20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. Жюль Верн
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cried Ned Land, who broke out again for the twentieth time. ‘What! French, English, German, and Latin are spoken to those rascals, and not one of them has the politeness to answer.’
‘Calm yourself,’ said I to the enraged harpooner; ‘anger will do no good.’
‘But do you know, professor,’ continued our irascible companion, ‘that it is quite possible to die of hunger in this iron cage?’
‘Bah!’ exclaimed Conseil; ‘with exercising a little philosophy we can still hold out a long while.’
‘My friends,’ said I, ‘we must not despair. We have been in worse situations before now. Do me the pleasure of waiting before you form an opinion of the commander and crew of this vessel.’
‘My opinion is already formed,’ answered Ned Land. ‘They are rascals—’
‘Well, and of what country?’
‘Of Rascaldom!’
‘My worthy Ned, that country is not yet sufficiently indicated on the map of the world, and I acknowledge that the nationality of those two men is difficult to determine. Neither English, French, nor German, that is all we can affirm. However, I should be tempted to admit that the commander and his second were born under low latitudes. There is something meridional in them. But are they Spaniards, Turks, Arabians, or Indians? Their physical type does not allow me to decide; as to their language, it is absolutely incomprehensible.’
‘That is the disadvantage of not knowing every language,’ answered Conseil, ‘or the disadvantage of not having a single language.’
‘That would be of no use,’ answered Ned Land. ‘Do you not see that those fellows have a language of their own – a language invented to make honest men who want their dinners despair? But in every country in the world, to open your mouth, move your jaws, snap your teeth and lips, is understood. Does it not mean in Quebec as well as the Society Islands, in Paris as well as the Antipodes, “I am hungry – give me something to eat!”’
‘Oh,’ said Conseil, ‘there are people so unintelligent—’
As he was saying these words the door opened, and a steward entered. He brought us clothes similar to those worn by the two strangers, which we hastened to don.
Meanwhile, the servant – dumb and deaf too in all appearance – had laid the cloth for three.
‘This is something like,’ said Conseil, ‘and promises well.’
‘I’ll bet anything there’s nothing here fit to eat,’ said the harpooner. ‘Tortoise liver, fillets of shark, or beefsteak from a sea-dog, perhaps!’
‘We shall soon see,’ said Conseil.
The dishes with their silver covers were symmetrically placed on the table. We had certainly civilised people to deal with, and had it not been for the electric light which inundated us, I might have imagined myself in the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool, or the Grand Hotel in Paris. There was neither bread nor wine, nothing but pure fresh water, which was not at all to Ned Land’s taste. Amongst the dishes that were placed before us I recognised several kinds of fish delicately cooked; but there were some that I knew nothing about, though they were delicious. I could not tell to what kingdom their contents belonged. The dinner service was elegant and in perfect taste; each piece was engraved with a letter and motto of which the following is a fac-simile:–
Mobilis in Mobile.
N.
Mobile in a mobile element! The letter N was doubtless the initial of the enigmatical person who commanded at the bottom of the sea.
Ned and Conseil did not observe so much. They devoured all before them, and I ended by imitating them.
But at last even our appetite was satisfied, and we felt overcome with sleep. A natural reaction after the fatigue of the interminable night during which we had struggled with death.
My two companions lay down on the carpet, and were soon fast asleep. I did not go so soon, for too many thoughts filled my brain; too many insoluble questions asked me for a solution; too many images kept my eyes open. Where were we? What strange power was bearing us along? I felt, or rather I thought I felt, the strange machine sinking down to the lowest depths of the sea. Dreadful nightmares took possession of me. I saw a world of unknown animals in these mysterious asylums, amongst which the submarine boat seemed as living, moving, and formidable as they. Then my brain grew calmer, my imagination melted into dreaminess, and I fell into a deep sleep.
I do not know how long our sleep lasted, but it must have been a long time, for it rested us completely from our fatigues. I awoke first. My companions had not yet moved.
I had scarcely risen from my rather hard couch when I felt all my faculties clear, and looked about me.
Nothing was changed in the room. The prison was still a prison, and the prisoners prisoners. The steward, profiting by our sleep, had cleared the supper things away. Nothing indicated an approaching change in our position, and I asked myself seriously if we were destined to live indefinitely in that cage.
This prospect seemed to me the more painful, because, though my head was clear, my chest was oppressed. The heavy air weighed upon my lungs. We had evidently consumed the larger part of the oxygen the cell contained, although it was large. One man consumes in one hour the oxygen contained in 176 pints of air, and this air, then loaded with an almost equal quantity of carbonic acid, becomes unbearable.
It was, therefore, urgent to renew the atmosphere of our prison, and most likely that of the submarine boat also. Thereupon a question came into my head, ‘How did the commander of this floating dwelling manage? Did he obtain air by chemical means, by evolving the heat of oxygen contained in chlorate of potassium, and by absorbing the carbonic acid with caustic potassium? In that case he must have kept up some relations with land in order to procure the materials necessary to this operation. Did he confine himself simply to storing up air under great pressure in reservoirs, and then let it out according to the needs of his crew? Perhaps. Or did he use the more convenient, economical, and consequently more probable means of contenting himself with returning to breathe on the surface of the water like a cetacean, and of renewing for twenty-four hours his provision of atmosphere? Whatever his method might be, it seemed to me prudent to employ it without delay.
I was reduced to multiplying my respirations to extract from our cell the small quantity of oxygen it contained, when, suddenly, I was refreshed by a current of fresh air, loaded with saline odours. It was a sea breeze, life-giving, and charged with iodine. I opened my mouth wide, and my lungs became saturated with fresh particles. At the same time I felt the boat roll, and the iron-plated monster had evidently just ascended to the surface of the ocean to breathe like the whales. When I had breathed fully, I looked for the ventilator which had brought us the beneficent breeze, and, before long, found it.
I was making these observations when my two companions awoke nearly at the same time, doubtless through the influence of the reviving air. They rubbed their eyes, stretched themselves, and were on foot instantly.
‘Did monsieur sleep well?’ Conseil asked me, with his usual politeness.
‘Very well. And you, Land?’
‘Soundly, Mr Professor. But if I am not mistaken, I am breathing a sea breeze.’
A seaman could not be mistaken in that, and I told the Canadian what had happened while he was asleep.
‘That accounts for the roarings we heard when the supposed narwhal was in sight of the Abraham Lincoln.’
‘Yes, Mr Land, that is its breathing.’
‘I have not the least idea what time it can be, M. Aronnax, unless it be dinner-time.’
‘Dinner