“Without seeking to know who you are, sir,” I said, “I may remark that you are an artist.”
“An amateur, no more; I like to collect these beautiful specimens of human workmanship. I was a great collector at one time, and have been able to obtain some works of great value. These are the last souvenirs of the earth which is now dead to me. To my eyes, your modern artists cannot compare with the old masters, who have two or three thousand years’ existence, and I confuse them. They have no ‘age.’”
“And these musicians?” said I, pointing out works of Weber, Rossini, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Herold, Wagner, Auber, Gounod, and others, scattered upon a piano-organ, which filled up one of the panels of the room.
“Those musicians,” replied Captain Nemo, “are the contemporaries of Orpheus, for chronological difficulties are passed over in the memories of dead men; and I am dead, equally dead as any of your friends lying six feet under ground.”
He ceased speaking, and appeared plunged in a profound reverie. I gazed at him with emotion, analysing his features in silence. Leaning against a beautiful Mosaic table, he was quite unconscious of my presence.
I respectfully recalled his attention, and we continued to inspect the curiosities of the salon.
After the works of art, the rare natural specimens held the most important position. They consisted chiefly of plants, shells, and other productions of the ocean, which Captain Nemo had himself picked up. In
