CHAPTER VIII
MOBILIS IN MOBILI
This forcible abduction, so roughly carried out, was accomplished with the rapidity of lightning. My friends and I did not have time to realize where we were being taken. My skin was cold and I shivered violently. Whom had we to deal with? No doubt some new sort of pirates, who exploited the sea in their own way.
Hardly had the narrow panel closed upon me, when I was enveloped in darkness. My eyes, dazzled from the outer light, could distinguish nothing. I felt my naked feet cling to the rungs of an iron ladder. Ned Land and Conseil, firmly seized, followed me. At the bottom of the ladder, a door opened, and shut after us immediately with a bang.
We were alone. Where? I could not say, could hardly imagine. All was black, and such a dense black that, after some minutes, my eyes had not been able to discern even those faintest glimmers one imagines one sees on the blackest of nights.
Meanwhile, Ned Land, furious at these proceedings, gave free vent to his indignation. “A thousand devils!” cried he, “here are people who equal Scotch for hospitality. They only just miss being cannibals. I should not be surprised at it, but I declare that they shall not eat me without my protesting!”
“Calm yourself, friend Ned, calm yourself,” replied Conseil, quietly. “Do not cry out before you are hurt. We are not in a pot yet.”
“Not in a pot,” sharply replied the Canadian, “but in an oven, at all events. Things look black. Happily, I still have my bowie-knife,1 and I can always see well enough to use it. The first of these pirates who lays a hand on me...”
“Do not excite yourself, Ned,” I said to the harpooner, “and do not compromise us by useless violence. Who knows that they will not listen to us? Let us rather try to find out where we are.”
I groped about. In five steps I came to an iron wall, made of plates bolted together. Then turning back I struck against a wooden table, near which were ranged several stools. The boards of this prison were concealed under a thick mat of phormium, which deadened the noise of the feet. The bare walls revealed no trace of window or door. Conseil, going round the reverse vay, met me, and we went back to the middle of the cabin, which measured about twenty feet by ten. As to its height, Ned Land, in spite of his own great height, could not measure it.
Half an hour had already passed without our situation being bettered, when the dense darkness suddenly gave way to extreme light. Our prison was suddenly lighted, that is to say, it became filled with a luminous matter, so strong that I could not bear it at first. In its whiteness and intensity I recognized that electric light which played round the submarine boat like a magnificent phenomenon of phosphorescence. After shutting my eyes involuntarily, I opened them and saw that this luminous agent came from a translucent half-globe, unpolished, placed in the roof of the cabin.
“At last one can see,” cried Ned Land, who, knife in hand, stood on the defensive. “Yes,” said I, chancing a play on words; “but we are still in the dark about ourselves.” “Monsieur must have patience,” said the imperturbable Conseil. The sudden lighting of the cabin enabled me to examine it minutely. It only contained a table and five stools. The invisible door might be hermetically sealed. No noise was heard. All seemed dead in the interior of this boat. Did it move, did it float on the surface of the ocean, or did it dive into its depths? I could not guess.
However, the luminous globe was not lighted without a reason. I had hoped that the men of the crew would soon show themselves, and my hope was well founded. If you want to forget about people, you don’t light up their prisons.
A noise of bolts was now heard, the door opened, and two men appeared. One was short, very muscular, broadshouldered, with robust limbs, strong head, an abundance of black hair, thick moustache, a quick penetrating look, and the vivacity which characterizes the population of Southern France. Diderot has maintained, with much justification, that a man’s gestures are metaphoric, and this little man was certainly living proof. One could sense that his ordinary speech was spiced with quantities of prosopopeia, metynomy and hypallage. But this I was not able to verify, because he always used in my presence a singular and absolutely incomprehensible language.
The second stranger merits a more detailed description. A disciple of Gratiolet or Engel would have read his face like an open book. I made out his prevailing qualities directly:—selfconfidence,—because his head was nobly set on the arc formed by the line of his shoulders, and his black eyes looked around with cold assurance; calmness,—for his skin, rather pale, showed his coolness of blood; energy,—evinced by the rapid contraction of his lofty brows; and courage,—because his deep breathing denoted great power of lungs.
I added that this man was proud. His firm, calm gaze seemed to reflect lofty thoughts; his whole being—the homogeneity of expression and gesture of body and face, according to the observations of the physiognomists, indicated a man of great candor and openness.2
I felt involuntarily reassured in his presence; it augured well for our interview.
Whether this person was thirtyfive or fifty years of age, I could not say. He was tall, had a large forehead, straight nose, a clearly cut mouth, beautiful teeth, with fine tapered hands,— eminently “psychical,” to use a word from palmistry—indicative of a passionate temperament. This man was certainly the most admirable specimen I had ever met. One remarkable feature was his eyes, rather far from each other, and which could take in nearly a quarter of the horizon at once. This faculty—which I verified later—gave him a range of vision far superior to Ned Land’s. When this stranger fixed upon an object, his eyebrows met, his large eyelids closed around the pupils so as to contract the range of his vision, and then he would look. And what a look! He looked as if he magnified distant objects. His gaze penetrated one’s very soul! As if he pierced those sheets of water so opaque to our eyes, and as if he read the very depths of the seas!...
The two strangers, with caps made from the fur of the sea otter, and shod with sea boots of seals’ skin, were dressed in clothes of a peculiar texture, which allowed free movement of the limbs. The taller of the two, evidently the captain, examined us with great attention, without saying a word. Then, turning to his companion, talked with him in an unknown tongue. It was a sonorous, harmonious, and flexible dialect, the vowels seeming to admit of very varied accentuation.
The other replied by a shake of the head, and added two or three perfectly incomprehensible words. Then he seemed to question me by a look.
I replied in good French that I did not know his language; but he seemed not to understand me, and my situation became more embarrassing.
“If monsieur were to tell our story,” said Conseil, “perhaps these gentlemen may understand some words.”
I began to tell our adventures, articulating each syllable clearly, and without omitting one single detail. I announced our names and rank, introducing in person Professor Aronnax, his servant Conseil, and master Ned Land, the harpooner.
The man with the soft calm eyes listened to me quietly, even politely, and with extreme attention; but nothing in his countenance indicated that he had understood my story. When I finished, he said not a word.
There remained one resource, to speak English. Perhaps they would know this almost universal language. I knew it, as well as the German language,— well enough to read it fluently, but not to speak it correctly. But, we had to try to make ourselves understood.
“It’s your turn,” I said to the harpooner, “speak the best English ever spoken by an AngloSaxon, and try to do better than I.”
Ned did not beg off, and recommenced our story. The main story was the same, but the form differed. The Canadian, true to his character, spoke with great animation. He complained violently about being imprisoned without regard to people’s rights, demanded to know under what law he was being detained, invoked habeas corpus, threatened to take to court anyone who held him without due cause, raged, gestured, shouted, and finally, by a very
comprehensive sign indicated that we were starving to death.
This was perfectly true, though we had almost forgotten about it.
To his great disgust, the harpooner did not seem to have made himself more intelligible than I had. Our visitors did not stir. They evidently understood neither the language of Arago nor of Faraday.
Very much embarrassed, after having vainly exhausted our philological resources, I knew not what action to take, when Conseil said—
“If monsieur will permit me, I will relate it in German.”
“What! You speak German?” I cried.
“Because I’m Flemish, if it pleases monsieur.”
“On the contrary, I’m very pleased. Go ahead, my boy.”
And Conseil, for the third time, recounted the various perils of our story.
But in spite of the elegant turns and good accent of the narrator, the German language had no success. At last, nonplused, I tried to remember my first lessons, and to narrate our adventures in Latin. Cicero would have stopped up his ears and sent me to the kitchen, but I tried anyway. The result was negative. This last attempt being of no avail, the two strangers exchanged some words in their unknown language, and without even a gesture of reassurance, as could have been easy in any language, retired. The door shut.
“This is infamous!” cried Ned Land, who broke out for the twentieth time; “Indeed, we speak to those rogues in French, English, German, and Latin, and not one of them has the politeness to answer!”
“Calm yourself,” I said to the furious harpooner, “anger will do no good.”
“But do you see, Professor,” replied our irascible companion, “that we shall absolutely die of hunger in this iron cage?”
“Bah,” said Conseil, philosophically; “we can hold out some time yet.”
“My friends,” I said, “we must not despair. We have been worse off than this. Do me the favor to wait a little before forming an opinion upon the commander and crew of this boat.”
“My opinion is formed,” replied Ned Land, sharply. “They are rogues.”
“Good! And from what country?”
“From the Land of Rogues!”
“My brave Ned, that country is not clearly indicated on the map of the world; but I admit that the nationality of the two strangers is hard to determine. Neither English, French, nor German, that is quite certain. However, I am inclined to think that the commander and his companion were born in low latitudes. There is southern blood in them. But I cannot decide by their appearance whether they are Spaniards, Turks, Arabians, or Indians. As to their language, it is quite incomprehensible.”
“There is the disadvantage of not knowing all languages,” said Conseil, “or the disadvantage of not having one universal language.”3
“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 Pomotou, 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 said these words, the door opened. A steward entered. He brought us clothes, coats and trousers, made of a stuff I did not know. I hastened to dress myself, and my companions followed my example.
During that time, the steward—mute, perhaps deaf—had arranged the table, and laid three plates.
“This is something like,” said Conseil. “It looks promising!”
“Bah,” said the rancorous harpooner, “what do you suppose they eat here? Tortoise liver, filleted shark, and beefsteaks from sea dogs!”
“We shall see,” said Conseil.
The dishes, with silver covers, were placed symmetrically on the table, and we took our places. Undoubtedly we had to do with civilized people, and had it not been for the electric light which flooded us, I could have fancied I was in the dining room of the Adelphi Hotel at Liverpool, or at the Grand Hotel in Paris. I must say, however, that there was neither bread nor wine. The water was fresh and clear, but it was water, and did not suit Ned Land’s taste. Among the dishes which were brought to us, 1 recognized several fish delicately dressed; but of other dishes, although excellent, I could give no opinion, neither could I tell to what kingdom they belonged, whether animal or vegetable. As to the dinner service, it was elegant, and in perfect taste. Each utensil, spoon, fork, knife, plate, had a letter engraved on it, with a motto around it, of which this is an exact facsimile:
Mobile within a mobile element! An appropriate motto for this submarine craft—on condition that the preposition in is translated as within and not on. The letter N was no doubt the initial of the name of the enigmatical person, who commanded at the bottom of the seas.
Ned and Conseil did not reflect much. They devoured the food, and I did likewise. I was, besides, reassured as to our fate; and it seemed evident that our hosts would not let us die of want.
However, everything has an end, everything passes away, even the hunger of people who have not eaten for fifteen hours. Our appetites satisfied, we felt overcome with sleep. A natural reaction, after the fatigues of a long night
struggling against death.
“Faith! I shall sleep well,” said Conseil.
“So shall I,” replied Ned Land.
My two companions stretched themselves on the cabin carpet, and were soon sound asleep.
For my own part I did not succumb so easily to sleep. Too many thoughts crowded my brain, too many insoluble questions pressed upon me, too many fancies kept my eyes half open. Where were we? What strange power carried us on? I felt—or rather fancied I felt—the machine sinking down to the lowest depths of the sea. Dreadful nightmares beset me; I saw in these mysterious asylums a world of unknown animals, among which this submarine boat seemed to be of the same kind, living, moving, and formidable as they! Then my brain grew calmer, my imagination wandered into vague unconsciousness, and I soon fell into a deep sleep.
1. A knife with a broad blade that Americans carry with them wherever they go. J.V.
2. Verne often used ideas from phrenology to compactly combine physical descriptions of his characters with descriptions of their personality.
3. Verne had a great interest in artificial languages, and had once planned a novel to be written in Esperanto. R.M.