the trunks of camphor-trees and other indigenous productions, contrasting by the pure indigo of its warm waters with the waves of the ocean. It was this current that the Nautilus was going to follow. I saw that it lost itself in the immensity of the Pacific, and felt myself carried along by it. Just then Ned Land and Conseil appeared at the door of the saloon.
My companions were petrified at the sight of the marvels spread out before their eyes.
‘Where are we – where are we?’ cried the Canadian. ‘At the Quebec Museum?’
‘If monsieur allows me to say so,’ replied Conseil, ‘it is more like the Hotel du Sommerard.’
‘My friends,’ said I, ‘you are neither in Canada nor France, but on board the Nautilus, and at more than twenty-five fathoms below the sea-level.’
‘We believe what monsieur says,’ replied Conseil, ‘but really this saloon is enough to astonish even a Dutchman like me.’
During this time Ned Land, who was not much interested in conchology, questioned me about my interview with Captain Nemo. Had I discovered who he was, whence he came, whither he was going, to what depths he was dragging us? – in short, a thousand questions, to which I had not time to answer.
I told him all I knew, or rather all I did not know, and I asked him what he had heard or seen on his side.
‘I have seen nothing, heard nothing,’ answered the Canadian. ‘I have not even perceived the ship’s crew. Is it by chance, or can it be electric too?’
‘Electric!’
‘Faith, any one would think so. But you, M. Aronnax,’ said Ned Land, who stuck to his idea, ‘can you tell me how many men there are on board? Are there twenty, fifty, a hundred?’
‘I know no more than you, Land; abandon at present all idea of either taking the Nautilus or escaping from it. This vessel is a masterpiece of modern industry, and I should regret not to have seen it. Many people would accept our position only to move amidst such marvels. The only thing to do is to keep quiet and watch what passes.’
‘Watch!’ exclaimed the harpooner, ‘but there’s nothing to watch; we can’t see anything in this iron prison. We are moving along blindfolded.’
Ned Land had scarcely uttered these words when it became suddenly dark. The light in the ceiling went out, and so rapidly that my eyes ached with the change, in the same way as they do after passage from profound darkness to the most brilliant light.
We remained mute and did not stir, not knowing what surprise, agreeable or disagreeable, awaited us. But a sliding noise was heard. It was like as if panels were being drawn back in the sides of the Nautilus.
‘It is the end of all things!’ said Ned Land.
Suddenly light appeared on either side of the saloon, through two oblong openings. The liquid mass appeared vividly lighted up by the electric effluence.
Two crystal panes separated us from the sea. At first I shuddered at the thought that this feeble partition might break, but strong copper bands bound it, giving an almost infinite power of resistance.
The sea was distinctly visible for a mile round the Nautilus. What a spectacle! What pen could describe it? Who could paint the effect of the light through those transparent sheets of water, and the softness of its successive gradations from the lower to the upper beds of the ocean?
The transparency of the sea is well known, and its limpidity is far greater than that of fresh water. The mineral and organic substances which it holds in suspension increase its transparency. In certain parts of the ocean at the Antilles, under seventy-five fathoms of water, the sandy bottom can be seen with clearness, and the penetrating strength of the sun’s rays only appears to stop at 150 fathoms. But in this fluid medium through which the Nautilus was travelling, the electric light was produced in the very bosom of the waves. It was not luminous water, but liquid light.
If phosphorescent illumination in the submarine depths is admitted, Nature has reserved to the inhabitants of the sea one of her most marvellous spectacles, and I could judge of it by the effect of the thousand rays of this light. On either side I had a window opening on these unexplored depths. The darkness in the saloon made the exterior light seem greater, and we could see the same as if the pure crystal had been the panes of an immense aquarium.
The Nautilus did not seem to be moving. It was because there were no landmarks. Sometimes, however, the lines of water, furrowed by her prow, flowed before our eyes with excessive speed.
Lost in wonder, we stood before these windows, and none of us had broken this silence of astonishment when Conseil said, –
‘Well, friend Ned, you wanted to look; well, now you see!’
‘It is curious!’ exclaimed the Canadian, who, forgetting his anger and projects of flight, was under the influence of irresistible attraction. ‘Who wouldn’t come for the sake of such a sight?’
‘Now I understand the man’s life,’ I exclaimed. ‘He has made a world of marvels for himself?’
‘But I don’t see any fish,’ said the Canadian.
‘What does it matter to you, friend Ned,’ answered Conseil, ‘since you know nothing about them?’
‘I! A fisherman!’ cried Ned Land.
And thereupon a dispute arose between the two, for each had some knowledge of fish, though in a very different way.
Perhaps Conseil knew much more, and now that he had made friends with Ned, he could not allow himself to seem less learned than he. He accordingly said to him, –
‘Ned, you are a killer of fish – a very skilful fisher. You have taken a great number of these interesting animals. But I wager that you do not know how they are classified.’
‘Yes, I do,’ answered the harpooner. ‘They are classified into fish that are good for food and fish that are not.’
‘That is a greedy distinction,’ answered Conseil. ‘But do you know the difference between bony and cartilaginous fish?’
‘Perhaps I do, Conseil.’
‘And the subdivision of these two grand classes?’
‘I dare say I do,’ answered the Canadian.
‘Well, listen and remember! The bony fish are sub-divided into six orders. First, the acanthopterygians, of which the upper jaw is complete, mobile with gills in the form of a comb. This order comprises fifteen families – that is to say, the three-fourths of known fish. Type: the common perch.’
‘Perch!’ said the Canadian disdainfully; ‘fresh-water fish!’
‘Second,’ continued Conseil, ‘the abdominals, an order of fish whose ventral fins are placed behind the pectoral, without being attached to the shoulder-bones – an order which is divided into five families, and comprises most fresh-water fish. Type: the carp, roach, salmon, pike, etc.’
‘Pretty good eating,’ answered Ned Land.
‘Third,’ said Conseil, ‘the subrachians,
