by Jules Verne
At six o’clock, the Nautilus, at times on the surface and at others submerged, passed El-Tor, at the end of a bay whose waters seemed dyed red, as remarked by Captain Nemo. Night fell in a heavy silence, broken only occasionally by the cry of a pelican or a few night birds, the crash of surf hitting rocks, or the far-off groaning of a steamer beating the water of the gulf with its noisy blades.
From eight to nine o’clock the Nautilus remained a few metres underwater. According to my calculations, we were very close to Suez. Through the salon’s panels, I could see the rocky floor brightly illuminated by our electric light. It seemed that the strait was getting narrower and narrower.
At quarter past nine the boat had surfaced, and I went up on the platform. Very impatient to pass through Captain Nemo’s tunnel, I felt quite restless, and wished to breathe the fresh night air.
Amongst the shadows, I soon noticed a pale light half discoloured by the mist, shining about a mile away.
‘A floating beacon,’ somebody said close by.
I turned round and saw the captain.
‘The buoy of Suez,’ he continued. ‘It will not be long before we enter the tunnel’s mouth.’
‘It can’t be easy to get in?’
‘No, monsieur. So it is my custom to direct the operation myself from the pilot-house. And now if you wish to go below, Dr Aronnax, the Nautilus is about to dive, and will only surface again at the other end of the Arabian Tunnel.’
I followed Captain Nemo. The hatch closed, the water tanks filled, and the vessel dived about ten metres.
Just as I was getting ready to return to my room, the captain stopped me.
‘Dr Aronnax,’ he said, ‘would you like to accompany me to the pilothouse?’
‘I did not dare ask.’
‘Please do come. You will see everything that can be seen of this channel which is both underground and underwater.’
Captain Nemo led me towards the central staircase. When half-way up, he opened a door, followed the upper gangways, and arrived at the pilot-house, which, as the reader knows, emerged near the end of the platform.
It was a cabin measuring 6 feet square, basically similar to those occupied by helmsmen of Mississippi or Hudson steamboats.* In the middle was a vertical wheel which engaged the rudder-chains running to the aft of the Nautilus. Four glass-lens portholes in the walls of the cabin allowed the pilot to see in all directions.
The cabin was dark, but my eyes soon got accustomed, and I noticed the pilot, a vigorous man, his hands resting on the spokes of the wheel. The sea outside was bright in the searchlight, beaming out from the other end of the platform, behind the cabin.
‘And now’, said Captain Nemo, ‘let’s look for the way through.’
Electric wires ran from the pilot-house to the engine-room, enabling the captain to control both the direction and speed of his Nautilus. He pressed a metal button, and immediately the propeller slowed down markedly.
In silence I examined the high, sheer wall we were now running along, which formed the unshakeable foundation of the sandy massif of the coast. For an hour we followed it at a distance of only a few metres. Captain Nemo did not take his eyes off the two concentric circles of the suspended compass. With a single movement, the pilot was constantly changing the direction of the Nautilus.
I had taken up a position at the port window, and could see magnificent substructures of corals, plus zoophytes, algae, and crustaceans waving their enormous legs as they stretched out of the holes in the rocks.
At quarter past ten, Captain Nemo took the wheel himself. A wide tunnel, black and deep, opened up in front of us. The Nautilus plunged boldly into it. An unusual churning sound could be heard along its sides. This was the water of the Red Sea rushing towards the Mediterranean because of the slope of the tunnel. The Nautilus followed the torrent, quick as an arrow in spite of the efforts of the engine to slow it down by means of the propeller, thrown into reverse.
On the narrow walls of the passage, I could no longer see anything but dazzling streaks, straight lines, fiery furrows traced by the speed and the electric light. My heart was beating wildly, as I compressed it with my hand.
At 10.35 Captain Nemo left the wheel and, turning to me, said:
‘The Mediterranean.’
The Nautilus, carried on by the torrent, had crossed the Isthmus of Suez in less than twenty minutes.
6
The Greek Islands
The following day, 12 February, the Nautilus surfaced at daybreak. I rushed on to the platform. Three miles to the south the vague silhouette of Pelusium was outlined. A river had carried us from one sea to another. But this tunnel, although easy to descend, had to be impossible to ascend.
At about seven o’clock, Ned and Conseil joined me. The inseparable companions had slept peacefully, without worrying about the Nautilus’s feat.
‘Well, monsieur the naturalist,’ asked the Canadian in a slightly bantering tone, ‘and what about the Mediterranean?’
‘We’re floating on its surface, Ned, my friend.’
‘What!’ said Conseil. ‘During the night?’
‘Yes, this very night we crossed that uncrossable isthmus in a matter of minutes.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘Well you had better, Master Land,’ I said. ‘That low rounded coast to the south is the Egyptian coast.’
‘Try the other one,’ retorted the obstinate Canadian.
‘But if monsieur says so,’ Conseil told him, ‘we have to believe monsieur.’
‘Moreover, Ned, Captain Nemo did me the honours of his tunnel, and I was beside him in the pilot-house when he himself steered the Nautilus through that narrow passage.’
‘Do you hear, Ned?’ said Conseil.
‘And since you have such good eyes,’ I added, ‘you can see the jetties at Port Said stretching out to sea.’
The Canadian looked carefully.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘you are quite right, monsieur, and your captain is a great man. We’re in the Mediterranean. Good. Let’s now chat about our business, please, but where nobody can hear us.’
I could see what the Canadian was driving at. In any case, I thought it better to talk if he wanted to, so all three of us went and sat near the searchlight, where we were less exposed to the wet spray from the waves.
‘Now, Ned, we are listening,’ I said. ‘What is on your mind?’
‘What I have to tell you is very simple. We’re now in Europe, and before Captain Nemo’s whims drag us to the ends of the polar seas or back to the South Seas, I would like to leave the Nautilus.’
I will admit that this discussion with the Canadian worried me. I did not wish to fetter the freedom of my companions in any way, but nevertheless felt no desire to leave Captain Nemo. Thanks to him, thanks to his vessel, I was furthering my underwater studies each day, I was rewriting my book about the submarine depths in the very midst of that element. Would I ever again have such an opportunity to observe the wonders of the ocean? No, never! So I could not get used to the idea of abandoning the Nautilus before our cycle of investigation was finished.
‘Ned, my friend,’ I said, ‘please tell me frankly. Are you bored here? Do you regret the fate that placed you in Captain Nemo’s hands?’
The Canadian remained silent for a moment. Then, crossing his arms:
‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I don’t regret this voyage under the seas. I will be pleased to have done it; but in order for me to have done it, it must be over. That’s how I see it.’
‘It will be over, Ned.’
‘Where and when?’
‘Where, I don’t know. When, I cannot say; or rather I imagine it will end when these oceans have nothing to teach us. Everything that starts must have an end in this world.’
‘I agree with monsieur,’ replied Conseil; ‘it is very likely that, having covered all the oceans of the globe, Captain Nemo will let the three of us go.’
‘Go!’ cried the Canadian. ‘He’
ll have a go at us, don’t you mean?’
‘Let’s not exaggerate, Master Land,’ I said. ‘We have nothing to fear from the captain, but I do not share Conseil’s ideas either. We are masters of the Nautilus’s secrets, and I have little hope that the captain will resign himself to giving us our freedom and revealing them to the whole world.’
‘But then what do you hope for?’ asked the Canadian.
‘That circumstances will arise that we can — that we must — profit from, whether in six months’ time or tomorrow.’
‘Yeah!’ said Ned Land. ‘And where will we be in six months, do you think, monsieur the naturalist?’
‘Perhaps here, perhaps in China. As you know, the Nautilus moves quickly. It crosses the oceans as swallows cross the air, or expresses the continents. It has no fear of busy seas. Who can say if it won’t head right now for the coast of France, Britain, or America, where an escape could be attempted as easily as here?’
‘Dr Aronnax,’ retorted the Canadian, ‘your arguments are fundamentally flawed. You’re speaking in the future: “We will be here! We may be there!” But I am speaking in the present: “We are here, and we must seize the opportunity.” ’
Land’s logic was hemming me in; and I felt on very shaky ground. I no longer knew what argument to put forward in my favour.
‘Monsieur,’ he continued, ‘let us suppose, by some remote chance, that Captain Nemo offered you freedom this very day, now. Would you accept?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘And if he added that the offer he was making today would never be repeated, would you accept?’
I did not answer.
‘And what does my friend Conseil think?’ enquired Ned.
The worthy fellow calmly replied:
‘Your friend Conseil has nothing to say. He is totally disinterested in this question. Like his master, like my friend Ned, he is not married. Neither wife, nor parents, nor children are waiting for him back at home. He is in monsieur’s service, he agrees with monsieur, he speaks in unison with monsieur, and, to his great regret, he should not be counted on to form a majority. There are only two people here: monsieur on the one hand and Ned on the other. Having said that, his friend Conseil is listening, and would be glad to keep the score.’
I couldn’t help smiling to see Conseil annihilate his personality so completely. Deep down, the Canadian had to be delighted not to have him as adversary.
‘So, monsieur,’ said Ned Land, ‘since Conseil doesn’t exist, let’s discuss this between the two of us. I have spoken, you have listened. What is your reply?’
It was clearly necessary to come to a conclusion, and I hated subterfuges.
‘Ned, my friend,’ I said, ‘here is my reply. You are quite right, and my arguments cannot prevail against yours. We cannot count on Captain Nemo’s good will. Elementary self-interest prevents him from setting us free. Conversely, self-interest requires that we profit from the first opportunity to leave the Nautilus.’
‘Good, Dr Aronnax, wisely spoken.’
‘But’, I said, ‘I have one point to make, only one. The opportunity must be a real one. Our first attempt to escape must succeed; because if it fails, we will not have another, and Captain Nemo will never forgive us.’
‘All that is good,’ replied the Canadian. ‘But your remark applies to any attempt to escape, whether in two years’ or two days’ time. So the conclusion remains the same: if a favourable occasion arises, we must seize it.’
‘Agreed. And now will you tell me, Ned, what you mean by a favourable occasion?’
‘One which would bring the Nautilus close to a European coast on a dark night.’
‘And would you try to escape by swimming?’
‘Yes, if we were close enough to shore, and if the vessel was on the surface. No, if we were far away and the ship was underwater.’
‘And in that case?’
‘In that case, I would try to use the ship’s dinghy. I know how it works. We could get inside, remove the bolts, and head back up to the surface, without even the pilot, who is for’ard, noticing our escape.’
‘Well, Ned. Look out for this opportunity; but do not forget that one failure will ruin us.’
‘I will not forget, monsieur.’
‘And now, Ned, would you like to know exactly what I think of your plan?’
‘I do, Dr Aronnax.’
‘Well, I think — I do not say I hope — I think that this favourable opportunity may not arise.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Captain Nemo cannot hide from himself that we have not given up hope of regaining our liberty, and will remain on his guard, above all in the seas around Europe and in sight of the coast.’
‘I agree with monsieur,’ said Conseil.
‘We shall see,’ replied Ned Land, who was resolutely shaking his head.
‘And now, Ned,’ I added, ‘let’s stop there. Not another word on all this. The day that you are ready, you will tell us and we will follow you. I put myself completely in your hands.’
Our conversation, which was later to have such grave consequences, finished there. I must say now that circumstances seemed to confirm my view, to the Canadian’s great despair. Did Captain Nemo not trust us in these busy seas, or did he merely wish to hide from the many ships of all nations ploughing the Mediterranean? I do not know, but most often he kept submerged and away from the coast. Either the Nautilus came up with only the pilot-house showing, or it went down to great depths — for between the Greek Islands and Asia Minor we could not find the bottom at 2,000 metres.
Accordingly I did not sight the island of Karpathos, one of the Sporades. But Captain Nemo quoted to me this verse of Virgil about it, putting his finger on a point on the planisphere:
Est in Carpathio Neptuni gurgite vates
Caeruleus Proteus . . . *
This was, indeed, the antique sojourn of Proteus, the ancient shepherd of Neptune’s flocks, who kept watch over this island between Rhodes and Crete, now called Scarpanto. But I only saw its granite foundations through the window of the salon.
The next day, 14 February,* I resolved to devote a few hours to studying the fish of the archipelago; but for some reason the panels remained tightly closed. Plotting the direction of the Nautilus, I realized that it was heading for Candia, as Crete was formerly known. When I embarked on the Abraham Lincoln, the whole island had just rebelled against Turkish despotism. But what had become of the insurrection since then, I had absolutely no idea.* And it was not Captain Nemo, cut off from any communication with dry land, who could have told me.
I accordingly made no allusion to this event when, that evening, I found myself alone with the captain in the salon. In any case, he looked taciturn and preoccupied. Then, unlike his usual habit, he had the two panels of the salon opened, and going from one to the other, attentively observed the water outside. With what aim? I could not guess, and for my part I spent the time studying the fish swimming before my eyes.
Amongst others, I noticed those aphid gobies cited by Aristotle, vulgarly known as ‘sea slugs’, which are especially encountered in the salt water around the Nile Delta. Near them meandered some half-phosphorescent sea bream, a type of sparid which the Egyptians considered sacred: their arrival in the waters of the river, whose fertile overflowing they heralded, was celebrated in religious ceremonies. I noticed also some Cheilini 30 centimetres long, bony fish with transparent scales whose pale skin is marked with red spots; they are great devourers of marine vegetation, which gives them an exquisite taste. Accordingly these Cheilini were very much sought after by the gourmets of ancient Rome, and their entrails, cooked with milt from moray eels, peacock brain, and flamingo tongues, made up that divine dish which delighted Vitellius.*
Another inhabitant of these seas caught my attention and brought back all my memories of antiquity. This was the remora, which travels attached to the bellies of sharks. According to the ancients, this small fish, attached to the
keel of a ship, could stop it moving, and one of them held back Mark Antony’s vessel at the Battle of Actium, in this way helping Augustus to victory.* On such things hang the destinies of nations! I also observed admirable Anthias from the family of Lutjanidae, fish sacred to the Greeks who attributed to them the power of expelling marine monsters from the waters they frequented; their name means ‘flowers’, which they justified with their shimmering colours, their reds going from scarlet to pale pink to the brilliance of rubies, and their fleeting, glistening hues seeming to moisten their dorsal fins. My eyes could not tear themselves away from the wonders of the sea — but were suddenly struck by an unexpected sight.
In the water a man appeared, a diver carrying a leather pouch on his belt. It was not a body abandoned to the waves. It was a living person, swimming with a vigorous stroke, disappearing sometimes to go up and breathe on the surface, and diving down again immediately.
I turned to Captain Nemo, and exclaimed in an emotional voice:
‘A man, someone shipwrecked! We must save him at all costs!’
The captain did not reply, but went and leaned against the window.
The man had come close and, with his face pressed against the panel, was looking at us.
To my great stupefaction, Captain Nemo made a sign. The diver replied using his hand, immediately headed back up to the surface, and did not appear again.
‘Don’t worry,’ the captain said. ‘That was Nicolas, from Cape Matapan, nicknamed the “Pesce”.* He is well known all over the Cyclades. A keen diver! The water is his element, and he lives here more than on land, constantly going from one island to another, as far as Crete.’
‘So you know him, captain?’
‘And why not, Dr Aronnax?’
Having said that, Captain Nemo walked up to a cabinet placed near the port side of the salon. Near it I saw a trunk reinforced with iron bands; it had a copper plate bearing on it the monogram of the Nautilus and its motto Mobilis in mobili.
Without worrying about my presence, the captain opened the cabinet, a kind of safe containing a large number of bars.
