discussed so often, even over the transatlantic cable! The wags claimed that this sharp customer had intercepted some telegram in transit and was now turning it to its own advantage.

  As a result, although the frigate was armed for a distant campaign and equipped with formidable fishing tackle, nobody knew where to send it to. Impatience was building up to a bigger and bigger head, when, on 3 July, it was learned that a steamer of the San Francisco–Shanghai line* had again sighted the animal, three weeks previously in the seas of the north Pacific.

  This news caused tremendous excitement. Captain Farragut received less than twenty-four hours’ notice. His provisions were on board. His bunkers overflowed with coal. Not a crew man was missing from his roll-call. He only had to light his fires, stoke up, and cast off! Even twelve hours’ delay wouldn’t have been forgiven! To get going was all Captain Farragut wanted in any case.

  Three hours before the Abraham Lincoln left its Brooklyn pier,1 I received a letter couched in these terms:

  Dr Aronnax

  Lecturer at the Paris Museum of Natural History

  Fifth Avenue Hotel*

  NEW YORK

  Dear Sir,

  If you would like to join the expedition on board the Abraham Lincoln, the government of the Union would greatly appreciate having you represent France in this enterprise. Captain Farragut has a cabin at your disposal.

  Very cordially yours

  J. B. Hobson*

  Secretary to the Navy

  1 A sort of individual quay for each vessel. [JV]

  3

  As Monsieur Pleases

  Three seconds before J. B. Hobson’s letter arrived, I no more dreamed of hunting the unicorn than of attempting the Northwest Passage.* Three seconds after reading the letter from the honourable Secretary to the Navy, I realized that my real vocation, my only aim in life, was to pursue this disturbing monster and to save the world from its clutches.

  However, I was returning from a difficult journey, tired and longing for rest. I pined only to see my country again, my friends, my small lodgings at the Jardin des Plantes, my dear and precious collections! But nothing could hold me back. I forgot everything, tiredness, friends, collections; and I accepted the American government’s offer without further thought.

  ‘In any case,’ I mused, ‘all roads lead to Europe, and the unicorn will surely be so good as to lure me towards the French coasts! This kind creature will let itself be captured in European waters as a special favour to me; and I wish to bring back no less than half a metre of ivory halberd for the Museum of Natural History.’

  But meanwhile I needed to search for this narwhal in the northern Pacific Ocean; which was tantamount to heading for France via the antipodes.

  ‘Conseil!’* I cried impatiently.

  Conseil was my manservant. A devoted lad who accompanied me on all my journeyings; a good Fleming whom I liked a great deal and who reciprocated; a creature phlegmatic by nature, ordered by principle, and eager by habit: astonished by few of life’s surprises, very good with his hands, suited for any service, and, despite his name, never giving counsel — even unasked.

  By rubbing shoulders with the scholars of our little milieu at the Jardin des Plantes, Conseil had come to know a thing or two. I had in him a specialist, very well up on natural history classification, with an acrobat’s agility at working his way up and down the whole hierarchy of phyla, divisions, classes, sub-classes, orders, families, genera, sub-genera, species, and varieties. But his scientific knowledge stopped there. Well versed in the theory of classification but little in its practice, he couldn’t, I think, have distinguished a sperm whale from an ordinary whale! And yet what a good and honest fellow!

  For the past ten years, Conseil had been following me everywhere science had led. Never a comment on the length or fatigue of a journey. No objection to packing his suitcase for any country whatsoever, China or the Congo, however distant. He travelled far and wide, without expecting anything else. Besides, his robust health thumbed its nose at every illness; he had powerful muscles but no nerves, not even the appearance of them — mentally speaking, I mean.

  The fellow was thirty years old, and his age was to his master’s as fifteen is to twenty. May I be excused for saying in this w
ay that I was forty.

  Conseil had but one fault. A rabid formalist, he only ever spoke to me in the third person — to the point of becoming annoying.

  ‘Conseil!’ I repeated, while at the same time feverishly beginning preparations for departure.

  Certainly, I felt sure of this fellow of such devotion. Normally I never asked whether or not it suited him to accompany me on my travels; but this time it was an expedition which could last indefinitely, a hazardous enterprise in pursuit of an animal capable of sinking a frigate as easily as a nutshell. There was food for thought in that, even for the most impassive man in the world. So what would Conseil say?

  ‘Conseil!’ I cried for the third time.

  Conseil appeared.

  ‘Did monsieur call?’

  ‘Yes, my good fellow. Please get me and yourself ready. We’re leaving in two hours’ time.’

  ‘As monsieur pleases,’ he replied calmly.

  ‘Not a moment to lose. Squeeze into my trunk my whole travel kit, coats, shirts, and socks, without skimping and as much as you can, and hurry!’

  ‘And monsieur’s collections?’ enquired Conseil.

  ‘We’ll deal with them later.’

  ‘What! The archaeotheria, hyracotheria, oreodons, chaeropotami,* and monsieur’s other dead bodies?’

  ‘The hotel will look after them.’

  ‘And monsieur’s live babirusa?’*

  ‘They’ll feed it while we’re away. In any case, I’ll give instructions for our menagerie to be shipped to us in France.’

  ‘So we’re not returning to Paris?’ Conseil enquired.

  ‘But of course . . . most definitely . . .’ I replied evasively, ‘but after a slight detour.’

  ‘Whichever detour monsieur wishes.’

  ‘Oh it hardly makes a difference! Not quite so direct a route, that’s all. We’re sailing on the Abraham Lincoln.’