Reading “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”
So I decided to bite the bullet and start reading more classic literature. I can securely lay the blame for this on Defunctland revealing to me how influential Jules Verne’s work was in the Disney parks and beyond (I’m still pissed about what they did to EuroDisney’s Space Mountain: From the Earth to the Moon and I’ve never even BEEN to Europe) and thought, “Hey, maybe something so universally influential, which has spurred the creation of many things I take interest in, could be something I plainly enjoy as well.”
So I went and found the book on gutenberg.org and started reading. Mind, this began on my lunch break at work today, so I haven’t had much time to read it today; as of writing this, I am in the middle of Chapter 10, where we are formally introduced to Captain Nemo himself. (Another spur towards reading this and more of Verne’s work was the age-old discussion of Nemo’s character, as he has been the subject of much analysis and interpretation given the mystery surrounding his true origins. I wanted to see what the fuss was about.)
I was pleasantly surprised at how effortlessly Verne’s prose reads - or at least, its translation read easily. It is thankfully lacking in the flowery descriptions I had dreaded. Intrigue is found immediately in setting the stage, as the sailing world is in an uproar over what appears to be some kind of strange, gigantic creature. No one can get a good enough look at it, with size estimates ranging between two hundred feet to three miles in length. More distressing is its apparent speed, as it seems to begin near Australia, winds its way around Africa and up through the Atlantic, and finally in the middle of the Pacific. This would have been fine if it hadn’t started brushing up against ships and started sinking them. (Given I know it to be the Nautilus from the outset, I am inclined to wonder if these were the result of malice or just bad driving.) This leads people to two conclusions: either this is a monster, or it’s being piloted by one.
In the middle of all this, a French biologist named Pierre Aronnax has just arrived in New York City, coming off what I think was an archaeological dig with armfuls of samples ready to go back to the French museum. Being a scientist with any authority on undersea life, having written more than a paper on the subject, he is of course asked to comment on it.
Granted, he is working under the assumption that narwhals usually reach 60 feet in length, which...no, they do not. From there, he simply posits that it’s a specimen of exceptional deep sea gigantism. One, part of this is bullshit because that’s not how narwhals work. Two, part of this is bullshit because he’s mostly saying it’s a creature because affirming it to be some kind of submarine would suggest some military agency was creating a powerful new submarine without anyone noticing (and no mere gentleman of exceptional wealth could possibly do such a thing). Three, part of this is bullshit because he doesn’t actually want to give out an opinion on the subject and would rather just go home to France.
But as luck would have it, some Americans (because Verne would usually depict Americans in this way) had assembled a fine whaling ship to go after this beast and asked the professor to accompany them, on the grounds that his theory could be correct. And for some reason, Professor Aronnax agrees, and he and his manservant Conceil get on the Abraham Lincoln a mere hour before it departs for the Pacific.
And for the next several months, nothing happens, but the professor does meet a Canadian harpooner named Ned Land, which is exciting to him because at the time, Canada was still mostly Montreal, and that meant he spoke French. There’s no one the French like more than other people who speak French (and there’s no one more proud of being French than French Canadians).
And then in November, everything goes wrong. They find the beast, and then learn the fact that this thing GLOWS AND IS APPARENTLY ELECTRICAL. For the next several days, they pursue their narwhal, but in the chaos, the professor is knocked overboard, Conceil jumping in after him. They later swim across Ned, who helps them up onto this strange floating island made of metal...which starts moving.
Just as it starts sinking back down, they cause enough of a racket to bring the ship to a halt and have someone poke their head out the door...before yelping and promptly closing it again before sending out some beefy guards to bring them in.
They’re fed some unidentifiable-but-delicious food and approached by two figures who only speak to one another in an unknown language. The three survivors try to relay their story, first in French, then English, German, and then Latin, to no response. The two leave and the three are left to sleep it off.
Much later, in walks the Captain himself, who does not introduce himself...at first. He gives them a choice: to stay and be free from the prison of society on the Nautilus, or to learn how long it takes a human body to tire out from swimming in the middle of the Pacific. Despite heavy protests from Ned, Aronnax agrees for the lot of them, and the Captain gives his name: Nemo.
Well...that’s not really his name. All he says on the matter is, “To you, I am Captain Nemo.” “Nemo” means “Nobody” in Latin, which is the first hint as to our captain’s philosophy and the first question we are prompted with.
