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As I near the end of my tales of my adventures with Captain Nemo, I realise that to many it will seem like the fancies of a fool, to imagine that anyone has experienced what I have. To those who do not believe me, I can only wish that the reading of these tales was still a pleasant one, and if it seems as if I have built the story to an even more unrealistic climax with the revelations of this last chapter, it is still nothing more than the truth, just as it happened.
I did not see Captain Nemo for some weeks after the sinking of that unnamed vessel, and I cannot pretend that I was unhappier for it. At first, the reason was a simple one, for my anger because of his actions lingered for many days. It did, however, gradually acquire a tenderer companion, as the sympathy I had earlier felt for him strove to reassert itself. As a result, my thoughts were conflicted, and I do not think I would have known what to say to a man whom I should by all rational reasons hate, yet with whom I could not help but still feel a certain kinship.
I had lived with Captain Nemo now for many months, talked to him almost every day and, although he still kept his past shrouded in secrecy, I felt I could claim at least some small knowledge of his character. And what a character! What agonies thrust upon him by his fellow man, what horrors must he have gone through, if all he could think of in terms of retaliation was something so terrible as the sinking of a ship? And still, how could I not feel dread and horror at the scenes to which I had been an unwilling witness? These conflicting thoughts plagued me during the days, and made my sleep uneasy.
During those weeks, I do not know how far we travelled, for we seemed to have no certain destination, and stopped nowhere except for the necessary renewal of our air supplies. This was done at night; apart from that, I could not tell the time, nor the place. The crew was not around, our position was not marked on the planisphere, and all the clocks had been stopped, possibly by order of Captain Nemo. Only the compasses worked, but watching them, it seemed as if we were going in circles and turns, with no real destination in sight, moving only so as not to lie still.
I think, though I am not sure, that we had not travelled for three weeks after the terrible event when my sleep was interrupted one morning by Ned Land, who shook me awake in the middle of a dream.
"Sir, we are going to fly", said he, his voice low but urgent.
"Fly?" said I, still more than half asleep.
"It cannot have escaped you that the recent events, though horrible to have witnessed, have been something of a boon to our plans of flight. After sinking that unlucky vessel, the Captain has shut himself permanently in his room. This is the best opportunity we could be given, sir, I am sure of it. I have already spoken to Conseil."
"And what did he say?"
"He is as ready as I am; he, too, is tired of being a prisoner. If you are, as well, we shall leave to-night."
"Do you know where we are, then?"
"Not exactly, but we are close to a coast, and at this point, I do not care which one."
I nodded, and he left, after telling me to be ready by the boat that night at ten o'clock.
Most of the hours of that day are only a blur in my memories. I passed most of the day in my room, touching every object so as to remember it more easily later, but I could hardly concentrate on anything at all, I do not know whether from excitement or fear. Were we really to leave the Nautilus? What adventures would face us after we left? To which country belonged the coast along which we were travelling? And was it even possible to get away without Captain Nemo knowing of our attempt? These questions haunted me during the hours I spent in my room, unable to eat or sleep although I needed both. I tried to analyse the situation and figure out if I was doing the right thing, but to no avail, for I could not think clearly enough to come to any conclusion. I knew in my heart that I ought to want to flee, but knowing is not the same thing as feeling. Twice I went as far as opening the door, intent upon going to see Ned Land and ask him to let his plans wait for some later date when we were better prepared, but both times I stayed in my room, cursing myself for being a coward who could not keep a promise to his friends.
At last I could stand it no longer. I quitted my room and went into the saloon, wishing to spend my possibly last hours on board there among the treasures and fine oddities with which Captain Nemo's museum was filled. I walked along the walls for a long time, committing everything to memory, in the hope that later I might write it down, never again to forget it. I tried to keep a clear head and not let my feelings overwhelm me, but it was difficult, for I knew now all the wonders of the deep seas that I would never see again after I left.
At eight o'clock, I heard a door shut. For a moment, I could only hope against hope that it was Ned Land or Conseil, making it easy for me by wishing to leave early. Then Captain Nemo entered the saloon. He did not look at me, but walked by as if I was nothing but a shadow from the past. Suddenly it felt to me as if I had already left, and I was now seeing his new life of solitude. I felt, strangely, as if by leaving I would make his life more empty than before my companions and I arrived on the Nautilus.
He sat down at the organ and started playing. I did not recognise the tune, but it gripped my heart with its atmosphere of grief. Suddenly, I could not bear to remain in the room. Not wanting to disturb him, I edged along the far wall towards the hallway, when suddenly, he heaved a great sigh and stood up. He turned towards the door, but I do not think that he saw me. I do not think he saw anything but some spectre of his past, rising again before his eyes as he took a step towards the door. Then he stopped, his hand rising before his eyes as if to shield them from some terrible sight, and I heard his voice, murmuring:
"Almighty God! Enough! Enough!"
These were the first words I had heard him utter since the sinking of the unknown vessel, and I could not help but feel the most desperate tone of remorse in it, and a plea for absolution which he knew would not be granted in this lifetime. I wished, now more than ever, to leave him to his own thoughts, but in moving I must have made some noise, for he turned his face away from me, as if he knew that he was watched. After an endless moment he said, his voice wavering slightly:
"You are still here, M. Aronnax."
"Yes", said I, not knowing whether he meant it as a rebuke or merely as a statement of fact. He said nothing, but I could see him draw breath several times, then hesitate, as if he had something he wanted, but could not quite bring himself, to say. At last, he drew his hand away from his eyes, turned towards me and said, in a voice which was still not completely even:
"Have you the time to hear a story?"
Much surprised, I answered that I did, and he gestured for me to follow him on a walk along the room. I did, still quite mystified by this turn of events, and wondering what, if any, significance this story had to what had happened not three weeks ago.
"I may have given you the indication", said Captain Nemo after a while of walking in silence, "that the intricate design of the Nautilus is due entirely to my own genius. If I did, that was a lie, but it was an easy lie, for the person who helped me build this ship was as close to me as ever anyone was. I was, and am, extremely grateful that she chose to work with me."
"She?" said I, now quite astonished. "A woman helped dream up this masterpiece of engineering?"
"A man dreamed it up", said he. "A woman made the dreams possible where he otherwise would have failed. I only wished to build a ship to take me far away from mankind; she gave me the electrical power to do so, and thus gave me the depths of the oceans to use as my own."
I almost dared not ask, for fear of his quitting his story before it had even begun: "Who was this remarkable woman? Your sister?"
"She was not", said he, his face changing subtly as if he saw her now before his eyes again, "although I thought of her that way, and would have been proud to call her so. She was a trusted friend, one who came with me when I had lost my family and had no one else whom I could trust. She let me use her mind to work on the tools for my vengeance upon those who had wronged me, even when she disagreed with me upon that very point. No", said he—for I must have made some gesture which suggested that I was not surprised at this attitude coming from a woman—"she was as brave and as angry as I, or braver, for I have only now realised that her path was not the easiest one to take.
"During our time together, we kept arguing about her belief that all of mankind could become a kinder, better species through all of us working together in non-violent ways. I fought against this every step of the way, convinced as I was that there was no solution for me other than that of retribution. And yet, my friend steadfastly claimed that although she, too, had something to avenge, there was no need for her to exact that vengeance in the form of violence upon those who had caused her suffering. She felt instead that she could do better by educating them, so that their minds were changed and they did not choose that path again." He sighed, a great sigh that made his shoulders heave, and added: "It is only now, when it is too late, that I wish I had a way of telling her that I recognise that all this time, it was I who was in the wrong."
"What happened to your friend?" said I as he fell silent, fearing the worst from the way he spoke the words 'too late'.
"I do not know", said he, his shoulders slumping under some unknown weight. "I left her on the island where the Nautilus was built—or rather, by electing to stay behind, she left me, for it was she who told me that she would not come with me when I asked her. She said that her talents would be of better use elsewhere, where my anger was not tainting her creativity, so that what she built could be of better use to humanity. How I wish, now, that I had been able to listen to her, and understand what she was saying!"
I could not help but feel some strange anger towards this unknown woman, for what she must have meant to the man beside me, to make him still grieve her absence. As we spoke, he had stopped at a table upon which lay a big notebook. When he opened it, I could see that it contained two different types of handwriting, one neat, which I recognised as Captain Nemo's, one less so, which must have been that of the mysterious woman.
"I taught her how to work with steel and iron", said he, paging through the book, "and she taught me how to work with that precious spark of life, electricity. Together, we forged this tool, this offspring of our all-too-alike brains. I made the calculations for the hull and the propelling screws, while she drew the cables through my constructions and made the ship come alive with electricity from her powerful batteries. I would have named the ship after her, if she had allowed it."
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. I wanted to break the silence as well, to say something that showed I sympathised with his grief for this lost friendship, but found that I could not.
"She would not give up on the world", said he, "always forcing me to see the things and the people in it which were good and kind and beautiful, a gift which I, buried in my own anger and search for vengeance, could not accept. It is only as of late that I have, at times, been able to see the world the way she did. I have struggled against it, for admitting that she was right would also be admitting that I have committed the same sort of crimes against the people of the world, which I ought instead to have tried to stop. No, do not disagree with me;"—for I had started to say something, I know not what—"anyone who saw the sinking of that ship some weeks ago, indeed, even I myself, could see that I have become that which I most hated—a tyrant of men. Do not say a word; I see it in your eyes, that you wish to make excuses for me, and I will not allow it. I have no need for empty reassurances, for I know I am to blame for my own actions.
"I wanted to name the ship after my sister, but she would not have it. I can understand her now; who would want their name sullied by a machine used for slaughter? And yet now I wish I had done so, and used the vessel for purer purposes instead."
At last I dared to ask: "What was her name, then?"
He closed the notebook carefully, as if precious memories might otherwise spill out from between its pages. "I have called myself Nemo", said he, "from the Latin for 'no man', for I felt that it suited who I was and what I cared for. She, wanting never to give up on anyone or anything, named herself accordingly, Omnia, which is Latin for 'everything'."
He hesitated again. Then, turning from me, he said: "You are wondering, no doubt, why I have told you this sentimental tale of my sorrows. I can only say that at more than one point during our travels, you have reminded me of her, and I wished for someone to know that if I have become a monster, at least I am now one who is conscious of his misdeeds. She would have liked to know that, and so I thought that you would, as well." He shrugged his shoulders, adding in a slightly more acerbic tone of voice: "If you want more comparisons: you also wish to leave, just like she did."
"I thank you for the confidences you have shared", said I, then added, slowly, but knowing it suddenly to be true: "But I do not wish to leave."
"Do you take me for an idiot?" said Captain Nemo testily, possibly mistaking my tone for stubbornness for its own sake. "Of course you wish to leave, and I cannot blame you for it; you are merely feeling what every good man should feel under the same circumstances. Kindly do not lie and pretend that you are satisfied with this life, when anyone can see that you and the others are chafing under the restraints which have been placed upon you."
"I am no liar", said I, equally hotly, feeling my earlier vague dissatisfaction with Ned Land's hurried plans solidifying as I put my thoughts into words. Hearing myself made it yet again clearer to me that I was speaking the truth, for after having listened to his denouncements of his earlier actions, I felt that I would help no one by leaving, if I did it now and out of anger with him. Would it not be of more help to him, and to the world in which he acted, if I stayed? If I could keep reminding him of his human side, could bring out the philosopher in him, would that not be the greatest gift we together could give humanity? Surely that was better than leaving him to roam the seas on his own, and ultimately be destroyed by his grief and by the elements against which he fought. And even disregarding that, from a purely selfish point of view, I found that, now that my anger had lessened, I wanted to keep going, and see all the parts of the deep sea where no man had gone before.
"I will not speak for the others", I continued, "but as a scientist, you could not put any prize in the world on the experiences I have yet had during our travels together. I have seen enough of the wonders of the world to last not one but many lifetimes, and I am eager to see more. Surely you can sympathise with that, at least? You say that every good man should wish to leave. I disagree. Not every man would stay, I grant you, but that does not mean you have to turn away the one who does, and if my staying is anything better than an inconvenience to you, then I do not wish to end it, now or ever."
Captain Nemo looked surprised at my declaration, as if he wanted to argue further with me. Yet he only bowed his head.
"So be it, then", was all he said, but he said it in a quite different tone from earlier, his voice hushed, as if speaking any louder would make me change my mind, as if it was no longer a command but a request from him—to stay only if I wished it.
I did stay. For that day, and for many more. Ned Land was furious with me when I told him to go on with his plans without me, and I do not think that Conseil ever forgave his master for releasing him from his service, but I knew that my hopes and wishes differed from theirs, and that I could not leave the man who had given me so much, and now also seemed to want my companionship. They left in the dead of night, and my greatest fear is that their adventure met with an unlucky end without my knowledge, for naturally I would never know what became of them after they quitted the Nautilus. Captain Nemo and I never spoke of their departure, although I feel sure that he must have known everything and yet, for some reason, allowed it. Perhaps he felt that I was acting as a hostage to vouch for their good behaviour. I never asked him about it.
I still do not know if what I did was right. I do not know if my conscience could have rested any easier, had I turned my back on this grieving man, condemning him without hearing him, leaving rather than trying to understand, rather than trying to help when I knew that he was still more a man than a monster. I do not know if Ned Land and Conseil—may they still be alive, and well!—have ever forgiven me for breaking my promise of flight. But in my heart, it felt like the only thing to do, to offer to stand by this man while he fought for redemption, for although what he did was horrifying, so was what was done to him, and like his friend and sister Omnia, I can not believe that any man is beyond redemption, and neither can I stand by and watch him travel towards it on his own, without reaching a hand out to help him on his way. If his destiny be strange, it is also sublime. Have I not understood it myself? Have I not lived many months of this strange life?
And to the question asked by Ecclesiastes three thousand years ago, "That which is far off and exceeding deep, who can find it out?" I believe that two men alone of all now living have the right to give an answer—
CAPTAIN NEMO AND MYSELF.