by Jules Verne
‘And these musicians?’ I said, pointing to scores by Weber, Rossini, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Herold, Wagner, Auber, Gounod,* and several others, scattered over a piano-organ* of a famous make filling one of the side panels of the salon.
‘These musicians are contemporaries of Orpheus,* for chronological differences are obliterated in the memory of the deceased — and I am dead, sir, as dead as those of your friends resting six feet below ground!’
Captain Nemo fell silent and seemed lost in a deep reverie.* I considered him with emotion, silently analysing his strange features. Leaning on the corner of a precious mosaic table, he no longer saw me, he forgot I was there.
I respected this meditation, and continued to examine the curiosities adorning the salon.
Compared with the works of art, natural rarities took up a great deal of room. These were principally plants, shells, and other objects of the ocean, apparently Captain Nemo’s own finds. In the centre of the salon the water of a fountain, lit by electricity, rose and fell into a basin made of a single Tridacna. This shell, from the largest of the acephalous molluscs, had a delicately festooned rim of a circumference of about six metres; it was therefore larger than the two fine Tridacnae given to François I* by the Republic of Venice, from which the Church of St Sulpice in Paris made gigantic baptismal fonts.
Around this fountain, in elegant display cabinets supported by copper stays, the most precious products of the sea ever to be made available to a naturalist’s scrutiny were classified and labelled. One can imagine how happy the scientist in me felt.
The branch of the zoophytes offered very strange specimens from its two groups of polyps and echinoderms. In the first group, comprising mostly corals, appeared tubipores, fan-shaped gorgons, soft sponges from Syria, isises from the Moluccas, sea pens, an admirable virgularian from the seas off Norway, varied umbellulas, alcyonarians, and a whole series of the madrepores that my master Milne-Edwards has so judiciously classified into subdivisions. Amongst the latter I noticed adorable flabelliforms, Oculinidae from Reunion, Neptune’s chariots from the Caribbean, some superb varieties of corals, and lastly all the kinds of curious polyparies that agglomerate to form whole islands and will one day constitute continents. Among the echinoderms with their remarkable spiny covering, the whole collection of individuals of this group was represented by starfish, sea stars, pentacrinoids, comatulids, astrophytons, sea urchins, holothurians, etc.
A highly strung conchologist would certainly have fainted at the many display cases classifying specimens from the branch of molluscs. There I saw a collection of inestimable value, which time does not allow me to describe in full. Amongst the various products, I will cite for the record only: the elegant royal hammer-shell of the Indian Ocean, with regular white spots standing vividly out from a red and brown background; a brightly coloured imperial spondylus, all bristling with spikes, a specimen rarely seen in the museums of Europe, and worth, I thought, about twenty thousand francs; a much-sought-after common hammer-shell from the seas of Australia; some exotic cockles from Senegal: fragile white shells with double valves, that a breath would have blown away like soap bubbles; several varieties of the watering-can shells off Java: sorts of chalky tubes edged with foliaceous folds, highly coveted by collectors; a whole series of top shells: some greenish-yellow ones found in the seas of America, some of a reddish-brown common in the waters off Australia, others remarkable for their complex shells from the Gulf of Mexico, yet other stellaria found in the Southern Seas, and finally the rarest of all, the magnificent spur-shell from New Zealand; then admirable sulphuret tellins, precious species of cytherea and venus-shells, the trellised solarium of the Tranquebar coasts, the turban shell veined with resplendent mother-of-pearl, the green parrot shell from the seas of China, the nearly unknown cone shell of the genus Cenodulli, all the varieties of cowries which serve as currency in India and Africa, the most precious shell in the East Indies, the Glory-of-the-Seas; and finally some periwinkles, delphiniums, screw shells, ianthines, ovules, volutes, olives, mitre shells, casques, murexes, whelks, harps, winkles, triton’s shells, cerites, spindle-shells, wing shells, scorpion shells, limpets, hyales, and Cleodora: all delicate and fragile shells that science has baptized with its most charming names.
Set apart in special compartments lay pearl chaplets of the greatest beauty, picked out in fiery points by the electric light: pink pearls plucked from the marine pinna of the Red Sea, green pearls from the Haliotis iris, yellow ones, blue ones, black ones. These were the strange products of the varied molluscs from every ocean and of distinctive mussels from the northern rivers, and finally a few specimens of inestimable value distilled by the rarest of pearl oysters. A few of these pearls were bigger than a pigeon’s egg. They were therefore worth more than the one that the traveller Tavernier* offered to the Shah of Persia for three million francs, and surpassed the pearl of the Imam of Muscat, which I had previously thought without rival anywhere in the world.
To ascribe a value to this collection was virtually impossible. Captain Nemo must have spent millions acquiring the different items,* and I was just wondering what source he might use to satisfy his collector’s whims, when I was interrupted:
‘You are examining my shells, sir. They may indeed interest a scientist; but for me they have an additional charm as I collected them all myself. There is not a sea on the surface of the globe that I have not searched.’
‘Captain, I can understand the delight of strolling through such wealth. You are among those who have amassed their treasures by themselves. No museum in Europe possesses a comparable collection of marine products. But if I exhaust all my admiration here, there will be none left for the ship bearing them! I do not wish to penetrate secrets which are yours alone. However, I must confess that the Nautilus, the propulsive force it incorporates, the mechanism allowing it to be steered, the powerful agent which gives life to it — all this arouses my curiosity to the highest degree. I can see instruments hanging on the walls of the salon, with functions I am unaware of. May I possibly know . . .?’
‘Dr Aronnax,’ replied Captain Nemo, ‘I have said that you are free on board my ship, and consequently no part of the Nautilus is forbidden. You can visit any section of it, and it will be a great pleasure for me to act as your guide.’
‘I do not know how to thank you, captain, but I will not abuse your kindness. I will simply ask what these scientific instruments are for . . .’
‘These same instruments are to be found in my bedroom, and it is there that I will have the pleasure of explaining their use to you. But first come and visit the cabin reserved for you. You must see how your domestic arrangements are to be taken care of on board the Nautilus.’
I followed Captain Nemo through one of the doors in the oblique angles of the salon, and into the ship’s gangways. He took me for’ard and there I found not a cabin but an elegant bedroom, complete with a bed, dressing table, and various other pieces of furniture.
I could only thank my host.
‘Your room is next to mine,’ he said opening the door, ‘and mine leads into the salon we have just left.’
I entered the captain’s room. It had a severe, almost hermit-like appearance. A small iron bedstead, a work table, a few pieces of furniture for his toilet. Everything lit indirectly. No comfort. Only the barest of necessities.*
Captain Nemo indicated a chair.
‘Please be seated.’
I sat down and he began to speak as follows:
12
All by Electricity
‘Dr Aronnax,’ said Captain Nemo, pointing to the instruments hanging on the walls of his room, ‘these are the instruments needed for sailing the Nautilus. Here, as in the salon, I have them always in view, telling me my position and exact direction in the heart of the ocean. Some of them you already know, such as the thermometer, which tells me the temperature inside the Nautilus; the barometer, which measures the weight of the air and hence forecasts changes in th
e weather; the hygrometer, which registers the amount of moisture in the air; the storm-glass, whose contents separate out and settle to herald the arrival of storms; the compass, which shows me the course to take; the sextant, which indicates my latitude by the height of the sun; the chronometers, which enable me to calculate my longitude; and lastly the telescopes, for day and night use, which I employ to examine every point of the horizon when the Nautilus is on the surface.’*
‘These are the usual navigational equipment, and I am aware of their functions. But I can see others which must correspond to the special requirements of the Nautilus. Isn’t that dial with the moving needle a pressure-gauge?’
‘Yes indeed. It is in contact with the water outside, and by telling me the pressure, indicates what depth my vessel is at.’
‘And are these a new kind of sounding instrument?’
‘They’re thermometric sounding devices registering the temperature at various depths.’
‘And these other instruments whose purpose I cannot begin to guess?’
‘Before going any further, Dr Aronnax, I must explain a few things. So please pay attention to what I have to say.’
Captain Nemo paused briefly and then continued:
‘There is one agent which is powerful, responsive, easy to use, suitable for all kinds of work, and which reigns supreme on board. It does everything. It provides me with heat and light; it is the soul of my machines. That agent is electricity.’*
‘Electricity!’ I exclaimed, somewhat surprised.
‘Yes indeed.’
‘But, captain, the great speed you move at seems to have little to do with the power of electricity. Until now the dynamic capacity of electricity has remained very limited, only capable of producing small forces!’
‘Dr Aronnax,’ answered Captain Nemo, ‘my electricity is not the commonly used sort, and that is all I wish to say on the matter.’
‘I will not press the point, monsieur, but merely remain astonished at the outcome. A single question, however, which needs no answer if it seems indiscreet. The elements you use to produce this astonishing agent must be consumed quickly. Zinc, for example: how do you replace it since you no longer have any contact with land?’
‘Your question will be answered. First let me tell you that there are zinc, iron, silver, and gold deposits on the bottom of the sea whose extraction would certainly be possible. But I decided to owe nothing to the metals of the earth and I simply derive the means to produce my electricity from the sea itself.’
‘From the sea?’
‘Yes, sir, and I had plenty of choices. For example, I could have established a circuit between wires sunk to different depths, and hence obtained electricity from the difference in temperature between them;* but I decided to employ a more practical method.’
‘Which is?’
‘You are aware of the composition of sea water. In 1,000 grams, 96.5 per cent is water and about 2.66 per cent sodium chloride, with small quantities of magnesium chloride, potassium chloride, magnesium bromide, magnesium sulphate, lime sulphate, and lime carbonate. You will see that sodium chloride is found in considerable proportions. Now, it is this sodium which I extract from sea water to give me my ingredients.’
‘Sodium?’
‘Yes. Mixed with mercury it forms an amalgam which replaces zinc in Bunsen* batteries. The mercury is never used up. Only the sodium is consumed, and the sea itself provides me with more. Also, sodium batteries must be considered to produce the most energy, for their electro-motive power is double that of zinc ones.’
‘I fully understand the suitability of sodium in your present circumstances. It is to be found in the sea. So far so good. But it must still be produced, or rather extracted. How do you do this? Clearly you could use your batteries; but if I am not mistaken, the sodium utilized by the electrical apparatus would be greater than the quantity extracted. You would be consuming more than you were producing!’
‘Consequently I do not use batteries for extraction, but simply the heat from coal.’
‘Coal found underground?’ I persisted.
‘Let’s say sea coal if you like.’
‘And you are able to work underwater coalmines?’
‘Dr Aronnax, you will see me doing so.* I will only ask for a little patience, since you have plenty of time to be patient. Just remember one thing. I owe everything to the sea: it produces electricity and electricity gives the Nautilus heat, light, and movement — in a word, life.’
‘But not the air you breathe?’
‘Oh, I could manufacture all the air I need for my consumption, but that would be pointless since I go back up to the surface whenever I wish. But even if electricity does not provide me with air for breathing, it does work the powerful pumps that store air in special tanks, thus allowing me, if necessary, to remain at the deepest levels as long as I wish.’
‘Captain, I can only admire this. You have evidently discovered the real dynamic power of electricity that others will undoubtedly discover one day.’
‘I do not know whether they will,’ replied Captain Nemo rather coldly. ‘But in any case, you are already familiar with the first application I have made of such an invaluable tool. It is this agent which gives us light more constantly than the sun could. Look at this clock: it is electric, and keeps time more accurately than the best chronometers. I have divided it into twenty-four hours, like Italian clocks, since for me there is neither night nor day, sun nor moon, but only the artificial light I take with me to the bottom of the seas. Look, it is now ten in the morning.’
‘I see.’
‘Another application of electricity: this dial before us serves to indicate the speed of the Nautilus. An electric circuit connects it to the screw log, and its needle shows me the actual speed of the engine. Look, at the moment we are moving at a moderate speed of 15 knots.’
‘It’s amazing, and I can see, captain, that you were right to use this agent which will one day replace wind, water, and steam.’*
‘We haven’t finished yet, Dr Aronnax,’ said Captain Nemo getting up, ‘and if you would like to follow me, we will visit the rear section of the Nautilus.’
I was already familiar with the entire forward section of the submarine craft, whose exact layout I give here, proceeding from the centre to the ram: the 5-metre dining-room, separated from the library by a sealed bulkhead preventing any water from penetrating; the 5-metre library; the 10-metre salon, separated from the captain’s bedroom by a second watertight division; the bedroom itself, 5 metres long; mine, 2½ metres; and finally a 7½-metre air tank reaching to the bow. The total length was about 35 metres.* The bulkheads had doors in them that closed hermetically by means of rubber seals, and these allowed total safety on board should the Nautilus ever spring a leak.
I followed Captain Nemo through one of the gangways situated along the sides of the ship, and arrived at its centre. Here there was a sort of open shaft between two watertight compartments. An iron ladder, fixed firmly to the wall, led to the top of the stairwell.
I asked the captain what the ladder was for.
‘It goes up to the dinghy.’
‘What, you have a dinghy!’ I exclaimed in astonishment.
‘But of course. An excellent craft, light and unsinkable, which we use for excursions and fishing.’
‘But presumably you have to go up to the surface, when you want to use the boat?’
‘Not at all. The dinghy is fixed to the upper part of the Nautilus’s hull, in a purpose-built recess. It is completely decked over, absolutely watertight, and held in place by strong bolts. This ladder leads to a manhole in the Nautilus’s hull, which corresponds to a similar hole in the side of the dinghy. I enter the boat through this double opening. The hole on the Nautilus is then closed; I shut the one in the boat by means of a pressure screw; I release the bolts, and it rises to the surface at a prodigious speed. I open the cover on the deck, carefully fastened until then, hoist the mast and raise my sail or use my
oars, and so move as I wish.’
‘But how do you come back on board?’
‘I don’t, Dr Aronnax; it is the Nautilus that comes back.’
‘Following your instructions?’
‘Following my instructions. I am connected to it by an electric wire. I send a telegram, and that’s that.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, intoxicated by these miracles; ‘what could be simpler!’
Having gone past the well of the staircase leading up to the platform, I saw a cabin 2 metres long; in it Conseil and Ned, delighted with their meal, were busy wolfing it down. Soon a door opened on to the 3-metre kitchen situated between the huge storerooms.
All the cooking was done by electricity, even more powerful and obedient than gas. The wires under the cookers evenly distributed and maintained the heat over the platinum plates. The electricity also heated distillation devices which used evaporation to provide excellent drinking water. Near the kitchen opened a bathroom, comfortably laid out, with taps providing hot or cold water at will.
After the kitchen came the crew room, 5 metres long. But its door remained closed* and I could not see how it was arranged, which might have told me how many men were required to operate the Nautilus.
At the end was a fourth watertight division separating the crew room from the machine-room. A door opened, and I found myself in the chamber where Captain Nemo — certainly an engineer of the first order — had installed his machinery for propulsion.
The engine-room was brightly lit, and more than 20 metres long. It was divided into two parts. The first contained the equipment for generating the electricity, and the other the machinery for transmitting the movement to the propeller.
