in such a case, more than from all others, passive obedience. By acting thus I take all the responsibility; I acquit you entirely, by making it impossible for you to see what ought not to be seen. Do you accept the condition?’
So things took place on board which were, at least, singular and not to be seen by people who were not placed beyond the pale of social laws.
‘We accept,’ I replied. ‘Only I ask your permission to address to you one question – only one. What degree of liberty do you intend giving us?’
‘The liberty to move about freely and observe even all that passes here – except under rare circumstances – in short, the liberty that my companions and I enjoy ourselves.’
It was evident that we did not understand each other.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ I continued, ‘but this liberty is only that of every prisoner to pace his prison. It is not enough for us.’
‘You must make it enough.’
‘Do you mean to say we must for ever renounce the idea of seeing country, friends, and relations again?’
‘Yes, sir. But to renounce the unendurable worldly yoke that men call liberty is not perhaps so painful as you think.’
‘I declare,’ said Ned Land, I’ll never give my word of honour not to try to escape.’
‘I did not ask for your word of honour, Mr Land,’ answered the commander coldly.
‘Sir,’ I replied, carried away in spite of myself, ‘you take advantage of your position towards us. It is cruel!’
‘No, sir, it is kind. 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 and surprised a secret that I mean no man inhabiting the world to penetrate – the secret of my whole existence. And you think that I am going to send you back to that world? Never! In retaining you, it is not you I guard, it is myself!’
These words indicated that the commander’s mind was made up, and that argument was useless.
‘Then, sir,’ I answered, ‘you give us the simple choice between life and death?’
‘As you say.’
‘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 voice, he went on, –
‘Now, allow me to finish what I have to say to you. I know you, M. Aronnax. You, if not your companions, will not have so much to complain of in the chance that has bound you to my lot. You have carried your investigations as far as terrestrial science allowed you. But on board my vessel you will have an opportunity of seeing what no man has seen before. Thanks to me, our planet will give up her last secrets.’
I cannot deny that these words had a great effect upon me. My weak point was touched, and I forgot for a moment that the contemplation of these divine things was not worth the loss of liberty. Besides, I counted upon the future to decide that grave question, and so contented myself with saying, –
‘What name am I to call you by, sir?’
‘Captain Nemo,’ answered the commander. ‘That is all I am to you, and you and your companions are nothing to me but the passengers of the Nautilus.’
The captain called, and a steward appeared. The captain gave him his orders in that foreign tongue which I could not understand. Then turning to the Canadian and Conseil, –
‘Your meal is prepared in your cabin,’ he said to them. ‘Be so good as to follow that man.’
My two companions in misfortune left the cell where they had been confined for more than thirty hours.
‘And now, M. Aronnax, our breakfast is ready. Allow me to lead the way.’
I followed Captain Nemo into a sort of corridor lighted by electricity, similar to the waist of a ship. After going about a dozen yards, a second door opened before me into a kind of dining-room, decorated and furnished with severe taste. High oaken sideboards, inlaid with ebony ornaments, stood at either end of the room, and on their shelves glittered china, porcelain, and glass of inestimable value. The plate that was on them sparkled in the light which shone from the ceiling, tempered and softened by fine painting. In the centre of the room was a table richly spread. Captain Nemo pointed to my seat.
‘Sit down,’ said he, ‘and eat like a man who must be dying of hunger.’
The breakfast consisted of a number of dishes, the contents of which were all furnished by the sea; of some I neither knew the nature nor mode of preparation. They were good, but had a peculiar flavour which I soon became accustomed to. They appeared to be rich in phosphorus.
Captain Nemo looked at me. I asked him no questions, but he guessed my thoughts, and said, –
‘Most of these dishes are unknown to you, but you can eat of them without fear. They are wholesome and nourishing. I have long renounced the food of the earth, and I am none the worse for it. My crew, who are healthy, have the same food.’
‘Then all these dishes are the produce of the sea?’ said I.
‘Yes, professor, the sea supplies all my needs. Sometimes I cast my nets in tow, and they are drawn in ready to break. Sometimes I go and hunt in the midst of this element, which seems inaccessible to man, and run down the game of submarine forests. My flocks, like those of Neptune’s old shepherd, graze fearlessly the immense ocean meadows. I have a vast estate there, which I cultivate myself, and which is always stocked by the Creator of all things.’
I looked at Captain Nemo with some astonishment, and answered, –
‘I can quite understand that your nets should furnish excellent fish for your table, and that you should pursue aquatic game in your submarine forests; but I do not understand how a particle of meat can find its way into your bill of fare.’
‘What you believe to be meat, professor, is nothing but fillet of turtle. Here also are dolphins’ livers, which you might take for ragout of pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who excels in preparing these various products of the sea. Taste all these dishes. Here is a conserve of holothuria, which a Malay would declare to be unrivalled in the world; here is a cream furnished by the cetacea, and the sugar by the great fucus of the North Sea; and, lastly, allow me to offer you some anemone preserve, which equals that made from the most delicious fruits.’
Whilst I was tasting, more from curiosity than as a gourmet, Captain Nemo enchanted me with extraordinary stories.
‘Not only does the sea feed me,’ he continued, ‘but it clothes me too. These materials that clothe you are wrought from the byssus of certain shells; they are dyed with the purple of the ancients, and the violet shades which I extract from the aplysis of the Mediterranean. The perfumes you will find on the toilet of your cabin are produced from the distillation of marine plants. Your bed is made with the softest wrack-grass of the ocean. Your pen will be a whale’s fin, your ink the liquor secreted by the calamary. Everything now comes to me from the sea, and everything will one day return to it!’
‘You
