Journey to the Centre of the Earth

  We had remained motionless and stupefied. But he might see us; we must take to our heels.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ I cried, pulling my uncle, who for the first time in his life allowed himself to be persuaded.

  A quarter of an hour later we were out of sight of that redoubtable enemy.

  Now that I can think about it unemotionally, now that I am quite calm again, now that months have gone by since that strange, extraordinary encounter, what am I to think, what am I to believe? Was it a man we saw? No, that is impossible! Our senses were deceived, our eyes did not see what we thought they saw. No human being could exist in that subterranean world; no generation of men could live in those deep caverns of the globe, caring nothing about the inhabitants of its surface and having no communication with them. The very idea is insane!

  I would rather believe that it was some animal whose build resembles that of a human being, some monkey of the early geological ages, some protopitheca or mesopitheca like the one Monsieur Lartet discovered in the ossiferous cave at Sansan. But the creature we saw surpassed in stature all the measurements known to modern palaeontology. Never mind! It must have been a monkey, however improbable that may seem. The idea that a man, a living man, and with him a whole generation, should be buried down there in the bowels of the earth is unacceptable.

  We left the bright, luminous forest, dumb with astonishment, overwhelmed by an amazement which bordered on stupefaction. We ran in spite of ourselves. It was a positive rout, similar to those horrible flights which occur in nightmares. Instinctively we made our way towards the Lidenbrock Sea, and I cannot say what vagaries my mind would have indulged in if a particular preoccupation had not repeatedly brought me back to practical matters.

  Although I was certain that we were treading ground on which we had not set foot before, I kept noticing groups of rocks whose shape reminded me of those at Port Gräuben. This, of course, seemed to confirm the indication given by the compass that we had involuntarily returned to the north coast of the Lidenbrock Sea. Occasionally there seemed to be no doubt about it. Hundreds of brooks and waterfalls were tumbling from the projections of the rocks. I thought I recognized the layer of surturbrand, our faithful Hansbach, and the grotto in which I had returned to life and consciousness. Then, a few paces farther on, the arrangement of the cliffs, the appearance of a stream, or the surprising outline of a rock plunged me back into doubt.

  I told my uncle about my bewilderment. Like myself he was undecided: he could not find his bearings in this uniform panorama.

  ‘Clearly,’ I said to him, ‘we haven’t landed at our point of departure, but the storm has carried us a little farther down, and if we follow the coast we shall probably come to Port Gräuben.’

  ‘In that case,’ said my uncle, ‘it is no use our continuing with our exploration, and the best thing to do would be to return to the raft. But are you sure you are right, Axel?’

  ‘It’s hard to be sure, Uncle, because all these rocks are so much alike. But I think I can recognize the promontory at the foot of which Hans built the raft. We must be near the little port, if indeed this isn’t it,’ I added, examining a creek which I thought looked familiar.

  ‘No, Axel, we should at least find our own traces, and I can see nothing …’

  ‘But I can!’ I cried, rushing towards an object which was shining on the sand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This!’ I replied.

  And I showed my uncle a rusty dagger which I had just picked up.

  ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘So you had this weapon with you?’

  ‘I hadn’t. But you …’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said the Professor. ‘I have never had this object in my possession.’

  ‘Well, that’s very strange.’

  ‘No, Axel, it’s perfectly simple. The Icelanders often carry weapons of this kind. This belongs to Hans, and he must have dropped it.’

  I shook my head. Hans had never had that dagger with him.

  ‘Did it belong to some antediluvian warrior then?’ I cried. ‘To a living man, a contemporary of that gigantic shepherd? But no. This isn’t a weapon of the Stone Age, or even of the Iron Age. This blade is steel …’

  My uncle cut short this new train of thought and said in his coldest voice:

  ‘Calm down, Axel, and think. This dagger is a sixteenth-century weapon, a real poniard such as gentlemen carried in their belts to give the coup de grâce. It belongs neither to you, nor to me, nor to our guide, nor even to the human beings who may inhabit the bowels of the earth.’

  ‘You mean to say …?’

  ‘Look, it didn’t get twisted like that by plunging into people’s throats; its blade is coated with a layer of rust that is more than a day, a year, or even a hundred years old!’

  The Professor was getting excited as usual, as he allowed his imagination to run away with him.

  ‘Axel,’ he went on, ‘we are on the way to a great discovery! This blade has remained on the sand here for one, two, three hundred years, and has been blunted on the rocks bordering this subterranean sea!’

  ‘But it didn’t get here by itself!’ I cried. ‘It didn’t twist itself out of shape! Somebody has been here before us!’

  ‘Yes, a man.’

  ‘And that man?’

  ‘That man has carved his name somewhere with this dagger. He wanted to indicate the way to the centre of the earth once more. Let us look around.’

  Tremendously excited, we skirted the high cliff, peering into every fissure which might lead into a gallery.

  Presently we reached a place where the beach narrowed; the sea almost came up to the foot of the cliffs, leaving a passage no wider than a couple of yards. Between two projecting rocks we caught sight of the entrance to a dark tunnel.

  There, on a slab of granite, appeared two mysterious letters, half eaten away by time – the two initials of the bold, adventurous traveller:

  ‘A.S.,’ cried my uncle. ‘Arne Saknussemm! Arne Saknussemm again!’

  40

  We Meet an Obstacle

  Since the beginning of our journey I had had so many surprises that I might be forgiven for thinking myself immune to astonishment and incapable of amazement. Yet at the sight of those two letters, carved there three hundred years before, I stood in utter stupefaction. Not only was the signature of the learned alchemist legible on the rock, but I held in my hand the dagger which had traced it. Without showing the most appalling bad faith, I could no longer doubt the existence of the traveller and the reality of his journey.

  While these thoughts were whirling about in my head, Professor Lidenbrock was indulging in a somewhat rhapsodical panegyric on Arne Saknussemm.

  ‘Marvellous genius,’ he cried, ‘you have neglected nothing which might open up to other mortals the road through the crust of the earth, and even now, after three centuries, your fellow humans can follow your footsteps through these subterranean passages. You have made it possible for other eyes besides your own to contemplate these wonders. Your name, engraved here and there, leads the traveller bold enough to follow you straight to his objective, and at the very centre of our planet it will be found again, inscribed by your own hand. Well, I too will sign my name on that last page of granite. As for this cape seen by you in this sea discovered by you, let it be known henceforth for ever as Cape Saknussemm!’

  This, or something like it, is what I heard, and I felt myself being infected by the enthusiasm which filled my uncle’s words. An inner fire was kindled again in my heart. I forgot everything, both the dangers of the journey and the perils of the return. What another had done I would do too, and nothing that was not superhuman appeared impossible to me.

  ‘Forward! Forward!’ I cried.

  I was already rushing towards the dark gallery when the Professor stopped me; he, the impulsive one, counselled patience and calm.

  ‘Let us go back to Hans first,’ he said, ‘and bring the raft to this spot.’

  I obeyed, not wi
thout a certain reluctance, and hurried off among the rocks on the shore.

  ‘Do you know, Uncle,’ I said as we walked along, ‘we have been singularly favoured by circumstances so far.’

  ‘You think so, Axel?’

  ‘Why yes. Even the storm has put us on the right path. Thank heaven for that storm! It brought us back to this coast, from which fine weather would have taken us far away. If we had landed on the south shore of the Lidenbrock Sea, what would have become of us? We should never have seen the name of Saknussemm, and at this moment we should be lost on a rockbound beach.’

  ‘Yes, Axel, there is something providential in the fact that, sailing south, we should have been carried north and reached Cape Saknussemm. I must say that it’s more than astonishing, and that I can’t find any explanation for it.’

  ‘Well, what does that matter? Our business is not to explain facts but to take advantage of them.’

  ‘You may be right, my boy, but …’

  ‘But now we are going to go north again, and pass under the northern countries of Europe, under Sweden, Russia, Siberia, and heaven knows where else, instead of burrowing under the deserts of Africa or the waves of the Atlantic; and that is all I want to know.’

  ‘Yes, Axel, you are right, and everything has worked out for the best, seeing that we are leaving this horizontal sea which could not lead us anywhere. Now we shall go down, and down, and down! Do you realize that we’re less than four thousand miles from the centre now?’

  ‘Is that all?’ I cried. ‘Why, that’s nothing. Let’s be on our way!’

  This crazy conversation was still going on when we rejoined the guide. Everything was ready for an immediate start; there was not a single package that had not been put on board. We took our places on the raft, the sail was hoisted, and Hans set his course along the coast for Cape Saknussemm.

  The wind was unfavourable for a craft that could not hug the shore, so in many places we were obliged to push ourselves along with our iron-shod sticks. Often the rocks, which were just below the surface of the water, forced us to make fairly long detours. Finally, after three hours at sea, that is about six in the evening, we reached the place where we could disembark.

  I jumped ashore, followed by my uncle and the Icelander. This short journey had not calmed my ardour. On the contrary, I actually suggested ‘burning our boats’ so as to cut off all possibility of retreat, but my uncle demurred. I thought him singularly lukewarm.

  ‘At least,’ I said, ‘let’s start without delay.’

  ‘Yes, my boy; but first of all let us examine this new gallery, to see if we shall need our ladders.’

  My uncle started up his Ruhmkorff apparatus. The raft, moored to the shore, was left by itself; in any case, the opening of the gallery was less than twenty yards away, and our little party, with myself at the head, made for it without a moment’s delay.

  The opening, which was roughly circular, was about five feet across; the dark tunnel plunged straight into the rock, smoothly bored by the eruptive matter which had once passed through it; the lower part was level with the ground outside, so that we were able to enter it without any difficulty.

  We were following an almost horizontal course when, after about half a dozen paces, our progress was interrupted by a huge block.

  ‘Damn this rock!’ I cried angrily, finding myself suddenly halted by an insurmountable obstacle.

  We searched in vain to right and left, up and down, for a way through; there was no chink. I was bitterly disappointed and refused to admit the reality of the obstacle. I bent down and looked underneath the block. There was no gap. Up above, there was the same barrier of granite. Hans passed the light of the lamp over every portion of the wall, but without revealing any gap. We had to abandon any hope of getting through.

  I sat down on the ground. My uncle strode up and down the passage.

  ‘But what about Saknussemm?’ I cried.

  ‘Yes,’ said my uncle, ‘does this mean he was stopped by this stone barrier?’

  ‘No, no!’ I exclaimed. ‘This piece of rock must have been loosened by some shock or by one of those magnetic storms which affect these regions, and suddenly blocked this passage. A good many years elapsed between Saknussemm’s return to the surface and the fall of this rock. Isn’t it obvious that this gallery was once a route taken by lava, and that at that time eruptive matter passed freely through it? Look, there are recent fissures furrowing this granite ceiling. The roof itself is made up of fragments of rock, of huge stones, as if some giant had built it; but one day the pressure on it was too great, and this block, like a falling keystone, slipped to the ground and blocked the way. It’s an accidental obstacle which Saknussemm didn’t meet; and if we don’t destroy it, we are unworthy to reach the centre of the earth!’

  That was how I spoke! The Professor’s soul had passed straight into me, and the spirit of discovery inspired me. I forgot the past and scorned the future. Nothing existed any longer for me on the surface of this globe into which I had penetrated, neither town nor country, nor Hamburg, nor the Königstrasse, nor even poor Gräuben, who must have given me up for lost in the bowels of the earth.

  ‘Well,’ said my uncle, ‘let us make our way through with our pickaxes.’

  ‘It’s too hard for pickaxes.’

  ‘Then our mattocks.’

  ‘That would take too long.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Why, gun-cotton of course! Let’s mine the obstacle and blow it up!’

  ‘Gun-cotton?’

  ‘Yes, it’s only a bit of rock to blast!’

  ‘Hans, to work!’ cried my uncle.

  The Icelander returned to the raft and soon came back with a pickaxe which he used to hollow out a hole for the charge. This was no easy task; he had to make a hole big enough to hold fifty pounds of gun-cotton, the explosive force of which is four times that of gunpowder.

  I was tremendously excited. While Hans was at work, I helped my uncle to prepare a slow match made of damp gunpowder in a linen tube.

  ‘We shall get through!’ I said.

  ‘We shall get through!’ repeated my uncle.

  By midnight our mining preparations were finished; the charge of gun-cotton was packed inside the hollow, and the slow match wound its way along the gallery to a point just outside.

  One spark would now be enough to set off the whole contraption.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said the Professor.

  I had no option but to resign myself to waiting another six long hours.

  41

  Down the Tunnel

  The next day, Thursday, 27 August, was a great date in our subterranean journey. I cannot recall it even now without feeling my heart beating with fear. From that time on, our reason, judgement, and ingenuity counted for nothing, and we became the playthings of the elements.

  At six o’clock we were up and about. The time had come to blast a way through the granite obstruction.

  I begged for the honour of lighting the fuse. Once I had done this, I was to join my companions on the raft, which had not yet been unloaded; then we were to put out to sea, to avoid the dangers of the explosion, whose effects might not be confined to the interior of the rock.

  According to our calculations the match would burn for ten minutes before setting fire to the gun-cotton, so I had enough time to reach the raft.

  I got ready to carry out my task, not without some emotion.

  After a hasty meal, my uncle and the guide embarked, while I remained on shore.

  ‘Off you go, my boy,’ said my uncle, ‘and come back and join us straight away.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied. ‘I won’t stop to play.’

  I promptly went to the mouth of the tunnel, opened my lantern, and picked up the end of the match.

  The Professor was holding his chronometer in his hand.

  ‘Ready?’ he called out.

  ‘Yes, I’m ready.’

  ‘Well, then, fire, my boy!’

  I plu
nged the end of the match into the flame, saw it light up, and ran back to the water’s edge.

  ‘Come on board,’ said my uncle, ‘and let’s push off.’

  With a vigorous shove, Hans sent the raft about sixty feet out to sea.

  It was an exciting moment. The Professor was watching the hand of the chronometer.

  ‘Another five minutes,’ he said. ‘Another four … Another three.’

  My pulse was beating half-seconds.

  ‘Another two … one … Now, you granite mountains, down you go!’

  What happened then? I don’t think I heard the noise of the explosion. But the shape of the rocks suddenly changed before my eyes; they opened like a curtain. I caught sight of a bottomless pit which appeared in the very shore. The sea, seized with a fit of giddiness, turned into a single enormous wave, on the ridge of which the raft stood up perpendicularly.

  All three of us were thrown flat on our faces. In less than a second the light was replaced by total darkness. Then I felt that not only I, but the raft too, had no support underneath. I thought it was sinking, but this was not the case. I wanted to speak to my uncle, but the roar of the water would have prevented him from hearing me.

  In spite of the darkness, noise, surprise, and terror, I realized what had happened.

  On the other side of the rock which had just blown up, there was an abyss. The explosion had caused a sort of earthquake in this much-fissured rock, the abyss had opened up, and the sea, turning into a torrent, was pouring into it and carrying us with it.

  I gave myself up for lost.

  An hour went by – two hours, perhaps – I cannot tell. We closed up and held each other’s hands, to save ourselves from being thrown off the raft. Violent shocks occurred whenever it struck the wall, but this did not happen often, from which I concluded that the gallery was widening considerably. This was undoubtedly the way Saknussemm had come; but instead of following by ourselves, we had, by our imprudence, brought a whole sea along with us.