by Jules Verne
There I deposited the rare egg behind one of the panes in the museum. I dined with gusto on an excellent piece of seal liver, which reminded me of pork. And then I went to bed, having invoked like a Hindu the favours of the radiant star.
The next day, 21 March, I went up on the platform as early as five o’clock. I found Captain Nemo already there.
‘The weather is slightly clearer,’ he said. ‘I have high hopes. After breakfast, we’ll head for land to choose an observation point.’
Having agreed this matter, I went back in to look for Ned Land. I suggested he come with me, but the obdurate Canadian refused, and I could see full well that his taciturnity and bad mood were worsening by the day. But really, under the circumstances, I did not regret his stubbornness. There were too many seals on shore, and I didn’t want to lead the unreflecting huntsman into temptation.
After breakfast, I headed for land again. The Nautilus had moved a few miles further on overnight. It was now floating on the open sea a good league from the coast, which was dominated by a sharp peak 400 or 500 metres high. Captain Nemo and I were in the boat with two crewmen, along with the instruments: a chronometer, a telescope, and a barometer.
As we headed for land, I saw a large number of whales from the three species particular to the southern seas: the right whale, as the British call it, without a dorsal fin; the humpback or rorqual, with a wrinkled stomach and huge white fins, which do not form wings despite its French name, baleinoptere; and the finback, yellowish-brown in colour and the quickest of the three. This powerful animal can make itself heard at great distances when it sends columns of air and vapour up to considerable heights, turning into misty whorls. These various mammals were playing in schools in the peaceful waters, and I realized that this basin of the South Pole now served as a refuge for the cetaceans, too fiercely hunted by mankind.
I also saw long off-white funicles of salps, a type of clustered mollusc, as well as jellyfish of great size rocking on the waves.
We reached land at nine o’clock. The sky was brightening as the clouds fled southwards.* Mists rose from the cold surface of the water. Captain Nemo headed for the peak, which he undoubtedly intended to be his observatory. It was hard going on the sharp lavas and pumice stones, through an atmosphere often filled with sulphurous air from the exhalations. For a man unused to walking on shore, the captain climbed the steepest slopes with a suppleness and agility that I could not equal and which a hunter of mountain goats would have envied.
It took us two hours to reach the summit, half made of porphyry and half basalt. From there, our eyes took in a vast sea, whose culmination towards the north coincided with the bottom of the sky. At our feet, dazzling fields of whiteness. Above our heads, pale blue, clear of mist. To the north, the sun’s disc, a ball of fire, already trimmed by the sharp edge of the horizon. From the heart of the waters, hundreds of liquid jets falling in magnificent showers. In the distance, the Nautilus like a slumbering cetacean. Behind us, to the south and east, an immense land, a chaotic jumble of rocks and ice, whose limits could not be seen.
Upon arriving at the peak itself, Captain Nemo carefully noted the height using the barometer, for he had to take account of it in his observation.
At quarter to twelve the golden disc of the sun, at present seen only by refraction, appeared and bestowed its last rays on this lonely continent, on these seas that man had never sailed.
Using a reticule telescope which used a mirror to correct the refraction, Captain Nemo observed the heavenly body as it slowly sank beneath the skyline, following a very oblique course. I was holding the chronometer.* My heart was beating wildly. If the disappearance of the sun’s semicircle coincided with noon on the chronometer, we were at the Pole.
‘Midday!’ I exclaimed.
‘The South Pole,’ Captain Nemo announced in a grave voice, as he handed me the telescope showing the celestial orb cut in two equal portions by the horizon.
I watched the last rays crowning the peak as the shadows gradually climbed the slopes.
Just then, Captain Nemo put his hand on my shoulder and said:
‘Monsieur, in 1600 the Dutchman Gherritz,* carried off by currents and storms, reached 64° S and discovered the South Shetlands. On 17 January 1773, the illustrious Cook, following the 38th meridian, arrived at 67° 30´ S, and on 30 January 1774, reached 71° 15´ S on the 109th meridian. In 1819, the Russian Bellingshausen found himself on the 69th parallel, and in 1821, on the 66th at 111° W. In 1820, the Briton Bransfield was stopped at the 65th degree. The same year, the American Morrell, whose tales are doubtful, discovered an open sea at 70° 14´ S while working his way along the 42nd meridian. In 1825, the Briton Powell was not able to go further than the 62nd degree. That same year, a mere sealer, the Briton Weddell, went as far as 72° 14´ S on the 35th meridian, and as far as 74° 15´ on the 36th. In 1829, the Briton Foster, captain of the Chanticleer, took possession of the Antarctic continent at 63° 26´ S, 66° 26´ W. On 1 February 1831, the Briton Biscoe discovered Enderby Land at 68° 50´ S, Adelaide Island at 67° S on 5 February 1832, and Graham Land at 64° 45´ S on 21 February. In 1838, the Frenchman Dumont d’Urville, halted by the ice-cap at 62° 57´ S, took note of Louis-Philippe Land; on 21 January 1840, in a new push south, he named Adélie Land at 66° 30´, and a week later, Clarie Coast at 64° 40´. In 1838 the Briton Wilkes advanced to the 69th parallel on the 100th meridian. In 1839, the Briton Balleny* discovered Sabrina Coast, on the limit of the Antarctic Circle. Finally, on 12 January 1842 the Briton James Ross, captain of the ships the Erebus and the Terror, reached 70° 56´ S, 171° 7´ E, and discovered Victoria Land; on the 23rd of the same month, he noted the 74th parallel, the furthest point reached until then; on the 27th he was at 76° 8´, on the 28th, 77° 32´, on 2 February, 78° 4´, and in 1842, he came back to the 71st degree, which he was not able to surpass. Well, on this 21st day of March 1868, I, Captain Nemo, have attained the South Pole and the 90th degree, and I take possession of this part of the globe, now comprising one-sixth of all the discovered continents.’
‘In whose name, captain?’
‘In my own, monsieur!’
And saying this, Captain Nemo unfurled a black flag, carrying a golden ‘N’ quartered on its bunting.* Then turning to the sun, whose last rays were licking the sea at the horizon:
‘Farewell, sun!’ he exclaimed. ‘Vanish, O bright orb. Take your sleep under this open sea, and let a night of six months cloak my new realm* in its shades!’
15
Accident or Incident?
The following day, 22 March, preparations for departure began at six in the morning. The last gleams of dusk were melting into the night. There was a piercing cold. The constellations shone with surprising intensity. At the zenith sparkled the beautiful Southern Cross, the North Star of the Antarctic.
The thermometer marked −12° and when the wind freshened, it produced a sharp biting sensation. The ice-floes were multiplying on the open sea. The ocean was beginning to freeze in all directions. Numerous translucent black patches spreading over its surface showed that young ice was soon going to form. Clearly the southern basin, frozen for six months each winter, was totally inaccessible during that season. What did the whales do during that time? Undoubtedly they swam under the ice-cap to look for more hospitable seas. The seals and the walruses, used to living in the harshest climates, remained on the iced-over waters. These animals possess an instinct for digging holes in the icefields and keeping them permanently open, in order to come and breathe. When the birds, chased away by the cold, have emigrated north, these marine mammals remain the sole masters of the Antarctic.
Meanwhile the water tanks had been filled, and the Nautilus was slowly sinking. At a depth of 1,000 feet, it stopped. Its propeller began to beat the water, and it moved directly northwards at a speed of 15 knots. By evening it was already floating under the immense frozen carapace of the ice-cap.
The panels of the salon had been closed as a safety measure, for the
Nautilus’s hull might collide with some sunken block. Accordingly I spent the day putting my notes in order. My mind was completely filled with my memories of the Pole. We had reached that inaccessible point without fatigue, without danger, as if our floating compartment had run along the tracks of a railway. And now our return was under way. Would it hold similar surprises for me? I thought it would, so inexhaustible are the submarine wonders! During the five-and-a-half months that fate had kept us on board, we had covered 14,000 leagues, a distance longer than the terrestrial equator. How many interesting or terrifying incidents had marked our voyage: hunting in the forests of Crespo, running aground in Torres Strait, the coral cemetery, fishing in Ceylon, the Arabian Tunnel, the fires of Santorini, the riches of Vigo Bay, Atlantis, and the South Pole! During the night, all these memories flitted from dream to dream, and would not let my mind drift into sleep for a single moment.
At three o’clock, I was fully woken by a violent jolt. I sat up on my bed and was listening out in the darkness, when I was suddenly thrown into the middle of the room. The Nautilus was now listing badly, having clearly run aground.
I felt my way along the walls, and dragged myself through the gangways as far as the salon, still lit by the luminous ceiling. The furniture had fallen over. Fortunately the display cabinets, with their feet solidly fixed, had not moved. As the perpendicular was displaced, the starboard paintings were pressed hard against the wall coverings while the lower edges of the port ones hung a foot in the air. The Nautilus was listing to starboard and lay completely motionless.
From inside I could hear sounds of feet and confused voices. But Captain Nemo did not appear. Just when I was about to leave the salon, Ned Land and Conseil came in.
‘What’s happened?’ I immediately asked them.
‘I was just coming to ask monsieur,’ replied Conseil.
‘Hell!’ cried the Canadian, ‘I know! The Nautilus has hit ground, and judging from the angle we’re listing at, I don’t think we’ll get out of this one like we did in Torres Strait.’
‘But has it at least gone back up to the surface?’
‘We don’t know,’ replied Conseil.
‘It’s easy to find out.’
I consulted the pressure-gauge. To my great surprise it indicated a depth of 360 metres.
‘What does that mean?’ I exclaimed.
‘We must ask Captain Nemo,’ said Conseil.
‘But where can we find him?’ asked Ned.*
‘Follow me,’ I said.
We left the salon. In the library, not a soul. On the central staircase and in the crew room, no one. I supposed that Captain Nemo had to be stationed in the pilot-house. It was best to wait. The three of us came back to the salon.
I will skip over the Canadian’s complaints. He had sufficient reason to explode. I let him vent his spleen as much as he wished, without replying.
We had been in this situation for twenty minutes, trying to detect the slightest sound from the interior of the Nautilus, when Captain Nemo came in. He did not seem to see us. His face, usually so impassive, revealed a certain anxiety. He silently studied the compass and pressure-gauge, and came and put his finger on a point of the planisphere, in the part showing the southern seas.
I did not want to interrupt. But when he turned to me a moment later, I echoed an expression he had used in Torres Strait:
‘An incident, captain?’
‘No, monsieur, an accident this time.’
‘Serious?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Is there immediate danger?’
‘No.’
‘Has the Nautilus run aground?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did we run aground?’
‘From a quirk of nature, not from human error. There were no operational failures. However, we cannot resist the effects of equilibrium. One can disdain human laws, but not resist natural ones.’
Captain Nemo had chosen an odd moment to indulge in such philosophical reflections. His answer left me totally in the dark.
‘May I know, monsieur, what caused the accident?’
‘An enormous block of ice, an entire mountain, overturned. When icebergs are undermined at the bottom by warmer waters or by repeated collisions, their centre of gravity rises. They invert, they turn upside down. That is what happened here. One such block turned over, colliding with the Nautilus sailing beneath it. The iceberg rose under its hull and picked it up with irresistible force, and has now brought the Nautilus up to lighter strata, where it is at present lying on its side.’
‘But can’t we free the Nautilus by emptying its tanks to restore its equilibrium?’
‘That is what is going on at present, monsieur. You can hear the pumps working. Look at the needle of the pressure-gauge. It indicates that the Nautilus is rising but the block of ice is also moving with it, and unless something stops it rising, our situation will not change.’
The Nautilus was indeed still listing the same amount to starboard. It would undoubtedly return to upright when the block came to a stop. But when it did, who knew if it wouldn’t be due to hitting the main body of the icefield, and being frighteningly crushed between two icy surfaces?
I was thinking about the various repercussions of the situation. Captain Nemo did not take his eyes off the pressure-gauge. Since the collapse of the iceberg the Nautilus had climbed approximately 150 feet, but was still lying at the same angle.
Suddenly we felt a slight movement in the hull. The Nautilus was shifting slightly back to upright. The objects hanging in the salon began to move perceptibly towards their normal position. The walls were approaching the vertical. Nobody spoke. With our hearts pumping, we could see, we could feel equilibrium returning. The floor was becoming horizontal under our feet again. Ten minutes went by.
‘Finally we are straight again!’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ said Captain Nemo, heading for the door.
‘But will we float?’
‘The tanks,’ he replied, ‘still contain water; so once they are empty, the Nautilus will inevitably rise to the surface again.’
The captain went out, and I quickly realized that he had ordered the Nautilus’s ascent to be stopped. It would soon have hit the icefield from below, so it was better to remain where we were.
‘That was a close shave!’ said Conseil.
‘Yes; we might have been crushed between huge blocks of ice, or at least imprisoned. And then, not able to renew our air . . . Yes, a close shave!’
‘If it’s really over,’ murmured Ned.
I did not wish to start a pointless debate with the Canadian, and so did not reply. In any case the panels opened at that moment, and light surged in through the window.
We were underwater, as I have said, but a dazzling wall of ice rose at a distance of 10 metres on each side of the Nautilus. Above and below, a continuation of the same wall. Above, because the lower surface of the ice-cap arched over us like an enormous vault. Below, because the upturned block had slid little by little, and had found two points of contact on the side walls, which maintained it in position. The Nautilus was imprisoned in a veritable tunnel of ice about 20 metres wide and filled with calm water. It was therefore easy for it to get out, either backwards or forwards, before continuing freely on its way under the ice-cap, albeit a few hundred metres further down.
The luminous ceiling had been switched off, and yet the salon was scintillating in intense light. The reason was the powerful illumination from the walls of ice, violently throwing back the searchlight’s beams. I cannot depict the impact of the voltaic rays on these great, capriciously carved blocks, with each angle, each corner, each facet radiating a different effect, according to the nature of the veins running through it.
A glittering mine of gems, especially sapphires, crisscrossing their blue rays with shafts of emerald green. Here and there opaline shades of infinite subtlety ran through the shining points like fiery diamonds, unbearably dazzling the eye. The power of the searchli
ght was multiplied a hundred times, like that of a lamp through the lenses of a lighthouse of the first order.
‘How beautiful it is! How beautiful!’ exclaimed Conseil.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s a wonderful sight. Isn’t it, Ned?’
‘Hell yes,’ riposted Land. ‘It’s superb! I hate to have to agree. We’ve never seen anything like it. But this vision may cost us dear. To be frank, I think that we’re seeing things here that God wanted to hide from man’s eyes.’
Ned was right. It was too beautiful. Suddenly a cry from Conseil made me turn round.
‘What is it?’
‘Monsieur should close his eyes! Monsieur should not look.’
As he spoke, Conseil vigorously rubbed his eyelids.
‘What’s the matter, my lad?’
‘I am dazzled, blinded!’
My eyes turned involuntarily towards the window, but I was not able to bear the fire that consumed them.
I understood what had happened. The Nautilus had started moving very quickly. All the discreet reflections from the walls of ice had then changed into flashing rays. The fire from these myriads of diamonds joined together. The Nautilus, carried on by its propeller, was sailing through a sheath of lightning.
The panels of the salon closed. We put our hands over our eyes, still inundated with those circular gleams that float in front of your retina when sunlight has struck it too violently. It took quite a while before our eyes recovered.
Finally we lowered our hands.
‘Goodness, I would never have believed it,’ said Conseil.
‘And I still don’t!’ replied the Canadian.
‘When we are back on land, and take for granted so many of these brilliant works of nature,’ added Conseil, ‘what will we think of the grey landmasses and the paltry works of art man has crafted! No, the inhabited world is no longer fit for us!’
Such words in the mouth of an impassive Fleming showed what level of turmoil our enthusiasm had reached. But the Canadian threw cold water on it as usual.