Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

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Title: Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea

Author: Jules Verne

Release date: September 1, 1994 [eBook #164]
Most recently updated: March 18, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/164

Credits: a number of anonymous Gutenberg Project volunteers

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA ***

Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea

by Jules Verne

Contents

PART I
CHAPTER I A SHIFTING REEF
CHAPTER II PRO AND CON
CHAPTER III I FORM MY RESOLUTION
CHAPTER IV NED LAND
CHAPTER V AT A VENTURE
CHAPTER VI AT FULL STEAM
CHAPTER VII AN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE
CHAPTER VIII MOBILIS IN MOBILI
CHAPTER IX NED LAND’S TEMPERS
CHAPTER X THE MAN OF THE SEAS
CHAPTER XI ALL BY ELECTRICITY
CHAPTER XII SOME FIGURES
CHAPTER XIII THE BLACK RIVER
CHAPTER XIV A NOTE OF INVITATION
CHAPTER XV A WALK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
CHAPTER XVI A SUBMARINE FOREST
CHAPTER XVII FOUR THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE PACIFIC
CHAPTER XVIII VANIKORO
CHAPTER XIX TORRES STRAITS
CHAPTER XX A FEW DAYS ON LAND
CHAPTER XXI CAPTAIN NEMO’S THUNDERBOLT
CHAPTER XXII “ÆGRI SOMNIA”
CHAPTER XXIII THE CORAL KINGDOM

PART II
CHAPTER I THE INDIAN OCEAN
CHAPTER II A NOVEL PROPOSAL OF CAPTAIN NEMO’S
CHAPTER III A PEARL OF TEN MILLIONS
CHAPTER IV THE RED SEA
CHAPTER V THE ARABIAN TUNNEL
CHAPTER VI THE GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO
CHAPTER VII THE MEDITERRANEAN IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS
CHAPTER VIII VIGO BAY
CHAPTER IX A VANISHED CONTINENT
CHAPTER X THE SUBMARINE COAL-MINES
CHAPTER XI THE SARGASSO SEA
CHAPTER XII CACHALOTS AND WHALES
CHAPTER XIII THE ICEBERG
CHAPTER XIV THE SOUTH POLE
CHAPTER XV ACCIDENT OR INCIDENT?
CHAPTER XVI WANT OF AIR
CHAPTER XVII FROM CAPE HORN TO THE AMAZON
CHAPTER XVIII THE POULPS
CHAPTER XIX THE GULF STREAM
CHAPTER XX FROM LATITUDE 47° 24′ TO LONGITUDE 17° 28′
CHAPTER XXI A HECATOMB
CHAPTER XXII THE LAST WORDS OF CAPTAIN NEMO
CHAPTER XXIII CONCLUSION

List of Illustrations

An old grey-bearded gunner . . . .
Captain Nemo’s state-room
Captain Nemo took the Sun’s altitude
I was ready to set out
Conseil seized his gun
All fell on their knees in an attitude of prayer
A terrible combat began
“A man! A shipwrecked sailor!” I cried
The _Nautilus_ was floating near a mountain
The _Nautilus_ was blocked up
One of these long arms glided through the opening
The unfortunate vessel sank more rapidly

PART ONE

CHAPTER I
A SHIFTING REEF

The year 1866 was signalised by a remarkable incident, a mysterious and
puzzling phenomenon, which doubtless no one has yet forgotten. Not to
mention rumours which agitated the maritime population and excited the
public mind, even in the interior of continents, seafaring men were
particularly excited. Merchants, common sailors, captains of vessels,
skippers, both of Europe and America, naval officers of all countries,
and the Governments of several states on the two continents, were
deeply interested in the matter.

For some time past, vessels had been met by “an enormous thing,” a long
object, spindle-shaped, occasionally phosphorescent, and infinitely
larger and more rapid in its movements than a whale.

The facts relating to this apparition (entered in various log-books)
agreed in most respects as to the shape of the object or creature in
question, the untiring rapidity of its movements, its surprising power
of locomotion, and the peculiar life with which it seemed endowed. If
it was a cetacean, it surpassed in size all those hitherto classified
in science. Taking into consideration the mean of observations made at
divers times,—rejecting the timid estimate of those who assigned to
this object a length of two hundred feet, equally with the exaggerated
opinions which set it down as a mile in width and three in length,—we
might fairly conclude that this mysterious being surpassed greatly all
dimensions admitted by the ichthyologists of the day, if it existed at
all. And that it _did_ exist was an undeniable fact; and, with that
tendency which disposes the human mind in favour of the marvellous, we
can understand the excitement produced in the entire world by this
supernatural apparition. As to classing it in the list of fables, the
idea was out of the question.

On the 20th of July, 1866, the steamer _Governor Higginson_, of the
Calcutta and Burnach Steam Navigation Company, had met this moving mass
five miles off the east coast of Australia. Captain Baker thought at
first that he was in the presence of an unknown sandbank; he even
prepared to determine its exact position, when two columns of water,
projected by the inexplicable object, shot with a hissing noise a
hundred and fifty feet up into the air. Now, unless the sandbank had
been submitted to the intermittent eruption of a geyser, the _Governor
Higginson_ had to do neither more nor less than with an aquatic mammal,
unknown till then, which threw up from its blow-holes columns of water
mixed with air and vapour.

Similar facts were observed on the 23rd of July in the same year, in
the Pacific Ocean, by the _Columbus_, of the West India and Pacific
Steam Navigation Company. But this extraordinary cetaceous creature
could transport itself from one place to another with surprising
velocity; as, in an interval of three days, the _Governor Higginson_
and the _Columbus_ had observed it at two different points of the
chart, separated by a distance of more than seven hundred nautical
leagues.

Fifteen days later, two thousand miles farther off, the _Helvetia_, of
the Compagnie-Nationale, and the _Shannon_, of the Royal Mail Steamship
Company, sailing to windward in that portion of the Atlantic lying
between the United States and Europe, respectively signalled the
monster to each other in 42° 15′ N. lat. and 60° 35′ W. long. In these
simultaneous observations they thought themselves justified in
estimating the minimum length of the mammal at more than three hundred
and fifty feet, as the _Shannon_ and _Helvetia_ were of smaller
dimensions than it, though they measured three hundred feet over all.

Now the largest whales, those which frequent those parts of the sea
round the Aleutian, Kulammak, and Umgullich islands, have never
exceeded the length of sixty yards, if they attain that.

These reports arriving one after the other, with fresh observations
made on board the transatlantic ship _Pereire_, a collision which
occurred between the _Etna_ of the Inman line and the monster, a
_procès verbal_ directed by the officers of the French frigate
_Normandie_, a very accurate survey made by the staff of Commodore
Fitz-James on board the _Lord Clyde_, greatly influenced public
opinion. Light-thinking people jested upon the phenomenon, but grave
practical countries, such as England, America, and Germany, treated the
matter more seriously.

In every place of great resort the monster was the fashion. They sang
of it in the cafés, ridiculed it in the papers, and represented it on
the stage. All kinds of stories were circulated regarding it. There
appeared in the papers caricatures of every gigantic and imaginary
creature, from the white whale, the terrible “Moby Dick” of hyperborean
regions, to the immense kraken whose tentacles could entangle a ship of
five hundred tons, and hurry it into the abyss of the ocean. The
legends of ancient times were even resuscitated, and the opinions of
Aristotle and Pliny revived, who admitted the existence of these
monsters, as well as the Norwegian tales of Bishop Pontoppidan, the
accounts of Paul Heggede, and, last of all, the reports of Mr.
Harrington (whose good faith no one could suspect), who affirmed that,
being on board the _Castillan_, in 1857, he had seen this enormous
serpent, which had never until that time frequented any other seas but
those of the ancient “_Constitutionnel_.”

Then burst forth the interminable controversy between the credulous and
the incredulous in the societies of savants and the scientific
journals. “The question of the monster” inflamed all minds. Editors of
scientific journals, quarrelling with believers in the supernatural,
spilled seas of ink during this memorable campaign, some even drawing
blood; for, from the sea-serpent they came to direct personalities.

For six months war was waged with various fortune in the leading
articles of the Geographical Institution of Brazil, the Royal Academy
of Science of Berlin, the British Association, the Smithsonian
Institution of Washington, in the discussions of the “Indian
Archipelago,” of the Cosmos of the Abbé Moigno, in the Mittheilungen of
Petermann, in the scientific chronicles of the great journals of France
and other countries. The cheaper journals replied keenly and with
inexhaustible zest. These satirical writers parodied a remark of
Linnæus, quoted by the adversaries of the monster, maintaining “that
nature did not make fools,” and adjured their contemporaries not to
give the lie to nature, by admitting the existence of krakens,
sea-serpents, “Moby Dicks,” and other lucubrations of delirious
sailors. At length an article in a well-known satirical journal by a
favourite contributor, the chief of the staff, settled the monster,
like Hippolytus, giving it the death-blow amidst an universal burst of
laughter. Wit had conquered science.

During the first months of the year 1867 the question seemed buried,
never to revive, when new facts were brought before the public. It was
then no longer a scientific problem to be solved, but a real danger
seriously to be avoided. The question took quite another shape. The
monster became a small island, a rock, a reef, but a reef of indefinite
and shifting proportions.

On the 5th of March, 1867, the _Moravian_, of the Montreal Ocean
Company, finding herself during the night in 27° 30′ lat. and 72° 15′
long., struck on her starboard quarter a rock, marked in no chart for
that part of the sea. Under the combined efforts of the wind and its
four hundred horse-power, it was going at the rate of thirteen knots.
Had it not been for the superior strength of the hull of the
_Moravian_, she would have been broken by the shock and gone down with
the 237 passengers she was bringing home from Canada.

The accident happened about five o’clock in the morning, as the day was
breaking. The officers of the quarter-deck hurried to the after-part of
the vessel. They examined the sea with the most scrupulous attention.
They saw nothing but a strong eddy about three cables’ length distant,
as if the surface had been violently agitated. The bearings of the
place were taken exactly, and the _Moravian_ continued its route
without apparent damage. Had it struck on a submerged rock, or on an
enormous wreck? they could not tell; but on examination of the ship’s
bottom when undergoing repairs, it was found that part of her keel was
broken.

This fact, so grave in itself, might perhaps have been forgotten like
many others if, three weeks after, it had not been re-enacted under
similar circumstances. But, thanks to the nationality of the victim of
the shock, thanks to the reputation of the company to which the vessel
belonged, the circumstance became extensively circulated.

The 13th of April, 1867, the sea being beautiful, the breeze
favourable, the _Scotia_, of the Cunard Company’s line, found herself
in 15° 12′ long. and 45° 37′ lat. She was going at the speed of
thirteen knots and a half.

At seventeen minutes past four in the afternoon, whilst the passengers
were assembled at lunch in the great saloon, a slight shock was felt on
the hull of the _Scotia_, on her quarter, a little aft of the
port-paddle.

The _Scotia_ had not struck, but she had been struck, and seemingly by
something rather sharp and penetrating than blunt. The shock had been
so slight that no one had been alarmed, had it not been for the shouts
of the carpenter’s watch, who rushed on to the bridge, exclaiming, “We
are sinking! we are sinking!” At first the passengers were much
frightened, but Captain Anderson hastened to reassure them. The danger
could not be imminent. The _Scotia_, divided into seven compartments by
strong partitions, could brave with impunity any leak. Captain Anderson
went down immediately into the hold. He found that the sea was pouring
into the fifth compartment; and the rapidity of the influx proved that
the force of the water was considerable. Fortunately this compartment
did not hold the boilers, or the fires would have been immediately
extinguished. Captain Anderson ordered the engines to be stopped at
once, and one of the men went down to ascertain the extent of the
injury. Some minutes afterwards they discovered the existence of a
large hole, of two yards in diameter, in the ship’s bottom. Such a leak
could not be stopped; and the _Scotia_, her paddles half submerged, was
obliged to continue her course. She was then three hundred miles from
Cape Clear, and after three days’ delay, which caused great uneasiness
in Liverpool, she entered the basin of the company.

The engineers visited the _Scotia_, which was put in dry dock. They
could scarcely believe it possible; at two yards and a half below
water-mark was a regular rent, in the form of an isosceles triangle.
The broken place in the iron plates was so perfectly defined that it
could not have been more neatly done by a punch. It was clear, then,
that the instrument producing the perforation was not of a common
stamp; and after having been driven with prodigious strength, and
piercing an iron plate 1-3/8 inches thick, had withdrawn itself by a
retrograde motion truly inexplicable.

Such was the last fact, which resulted in exciting once more the
torrent of public opinion. From this moment all unlucky casualties
which could not be otherwise accounted for were put down to the
monster. Upon this imaginary creature rested the responsibility of all
these shipwrecks, which unfortunately were considerable; for of three
thousand ships whose loss was annually recorded at Lloyd’s, the number
of sailing and steam ships supposed to be totally lost, from the
absence of all news, amounted to not less than two hundred!

Now, it was the “monster” who, justly or unjustly, was accused of their
disappearance, and, thanks to it, communication between the different
continents became more and more dangerous. The public demanded
peremptorily that the seas should at any price be relieved from this
formidable cetacean.

CHAPTER II
PRO AND CON

At the period when these events took place, I had just returned from a
scientific research in the disagreeable territory of Nebraska, in the
United States. In virtue of my office as Assistant Professor in the
Museum of Natural History in Paris, the French Government had attached
me to that expedition. After six months in Nebraska, I arrived in New
York towards the end of March, laden with a precious collection. My
departure for France was fixed for the first days in May. Meanwhile, I
was occupying myself in classifying my mineralogical, botanical, and
zoological riches, when the accident happened to the _Scotia_.

I was perfectly up in the subject which was the question of the day.
How could I be otherwise? I had read and re-read all the American and
European papers without being any nearer a conclusion. This mystery
puzzled me. Under the impossibility of forming an opinion, I jumped
from one extreme to the other. That there really was something could
not be doubted, and the incredulous were invited to put their finger on
the wound of the _Scotia_.

On my arrival at New York the question was at its height. The
hypothesis of the floating island, and the unapproachable sandbank,
supported by minds little competent to form a judgment, was abandoned.
And, indeed, unless this shoal had a machine in its stomach, how could
it change its position with such astonishing rapidity?

From the same cause, the idea of a floating hull of an enormous wreck
was given up.

There remained then only two possible solutions of the question, which
created two distinct parties: on one side, those who were for a monster
of colossal strength; on the other, those who were for a submarine
vessel of enormous motive power.

But this last hypothesis, plausible as it was, could not stand against
inquiries made in both worlds. That a private gentleman should have
such a machine at his command was not likely. Where, when, and how was
it built? and how could its construction have been kept secret?
Certainly a Government might possess such a destructive machine. And in
these disastrous times, when the ingenuity of man has multiplied the
power of weapons of war, it was possible that, without the knowledge of
others, a state might try to work such a formidable engine. After the
chassepots came the torpedoes, after the torpedoes the submarine rams,
then—the reaction. At least, I hope so.

But the hypothesis of a war machine fell before the declaration of
Governments. As public interest was in question, and transatlantic
communications suffered, their veracity could not be doubted. But, how
admit that the construction of this submarine boat had escaped the
public eye? For a private gentleman to keep the secret under such
circumstances would be very difficult, and for a state whose every act
is persistently watched by powerful rivals, certainly impossible.

After inquiries made in England, France, Russia, Prussia, Spain, Italy,
and America, even in Turkey, the hypothesis of a submarine monitor was
definitely rejected.

Upon my arrival in New York several persons did me the honour of
consulting me on the phenomenon in question. I had published in France
a work in quarto, in two volumes, entitled “Mysteries of the Great
Submarine Grounds.” This book, highly approved of in the learned world,
gained for me a special reputation in this rather obscure branch of
Natural History. My advice was asked. As long as I could deny the
reality of the fact, I confined myself to a decided negative. But soon,
finding myself driven into a corner, I was obliged to explain myself
categorically. And even “the Honourable Pierre Aronnax, Professor in
the Museum of Paris,” was called upon by the _New York Herald_ to
express a definite opinion of some sort. I did something. I spoke, for
want of power to hold my tongue. I discussed the question in all its
forms, politically and scientifically; and I give here an extract from
a carefully-studied article which I published in the number of the 30th
of April. It ran as follows:—

“After examining one by one the different hypotheses, rejecting all
other suggestions, it becomes necessary to admit the existence of a
marine animal of enormous power.

“The great depths of the ocean are entirely unknown to us. Soundings
cannot reach them. What passes in those remote depths—what beings live,
or can live, twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface of the
waters—what is the organisation of these animals, we can scarcely
conjecture. However, the solution of the problem submitted to me may
modify the form of the dilemma. Either we do know all the varieties of
beings which people our planet, or we do not. If we do _not_ know them
all—if Nature has still secrets in ichthyology for us, nothing is more
conformable to reason than to admit the existence of fishes, or
cetaceans of other kinds, or even of new species, of an organisation
formed to inhabit the strata inaccessible to soundings, and which an
accident of some sort, either fatastical or capricious, has brought at
long intervals to the upper level of the ocean.

“If, on the contrary, we _do_ know all living kinds, we must
necessarily seek for the animal in question amongst those marine beings
already classed; and, in that case, I should be disposed to admit the
existence of a gigantic narwhal.

“The common narwhal, or unicorn of the sea, often attains a length of
sixty feet. Increase its size fivefold or tenfold, give it strength
proportionate to its size, lengthen its destructive weapons, and you
obtain the animal required. It will have the proportions determined by
the officers of the _Shannon_, the instrument required by the
perforation of the _Scotia_, and the power necessary to pierce the hull
of the steamer.

“Indeed, the narwhal is armed with a sort of ivory sword, a halberd,
according to the expression of certain naturalists. The principal tusk
has the hardness of steel. Some of these tusks have been found buried
in the bodies of whales, which the unicorn always attacks with success.
Others have been drawn out, not without trouble, from the bottoms of
ships, which they had pierced through and through, as a gimlet pierces
a barrel. The Museum of the Faculty of Medicine of Paris possesses one
of these defensive weapons, two yards and a quarter in length, and
fifteen inches in diameter at the base.

“Very well! suppose this weapon to be six times stronger and the animal
ten times more powerful; launch it at the rate of twenty miles an hour,
and you obtain a shock capable of producing the catastrophe required.
Until further information, therefore, I shall maintain it to be a
sea-unicorn of colossal dimensions, armed not with a halberd, but with
a real spur, as the armoured frigates, or the ‘rams’ of war, whose
massiveness and motive power it would possess at the same time. Thus
may this puzzling phenomenon be explained, unless there be something
over and above all that one has ever conjectured, seen, perceived, or
experienced; which is just within the bounds of possibility.”

These last words were cowardly on my part; but, up to a certain point,
I wished to shelter my dignity as Professor, and not give too much
cause for laughter to the Americans, who laugh well when they do laugh.

I reserved for myself a way of escape. In effect, however, I admitted
the existence of the “monster.” My article was warmly discussed, which
procured it a high reputation. It rallied round it a certain number of
partisans. The solution it proposed gave, at least, full liberty to the
imagination. The human mind delights in grand conceptions of
supernatural beings. And the sea is precisely their best vehicle, the
only medium through which these giants (against which terrestrial
animals, such as elephants or rhinoceroses, are as nothing) can be
produced or developed.

The industrial and commercial papers treated the question chiefly from
this point of view. The _Shipping and Mercantile Gazette_, the _Lloyd’s
List_, the _Packet-Boat_, and the _Maritime and Colonial Review_, all
papers devoted to insurance companies which threatened to raise their
rates of premium, were unanimous on this point. Public opinion had been
pronounced. The United States were the first in the field; and in New
York they made preparations for an expedition destined to pursue this
narwhal. A frigate of great speed, the _Abraham Lincoln_, was put in
commission as soon as possible. The arsenals were opened to Commander
Farragut, who hastened the arming of his frigate; but, as it always
happens, the moment it was decided to pursue the monster, the monster
did not appear. For two months no one heard it spoken of. No ship met
with it. It seemed as if this unicorn knew of the plots weaving around
it. It had been so much talked of, even through the Atlantic cable,
that jesters pretended that this slender fly had stopped a telegram on
its passage and was making the most of it.

So when the frigate had been armed for a long campaign, and provided
with formidable fishing apparatus, no one could tell what course to
pursue. Impatience grew apace, when, on the 2nd of July, they learned
that a steamer of the line of San Francisco, from California to
Shanghai, had seen the animal three weeks before in the North Pacific
Ocean. The excitement caused by this news was extreme. The ship was
revictualled and well stocked with coal.

Three hours before the _Abraham Lincoln_ left Brooklyn pier, I received
a letter worded as follows:—

“To M. ARONNAX, Professor in the Museum of Paris, Fifth Avenue Hotel,
New York.

“SIR,—If you will consent to join the _Abraham Lincoln_ in this
expedition, the Government of the United States will with pleasure see
France represented in the enterprise. Commander Farragut has a cabin at
your disposal.

“Very cordially yours,
“J.B. HOBSON,
“Secretary of Marine.”

CHAPTER III
I FORM MY RESOLUTION

Three seconds before the arrival of J. B. Hobson’s letter, I no more
thought of pursuing the unicorn than of attempting the passage of the
North Sea. Three seconds after reading the letter of the honourable
Secretary of Marine, I felt that my true vocation, the sole end of my
life, was to chase this disturbing monster, and purge it from the
world.

But I had just returned from a fatiguing journey, weary and longing for
repose. I aspired to nothing more than again seeing my country, my
friends, my little lodging by the Jardin des Plantes, my dear and
precious collections. But nothing could keep me back! I forgot
all—fatigue, friends and collections—and accepted without hesitation
the offer of the American Government.

“Besides,” thought I, “all roads lead back to Europe (for my particular
benefit), and I will not hurry me towards the coast of France. This
worthy animal may allow itself to be caught in the seas of Europe (for
my particular benefit), and I will not bring back less than half a yard
of his ivory halberd to the Museum of Natural History.” But in the
meanwhile I must seek this narwhal in the North Pacific Ocean, which,
to return to France, was taking the road to the antipodes.

“Conseil,” I called in an impatient voice.

Conseil was my servant, a true, devoted Flemish boy, who had
accompanied me in all my travels. I liked him, and he returned the
liking well. He was phlegmatic by nature, regular from principle,
zealous from habit, evincing little disturbance at the different
surprises of life, very quick with his hands, and apt at any service
required of him; and, despite his name, never giving advice—even when
asked for it.

Conseil had followed me for the last ten years wherever science led.
Never once did he complain of the length or fatigue of a journey, never
make an objection to pack his portmanteau for whatever country it might
be, or however far away, whether China or Congo. Besides all this, he
had good health, which defied all sickness, and solid muscles, but no
nerves; good morals are understood. This boy was thirty years old, and
his age to that of his master as fifteen to twenty. May I be excused
for saying that I was forty years old?

But Conseil had one fault: he was ceremonious to a degree, and would
never speak to me but in the third person, which was sometimes
provoking.

“Conseil,” said I again, beginning with feverish hands to make
preparations for my departure.

Certainly I was sure of this devoted boy. As a rule, I never asked him
if it were convenient for him or not to follow me in my travels; but
this time the expedition in question might be prolonged, and the
enterprise might be hazardous in pursuit of an animal capable of
sinking a frigate as easily as a nutshell. Here there was matter for
reflection even to the most impassive man in the world. What would
Conseil say?

“Conseil,” I called a third time.

Conseil appeared.

“Did you call, sir?” said he, entering.

“Yes, my boy; make preparations for me and yourself too. We leave in
two hours.”

“As you please, sir,” replied Conseil, quietly.

“Not an instant to lose;—lock in my trunk all travelling utensils,
coats, shirts, and stockings—without counting, as many as you can, and
make haste.”

“And your collections, sir?” observed Conseil.

“We will think of them by and by.”

“What! the archiotherium, the hyracotherium, the oreodons, the
cheropotamus, and the other skins?”

“They will keep them at the hotel.”

“And your live Babiroussa, sir?”

“They will feed it during our absence; besides, I will give orders to
forward our menagerie to France.”

“We are not returning to Paris, then?” said Conseil.

“Oh! certainly,” I answered, evasively, “by making a curve.”

“Will the curve please you, sir?”

“Oh! it will be nothing; not quite so direct a road, that is all. We
take our passage in the _Abraham Lincoln_.”

“As you think proper, sir,” coolly replied Conseil.

“You see, my friend, it has to do with the monster—the famous narwhal.
We are going to purge it from the seas. The author of a work in quarto
in two volumes, on the ‘Mysteries of the Great Submarine Grounds’
cannot forbear embarking with Commander Farragut. A glorious mission,
but a dangerous one! We cannot tell where we may go; these animals can
be very capricious. But we will go whether or no; we have got a captain
who is pretty wide-awake.”

I opened a credit account for Babiroussa, and, Conseil following, I
jumped into a cab. Our luggage was transported to the deck of the
frigate immediately. I hastened on board and asked for Commander
Farragut. One of the sailors conducted me to the poop, where I found
myself in the presence of a good-looking officer, who held out his hand
to me.

“Monsieur Pierre Aronnax?” said he.

“Himself,” replied I; “Commander Farragut?”

“You are welcome, Professor; your cabin is ready for you.”

I bowed, and desired to be conducted to the cabin destined for me.

The _Abraham Lincoln_ had been well chosen and equipped for her new
destination. She was a frigate of great speed, fitted with
high-pressure engines which admitted a pressure of seven atmospheres.
Under this the _Abraham Lincoln_ attained the mean speed of nearly
eighteen knots and a third an hour—a considerable speed, but,
nevertheless, insufficient to grapple with this gigantic cetacean.

The interior arrangements of the frigate corresponded to its nautical
qualities. I was well satisfied with my cabin, which was in the after
part, opening upon the gunroom.

“We shall be well off here,” said I to Conseil.

“As well, by your honour’s leave, as a hermit-crab in the shell of a
whelk,” said Conseil.

I left Conseil to stow our trunks conveniently away, and remounted the
poop in order to survey the preparations for departure.

At that moment Commander Farragut was ordering the last moorings to be
cast loose which held the _Abraham Lincoln_ to the pier of Brooklyn. So
in a quarter of an hour, perhaps less, the frigate would have sailed
without me. I should have missed this extraordinary, supernatural, and
incredible expedition, the recital of which may well meet with some
scepticism.

But Commander Farragut would not lose a day nor an hour in scouring the
seas in which the animal had been sighted. He sent for the engineer.

“Is the steam full on?” asked he.

“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.

“Go ahead,” cried Commander Farragut.

The quay of Brooklyn, and all that part of New York bordering on the
East River, was crowded with spectators. Three cheers burst
successively from five hundred thousand throats; thousands of
handkerchiefs were waved above the heads of the compact mass, saluting
the _Abraham Lincoln_, until she reached the waters of the Hudson, at
the point of that elongated peninsula which forms the town of New York.
Then the frigate, following the coast of New Jersey along the right
bank of the beautiful river, covered with villas, passed between the
forts, which saluted her with their heaviest guns. The _Abraham
Lincoln_ answered by hoisting the American colours three times, whose
thirty-nine stars shone resplendent from the mizzen-peak; then
modifying its speed to take the narrow channel marked by buoys placed
in the inner bay formed by Sandy Hook Point, it coasted the long sandy
beach, where some thousands of spectators gave it one final cheer. The
escort of boats and tenders still followed the frigate, and did not
leave her until they came abreast of the lightship, whose two lights
marked the entrance of New York Channel.

Six bells struck, the pilot got into his boat, and rejoined the little
schooner which was waiting under our lee, the fires were made up, the
screw beat the waves more rapidly, the frigate skirted the low yellow
coast of Long Island; and at eight bells, after having lost sight in
the north-west of the lights of Fire Island, she ran at full steam on
to the dark waters of the Atlantic.

CHAPTER IV
NED LAND

Captain Farragut was a good seaman, worthy of the frigate he commanded.
His vessel and he were one. He was the soul of it. On the question of
the cetacean there was no doubt in his mind, and he would not allow the
existence of the animal to be disputed on board. He believed in it, as
certain good women believe in the leviathan—by faith, not by reason.
The monster did exist, and he had sworn to rid the seas of it. He was a
kind of Knight of Rhodes, a second Dieudonné de Gozon, going to meet
the serpent which desolated the island. Either Captain Farragut would
kill the narwhal, or the narwhal would kill the captain. There was no
third course.

The officers on board shared the opinion of their chief. They were ever
chatting, discussing, and calculating the various chances of a meeting,
watching narrowly the vast surface of the ocean. More than one took up
his quarters voluntarily in the cross-trees, who would have cursed such
a berth under any other circumstances. As long as the sun described its
daily course, the rigging was crowded with sailors, whose feet were
burnt to such an extent by the heat of the deck as to render it
unbearable; still the _Abraham Lincoln_ had not yet breasted the
suspected waters of the Pacific. As to the ship’s company, they desired
nothing better than to meet the unicorn, to harpoon it, hoist it on
board, and despatch it. They watched the sea with eager attention.

Besides, Captain Farragut had spoken of a certain sum of two thousand
dollars, set apart for whoever should first sight the monster, were he
cabin-boy, common seaman, or officer.

I leave you to judge how eyes were used on board the _Abraham Lincoln_.

For my own part I was not behind the others, and left to no one my
share of daily observations. The frigate might have been called the
_Argus_, for a hundred reasons. Only one amongst us, Conseil, seemed to
protest by his indifference against the question which so interested us
all, and seemed to be out of keeping with the general enthusiasm on
board.

I have said that Captain Farragut had carefully provided his ship with
every apparatus for catching the gigantic cetacean. No whaler had ever
been better armed. We possessed every known engine, from the harpoon
thrown by the hand to the barbed arrows of the blunderbuss, and the
explosive balls of the duck-gun. On the forecastle lay the perfection
of a breech-loading gun, very thick at the breech, and very narrow in
the bore, the model of which had been in the Exhibition of 1867. This
precious weapon of American origin could throw with ease a conical
projectile of nine pounds to a mean distance of ten miles.

Thus the _Abraham Lincoln_ wanted for no means of destruction; and,
what was better still, she had on board Ned Land, the prince of
harpooners.

Ned Land was a Canadian, with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who
knew no equal in his dangerous occupation. Skill, coolness, audacity,
and cunning he possessed in a superior degree, and it must be a cunning
whale or a singularly “cute” cachalot to escape the stroke of his
harpoon.

Ned Land was about forty years of age; he was a tall man (more than six
feet high), strongly built, grave and taciturn, occasionally violent,
and very passionate when contradicted. His person attracted attention,
but above all the boldness of his look, which gave a singular
expression to his face.

Who calls himself Canadian calls himself French; and, little
communicative as Ned Land was, I must admit that he took a certain
liking for me. My nationality drew him to me, no doubt. It was an
opportunity for him to talk, and for me to hear, that old language of
Rabelais, which is still in use in some Canadian provinces. The
harpooner’s family was originally from Quebec, and was already a tribe
of hardy fishermen when this town belonged to France.

Little by little, Ned Land acquired a taste for chatting, and I loved
to hear the recital of his adventures in the polar seas. He related his
fishing, and his combats, with natural poetry of expression; his
recital took the form of an epic poem, and I seemed to be listening to
a Canadian Homer singing the Iliad of the regions of the North.

I am portraying this hardy companion as I really knew him. We are old
friends now, united in that unchangeable friendship which is born and
cemented amidst extreme dangers. Ah, brave Ned! I ask no more than to
live a hundred years longer, that I may have more time to dwell the
longer on your memory.

Now, what was Ned Land’s opinion upon the question of the marine
monster? I must admit that he did not believe in the unicorn, and was
the only one on board who did not share that universal conviction. He
even avoided the subject, which I one day thought it my duty to press
upon him. One magnificent evening, the 30th of July—that is to say,
three weeks after our departure—the frigate was abreast of Cape Blanc,
thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the
tropic of Capricorn, and the Straits of Magellan opened less than seven
hundred miles to the south. Before eight days were over the _Abraham
Lincoln_ would be ploughing the waters of the Pacific.

Seated on the poop, Ned Land and I were chatting of one thing and
another as we looked at this mysterious sea, whose great depths had up
to this time been inaccessible to the eye of man. I naturally led up
the conversation to the giant unicorn, and examined the various chances
of success or failure of the expedition. But, seeing that Ned Land let
me speak without saying too much himself, I pressed him more closely.

“Well, Ned,” said I, “is it possible that you are not convinced of the
existence of this cetacean that we are following? Have you any
particular reason for being so incredulous?”

The harpooner looked at me fixedly for some moments before answering,
struck his broad forehead with his hand (a habit of his), as if to
collect himself, and said at last, “Perhaps I have, M. Aronnax.”

“But, Ned, you, a whaler by profession, familiarised with all the great
marine mammalia—you, whose imagination might easily accept the
hypothesis of enormous cetaceans, _you_ ought to be the last to doubt
under such circumstances!”

“That is just what deceives you, Professor,” replied Ned. “That the
vulgar should believe in extraordinary comets traversing space, and in
the existence of antediluvian monsters in the heart of the globe, may
well be; but neither astronomer nor geologist believes in such
chimeras. As a whaler I have followed many a cetacean, harpooned a
great number, and killed several; but, however strong or well-armed
they may have been, neither their tails nor their weapons would have
been able even to scratch the iron plates of a steamer.”

“But, Ned, they tell of ships which the teeth of the narwhal have
pierced through and through.”

“Wooden ships—that is possible,” replied the Canadian, “but I have
never seen it done; and, until further proof, I deny that whales,
cetaceans, or sea-unicorns could ever produce the effect you describe.”

“Well, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction resting on the logic of
facts. I believe in the existence of a mammal powerfully organised,
belonging to the branch of vertebrata, like the whales, the cachalots,
or the dolphins, and furnished with a horn of defence of great
penetrating power.”

“Hum!” said the harpooner, shaking his head with the air of a man who
would not be convinced.

“Notice one thing, my worthy Canadian,” I resumed. “If such an animal
is in existence, if it inhabits the depths of the ocean, if it
frequents the strata lying miles below the surface of the water, it
must necessarily possess an organisation the strength of which would
defy all comparison.”

“And why this powerful organisation?” demanded Ned.

“Because it requires incalculable strength to keep one’s self in these
strata and resist their pressure. Listen to me. Let us admit that the
pressure of the atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of
water thirty-two feet high. In reality the column of water would be
shorter, as we are speaking of sea water, the density of which is
greater than that of fresh water. Very well, when you dive, Ned, as
many times thirty-two feet of water as there are above you, so many
times does your body bear a pressure equal to that of the atmosphere,
that is to say, 15 lbs. for each square inch of its surface. It
follows, then, that at 320 feet this pressure = that of 10 atmospheres,
of 100 atmospheres at 3200 feet, and of 1000 atmospheres at 32,000
feet, that is, about 6 miles; which is equivalent to saying that if you
could attain this depth in the ocean, each square three-eighths of an
inch of the surface of your body would bear a pressure of 5600 lbs. Ah!
my brave Ned, do you know how many square inches you carry on the
surface of your body?”

“I have no idea, M. Aronnax.”

“About 6500; and, as in reality the atmospheric pressure is about 15
lbs. to the square inch, your 6500 square inches bear at this moment a
pressure of 97,500 lbs.”

“Without my perceiving it?”

“Without your perceiving it. And if you are not crushed by such a
pressure, it is because the air penetrates the interior of your body
with equal pressure. Hence perfect equilibrium between the interior and
exterior pressure, which thus neutralise each other, and which allows
you to bear it without inconvenience. But in the water it is another
thing.”

“Yes, I understand,” replied Ned, becoming more attentive; “because the
water surrounds me, but does not penetrate.”

“Precisely, Ned: so that at 32 feet beneath the surface of the sea you
would undergo a pressure of 97,500 lbs.; at 320 feet, ten times that
pressure; at 3200 feet, a hundred times that pressure; lastly, at
32,000 feet, a thousand times that pressure would be 97,500,000
lbs.—that is to say, that you would be flattened as if you had been
drawn from the plates of a hydraulic machine!”

“The devil!” exclaimed Ned.

“Very well, my worthy harpooner, if some vertebrate, several hundred
yards long, and large in proportion, can maintain itself in such
depths—of those whose surface is represented by millions of square
inches, that is by tens of millions of pounds, we must estimate the
pressure they undergo. Consider, then, what must be the resistance of
their bony structure, and the strength of their organisation to
withstand such pressure!”

“Why!” exclaimed Ned Land, “they must be made of iron plates eight
inches thick, like the armoured frigates.”

“As you say, Ned. And think what destruction such a mass would cause,
if hurled with the speed of an express train against the hull of a
vessel.”

“Yes—certainly—perhaps,” replied the Canadian, shaken by these figures,
but not yet willing to give in.

“Well, have I convinced you?”

“You have convinced me of one thing, sir, which is that, if such
animals do exist at the bottom of the seas, they must necessarily be as
strong as you say.”

“But if they do not exist, mine obstinate harpooner, how explain the
accident to the _Scotia?_”

CHAPTER V
AT A VENTURE

The voyage of the _Abraham Lincoln_ was for a long time marked by no
special incident. But one circumstance happened which showed the
wonderful dexterity of Ned Land, and proved what confidence we might
place in him.

The 30th of June, the frigate spoke some American whalers, from whom we
learned that they knew nothing about the narwhal. But one of them, the
captain of the _Monroe_, knowing that Ned Land had shipped on board the
_Abraham Lincoln_, begged for his help in chasing a whale they had in
sight. Commander Farragut, desirous of seeing Ned Land at work, gave
him permission to go on board the _Monroe_. And fate served our
Canadian so well that, instead of one whale, he harpooned two with a
double blow, striking one straight to the heart, and catching the other
after some minutes’ pursuit.

Decidedly, if the monster ever had to do with Ned Land’s harpoon, I
would not bet in its favour.

The frigate skirted the south-east coast of America with great
rapidity. The 3rd of July we were at the opening of the Straits of
Magellan, level with Cape Vierges. But Commander Farragut would not
take a tortuous passage, but doubled Cape Horn.

The ship’s crew agreed with him. And certainly it was possible that
they might meet the narwhal in this narrow pass. Many of the sailors
affirmed that the monster could not pass there, “that he was too big
for that!”

The 6th of July, about three o’clock in the afternoon, the _Abraham
Lincoln_, at fifteen miles to the south, doubled the solitary island,
this lost rock at the extremity of the American continent, to which
some Dutch sailors gave the name of their native town, Cape Horn. The
course was taken towards the north-west, and the next day the screw of
the frigate was at last beating the waters of the Pacific.

“Keep your eyes open!” called out the sailors.

And they were opened widely. Both eyes and glasses, a little dazzled,
it is true, by the prospect of two thousand dollars, had not an
instant’s repose. Day and night they watched the surface of the ocean,
and even nyctalopes, whose faculty of seeing in the darkness multiplies
their chances a hundredfold, would have had enough to do to gain the
prize.

I myself, for whom money had no charms, was not the least attentive on
board. Giving but few minutes to my meals, but a few hours to sleep,
indifferent to either rain or sunshine, I did not leave the poop of the
vessel. Now leaning on the netting of the forecastle, now on the
taffrail, I devoured with eagerness the soft foam which whitened the
sea as far as the eye could reach; and how often have I shared the
emotion of the majority of the crew, when some capricious whale raised
its black back above the waves! The poop of the vessel was crowded in a
moment. The cabins poured forth a torrent of sailors and officers, each
with heaving breast and troubled eye watching the course of the
cetacean. I looked and looked, till I was nearly blind, whilst Conseil,
always phlegmatic, kept repeating in a calm voice:

“If, sir, you would not squint so much, you would see better!”

But vain excitement! The _Abraham Lincoln_ checked its speed and made
for the animal signalled, a simple whale, or common cachalot, which
soon disappeared amidst a storm of execration.

But the weather was good. The voyage was being accomplished under the
most favourable auspices. It was then the bad season in Australia, the
July of that zone corresponding to our January in Europe, but the sea
was beautiful and easily scanned round a vast circumference.

The 20th of July, the tropic of Capricorn was cut by 105° of longitude,
and the 27th of the same month we crossed the equator on the 110th
meridian. This passed, the frigate took a more decided westerly
direction, and scoured the central waters of the Pacific. Commander
Farragut thought, and with reason, that it was better to remain in deep
water, and keep clear of continents or islands, which the beast itself
seemed to shun (perhaps because there was not enough water for him!
suggested the greater part of the crew). The frigate passed at some
distance from the Marquesas and the Sandwich Islands, crossed the
tropic of Cancer, and made for the China Seas. We were on the theatre
of the last diversions of the monster: and, to say truth, we no longer
_lived_ on board. Hearts palpitated, fearfully preparing themselves for
future incurable aneurism. The entire ship’s crew were undergoing a
nervous excitement, of which I can give no idea: they could not eat,
they could not sleep—twenty times a day, a misconception or an optical
illusion of some sailor seated on the taffrail, would cause dreadful
perspirations, and these emotions, twenty times repeated, kept us in a
state of excitement so violent that a reaction was unavoidable.

And truly, reaction soon showed itself. For three months, during which
a day seemed an age, the _Abraham Lincoln_ furrowed all the waters of
the Northern Pacific, running at whales, making sharp deviations from
her course, veering suddenly from one tack to another, stopping
suddenly, putting on steam, and backing ever and anon at the risk of
deranging her machinery, and not one point of the Japanese or American
coast was left unexplored.

The warmest partisans of the enterprise now became its most ardent
detractors. Reaction mounted from the crew to the captain himself, and
certainly, had it not been for resolute determination on the part of
Captain Farragut, the frigate would have headed due southward. This
useless search could not last much longer. The _Abraham Lincoln_ had
nothing to reproach herself with, she had done her best to succeed.
Never had an American ship’s crew shown more zeal or patience; its
failure could not be placed to their charge—there remained nothing but
to return.

This was represented to the commander. The sailors could not hide their
discontent, and the service suffered. I will not say there was a mutiny
on board, but after a reasonable period of obstinacy, Captain Farragut
(as Columbus did) asked for three days’ patience. If in three days the
monster did not appear, the man at the helm should give three turns of
the wheel, and the _Abraham Lincoln_ would make for the European seas.

This promise was made on the 2nd of November. It had the effect of
rallying the ship’s crew. The ocean was watched with renewed attention.
Each one wished for a last glance in which to sum up his remembrance.
Glasses were used with feverish activity. It was a grand defiance given
to the giant narwhal, and he could scarcely fail to answer the summons
and “appear.”

Two days passed, the steam was at half pressure; a thousand schemes
were tried to attract the attention and stimulate the apathy of the
animal in case it should be met in those parts. Large quantities of
bacon were trailed in the wake of the ship, to the great satisfaction
(I must say) of the sharks. Small craft radiated in all directions
round the _Abraham Lincoln_ as she lay to, and did not leave a spot of
the sea unexplored. But the night of the 4th of November arrived
without the unveiling of this submarine mystery.

The next day, the 5th of November, at twelve, the delay would (morally
speaking) expire; after that time, Commander Farragut, faithful to his
promise, was to turn the course to the south-east and abandon for ever
the northern regions of the Pacific.

The frigate was then in 31° 15′ north latitude and 136° 42′ east
longitude. The coast of Japan still remained less than two hundred
miles to leeward. Night was approaching. They had just struck eight
bells; large clouds veiled the face of the moon, then in its first
quarter. The sea undulated peaceably under the stern of the vessel.

At that moment I was leaning forward on the starboard netting. Conseil,
standing near me, was looking straight before him. The crew, perched in
the ratlines, examined the horizon, which contracted and darkened by
degrees. Officers with their night glasses scoured the growing
darkness; sometimes the ocean sparkled under the rays of the moon,
which darted between two clouds, then all trace of light was lost in
the darkness.

In looking at Conseil, I could see he was undergoing a little of the
general influence. At least I thought so. Perhaps for the first time
his nerves vibrated to a sentiment of curiosity.

“Come, Conseil,” said I, “this is the last chance of pocketing the two
thousand dollars.”

“May I be permitted to say, sir,” replied Conseil, “that I never
reckoned on getting the prize; and, had the government of the Union
offered a hundred thousand dollars, it would have been none the
poorer.”

“You are right, Conseil. It is a foolish affair after all, and one upon
which we entered too lightly. What time lost, what useless emotions! We
should have been back in France six months ago.”

“In your little room, sir,” replied Conseil, “and in your museum, sir,
and I should have already classed all your fossils, sir. And the
Babiroussa would have been installed in its cage in the Jardin des
Plantes, and have drawn all the curious people of the capital!”

“As you say, Conseil. I fancy we shall run a fair chance of being
laughed at for our pains.”

“That’s tolerably certain,” replied Conseil, quietly; “I think they
will make fun of you, sir. And, must I say it?”

“Go on, my good friend.”

“Well, sir, you will only get your deserts.”

“Indeed!”

“When one has the honour of being a savant as you are, sir, one should
not expose one’s self to——”

Conseil had not time to finish his compliment. In the midst of general
silence a voice had just been heard. It was the voice of Ned Land
shouting—

“Look out there! The very thing we are looking for—on our weather
beam!”

CHAPTER VI
AT FULL STEAM

At this cry the whole ship’s crew hurried towards the
harpooner,—commander, officers, masters, sailors, cabin boys; even the
engineers left their engines, and the stokers their furnaces.

The order to stop her had been given, and the frigate now simply went
on by her own momentum. The darkness was then profound, and however
good the Canadian’s eyes were, I asked myself how he had managed to
see, and what he had been able to see. My heart beat as if it would
break. But Ned Land was not mistaken, and we all perceived the object
he pointed to. At two cables’ length from the _Abraham Lincoln_, on the
starboard quarter, the sea seemed to be illuminated all over. It was
not a mere phosphoric phenomenon. The monster emerged some fathoms from
the water, and then threw out that very intense but inexplicable light
mentioned in the report of several captains. This magnificent
irradiation must have been produced by an agent of great _shining_
power. The luminous part traced on the sea an immense oval, much
elongated, the centre of which condensed a burning heat, whose
overpowering brilliancy died out by successive gradations.

“It is only an agglomeration of phosphoric particles,” cried one of the
officers.

“No, sir, certainly not,” I replied. “Never did pholades or salpæ
produce such a powerful light. That brightness is of an essentially
electrical nature. Besides, see, see! it moves; it is moving forwards,
backwards; it is darting towards us!”

A general cry rose from the frigate.

“Silence!” said the Captain; “up with the helm, reverse the engines.”

The steam was shut off, and the _Abraham Lincoln_, beating to port,
described a semicircle.

“Right the helm, go ahead,” cried the Captain.

These orders were executed, and the frigate moved rapidly from the
burning light.

I was mistaken. She tried to sheer off, but the supernatural animal
approached with a velocity double her own.

We gasped for breath. Stupefaction more than fear made us dumb and
motionless. The animal gained on us, sporting with the waves. It made
the round of the frigate, which was then making fourteen knots, and
enveloped it with its electric rings like luminous dust. Then it moved
away two or three miles, leaving a phosphorescent track, like those
volumes of steam that the express trains leave behind. All at once from
the dark line of the horizon whither it retired to gain its momentum,
the monster rushed suddenly towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ with alarming
rapidity, stopped suddenly about twenty feet from the hull, and died
out,—not diving under the water, for its brilliancy did not abate,—but
suddenly, and as if the source of this brilliant emanation was
exhausted. Then it reappeared on the other side of the vessel, as if it
had turned and slid under the hull. Any moment a collision might have
occurred which would have been fatal to us. However, I was astonished
at the manœuvres of the frigate. She fled and did not attack.

On the captain’s face, generally so impassive, was an expression of
unaccountable astonishment.

“M. Aronnax,” he said, “I do not know with what formidable being I
have to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst
of this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend
one’s self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change.”

“You have no further doubt, captain, of the nature of the animal?”

“No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one.”

“Perhaps,” added I, “one can only approach it with a gymnotus or a
torpedo.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied the captain, “if it possesses such dreadful
power, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is
why, sir, I must be on my guard.”

The crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The
_Abraham Lincoln_, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had
moderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the
narwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and
seemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle. Towards
midnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term,
it “died out” like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only fear,
not hope. But at seven minutes to one o’clock in the morning a
deafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a body of water
rushing with great violence.

The captain, Ned Land, and I, were then on the poop, eagerly peering
through the profound darkness.

“Ned Land,” asked the commander, “you have often heard the roaring of
whales?”

“Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two
thousand dollars. If I can only approach within four harpoon lengths of
it!”

“But to approach it,” said the commander, “I ought to put a whaler at
your disposal?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“That will be trifling with the lives of my men.”

“And mine too,” simply said the harpooner.

Towards two o’clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not
less intense, about five miles to windward of the _Abraham Lincoln_.
Notwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one
heard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal’s tail, and even its
panting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous narwhal
had come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air was
engulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a
machine of two thousand horse-power.

“Hum!” thought I, “a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment
would be a pretty whale!”

We were on the _qui vive_ till daylight, and prepared for the combat.
The fishing implements were laid along the hammock nettings. The second
lieutenant loaded the blunderbusses, which could throw harpoons to the
distance of a mile, and long duck-guns, with explosive bullets, which
inflicted mortal wounds even to the most terrible animals. Ned Land
contented himself with sharpening his harpoon—a terrible weapon in his
hands.

At six o’clock day began to break; and, with the first glimmer of
light, the electric light of the narwhal disappeared. At seven o’clock
the day was sufficiently advanced, but a very thick sea fog obscured
our view, and the best spy-glasses could not pierce it. That caused
disappointment and anger.

I climbed the mizzen-mast. Some officers were already perched on the
mast heads. At eight o’clock the fog lay heavily on the waves, and its
thick scrolls rose little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer
at the same time. Suddenly, just as on the day before, Ned Land’s voice
was heard:

“The thing itself on the port quarter!” cried the harpooner.

Every eye was turned towards the point indicated. There, a mile and a
half from the frigate, a long blackish body emerged a yard above the
waves. Its tail, violently agitated, produced a considerable eddy.
Never did a caudal appendage beat the sea with such violence. An
immense track, of dazzling whiteness, marked the passage of the animal,
and described a long curve.

The frigate approached the cetacean. I examined it thoroughly.

The reports of the _Shannon_ and of the _Helvetia_ had rather
exaggerated its size, and I estimated its length at only two hundred
and fifty feet. As to its dimensions, I could only conjecture them to
be admirably proportioned. While I watched this phenomenon, two jets of
steam and water were ejected from its vents, and rose to the height of
120 feet; thus I ascertained its way of breathing. I concluded
definitely that it belonged to the vertebrate branch, class mammalia.

The crew waited impatiently for their chief’s orders. The latter, after
having observed the animal attentively, called the engineer. The
engineer ran to him.

“Sir,” said the commander, “you have steam up?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the engineer.

“Well, make up your fires and put on all steam.”

Three hurrahs greeted this order. The time for the struggle had
arrived. Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited
torrents of black smoke, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of
the boilers.

The _Abraham Lincoln_, propelled by her wonderful screw, went straight
at the animal. The latter allowed it to come within half a cable’s
length; then, as if disdaining to dive, it took a little turn, and
stopped a short distance off.

This pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, without the
frigate gaining two yards on the cetacean. It was quite evident that at
that rate we should never come up with it.

“Well, Mr. Land,” asked the captain, “do you advise me to put the boats
out to sea?”

“No, sir,” replied Ned Land; “because we shall not take that beast
easily.”

“What shall we do then?”

“Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post
myself under the bowsprit, and if we get within harpooning distance, I
shall throw my harpoon.”

“Go, Ned,” said the captain. “Engineer, put on more pressure.”

Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw revolved
forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves. We
heaved the log, and calculated that the _Abraham Lincoln_ was going at
the rate of 18½ miles an hour.

But the accursed animal swam too at the rate of 18½ miles an hour.

For a whole hour, the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six
feet. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the
American navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused the
monster, who, as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no
longer contented himself with twisting his beard—he gnawed it.

The engineer was again called.

“You have turned full steam in?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.

The speed of the _Abraham Lincoln_ increased. Its masts trembled down
to their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find way
out of the narrow funnels.

They heaved the log a second time.

“Well?” asked the captain of the man at the wheel.

“Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir.”

“Clap on more steam.”

The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees. But the cetacean
grew warm itself, no doubt; for without straining itself, it made
19-3/10 miles.

What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated through
me. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal
let us gain upon it.—“We shall catch it! we shall catch it!” cried the
Canadian. But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away
with a rapidity that could not be estimated at less than thirty miles
an hour, and even during our maximum of speed, it bullied the frigate,
going round and round it. A cry of fury broke from everyone!

At noon we were no further advanced than at eight o’clock in the
morning.

The captain then decided to take more direct means.

“Ah!” said he, “that animal goes quicker than the _Abraham Lincoln_.
Very well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets.
Send your men to the forecastle, sir.”

The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the
shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off.

“Another, more to the right,” cried the commander, “and five dollars to
whoever will hit that infernal beast.”

An old gunner with a grey beard—that I can see now—with steady eye and
grave face, went up to the gun and took a long aim. A loud report was
heard, with which were mingled the cheers of the crew.

[Illustration] An old grey-bearded gunner . . . .

The bullet did its work; it hit the animal, but not fatally, and
sliding off the rounded surface, was lost in two miles depth of sea.

The chase began again, and the captain, leaning towards me, said—

“I will pursue that beast till my frigate bursts up.”

“Yes,” answered I; “and you will be quite right to do it.”

I wished the beast would exhaust itself, and not be insensible to
fatigue like a steam engine! But it was of no use. Hours passed,
without its showing any signs of exhaustion.

However, it must be said in praise of the _Abraham Lincoln_, that she
struggled on indefatigably. I cannot reckon the distance she made under
three hundred miles during this unlucky day, November the 6th. But
night came on, and overshadowed the rough ocean.

Now I thought our expedition was at an end, and that we should never
again see the extraordinary animal. I was mistaken. At ten minutes to
eleven in the evening, the electric light reappeared three miles to
windward of the frigate, as pure, as intense as during the preceding
night.

The narwhal seemed motionless; perhaps, tired with its day’s work, it
slept, letting itself float with the undulation of the waves. Now was a
chance of which the captain resolved to take advantage.

He gave his orders. The _Abraham Lincoln_ kept up half steam, and
advanced cautiously so as not to awake its adversary. It is no rare
thing to meet in the middle of the ocean whales so sound asleep that
they can be successfully attacked, and Ned Land had harpooned more than
one during its sleep. The Canadian went to take his place again under
the bowsprit.

The frigate approached noiselessly, stopped at two cables’ lengths from
the animal, and following its track. No one breathed; a deep silence
reigned on the bridge. We were not a hundred feet from the burning
focus, the light of which increased and dazzled our eyes.

At this moment, leaning on the forecastle bulwark, I saw below me Ned
Land grappling the martingale in one hand, brandishing his terrible
harpoon in the other, scarcely twenty feet from the motionless animal.
Suddenly his arm straightened, and the harpoon was thrown; I heard the
sonorous stroke of the weapon, which seemed to have struck a hard body.
The electric light went out suddenly, and two enormous waterspouts
broke over the bridge of the frigate, rushing like a torrent from stem
to stern, overthrowing men, and breaking the lashings of the spars. A
fearful shock followed, and, thrown over the rail without having time
to stop myself, I fell into the sea.

CHAPTER VII
AN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE

This unexpected fall so stunned me that I have no clear recollection of
my sensations at the time. I was at first drawn down to a depth of
about twenty feet. I am a good swimmer (though without pretending to
rival Byron or Edgar Poe, who were masters of the art), and in that
plunge I did not lose my presence of mind. Two vigorous strokes brought
me to the surface of the water. My first care was to look for the
frigate. Had the crew seen me disappear? Had the _Abraham Lincoln_
veered round? Would the captain put out a boat? Might I hope to be
saved?

The darkness was intense. I caught a glimpse of a black mass
disappearing in the east, its beacon lights dying out in the distance.
It was the frigate! I was lost.

“Help, help!” I shouted, swimming towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ in
desperation.

My clothes encumbered me; they seemed glued to my body, and paralysed
my movements.

I was sinking! I was suffocating!

“Help!”

This was my last cry. My mouth filled with water; I struggled against
being drawn down the abyss. Suddenly my clothes were seized by a strong
hand, and I felt myself quickly drawn up to the surface of the sea; and
I heard, yes, I heard these words pronounced in my ear—

“If master would be so good as to lean on my shoulder, master would
swim with much greater ease.”

I seized with one hand my faithful Conseil’s arm.

“Is it you?” said I, “you?”

“Myself,” answered Conseil; “and waiting master’s orders.”

“That shock threw you as well as me into the sea?”

“No; but being in my master’s service, I followed him.”

The worthy fellow thought that was but natural.

“And the frigate?” I asked.

“The frigate?” replied Conseil, turning on his back; “I think that
master had better not count too much on her.”

“You think so?”

“I say that, at the time I threw myself into the sea, I heard the men
at the wheel say, ‘The screw and the rudder are broken.’”

“Broken?”

“Yes, broken by the monster’s teeth. It is the only injury the _Abraham
Lincoln_ has sustained. But it is a bad look out for us—she no longer
answers her helm.”

“Then we are lost!”

“Perhaps so,” calmly answered Conseil. “However, we have still several
hours before us, and one can do a good deal in some hours.”

Conseil’s imperturbable coolness set me up again. I swam more
vigorously; but, cramped by my clothes, which stuck to me like a leaden
weight, I felt great difficulty in bearing up. Conseil saw this.

“Will master let me make a slit?” said he; and, slipping an open knife
under my clothes, he ripped them up from top to bottom very rapidly.
Then he cleverly slipped them off me, while I swam for both of us.

Then I did the same for Conseil, and we continued to swim near to each
other.

Nevertheless, our situation was no less terrible. Perhaps our
disappearance had not been noticed; and if it had been, the frigate
could not tack, being without its helm. Conseil argued on this
supposition, and laid his plans accordingly. This phlegmatic boy was
perfectly self-possessed. We then decided that, as our only chance of
safety was being picked up by the _Abraham Lincoln’s_ boats, we ought
to manage so as to wait for them as long as possible. I resolved then
to husband our strength, so that both should not be exhausted at the
same time; and this is how we managed: while one of us lay on our back,
quite still, with arms crossed, and legs stretched out, the other would
swim and push the other on in front. This towing business did not last
more than ten minutes each; and relieving each other thus, we could
swim on for some hours, perhaps till daybreak. Poor chance! but hope is
so firmly rooted in the heart of man! Moreover, there were two of us.
Indeed I declare (though it may seem improbable) if I sought to destroy
all hope,—if I wished to despair, I could not.

The collision of the frigate with the cetacean had occurred about
eleven o’clock the evening before. I reckoned then we should have eight
hours to swim before sunrise, an operation quite practicable if we
relieved each other. The sea, very calm, was in our favour. Sometimes I
tried to pierce the intense darkness that was only dispelled by the
phosphorescence caused by our movements. I watched the luminous waves
that broke over my hand, whose mirror-like surface was spotted with
silvery rings. One might have said that we were in a bath of
quicksilver.

Near one o’clock in the morning, I was seized with dreadful fatigue. My
limbs stiffened under the strain of violent cramp. Conseil was obliged
to keep me up, and our preservation devolved on him alone. I heard the
poor boy pant; his breathing became short and hurried. I found that he
could not keep up much longer.

“Leave me! leave me!” I said to him.

“Leave my master? Never!” replied he. “I would drown first.”

Just then the moon appeared through the fringes of a thick cloud that
the wind was driving to the east. The surface of the sea glittered with
its rays. This kindly light reanimated us. My head got better again. I
looked at all points of the horizon. I saw the frigate! She was five
miles from us, and looked like a dark mass, hardly discernible. But no
boats!

I would have cried out. But what good would it have been at such a
distance! My swollen lips could utter no sounds. Conseil could
articulate some words, and I heard him repeat at intervals, “Help!
help!”

Our movements were suspended for an instant; we listened. It might be
only a singing in the ear, but it seemed to me as if a cry answered the
cry from Conseil.

“Did you hear?” I murmured.

“Yes! Yes!”

And Conseil gave one more despairing call.

This time there was no mistake! A human voice responded to ours! Was it
the voice of another unfortunate creature, abandoned in the middle of
the ocean, some other victim of the shock sustained by the vessel? Or
rather was it a boat from the frigate, that was hailing us in the
darkness?

Conseil made a last effort, and, leaning on my shoulder, while I struck
out in a despairing effort, he raised himself half out of the water,
then fell back exhausted.

“What did you see?”

“I saw”—murmured he; “I saw—but do not talk—reserve all your strength!”

What had he seen? Then, I know not why, the thought of the monster came
into my head for the first time! But that voice! The time is past for
Jonahs to take refuge in whales’ bellies! However, Conseil was towing
me again. He raised his head sometimes, looked before us, and uttered a
cry of recognition, which was responded to by a voice that came nearer
and nearer. I scarcely heard it. My strength was exhausted; my fingers
stiffened; my hand afforded me support no longer; my mouth,
convulsively opening, filled with salt water. Cold crept over me. I
raised my head for the last time, then I sank.

At this moment a hard body struck me. I clung to it: then I felt that I
was being drawn up, that I was brought to the surface of the water,
that my chest collapsed:—I fainted.

It is certain that I soon came to, thanks to the vigorous rubbings that
I received. I half opened my eyes.

“Conseil!” I murmured.

“Does master call me?” asked Conseil.

Just then, by the waning light of the moon which was sinking down to
the horizon, I saw a face which was not Conseil’s and which I
immediately recognised.

“Ned!” I cried.

“The same, sir, who is seeking his prize!” replied the Canadian.

“Were you thrown into the sea by the shock to the frigate?”

“Yes, Professor; but more fortunate than you, I was able to find a
footing almost directly upon a floating island.”

“An island?”

“Or, more correctly speaking, on our gigantic narwhal.”

“Explain yourself, Ned!”

“Only I soon found out why my harpoon had not entered its skin and was
blunted.”

“Why, Ned, why?”

“Because, Professor, that beast is made of sheet iron.”

The Canadian’s last words produced a sudden revolution in my brain. I
wriggled myself quickly to the top of the being, or object, half out of
the water, which served us for a refuge. I kicked it. It was evidently
a hard impenetrable body, and not the soft substance that forms the
bodies of the great marine mammalia. But this hard body might be a bony
carapace, like that of the antediluvian animals; and I should be free
to class this monster among amphibious reptiles, such as tortoises or
alligators.

Well, no! the blackish back that supported me was smooth, polished,
without scales. The blow produced a metallic sound; and incredible
though it may be, it seemed, I might say, as if it was made of riveted
plates.

There was no doubt about it! This monster, this natural phenomenon that
had puzzled the learned world, and overthrown and misled the
imagination of seamen of both hemispheres, it must be owned, a still
more astonishing phenomenon, inasmuch as it was a simply human
construction.

We had no time to lose, however. We were lying upon the back of a sort
of submarine boat, which appeared (as far as I could judge) like a huge
fish of steel. Ned Land’s mind was made up on this point. Conseil and I
could only agree with him.

Just then a bubbling began at the back of this strange thing (which was
evidently propelled by a screw), and it began to move. We had only just
time to seize hold of the upper part, which rose about seven feet out
of the water, and happily its speed was not great.

“As long as it sails horizontally,” muttered Ned Land, “I do not mind;
but if it takes a fancy to dive, I would not give two straws for my
life.”

The Canadian might have said still less. It became really necessary to
communicate with the beings, whatever they were, shut up inside the
machine. I searched all over the outside for an aperture, a panel, or a
man-hole, to use a technical expression; but the lines of the iron
rivets, solidly driven into the joints of the iron plates, were clear
and uniform. Besides, the moon disappeared then, and left us in total
darkness.

At last this long night passed. My indistinct remembrance prevents my
describing all the impressions it made. I can only recall one
circumstance. During some lulls of the wind and sea, I fancied I heard
several times vague sounds, a sort of fugitive harmony produced by
words of command. What was then the mystery of this submarine craft, of
which the whole world vainly sought an explanation? What kind of beings
existed in this strange boat? What mechanical agent caused its
prodigious speed?

Daybreak appeared. The morning mists surrounded us, but they soon
cleared off. I was about to examine the hull, which formed on deck a
kind of horizontal platform, when I felt it gradually sinking.

“Oh! confound it!” cried Ned Land, kicking the resounding plate. “Open,
you inhospitable rascals!”

Happily the sinking movement ceased. Suddenly a noise, like iron works
violently pushed aside, came from the interior of the boat. One iron
plate was moved, a man appeared, uttered an odd cry, and disappeared
immediately.

Some moments after, eight strong men, with masked faces, appeared
noiselessly, and drew us down into their formidable machine.

CHAPTER VIII
MOBILIS IN MOBILI

This forcible abduction, so roughly carried out, was accomplished with
the rapidity of lightning. I shivered all over. Whom had we to deal
with? No doubt some new sort of pirates, who explored the sea in their
own way.

Hardly had the narrow panel closed upon me, when I was enveloped in
darkness. My eyes, dazzled with the outer light, could distinguish
nothing. I felt my naked feet cling to the rungs of an iron ladder. Ned
Land and Conseil, firmly seized, followed me. At the bottom of the
ladder, a door opened, and shut after us immediately with a bang.

We were alone. Where, I could not say, hardly imagine. All was black,
and such a dense black that, after some minutes, my eyes had not been
able to discern even the faintest glimmer.

Meanwhile, Ned Land, furious at these proceedings, gave free vent to
his indignation.

“Confound it!” cried he, “here are people who come up to the Scotch for
hospitality. They only just miss being cannibals. I should not be
surprised at it, but I declare that they shall not eat me without my
protesting.”

“Calm yourself, friend Ned, calm yourself,” replied Conseil, quietly.
“Do not cry out before you are hurt. We are not quite done for yet.”

“Not quite,” sharply replied the Canadian, “but pretty near, at all
events. Things look black. Happily, my bowie knife I have still, and I
can always see well enough to use it. The first of these pirates who
lays a hand on me——”

“Do not excite yourself, Ned,” I said to the harpooner, “and do not
compromise us by useless violence. Who knows that they will not listen
to us? Let us rather try to find out where we are.”

I groped about. In five steps I came to an iron wall, made of plates
bolted together. Then turning back I struck against a wooden table,
near which were ranged several stools. The boards of this prison were
concealed under a thick mat of phormium, which deadened the noise of
the feet. The bare walls revealed no trace of window or door. Conseil,
going round the reverse way, met me, and we went back to the middle of
the cabin, which measured about twenty feet by ten. As to its height,
Ned Land, in spite of his own great height, could not measure it.

Half an hour had already passed without our situation being bettered,
when the dense darkness suddenly gave way to extreme light. Our prison
was suddenly lighted—that is to say, it became filled with a luminous
matter, so strong that I could not bear it at first. In its whiteness
and intensity I recognised that electric light which played round the
submarine boat like a magnificent phenomenon of phosphorescence. After
shutting my eyes involuntarily, I opened them, and saw that this
luminous agent came from a half globe, unpolished, placed in the roof
of the cabin.

“At last one can see,” cried Ned Land, who, knife in hand, stood on the
defensive.

“Yes,” said I; “but we are still in the dark about ourselves.”

“Let master have patience,” said the imperturbable Conseil.

The sudden lighting of the cabin enabled me to examine it minutely. It
only contained a table and five stools. The invisible door might be
hermetically sealed. No noise was heard. All seemed dead in the
interior of this boat. Did it move, did it float on the surface of the
ocean, or did it dive into its depths? I could not guess.

A noise of bolts was now heard, the door opened, and two men appeared.

One was short, very muscular, broad-shouldered, with robust limbs,
strong head, an abundance of black hair, thick moustache, a quick
penetrating look, and the vivacity which characterises the population
of Southern France.

The second stranger merits a more detailed description. A disciple of
Gratiolet or Engel would have read his face like an open book. I made
out his prevailing qualities directly:—self-confidence,—because his
head was well set on his shoulders, and his black eyes looked around
with cold assurance; calmness,—for his skin, rather pale, showed his
coolness of blood; energy,—evinced by the rapid contraction of his
lofty brows; and courage,—because his deep breathing denoted great
power of lungs.

Whether this person was thirty-five or fifty years of age, I could not
say. He was tall, had a large forehead, straight nose, a clearly cut
mouth, beautiful teeth, with fine taper hands, indicative of a highly
nervous temperament. This man was certainly the most admirable specimen
I had ever met. One particular feature was his eyes, rather far from
each other, and which could take in nearly a quarter of the horizon at
once.

This faculty—(I verified it later)—gave him a range of vision far
superior to Ned Land’s. When this stranger fixed upon an object, his
eyebrows met, his large eyelids closed around so as to contract the
range of his vision, and he looked as if he magnified the objects
lessened by distance, as if he pierced those sheets of water so opaque
to our eyes, and as if he read the very depths of the seas.

The two strangers, with caps made from the fur of the sea otter, and
shod with sea boots of seal’s skin, were dressed in clothes of a
particular texture, which allowed free movement of the limbs. The
taller of the two, evidently the chief on board, examined us with great
attention, without saying a word; then turning to his companion, talked
with him in an unknown tongue. It was a sonorous, harmonious, and
flexible dialect, the vowels seeming to admit of very varied
accentuation.

The other replied by a shake of the head, and added two or three
perfectly incomprehensible words. Then he seemed to question me by a
look.

I replied in good French that I did not know his language; but he
seemed not to understand me, and my situation became more embarrassing.

“If master were to tell our story,” said Conseil, “perhaps these
gentlemen may understand some words.”

I began to tell our adventures, articulating each syllable clearly, and
without omitting one single detail. I announced our names and rank,
introducing in person Professor Aronnax, his servant Conseil, and
master Ned Land, the harpooner.

The man with the soft calm eyes listened to me quietly, even politely,
and with extreme attention; but nothing in his countenance indicated
that he had understood my story. When I finished, he said not a word.
There remained one resource, to speak English. Perhaps they would know
this almost universal language. I knew it, as well as the German
language,—well enough to read it fluently, but not to speak it
correctly. But, anyhow, we must make ourselves understood.

“Go on in your turn,” I said to the harpooner; “speak your best
Anglo-Saxon, and try to do better than I.”

Ned did not beg off, and recommenced our story.

To his great disgust, the harpooner did not seem to have made himself
more intelligible than I had. Our visitors did not stir. They evidently
understood neither the language of Arago nor of Faraday.

Very much embarrassed, after having vainly exhausted our speaking
resources, I knew not what part to take, when Conseil said—

“If master will permit me, I will relate it in German.”

But in spite of the elegant terms and good accent of the narrator, the
German language had no success. At last, nonplussed, I tried to
remember my first lessons, and to narrate our adventures in Latin, but
with no better success. This last attempt being of no avail, the two
strangers exchanged some words in their unknown language, and retired.

The door shut.

“It is an infamous shame,” cried Ned Land, who broke out for the
twentieth time. “We speak to those rogues in French, English, German,
and Latin, and not one of them has the politeness to answer!”

“Calm yourself,” I said to the impetuous Ned, “anger will do no good.”

“But do you see, Professor,” replied our irascible companion, “that we
shall absolutely die of hunger in this iron cage?”

“Bah!” said Conseil, philosophically; “we can hold out some time yet.”

“My friends,” I said, “we must not despair. We have been worse off than
this. Do me the favour to wait a little before forming an opinion upon
the commander and crew of this boat.”

“My opinion is formed,” replied Ned Land, sharply. “They are rascals.”

“Good! and from what country?”

“From the land of rogues!”

“My brave Ned, that country is not clearly indicated on the map of the
world; but I admit that the nationality of the two strangers is hard to
determine. Neither English, French, nor German, that is quite certain.
However, I am inclined to think that the commander and his companion
were born in low latitudes. There is southern blood in them. But I
cannot decide by their appearance whether they are Spaniards, Turks,
Arabians, or Indians. As to their language, it is quite
incomprehensible.”

“There is the disadvantage of not knowing all languages,” said Conseil,
“or the disadvantage of not having one universal language.”

As he said these words, the door opened. A steward entered. He brought
us clothes, coats and trousers, made of a stuff I did not know. I
hastened to dress myself, and my companions followed my example. During
that time, the steward—dumb, perhaps deaf—had arranged the table, and
laid three plates.

“This is something like,” said Conseil.

“Bah!” said the rancorous harpooner, “what do you suppose they eat
here? Tortoise liver, filleted shark, and beefsteaks from sea-dogs.”

“We shall see,” said Conseil.

The dishes, of bell metal, were placed on the table, and we took our
places. Undoubtedly we had to do with civilised people, and, had it not
been for the electric light which flooded us, I could have fancied I
was in the dining-room of the Adelphi Hotel at Liverpool, or at the
Grand Hotel in Paris. I must say, however, that there was neither bread
nor wine. The water was fresh and clear, but it was water, and did not
suit Ned Land’s taste. Amongst the dishes which were brought to us, I
recognised several fish delicately dressed; but of some, although
excellent, I could give no opinion, neither could I tell to what
kingdom they belonged, whether animal or vegetable. As to the dinner
service, it was elegant, and in perfect taste. Each utensil, spoon,
fork, knife, plate, had a letter engraved on it, with a motto above it,
of which this is an exact facsimile:—

MOBILIS IN MOBILI
N.

The letter N was no doubt the initial of the name of the enigmatical
person, who commanded at the bottom of the sea.

Ned and Conseil did not reflect much. They devoured the food, and I did
likewise. I was, besides, reassured as to our fate; and it seemed
evident that our hosts would not let us die of want.

However, everything has an end, everything passes away, even the hunger
of people who have not eaten for fifteen hours. Our appetites
satisfied, we felt overcome with sleep.

“Faith! I shall sleep well,” said Conseil.

“So shall I,” replied Ned Land.

My two companions stretched themselves on the cabin carpet, and were
soon sound asleep. For my own part, too many thoughts crowded my brain,
too many insoluble questions pressed upon me, too many fancies kept my
eyes half open. Where were we? What strange power carried us on? I
felt—or rather fancied I felt—the machine sinking down to the lowest
beds of the sea. Dreadful nightmares beset me; I saw in these
mysterious asylums a world of unknown animals, amongst which this
submarine boat seemed to be of the same kind, living, moving, and
formidable as they. Then my brain grew calmer, my imagination wandered
into vague unconsciousness, and I soon fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER IX
NED LAND’S TEMPERS

How long we slept I do not know; but our sleep must have lasted long,
for it rested us completely from our fatigues. I woke first. My
companions had not moved, and were still stretched in their corner.

Hardly roused from my somewhat hard couch, I felt my brain freed, my
mind clear. I then began an attentive examination of our cell. Nothing
was changed inside. The prison was still a prison,—the prisoners,
prisoners. However, the steward, during our sleep, had cleared the
table. I breathed with difficulty. The heavy air seemed to oppress my
lungs. Although the cell was large, we had evidently consumed a great
part of the oxygen that it contained. Indeed, each man consumes, in one
hour, the oxygen contained in more than 176 pints of air, and this air,
charged (as then) with a nearly equal quantity of carbonic acid,
becomes unbreathable.

It became necessary to renew the atmosphere of our prison, and no doubt
the whole in the submarine boat. That gave rise to a question in my
mind. How would the commander of this floating dwelling-place proceed?
Would he obtain air by chemical means, in getting by heat the oxygen
contained in chlorate of potash, and in absorbing carbonic acid by
caustic potash? Or, a more convenient, economical, and consequently
more probable alternative, would he be satisfied to rise and take
breath at the surface of the water, like a cetacean, and so renew for
twenty-four hours the atmospheric provision?

In fact, I was already obliged to increase my respirations to eke out
of this cell the little oxygen it contained, when suddenly I was
refreshed by a current of pure air, and perfumed with saline
emanations. It was an invigorating sea breeze, charged with iodine. I
opened my mouth wide, and my lungs saturated themselves with fresh
particles.

At the same time I felt the boat rolling. The iron-plated monster had
evidently just risen to the surface of the ocean to breathe, after the
fashion of whales. I found out from that the mode of ventilating the
boat.

When I had inhaled this air freely, I sought the conduit-pipe, which
conveyed to us the beneficial whiff, and I was not long in finding it.
Above the door was a ventilator, through which volumes of fresh air
renewed the impoverished atmosphere of the cell.

I was making my observations, when Ned and Conseil awoke almost at the
same time, under the influence of this reviving air. They rubbed their
eyes, stretched themselves, and were on their feet in an instant.

“Did master sleep well?” asked Conseil, with his usual politeness.

“Very well, my brave boy. And you, Mr. Land?”

“Soundly, Professor. But I don’t know if I am right or not; there seems
to be a sea breeze!”

A seaman could not be mistaken, and I told the Canadian all that had
passed during his sleep.

“Good!” said he; “that accounts for those roarings we heard, when the
supposed narwhal sighted the _Abraham Lincoln_.”

“Quite so, Master Land; it was taking breath.”

“Only, M. Aronnax, I have no idea what o’clock it is, unless it is
dinner-time.”

“Dinner-time! my good fellow? Say rather breakfast-time, for we
certainly have begun another day.”

“So,” said Conseil, “we have slept twenty-four hours?”

“That is my opinion.”

“I will not contradict you,” replied Ned Land. “But dinner or
breakfast, the steward will be welcome, whichever he brings.”

“Master Land, we must conform to the rules on board, and I suppose our
appetites are in advance of the dinner hour.”

“That is just like you, friend Conseil,” said Ned, impatiently. “You
are never out of temper, always calm; you would return thanks before
grace, and die of hunger rather than complain!”

Time was getting on, and we were fearfully hungry; and this time the
steward did not appear. It was rather too long to leave us, if they
really had good intentions towards us. Ned Land, tormented by the
cravings of hunger, got still more angry; and, notwithstanding his
promise, I dreaded an explosion when he found himself with one of the
crew.

For two hours more Ned Land’s temper increased; he cried, he shouted,
but in vain. The walls were deaf. There was no sound to be heard in the
boat: all was still as death. It did not move, for I should have felt
the trembling motion of the hull under the influence of the screw.
Plunged in the depths of the waters, it belonged no longer to
earth:—this silence was dreadful.

I felt terrified, Conseil was calm, Ned Land roared.

Just then a noise was heard outside. Steps sounded on the metal flags.
The locks were turned, the door opened, and the steward appeared.

Before I could rush forward to stop him, the Canadian had thrown him
down, and held him by the throat. The steward was choking under the
grip of his powerful hand.

Conseil was already trying to unclasp the harpooner’s hand from his
half-suffocated victim, and I was going to fly to the rescue, when
suddenly I was nailed to the spot by hearing these words in French—

“Be quiet, Master Land; and you, Professor, will you be so good as to
listen to me?”

CHAPTER X
THE MAN OF THE SEAS

It was the commander of the vessel who thus spoke.

At these words, Ned Land rose suddenly. The steward, nearly strangled,
tottered out on a sign from his master; but such was the power of the
commander on board, that not a gesture betrayed the resentment which
this man must have felt towards the Canadian. Conseil, interested in
spite of himself, I stupefied, awaited in silence the result of this
scene.

The commander, leaning against the corner of a table with his arms
folded, scanned us with profound attention. Did he hesitate to speak?
Did he regret the words which he had just spoken in French? One might
almost think so.

After some moments of silence, which not one of us dreamed of breaking,
“Gentlemen,” said he, in a calm and penetrating voice, “I speak French,
English, German, and Latin equally well. I could, therefore, have
answered you at our first interview, but I wished to know you first,
then to reflect. The story told by each one, entirely agreeing in the
main points, convinced me of your identity. I know now that chance has
brought before me M. Pierre Aronnax, Professor of Natural History at
the Museum of Paris, entrusted with a scientific mission abroad,
Conseil, his servant, and Ned Land, of Canadian origin, harpooner on
board the frigate _Abraham Lincoln_ of the navy of the United States of
America.”

I bowed assent. It was not a question that the commander put to me.
Therefore there was no answer to be made. This man expressed himself
with perfect ease, without any accent. His sentences were well turned,
his words clear, and his fluency of speech remarkable. Yet, I did not
recognise in him a fellow-countryman.

He continued the conversation in these terms:

“You have doubtless thought, sir, that I have delayed long in paying
you this second visit. The reason is that, your identity recognised, I
wished to weigh maturely what part to act towards you. I have hesitated
much. Most annoying circumstances have brought you into the presence of
a man who has broken all the ties of humanity. You have come to trouble
my existence.”

“Unintentionally!” said I.

“Unintentionally?” replied the stranger, raising his voice a little;
“was it unintentionally that the _Abraham Lincoln_ pursued me all over
the seas? Was it unintentionally that you took passage in this frigate?
Was it unintentionally that your cannon balls rebounded off the plating
of my vessel? Was it unintentionally that Mr. Ned Land struck me with
his harpoon?”

I detected a restrained irritation in these words. But to these
recriminations I had a very natural answer to make and I made it.

“Sir,” said I, “no doubt you are ignorant of the discussions which have
taken place concerning you in America and Europe. You do not know that
divers accidents, caused by collisions with your submarine machine,
have excited public feeling in the two continents. I omit the
hypotheses without number by which it was sought to explain the
inexplicable phenomenon of which you alone possess the secret. But you
must understand that, in pursuing you over the high seas of the
Pacific, the _Abraham Lincoln_ believed itself to be chasing some
powerful sea-monster, of which it was necessary to rid the ocean at any
price.”

A half-smile curled the lips of the commander: then, in a calmer tone—

“M. Aronnax,” he replied, “dare you affirm that your frigate would not
as soon have pursued and cannonaded a submarine boat as a monster?”

This question embarrassed me, for certainly Captain Farragut might not
have hesitated. He might have thought it his duty to destroy a
contrivance of this kind, as he would a gigantic narwhal.

“You understand then, sir,” continued the stranger, “that I have the
right to treat you as enemies?”

I answered nothing, purposely. For what good would it be to discuss
such a proposition, when force could destroy the best arguments?

“I have hesitated some time,” continued the commander; “nothing obliged
me to show you hospitality. If I chose to separate myself from you, I
should have no interest in seeing you again; I could place you upon the
deck of this vessel which has served you as a refuge, I could sink
beneath the waters, and forget that you had ever existed. Would not
that be my right?”

“It might be the right of a savage,” I answered, “but not that of a
civilised man.”

“Professor,” replied the commander, quickly, “I am not what you call a
civilised man! I have done with society entirely, for reasons which I
alone have the right of appreciating. I do not therefore obey its laws,
and I desire you never to allude to them before me again!”

This was said plainly. A flash of anger and disdain kindled in the eyes
of the Unknown, and I had a glimpse of a terrible past in the life of
this man. Not only had he put himself beyond the pale of human laws,
but he had made himself independent of them, free in the strictest
acceptation of the word, quite beyond their reach! Who then would dare
to pursue him at the bottom of the sea, when, on its surface, he defied
all attempts made against him? What vessel could resist the shock of
his submarine monitor? What cuirass, however thick, could withstand the
blows of his spur? No man could demand from him an account of his
actions; God, if he believed in one—his conscience, if he had one—were
the sole judges to whom he was answerable.

These reflections crossed my mind rapidly, whilst the stranger
personage was silent, absorbed, and as if wrapped up in himself. I
regarded him with fear mingled with interest, as doubtless, Œdipus
regarded the Sphinx.

After rather a long silence, the commander resumed the conversation.

“I have hesitated,” said he, “but I have thought that my interest might
be reconciled with that pity to which every human being has a right.
You will remain on board my vessel, since fate has cast you there. You
will be free; and, in exchange for this liberty, I shall only impose
one single condition. Your word of honour to submit to it will
suffice.”

“Speak, sir,” I answered. “I suppose this condition is one which a man
of honour may accept?”

“Yes, sir; it is this. It is possible that certain events, unforeseen,
may oblige me to consign you to your cabins for some hours or some
days, as the case may be. As I desire never to use violence, I expect
from you, more than all the others, a passive obedience. In thus
acting, I take all the responsibility: I acquit you entirely, for I
make it an impossibility for you to see what ought not to be seen. Do
you accept this condition?”

Then things took place on board which, to say the least, were singular,
and which ought not to be seen by people who were not placed beyond the
pale of social laws. Amongst the surprises which the future was
preparing for me, this might not be the least.

“We accept,” I answered; “only I will ask your permission, sir, to
address one question to you—one only.”

“Speak, sir.”

“You said that we should be free on board.”

“Entirely.”

“I ask you, then, what you mean by this liberty?”

“Just the liberty to go, to come, to see, to observe even all that
passes here,—save under rare circumstances,—the liberty, in short,
which we enjoy ourselves, my companions and I.”

It was evident that we did not understand one another.

“Pardon me, sir,” I resumed, “but this liberty is only what every
prisoner has of pacing his prison. It cannot suffice us.”

“It must suffice you, however.”

“What! we must renounce for ever seeing our country, our friends, our
relations again?”

“Yes, sir. But to renounce that unendurable worldly yoke which men
believe to be liberty, is not perhaps so painful as you think.”

“Well,” exclaimed Ned Land, “never will I give my word of honour not to
try to escape.”

“I did not ask you for your word of honour, Master Land,” answered the
commander, coldly.

“Sir,” I replied, beginning to get angry in spite of myself, “you abuse
your situation towards us; it is cruelty.”

“No, sir, it is clemency. You are my prisoners of war. I keep you, when
I could, by a word, plunge you into the depths of the ocean. You
attacked me. You came to surprise a secret which no man in the world
must penetrate,—the secret of my whole existence. And you think that I
am going to send you back to that world which must know me no more?
Never! In retaining you, it is not you whom I guard—it is myself.”

These words indicated a resolution taken on the part of the commander,
against which no arguments would prevail.

“So, sir,” I rejoined, “you give us simply the choice between life and
death?”

“Simply.”

“My friends,” said I, “to a question thus put, there is nothing to
answer. But no word of honour binds us to the master of this vessel.”

“None, sir,” answered the Unknown.

Then, in a gentler tone, he continued—

“Now, permit me to finish what I have to say to you. I know you, M.
Aronnax. You and your companions will not, perhaps, have so much to
complain of in the chance which has bound you to my fate. You will find
amongst the books which are my favourite study the work which you have
published on ‘the depths of the sea.’ I have often read it. You have
carried out your work as far as terrestrial science permitted you. But
you do not know all—you have not seen all. Let me tell you then,
Professor, that you will not regret the time passed on board my vessel.
You are going to visit the land of marvels.”

These words of the commander had a great effect upon me. I cannot deny
it. My weak point was touched; and I forgot, for a moment, that the
contemplation of these sublime subjects was not worth the loss of
liberty. Besides, I trusted to the future to decide this grave
question. So I contented myself with saying—

“By what name ought I to address you?”

“Sir,” replied the commander, “I am nothing to you but Captain Nemo;
and you and your companions are nothing to me but the passengers of the
_Nautilus_.”

Captain Nemo called. A steward appeared. The captain gave him his
orders in that strange language which I did not understand. Then,
turning towards the Canadian and Conseil—

“A repast awaits you in your cabin,” said he. “Be so good as to follow
this man.

“And now, M. Aronnax, our breakfast is ready. Permit me to lead the
way.”

“I am at your service, Captain.”

I followed Captain Nemo; and as soon as I had passed through the door,
I found myself in a kind of passage lighted by electricity, similar to
the waist of a ship. After we had proceeded a dozen yards, a second
door opened before me.

I then entered a dining-room, decorated and furnished in severe taste.
High oaken sideboards, inlaid with ebony, stood at the two extremities
of the room, and upon their shelves glittered china, porcelain, and
glass of inestimable value. The plate on the table sparkled in the rays
which the luminous ceiling shed around, while the light was tempered
and softened by exquisite paintings.

In the centre of the room was a table richly laid out. Captain Nemo
indicated the place I was to occupy.

The breakfast consisted of a certain number of dishes, the contents of
which were furnished by the sea alone; and I was ignorant of the nature
and mode of preparation of some of them. I acknowledged that they were
good, but they had a peculiar flavour, which I easily became accustomed
to. These different aliments appeared to me to be rich in phosphorus,
and I thought they must have a marine origin.

Captain Nemo looked at me. I asked him no questions, but he guessed my
thoughts, and answered of his own accord the questions which I was
burning to address to him.

“The greater part of these dishes are unknown to you,” he said to me.
“However, you may partake of them without fear. They are wholesome and
nourishing. For a long time I have renounced the food of the earth, and
am never ill now. My crew, who are healthy, are fed on the same food.”

“So,” said I, “all these eatables are the produce of the sea?”

“Yes, Professor, the sea supplies all my wants. Sometimes I cast my
nets in tow, and I draw them in ready to break. Sometimes I hunt in the
midst of this element, which appears to be inaccessible to man, and
quarry the game which dwells in my submarine forests. My flocks, like
those of Neptune’s old shepherds, graze fearlessly in the immense
prairies of the ocean. I have a vast property there, which I cultivate
myself, and which is always sown by the hand of the Creator of all
things.”

“I can understand perfectly, sir, that your nets furnish excellent fish
for your table; I can understand also that you hunt aquatic game in
your submarine forests; but I cannot understand at all how a particle
of meat, no matter how small, can figure in your bill of fare.”

“This, which you believe to be meat, Professor, is nothing else than
fillet of turtle. Here are also some dolphins’ livers, which you take
to be ragout of pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who excels in
dressing these various products of the ocean. Taste all these dishes.
Here is a preserve of holothuria, which a Malay would declare to be
unrivalled in the world; here is a cream, of which the milk has been
furnished by the cetacea, and the sugar by the great fucus of the North
Sea; and lastly, permit me to offer you some preserve of anemones,
which is equal to that of the most delicious fruits.”

I tasted, more from curiosity than as a connoisseur, whilst Captain
Nemo enchanted me with his extraordinary stories.

“You like the sea, Captain?”

“Yes; I love it! The sea is everything. It covers seven-tenths of the
terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense
desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all
sides. The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful
existence. It is nothing but love and emotion; it is the ‘Living
Infinite,’ as one of your poets has said. In fact, Professor, Nature
manifests herself in it by her three kingdoms, mineral, vegetable, and
animal. The sea is the vast reservoir of Nature. The globe began with
sea, so to speak; and who knows if it will not end with it? In it is
supreme tranquillity. The sea does not belong to despots. Upon its
surface men can still exercise unjust laws, fight, tear one another to
pieces, and be carried away with terrestrial horrors. But at thirty
feet below its level, their reign ceases, their influence is quenched,
and their power disappears. Ah! sir, live—live in the bosom of the
waters! There only is independence! There I recognise no masters! There
I am free!”

Captain Nemo suddenly became silent in the midst of this enthusiasm, by
which he was quite carried away. For a few moments he paced up and
down, much agitated. Then he became more calm, regained his accustomed
coldness of expression, and turning towards me—

“Now, Professor,” said he, “if you wish to go over the _Nautilus_, I am
at your service.”

Captain Nemo rose. I followed him. A double door, contrived at the back
of the dining-room, opened, and I entered a room equal in dimensions to
that which I had just quitted.

It was a library. High pieces of furniture, of black violet ebony
inlaid with brass, supported upon their wide shelves a great number of
books uniformly bound. They followed the shape of the room, terminating
at the lower part in huge divans, covered with brown leather, which
were curved, to afford the greatest comfort. Light movable desks, made
to slide in and out at will, allowed one to rest one’s book while
reading. In the centre stood an immense table, covered with pamphlets,
amongst which were some newspapers, already of old date. The electric
light flooded everything; it was shed from four unpolished globes half
sunk in the volutes of the ceiling. I looked with real admiration at
this room, so ingeniously fitted up, and I could scarcely believe my
eyes.

“Captain Nemo,” said I to my host, who had just thrown himself on one
of the divans, “this is a library which would do honour to more than
one of the continental palaces, and I am absolutely astounded when I
consider that it can follow you to the bottom of the seas.”

“Where could one find greater solitude or silence, Professor?” replied
Captain Nemo. “Did your study in the Museum afford you such perfect
quiet?”

“No, sir; and I must confess that it is a very poor one after yours.
You must have six or seven thousand volumes here.”

“Twelve thousand, M. Aronnax. These are the only ties which bind me to
the earth. But I had done with the world on the day when my _Nautilus_
plunged for the first time beneath the waters. That day I bought my
last volumes, my last pamphlets, my last papers, and from that time I
wish to think that men no longer think or write. These books,
Professor, are at your service besides, and you can make use of them
freely.”

I thanked Captain Nemo, and went up to the shelves of the library.
Works on science, morals, and literature abounded in every language;
but I did not see one single work on political economy; that subject
appeared to be strictly proscribed. Strange to say, all these books
were irregularly arranged, in whatever language they were written; and
this medley proved that the Captain of the _Nautilus_ must have read
indiscriminately the books which he took up by chance.

“Sir,” said I to the Captain, “I thank you for having placed this
library at my disposal. It contains treasures of science, and I shall
profit by them.”

“This room is not only a library,” said Captain Nemo, “it is also a
smoking-room.”

“A smoking-room!” I cried. “Then one may smoke on board?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, sir, I am forced to believe that you have kept up a
communication with Havannah.”

“Not any,” answered the Captain. “Accept this cigar, M. Aronnax; and,
though it does not come from Havannah, you will be pleased with it, if
you are a connoisseur.”

I took the cigar which was offered me; its shape recalled the London
ones, but it seemed to be made of leaves of gold. I lighted it at a
little brazier, which was supported upon an elegant bronze stem, and
drew the first whiffs with the delight of a lover of smoking who has
not smoked for two days.

“It is excellent, but it is not tobacco.”

“No!” answered the Captain, “this tobacco comes neither from Havannah
nor from the East. It is a kind of sea-weed, rich in nicotine, with
which the sea provides me, but somewhat sparingly.”

At that moment Captain Nemo opened a door which stood opposite to that
by which I had entered the library, and I passed into an immense
drawing-room splendidly lighted.

It was a vast four-sided room, thirty feet long, eighteen wide, and
fifteen high. A luminous ceiling, decorated with light arabesques, shed
a soft clear light over all the marvels accumulated in this museum. For
it was in fact a museum, in which an intelligent and prodigal hand had
gathered all the treasures of nature and art, with the artistic
confusion which distinguishes a painter’s studio.

Thirty first-rate pictures, uniformly framed, separated by bright
drapery, ornamented the walls, which were hung with tapestry of severe
design. I saw works of great value, the greater part of which I had
admired in the special collections of Europe, and in the exhibitions of
paintings. The several schools of the old masters were represented by a
Madonna of Raphael, a Virgin of Leonardo da Vinci, a nymph of Corregio,
a woman of Titan, an Adoration of Veronese, an Assumption of Murillo, a
portrait of Holbein, a monk of Velasquez, a martyr of Ribera, a fair of
Rubens, two Flemish landscapes of Teniers, three little “genre”
pictures of Gerard Dow, Metsu, and Paul Potter, two specimens of
Géricault and Prudhon, and some sea-pieces of Backhuysen and Vernet.
Amongst the works of modern painters were pictures with the signatures
of Delacroix, Ingres, Decamps, Troyon, Meissonier, Daubigny, etc.; and
some admirable statues in marble and bronze, after the finest antique
models, stood upon pedestals in the corners of this magnificent museum.
Amazement, as the Captain of the _Nautilus_ had predicted, had already
begun to take possession of me.

“Professor,” said this strange man, “you must excuse the unceremonious
way in which I receive you, and the disorder of this room.”

“Sir,” I answered, “without seeking to know who you are, I recognise in
you an artist.”

“An amateur, nothing more, sir. Formerly I loved to collect these
beautiful works created by the hand of man. I sought them greedily, and
ferreted them out indefatigably, and I have been able to bring together
some objects of great value. These are my last souvenirs of that world
which is dead to me. In my eyes, your modern artists are already old;
they have two or three thousand years of existence; I confound them in
my own mind. Masters have no age.”

“And these musicians?” said I, pointing out some works of Weber,
Rossini, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Hérold, Wagner, Auber,
Gounod, and a number of others, scattered over a large model
piano-organ which occupied one of the panels of the drawing-room.

“These musicians,” replied Captain Nemo, “are the contemporaries of
Orpheus; for in the memory of the dead all chronological differences
are effaced; and I am dead, Professor; as much dead as those of your
friends who are sleeping six feet under the earth!”

Captain Nemo was silent, and seemed lost in a profound reverie. I
contemplated him with deep interest, analysing in silence the strange
expression of his countenance. Leaning on his elbow against an angle of
a costly mosaic table, he no longer saw me,—he had forgotten my
presence.

I did not disturb this reverie, and continued my observation of the
curiosities which enriched this drawing-room.

Under elegant glass cases, fixed by copper rivets, were classed and
labelled the most precious productions of the sea which had ever been
presented to the eye of a naturalist. My delight as a professor may be
conceived.

The division containing the zoophytes presented the most curious
specimens of the two groups of polypi and echinodermes. In the first
group, the tubipores, were gorgones arranged like a fan, soft sponges
of Syria, ises of the Moluccas, pennatules, an admirable virgularia of
the Norwegian seas, variegated unbellulairæ, alcyonariæ, a whole series
of madrepores, which my master Milne Edwards has so cleverly
classified, amongst which I remarked some wonderful flabellinæ oculinæ
of the Island of Bourbon, the “Neptune’s car” of the Antilles, superb
varieties of corals—in short, every species of those curious polypi of
which entire islands are formed, which will one day become continents.
Of the echinodermes, remarkable for their coating of spines, asteri,
sea-stars, pantacrinæ, comatules, astérophons, echini, holothuri, etc.,
represented individually a complete collection of this group.

A somewhat nervous conchyliologist would certainly have fainted before
other more numerous cases, in which were classified the specimens of
molluscs. It was a collection of inestimable value, which time fails me
to describe minutely. Amongst these specimens I will quote from memory
only the elegant royal hammer-fish of the Indian Ocean, whose regular
white spots stood out brightly on a red and brown ground, an imperial
spondyle, bright-coloured, bristling with spines, a rare specimen in
the European museums—(I estimated its value at not less than £1000); a
common hammer-fish of the seas of New Holland, which is only procured
with difficu