Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (31 page)

On his way back from his second trip to Monte Cristo two weeks later, Verne sulked in the carriage, staring at the piles of paper on which Dumas had scrawled his comments.
 
The wheels crashed over a pothole, and Verne didn’t even look up.
 
He flipped from page to page, eyes burning, face hot, as he read insult after insult.
 
Did the great man think he had no talent at all?

He picked up the next manuscript and tossed aside the romantic poetry -- “pure drivel” -- that he had also presented to Dumas.
 
Verne wanted to just throw himself from the carriage and into the Seine.
 
A man like Dumas couldn’t possibly be wrong in his opinion.

Oddly, the enormous writer had actually found merit in a light romantic farce Verne had written, called
Broken Straws
.
 
Still stinging from the criticism of his more ambitious works, Verne reread the encouragement as if he were swallowing medicine.
 
In his own mind, this piece was but a slight comedy, nothing respectable, nothing like the important works of Balzac or Hugo. . . .
 
But he buoyed up his confidence to read the words, in Dumas’s own hand, that
Broken Straws
showed a bit of promise.
 
“With appropriate fixing.”
 

Then the most enthralling note of all: Dumas promised to stage the humorous production at his Theatre Historique, after Verne (and Dumas) had made the necessary revisions.

#

Although
Broken Straws
was lost in the volume of plays and operas performed on the boulevard du Temple, it drew enough of an audience that it played for twelve nights running.
 
This earned Jules Verne a few sous and, most important, paid back the production costs, so that it was not the utter failure he had feared it might be.

Heady with success and delighted at the expansive future before him, Verne did everything that Dumas suggested to him, though the great novelist still didn’t ask him to join his stable of writing assistants.
 
Verne would somehow have to make it on his own, work harder, try over and over again . . . and still maintain his legal studies, so that his father never knew.

Dumas urged Verne to write articles for popular science magazines and the children’s publications of the day.
 
Verne made only a little money at this, but even a few extra coins per month helped -- and he was taking tentative steps down a glorious literary path that stretched in front of him.
 
Seeing his name in print provided more excitement than the best passing grade in the most difficult of classes.

Jules Verne decided he just might become an author after all . . . if only he could find something interesting enough to write
about
.

xii

Nemo’s bespectacled rescuer was named Arne Saknusemm, a cave explorer and amateur geologist, who enjoyed poking around in volcanic craters.
 
He helped Nemo to his feet, steadying him on the steep slope of rubble.
 

“Which island is this?”
 
Nemo shivered in his tattered clothes that had been pieced together for use in a tropical climate.
 
“Where am I?
 
It’s so cold.”

Saknusemm scratched his trim beard.
 
“This is Iceland, Monsieur.
 
You are inside the crater of the volcano Scartaris.”

Nemo reeled.
 
Iceland
?
 
He had come from his mysterious island in the South China Sea.
 
Yet he had descended close to the center of the hollow Earth, drifted across a subterranean ocean, and emerged again at a different point on the Earth’s surface.

As Saknusemm led him up a toiling path to the crater rim, the old mountaineer explained that he had studied countless texts in many languages.
 
“There’s not much else to do on this island.
 
The winters are long and hard, and I enjoy sitting by the fireplace.”
 

Saknusemm had noticed a blast of steam venting from the volcano and had come to investigate.
 
The mountaineer had witnessed any number of geological marvels -- but never a bedraggled young man emerging from under the Earth.

Nemo’s limbs trembled with relief.
 
He was unable to believe he had reached human company in a place which, while not exactly civilized, was at least a recognizable point on a map.
 
From here, he could find passage back to Europe -- back to France.
 

Back . . . home.

The two climbed to the rim of the tall volcano.
 
Nemo looked across the sparkling glaciers and the white peaks of the great island that had been settled by Vikings so long before.
 
Despite the breathtaking scenery, the wonder that captivated Nemo most was simply the sight of the bright yellow sun in a blue sky -- where it belonged.

#

Saknusemm took Nemo back to his home, where the young man stayed for several months, recuperating and learning what had happened in the world during his absence (though Iceland was by no means privy to the most recent news, either).
 

It took Saknusemm until late spring to arrange passage for his guest aboard one of the infrequent sailing ships.
 
Over many quiet nights, Nemo repaid his host by recounting his strange adventures on the island and in the fascinating subterranean world.
 
The geologist queried him about the fine points of his story, hearing Nemo’s tale with keen interest.
 
The wise old mountaineer displayed far less skepticism than Nemo had expected.
 

When at last it came time for Nemo’s ship to depart for Norway, the two made their way to the port of Reykjavik.
 
Nemo embraced the mountaineer and said his farewells, then went aboard.
 
He was a passenger this time, with a little spending money, fresh clothes -- and a burning need to return to France.
 
And Caroline.
 
And Jules.

Nemo waited on deck, facing into the blustery high-latitude winds as the crew prepared the ship for departure.
 
The vessel sailed away from Iceland.

#

Within a week after Nemo had gone, Arne Saknusemm gathered supplies and struck out for the mountains again, climbing the cone of Scartaris and intending to find a passage that would take him to the centre of the Earth. . . .

xiii

With its wooden siding and many narrow windows, the playhouse in Nantes seemed so much smaller and less impressive than even the minor theatres in Paris -- but still, this was his
home town
.
 
Jules Verne relished the thought of seeing
Broken Straws
performed for an audience he had known since childhood . . . and terrified as to what his parents would think.
 
He attended every rehearsal, to ensure the best performance possible.

While in Nantes, he stayed at his parents’ home, though Pierre Verne didn’t know what to say about his son’s unexpected literary ambitions.
 
Surely, his parents would relish the fame as much as Verne did.
 
“As long as you don’t get too serious about it, Jules,” Sophie had cautioned in the wake of her husband’s stern admonitions for him to continue his efforts in the legal profession.
 
It meant little to them that he had the unflagging support of the literary master, Alexandre Dumas, but neither of his parents were readers of note.

In high spirits after the successful run at the Theatre Lyrique in Paris, Verne had contacted Caroline Aronnax, back on Ile Feydeau.
 
(He still could not bring himself to think of her as Madame Hatteras.)
 
The date had already been set for the performance in Nantes.
 
Costumes had been made, and dress rehearsals had begun.
 
Verne wanted Caroline to be there to share his moment of glory.
 
It would be his finest hour, and he wanted her beside him, regardless of her marital status.

Urged on by his free-loving literary friends, and embarrassed by his continued bachelorhood, Verne had taken the train back to Nantes for the local theater production of
Broken Straws
.
 
Using expensive paper and his best penmanship, he sent Caroline a special invitation to join him in his private box.
 

She had come to meet him at the train station, waving to welcome Verne back to Nantes.
 
Cocking a parasol on her left shoulder, she allowed him to take her arm, which made Verne so giddy he could barely walk a straight line.
 
She strolled beside him along the street toward the blossoming lime trees in front of the Church of St. Martin.
 
“I look forward to your play, Jules, and I gladly accept your invitation to attend.”

Behind them, the train let out a shrill whistle then began to chug away from the station.
 
Loud bells clanged the hour at the distant dockyards.

Even through misty eyes, Verne could see that Caroline’s smile looked friendly, but no more than that.
 
“However, I believe it would be better if I sat a few rows away.
 
Remember, I am a married woman, Jules.”

In the two years Verne had been in Paris, Caroline’s husband had sent no word about his search for the Northwest Passage.
 
No one had heard from Captain Hatteras or his crew.
 
Granted, the
Forward
had undertaken a long and hard journey, and it was still possible that everything had gone as planned . . . but she had been with her husband for only a short time in the first place, and now Caroline lived as a veritable widow -- in reality, if not in fact. . . .

Some time back, when Verne had informed her of receiving Nemo’s letter and journal, Caroline had been overjoyed and vowed to do something about it.
 
She had rallied support from her father’s merchant fleet, and Monsieur Aronnax had sent letters to shipping companies and foreign ambassadors.
 
The respected merchant had, after all, made the original arrangements to have Nemo ship out on Captain Grant’s last voyage.
 
Everyone agreed to search for the mysterious island, using the best descriptions in Nemo’s handwritten journal -- but there could be little hope of finding an uncharted speck of land in such a vast seascape.
 

Verne, however, knew never to underestimate his friend.
 
Nemo had survived for years alone.
 
He must still be alive. . . .

On the opening night of
Broken Straws
, Nantes received Jules Verne as a minor celebrity, and he passed the hours in a daze.
 
During the performance he looked across several rows of seats to catch Caroline’s sparkling eyes.
 
His heart warmed when he saw her laugh at the witticisms in his play, at the farcical plot.
 
When the curtain dropped, she was the first to surge to her feet and clap her hands, beaming with obvious pride.
 

Blushing, Verne pretended to be humbled by the applause and adulation of his former townspeople.
 
But it didn’t last.

#

Though it was a gloomy autumn day in Paris, Verne felt confined and stifled inside his chill room.
 
He decided to eat his lunch outside, despite the rain.

Though safely back among the literary salons and the intelligentsia, he continued to be troubled by unsettled digestion.
 
As a student on a meager budget (much of which went to purchase books and library services), Verne ate far too much cabbage soup and far too little meat.
 
After his success in the Nantes playhouse, he had hoped for a bit more extravagance and luxury in his life, but so far he had seen none of it.

After buttoning his thin coat, Verne gathered a broken half of stale baguette he’d bought at discount the day before and the dregs of a cheap bottle of wine.
 
Not quite the same as when he’d dined at Monte Cristo with Alexandre Dumas. . . .