by Jules Verne
There the captain calculated his position by comparing the chronometer with the longitude and checking it against his previous observations of the hour angles. Then he said to me:
‘Dr Aronnax, we are at 137° 15´ W . . .’
‘Of which meridian?’ I asked quickly, hoping the captain’s reply might indicate his nationality.
‘I have various chronometers, set respectively to the Paris, Greenwich, and Washington meridians. But, in your honour, I will use the Paris one.’
This reply taught me nothing.* I bowed, and the captain continued: ‘Longitude 137° 15´ west of the Paris meridian, and latitude 30° 7´ N, that is about 300 miles from the coast of Japan. Today is 8 November, it is twelve o’clock, and our voyage of underwater exploration begins at this precise moment.’
‘God be with us!’
‘And now, Dr Aronnax,’ added the captain, ‘I will leave you to your studies. I have set an east-north-easterly course at 50 metres’ depth. Here are large-scale maps where you can follow our movements. The salon is at your disposal, and with your permission I will now retire.’
Captain Nemo bowed. I remained alone, absorbed in my thoughts. They all focused on the master of the Nautilus. Would I ever know from what nation this strange man hailed, who boasted of belonging to none? Who had produced the hatred he had sworn for the whole of humanity, the hatred which might perhaps seek terrible vengeances? Was he one of those unrecognized scholars, one of those geniuses ‘who had been hurt’ to use Conseil’s expression, a modern Galileo; or was he one of those scientists like the American Maury, whose career was ruined by a political revolution?* I could not yet say. He had received me coolly but courteously, as a person thrown on board his ship by chance, a person whose life he held in his hands. The only thing was that he had not taken the hand I had held out to him. He had not offered me his.
For a whole hour I remained plunged in these reflections, seeking to pierce the mystery which so intrigued me. Then my eye happened on the vast planisphere spread out over the table, and I placed my finger on the exact point of intersection of our observed lines of longitude and latitude.
The sea has rivers like dry land. These are distinctive currents, recognizable by their temperature and colour, the most noteworthy being known as the Gulf Stream. Science has determined the direction of five main currents on the globe: one in the North and one in the South Atlantic, one in the North and one in the South Pacific, and a fifth in the southern Indian Ocean. It is even probable that a sixth current used to exist in the northern Indian Ocean, when the Caspian and Aral Seas were connected to the great lakes of Asia to form a single expanse of water.
Now, one of the currents flowed past the point on the planisphere where we were: the Kuro-Shio of the Japanese, the Black River, which leaves the Bay of Bengal where it is heated by the vertical rays of the tropical sun, then negotiates the Strait of Malacca, works its way up the coast of Asia and round to the North Pacific as far as the Aleutian Islands. It carries with it trunks of camphor trees and other indigenous products, and the pure indigo of its warm water contrasts with the ocean waves. It was this current that the Nautilus was going to cross. I followed it with my eyes until it vanished in the immensity of the Pacific, feeling myself being carried along with it, when Ned Land and Conseil appeared at the door of the salon.
My two good companions stood stock still as if turned to stone by the marvels displayed before them.
‘Where are we?’ the Canadian kept exclaiming. ‘In the Quebec Museum?’
‘If monsieur pleases, it looks more like the Hôtel du Sommerard!’*
‘My friends,’ I answered, motioning them to come in, ‘you are in neither Canada nor France, but on board the Nautilus, 50 metres below sea level.’
‘If monsieur says so, it must be true,’ replied Conseil, ‘but to be frank, this room is enough to astonish even a Fleming like me.’
‘Be astonished, my friend, and look, since there is work to be done by a classifier of your talent.’
I had no need to encourage Conseil. The good fellow, leaning over the display cases, was already murmuring words in the naturalists’ language: class of Gastropods, family Buccinidae, genus cowrie, species Cypraea madagascariensis, etc.
During this time Land, who was not much of a conchologist, was asking about my discussion with Captain Nemo. Had I found out who he was, where he was from, where he was going, how deep he was going to take us — in sum, a thousand questions which I had no time to reply to.
I told him what I knew, or rather everything I did not know, and asked in turn what he had seen or heard.
‘Seen nothing, heard nothing! I haven’t even seen the crew of this boat. Are they also electric, do you think?’
‘Electric?’
‘You would certainly think so. But, Dr Aronnax,’ asked Ned, who tended to follow a single line of thought, ‘can’t you tell me how many men there are on board? Ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred?’
‘I cannot say, Master Land. In any case, believe me, give up for the moment any idea of taking over the Nautilus and escaping. This boat is a masterpiece of modern technology, and I would regret not seeing it! Many would gladly accept the situation we are now in, if only to be able to stroll through its wonders. So please remain calm, and try to observe what is going on around us.’
‘Observe!’ exclaimed the harpooner. ‘But we can’t see anything, we will never see anything from this metal prison! We are moving and sailing blind . . .’
Just as Ned Land pronounced these last words, it went dark, completely and utterly dark. The luminous ceiling went out so quickly that my eyes were hurt by the change, just as if the opposite had happened and it had gone from total darkness to bright light.
We remained silent and motionless, not knowing what surprise was in store for us, whether pleasant or unpleasant. We heard a sliding noise. It sounded as though panels on the sides of the Nautilus were being opened or closed.
‘This is the end of days!’ said Ned Land.
‘Order of the hydromedusas!’ murmured Conseil.
But suddenly light appeared on both walls of the salon, coming in through two oval openings. The water was now brightly lit by electricity. Two crystal-clear panes separated us from the sea. I trembled at first at the thought that these fragile partitions might break, but strong copper fastenings secured them, giving them almost infinite resistance.
The sea was distinctly visible over a radius of a mile around the Nautilus. And what a sight! What pen could ever describe it? Who could ever depict the effects of light on those transparent strata, or the gradations of its slow fading away into the upper and lower regions of the ocean!
The diaphanous quality of the sea is famed. It is known to be clearer than fresh water, for the mineral and organic substances it holds in suspension actually increase its transparency. In certain parts of the West Indies, the sandy seabed can be seen with surprising clarity through 145 metres of water. Sunlight can indeed penetrate as deep as 300 metres. But in the environment the Nautilus was moving through, the electric brilliance was produced within the heart of the sea itself. It was no longer illuminated water, but liquid light.
If we accept Ehrenberg’s* hypothesis, which proposes that the submarine depths are illuminated by phosphorescence, nature has certainly reserved one of her most spectacular sights for the inhabitants of the sea, as I could now judge from the thousand effects of the light. On each side I had a window on the unexplored abysses. The darkness in the salon made the light outside seem all the brighter, and we watched as if this pure crystal were the window of some enormous aquarium.
The Nautilus gave the impression of being motionless. The reason was that we lacked all point of reference. Sometimes, however, the lines of water, cut by its prow, shot past our eyes at tremendous speed.
In a state of wonder, we propped ourselves up before the display windows. None of us had yet broken our flabbergasted silence, when Conseil said:
‘You wanted to s
ee, Ned, my friend, well now you can see!’
‘Amazing, amazing!’ said the Canadian, overwhelmingly captivated, having forgotten all about his anger and ideas of escape. ‘You’d go to the ends of the earth to see such a fantastic sight!’
‘Ah!’ I cried. ‘Now I understand this man! He has built a world of his own which reveals its most astonishing wonders only to him!’
‘But where are all the fish?’ asked the Canadian. ‘I can’t see a single one!’
‘Why should you worry, my dear Ned,’ replied Conseil, ‘since you do not know anything about them?’
‘Me? I’m a fisherman!’
And a discussion ensued between the two friends, for both knew about fish, but each in a very different way.
As is well known, fish form the fourth and last class of the primary division of vertebrates. They have quite correctly been defined as ‘vertebrates with double circulation, coldblooded, breathing through gills and designed for life underwater’.* There are two distinct series: bony fish, whose spinal columns are comprised of bone vertebrae, and cartilaginous fish, with spines made of cartilaginous vertebrae.
The Canadian was perhaps aware of this distinction, but Conseil knew it more thoroughly, and now that he had made friends with Ned, he could not admit that he was any less knowledgeable. So he said:
‘Ned, my friend, you are a slayer of fish, a highly skilled fisherman. You have caught a large number of these fascinating creatures, but I bet that you do not know how they are classified.’
‘Yes I do,’ seriously replied the harpooner. ‘They are classified as fish that can be eaten and fish that can’t!’
‘That is a glutton’s distinction. But tell me whether you know the difference between bony fish and cartilaginous fish?’
‘Perhaps I do, Conseil.’
‘And the subdivisions of the two main classes?’
‘Not a clue,’ said the Canadian.
‘Well, Ned, my friend, listen and remember! The bony fish are divided into six orders. Primo, the acanthopterygians, whose upper jaw is complete and movable, and whose gills have the form of combs. This order contains fifteen families, or three-quarters of all known fish. Type: the common perch.’
‘Quite tasty,’ replied Ned.
‘Secundo,’ continued Conseil, ‘the abdominals, which have ventral fins under the abdomen and behind the pectorals but not attached to the shoulder bones — an order which contains the majority of freshwater fish. Types: the carp and the pike.’
‘Pouah!’ cried the Canadian with some disdain. ‘Freshwater fish!’
‘Tertio,’ said Conseil, ‘the subbrachials, whose ventral fins are attached below the pectorals and directly suspended from the shoulder bones. This order contains four families. Types: plaice, dab, turbot, brill, sole, etc.’
‘Excellent, excellent!’ exclaimed the harpooner, who only liked to consider fish from the comestible point of view.
‘Quarto,’ resumed Conseil, not at all put out, ‘the apodals with elongated bodies, absence of ventral fins, and a thick and frequently sticky skin — an order which consists of only one family. Types: the eel and electric eel.’
‘Pathetic, pathetic!’
‘Quinto, the lophobranchiates, which have complete jaws, moving freely, but whose gills are formed of small crests arranged in pairs along the branchial arches. This order consists of only one family. Types: the sea-horses and the pegasus dragons.’
‘Rubbish, rubbish!’
‘Sexto and finally,’ said Conseil, ‘the plectognaths, whose jawbone is attached firmly to the side of the intermaxillary forming the jaw, and whose palatine arch meshes with the cranium via sutures, thus rendering it immobile — an order which does not have genuine ventral fins and which is made up of two families. Types: the tetrodons and the sunfish.’
‘Not worth spoiling the pot with!’
‘Do you understand, Ned, my friend?’
‘Not a single word. But carry on, it’s all very interesting.’
‘As for the cartilaginous fish,’ Conseil continued imperturbably, ‘they only contain three orders.’
‘So much the better.’
‘Primo, the cyclostomes, whose jaws are fused into a movable ring, and whose gills lead to numerous apertures — an order consisting of only one family. Type: the lamprey.’
‘An acquired taste.’
‘Secundo, the Selachii, with gills similar to those of the cyclostomes, but whose lower jaw is movable. This order, the biggest in the class, comprises two families. Types: the rays and the sharks.’
‘What?’ cried Ned. ‘Rays and sharks in the same order? Well, my friend, in the rays’ interest, I don’t recommend you put them in the same tank together!’
‘Tertio, the sturionians, whose gills, as is normal, open into a single slit fitted with gill covers — an order which contains four genera. Type: the sturgeon.’
‘Ah, my friend Conseil, you’ve kept the best for the end — in my view anyway. And is that it?’
‘Yes, my good Ned; and notice that when one knows all this, one still knows nothing, for families are subdivided into genera, sub-genera, species, varieties . . .’
‘Well, my friend,’ said the harpooner, leaning on the glass panel, ‘we’ve certainly got lots of varieties passing.’
‘Yes, so many fish! It is as if one was in an aquarium!’
‘Hardly,’ I said, ‘for an aquarium is just a prison, and these fish are as free as the birds of the air.’
‘Well, my good Conseil, name them, go on, name them!’
‘I am unable to! That’s my master’s department.’
And indeed the worthy boy, although a fanatical classifier, was not a naturalist, and I do not know whether he would have distinguished a tuna from a bonito. He was, in short, the opposite of the Canadian, who named all fish without hesitation. ‘A triggerfish,’ I said.
‘A Chinese triggerfish,’ responded Ned Land.
‘Genus Balistes, family of Sclerodermi, order of plectognaths,’ murmured Conseil.
Decidedly Ned and Conseil would have made a brilliant naturalist between the two of them.
The Canadian was not mistaken. A school of triggerfish, with squashed bodies and coarse-grained skin, armed with stings on their dorsal fins, were playing around the Nautilus while moving the four rows of spines that bristled on either side of their tails. Nothing could be more attractive than their skin, grey on top and white underneath with golden patches glittering in the dark undertow of the waves. Amongst them some rays undulated, like tablecloths flapping in the wind, and I noticed to my great joy that they included the Chinese ray, yellowish on top, a delicate pink on its stomach, and with three stings behind its eyes; a rare species, and even uncertain in Lacépède’s time, who saw it only in Japanese sketches.
For two hours, a whole armada of marine creatures escorted the Nautilus. During their games and their leaps, their competitions of beauty, colour, and speed, I distinguished the green wrasse, the Barbary mullet marked with two black stripes, the elytrous goby with rounded caudal fins, which is white with violet blotches on its back, the Japanese scombroid, the admirable mackerel of these seas, with a blue body and silver head, and brilliant azuries whose very name renders otiose any description, striped sparids with fins dressed up in blue and yellow, sparids with bends sinister picked out in black stripes on their caudal fins, zonifer sparids elegantly corseted in their six belts, Aulostomus, genuine snipefish or oystercatchers some of which reached one metre, Japanese newts, Echidnae muraenae, six-foot-long serpents with small bright eyes and huge mouths bristling with teeth, and so on.
Our admiration still knew no bounds. Our exclamations never ceased. Ned named the fish while Conseil classified. I was in ecstasy at the vitality of their appearance and the beauty of their silhouettes. I had never before had the chance to observe living creatures that could move freely in their natural element.
I will not cite all the varieties that passed before ou
r dazzled eyes, an entire collection from the seas of Japan and China. These fish rushed up, more numerous than the birds of the air, undoubtedly drawn by the dazzling electric light.
Suddenly the light came on in the salon. The metal panels closed again. The enchanting vision disappeared. But I continued to dream for a long time, until my eyes chanced upon the instruments on the walls. The compass showed the direction still to be north-north-east, the pressure-gauge five atmospheres, corresponding to a depth of 50 metres, and the electric log a speed of 15 knots.
I expected to see Captain Nemo. But he didn’t show himself. The clock read 5 p.m.
Ned and Conseil returned to their cabin. I too went back to my room. My dinner was already there. It consisted of turtle soup made from the most delicate hawksbills, a red mullet with slightly flaky white flesh, whose separately prepared liver made a delicious dish, and fillets of emperor fish, whose flavour I found superior to salmon.
I spent the evening reading, writing, and thinking. Then, with my eyelids drooping, I stretched out on my sea-wrack bed and fell into a deep sleep, while the Nautilus glided through the swift current of the Black River.
15
A Letter of Invitation
The following day, 9 November, I woke up after a sleep of twelve hours. Conseil came in as usual to find out ‘how monsieur had slept’ and to offer his services. He had left his friend the Canadian slumbering like one who had never done anything else.
I let the good fellow chatter on as he wished, without bothering to reply much. I was preoccupied by Captain Nemo’s absence from the viewing session the evening before, and hoped to be able to see him again today.
Soon I had put on my byssus clothes. Once or twice Conseil commented on this material. I told him it was made from the glossy silky threads which attach fan mussels to rocks, these being a variety of shell plentiful on the Mediterranean shores. It was formerly used to make fine materials like stockings and gloves, being very soft and warm. The crew of the Nautilus could therefore clothe themselves economically without needing cotton plants, sheep, or silkworms from dry land.
