Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
known in the time of Aristotle by the name of the sea-dragon, which are
dangerous to capture on account of the spikes on their back.
About four o’clock, the soil, generally composed of a thick mud mixed
with petrified wood, changed by degrees, and it became more stony, and
seemed strewn with conglomerate and pieces of basalt, with a sprinkling
of lava. I thought that a mountainous region was succeeding the long
plains; and accordingly, after a few evolutions of the _Nautilus_, I
saw the southerly horizon blocked by a high wall which seemed to close
all exit. Its summit evidently passed the level of the ocean. It must
be a continent, or at least an island—one of the Canaries, or of the
Cape Verde Islands. The bearings not being yet taken, perhaps
designedly, I was ignorant of our exact position. In any case, such a
wall seemed to me to mark the limits of that Atlantis, of which we had
in reality passed over only the smallest part.
Much longer should I have remained at the window admiring the beauties
of sea and sky, but the panels closed. At this moment the _Nautilus_
arrived at the side of this high, perpendicular wall. What it would do,
I could not guess. I returned to my room; it no longer moved. I laid
myself down with the full intention of waking after a few hours’ sleep;
but it was eight o’clock the next day when I entered the saloon. I
looked at the manometer. It told me that the _Nautilus_ was floating on
the surface of the ocean. Besides, I heard steps on the platform. I
went to the panel. It was open; but, instead of broad daylight, as I
expected, I was surrounded by profound darkness. Where were we? Was I
mistaken? Was it still night? No; not a star was shining and night has
not that utter darkness.
[Illustration] The _Nautilus_ was floating near a mountain
I knew not what to think, when a voice near me said:
“Is that you, Professor?”
“Ah! Captain,” I answered, “where are we?”
“Underground, sir.”
“Underground!” I exclaimed. “And the _Nautilus_ floating still?”
“It always floats.”
“But I do not understand.”
“Wait a few minutes, our lantern will be lit, and, if you like light
places, you will be satisfied.”
I stood on the platform and waited. The darkness was so complete that I
could not even see Captain Nemo; but, looking to the zenith, exactly
above my head, I seemed to catch an undecided gleam, a kind of twilight
filling a circular hole. At this instant the lantern was lit, and its
vividness dispelled the faint light. I closed my dazzled eyes for an
instant, and then looked again. The _Nautilus_ was stationary, floating
near a mountain which formed a sort of quay. The lake, then, supporting
it was a lake imprisoned by a circle of walls, measuring two miles in
diameter and six in circumference. Its level (the manometer showed)
could only be the same as the outside level, for there must necessarily
be a communication between the lake and the sea. The high partitions,
leaning forward on their base, grew into a vaulted roof bearing the
shape of an immense funnel turned upside down, the height being about
five or six hundred yards. At the summit was a circular orifice, by
which I had caught the slight gleam of light, evidently daylight.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“In the very heart of an extinct volcano, the interior of which has
been invaded by the sea, after some great convulsion of the earth.
Whilst you were sleeping, Professor, the _Nautilus_ penetrated to this
lagoon by a natural canal, which opens about ten yards beneath the
surface of the ocean. This is its harbour of refuge, a sure,
commodious, and mysterious one, sheltered from all gales. Show me, if
you can, on the coasts of any of your continents or islands, a road
which can give such perfect refuge from all storms.”
“Certainly,” I replied, “you are in safety here, Captain Nemo. Who
could reach you in the heart of a volcano? But did I not see an opening
at its summit?”
“Yes; its crater, formerly filled with lava, vapour, and flames, and
which now gives entrance to the life-giving air we breathe.”
“But what is this volcanic mountain?”
“It belongs to one of the numerous islands with which this sea is
strewn—to vessels a simple sandbank—to us an immense cavern. Chance led
me to discover it, and chance served me well.”
“But of what use is this refuge, Captain? The _Nautilus_ wants no
port.”
“No, sir; but it wants electricity to make it move, and the wherewithal
to make the electricity—sodium to feed the elements, coal from which to
get the sodium, and a coal-mine to supply the coal. And exactly on this
spot the sea covers entire forests embedded during the geological
periods, now mineralised and transformed into coal; for me they are an
inexhaustible mine.”
“Your men follow the trade of miners here, then, Captain?”
“Exactly so. These mines extend under the waves like the mines of
Newcastle. Here, in their diving-dresses, pick axe and shovel in hand,
my men extract the coal, which I do not even ask from the mines of the
earth. When I burn this combustible for the manufacture of sodium, the
smoke, escaping from the crater of the mountain, gives it the
appearance of a still-active volcano.”
“And we shall see your companions at work?”
“No; not this time at least; for I am in a hurry to continue our
submarine tour of the earth. So I shall content myself with drawing
from the reserve of sodium I already possess. The time for loading is
one day only, and we continue our voyage. So, if you wish to go over
the cavern and make the round of the lagoon, you must take advantage of
to-day, M. Aronnax.”
I thanked the Captain and went to look for my companions, who had not
yet left their cabin. I invited them to follow me without saying where
we were. They mounted the platform. Conseil, who was astonished at
nothing, seemed to look upon it as quite natural that he should wake
under a mountain, after having fallen asleep under the waves. But Ned
Land thought of nothing but finding whether the cavern had any exit.
After breakfast, about ten o’clock, we went down on to the mountain.
“Here we are, once more on land,” said Conseil.
“I do not call this land,” said the Canadian. “And besides, we are not
on it, but beneath it.”
Between the walls of the mountains and the waters of the lake lay a
sandy shore which, at its greatest breadth, measured five hundred feet.
On this soil one might easily make the tour of the lake. But the base
of the high partitions was stony ground, with volcanic blocks and
enormous pumice-stones lying in picturesque heaps. All these detached
masses, covered with enamel, polished by the action of the
subterraneous fires, shone resplendent by the light of our electric
lantern. The mica dust from the shore, rising under our feet, flew like
a cloud of sparks. The bottom now rose sensibly, and we soon arrived at
long circuitous slopes, or inclined planes, which took us higher by
degrees; but we were obliged to walk carefully among these
conglomerates, bound by no cement, the feet slipping on the glassy
crystal, felspar, and quartz.
The volcanic nature of this enormous excavation was confirmed on all
sides, and I pointed it out to my companions.
“Picture to yourselves,” said I, “what this crater must have been when
filled with boiling lava, and when the level of the incandescent liquid
rose to the orifice of the mountain, as though melted on the top of a
hot plate.”
“I can picture it perfectly,” said Conseil. “But, sir, will you tell me
why the Great Architect has suspended operations, and how it is that
the furnace is replaced by the quiet waters of the lake?”
“Most probably, Conseil, because some convulsion beneath the ocean
produced that very opening which has served as a passage for the
_Nautilus_. Then the waters of the Atlantic rushed into the interior of
the mountain. There must have been a terrible struggle between the two
elements, a struggle which ended in the victory of Neptune. But many
ages have run out since then, and the submerged volcano is now a
peaceable grotto.”
“Very well,” replied Ned Land; “I accept the explanation, sir; but, in
our own interests, I regret that the opening of which you speak was not
made above the level of the sea.”
“But, friend Ned,” said Conseil, “if the passage had not been under the
sea, the _Nautilus_ could not have gone through it.”
We continued ascending. The steps became more and more perpendicular
and narrow. Deep excavations, which we were obliged to cross, cut them
here and there; sloping masses had to be turned. We slid upon our knees
and crawled along. But Conseil’s dexterity and the Canadian’s strength
surmounted all obstacles. At a height of about 31 feet the nature of
the ground changed without becoming more practicable. To the
conglomerate and trachyte succeeded black basalt, the first dispread in
layers full of bubbles, the latter forming regular prisms, placed like
a colonnade supporting the spring of the immense vault, an admirable
specimen of natural architecture. Between the blocks of basalt wound
long streams of lava, long since grown cold, encrusted with bituminous
rays; and in some places there were spread large carpets of sulphur. A
more powerful light shone through the upper crater, shedding a vague
glimmer over these volcanic depressions for ever buried in the bosom of
this extinguished mountain. But our upward march was soon stopped at a
height of about two hundred and fifty feet by impassable obstacles.
There was a complete vaulted arch overhanging us, and our ascent was
changed to a circular walk. At the last change vegetable life began to
struggle with the mineral. Some shrubs, and even some trees, grew from
the fractures of the walls. I recognised some euphorbias, with the
caustic sugar coming from them; heliotropes, quite incapable of
justifying their name, sadly drooped their clusters of flowers, both
their colour and perfume half gone. Here and there some chrysanthemums
grew timidly at the foot of an aloe with long, sickly-looking leaves.
But between the streams of lava, I saw some little violets still
slightly perfumed, and I admit that I smelt them with delight. Perfume
is the soul of the flower, and sea-flowers have no soul.
We had arrived at the foot of some sturdy dragon-trees, which had
pushed aside the rocks with their strong roots, when Ned Land
exclaimed:
“Ah! sir, a hive! a hive!”
“A hive!” I replied, with a gesture of incredulity.
“Yes, a hive,” repeated the Canadian, “and bees humming round it.”
I approached, and was bound to believe my own eyes. There at a hole
bored in one of the dragon-trees were some thousands of these ingenious
insects, so common in all the Canaries, and whose produce is so much
esteemed. Naturally enough, the Canadian wished to gather the honey,
and I could not well oppose his wish. A quantity of dry leaves, mixed
with sulphur, he lit with a spark from his flint, and he began to smoke
out the bees. The humming ceased by degrees, and the hive eventually
yielded several pounds of the sweetest honey, with which Ned Land
filled his haversack.
“When I have mixed this honey with the paste of the artocarpus,” said
he, “I shall be able to offer you a succulent cake.”
“’Pon my word,” said Conseil, “it will be gingerbread.”
“Never mind the gingerbread,” said I; “let us continue our interesting
walk.”
At every turn of the path we were following, the lake appeared in all
its length and breadth. The lantern lit up the whole of its peaceable
surface, which knew neither ripple nor wave. The _Nautilus_ remained
perfectly immovable. On the platform, and on the mountain, the ship’s
crew were working like black shadows clearly carved against the
luminous atmosphere. We were now going round the highest crest of the