Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
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