But this time, instead of an extinct volcano like Sneffels, we were inside a fully active one. I therefore began wondering where this mountain could be, and in what part of the world we were going to be shot out.
I had no doubt that it would be in some northern region. Before it had gone mad the compass needle had consistently indicated that we were heading in that direction. From Cape Saknussemm we had been carried due north for hundreds of miles. Had we returned under Iceland? Were we going to be shot out of the crater of Hecla or one of the seven other volcanoes on the island? Within a radius of 1,500 miles I could think of nothing to the west, in that latitude, but the little-known volcanoes on the north-east coast of America. To the east, there was only one, Esk, in Jan Mayen’s Land, not far from Spitzbergen. Certainly there was no lack of craters, and some of them were big enough to spew out a whole army. But what I wanted to know was which of them was going to serve us as an exit.
Towards morning our upward movement was accelerated. If the temperature was increasing, instead of diminishing, as we drew nearer to the surface of the earth, this was purely a local phenomenon due to volcanic activity. Our means of ascent left me with no doubts about that. An enormous force, a force of several hundred atmospheres, generated by the vapours accumulated in the bowels of the earth, was pushing us irresistibly upwards. But to what countless dangers it exposed us!
Soon lurid lights began to appear in the vertical gallery, which was growing wider; on both right and left I noticed deep corridors like huge tunnels from which thick clouds of vapour were pouring, while crackling tongues of flame were licking their walls.
‘Look, look, Uncle!’ I cried.
‘Those are just sulphurous flames. Nothing could be more natural in an eruption.’
‘But what if they envelop us?’
‘They won’t envelop us.’
‘But what if we are suffocated?’
‘We shan’t be suffocated, the shaft is getting wider, and if necessary we’ll leave the raft and take shelter in some crevice.’
‘And what about the rising water?’
‘There’s no water left, Axel, but a sort of lava paste which is carrying us up with it to the mouth of the crater.’
The liquid column had indeed disappeared, giving place to fairly solid, though boiling, eruptive matter. The temperature was becoming unbearable, and if we had had a thermometer it would have registered over 70°C I was bathed in sweat. If we had not been rising so fast, we should undoubtedly have been suffocated.
However, the Professor did not put into practice his idea of abandoning the raft, and it was just as well. However roughly joined together they were, those few beams provided us with a solid surface and a firm support which we could not have found anywhere else.
About eight in the morning a fresh incident occurred for the first time. The ascent suddenly stopped and the raft lay absolutely motionless.
‘What is it?’ I asked, shaken by this sudden stoppage.
‘A halt,’ replied my uncle.
‘Is the eruption calming down?’
‘I sincerely hope not.’
I stood up and tried to look around me. Perhaps the raft had caught on a projection and was momentarily checking the eruptive mass. If so it was essential to release it as quickly as possible.
But this was not the case. The column of ashes, cinders, and rocks had itself ceased to rise.
‘Has the eruption stopped?’ I cried.
‘Ah,’ said my uncle, gritting his teeth, ‘you are afraid it has, aren’t you, my boy? But don’t worry, this lull is only temporary. It has already lasted five minutes, and before long we shall be resuming our journey towards the mouth of the crater.’
While he was speaking the Professor kept his eye on his chronometer, and once again he was to be proved right. Soon the raft started moving again, and rose swiftly but jerkily for about two minutes. Then it stopped once more.
‘Good,’ said my uncle, noting the time. ‘Ten minutes from now it will start again.’
‘Ten minutes?’
‘Yes. This is a volcano with an intermittent eruption. It lets us draw breath every now and then at the same time as itself.’
This was perfectly true. At the given moment we were shot upwards again at tremendous speed, and we had to cling to the beams to avoid being flung off the raft. Then the thrust stopped.
I have since thought about this strange phenomenon without being able to find a satisfactory explanation of it. All the same, it seems clear to me that we were not in the main shaft of the volcano, but in a lateral gallery where a sort of recoil effect was produced.
How many times this happened I cannot say. All I know is that at each fresh impulse we were sent upwards with increased force as if we were on an actual projectile. During the short halts we were nearly suffocated; and while we were moving the burning air took my breath away. I thought for a moment of the bliss of suddenly finding myself in the polar regions at a temperature of 30° below zero. My excited imagination pictured the snowy plains of the arctic countries, and I longed for the moment when I should be able to roll on the icy carpet of the Pole. Little by little, in fact, my brain, weakened by so many repeated shocks, was giving way. But for Hans’s arms, my skull would have been broken more than once against the granite wall.
I have therefore no clear recollection of what happened during the following hours, but just a vague impression of continuous explosions, shifting rocks, and a spinning movement in which our raft was whirled around. It rocked about on waves of lava, in the midst of a rain of ashes. Roaring flames enveloped it. A hurricane which seemed as if it came from a huge pair of bellows was keeping up the subterranean fires. For the last time I caught a glimpse of Hans’s face in the light of the flames, and after that the only feeling I had was the terror of a condemned man tied to the mouth of a cannon, just as the shot is fired and his limbs are scattered to the winds.
44
Back to the Surface
When I opened my eyes again I felt the guide’s strong hand holding my belt. With his other hand he was supporting my uncle. I was not seriously injured, but simply bruised all over. I found myself lying on a mountain slope, only a few feet from an abyss into which I would have fallen at the slightest movement. Hans had saved my life while I was rolling down the side of the crater.
‘Where are we?’ asked my uncle, who seemed to be extremely annoyed at being back on the surface of the earth.
The guide shrugged his shoulders to express complete ignorance.
‘In Iceland,’ I said.
‘Nej!’ retorted Hans.
‘What, not in Iceland?’ cried the Professor.
‘Hans must be wrong,’ I said, sitting up.
After the countless surprises of our journey, one more had been reserved for us. I expected to see a cone covered with perpetual snow, in the midst of the barren deserts of the north, under the pale rays of the polar sky, and beyond the highest latitudes; but contrary to all these expectations, my uncle, the Icelander, and I were lying half-way down a mountain baked by the rays of a scorching sun.
I could not believe my eyes, but the absolute roasting to which my body was being subjected left no room for doubt. We had come out of the crater half-naked, and the radiant orb, from which we had demanded nothing for two months, was lavishing a fierce light on us.
When my eyes had grown accustomed to this brilliance with which they had become unfamiliar, I used them to rectify the errors of my imagination. I wanted to be at Spitzbergen at the very least, and I was in no mood to accept anything else.
The Professor was the first to speak up, saying:
‘It certainly doesn’t look like Iceland.’
‘What about Jan Mayen’s Land?’ I asked.
‘It doesn’t look like that either, my boy. This isn’t a northern volcano with granite slopes and a skull-cap of snow.’
‘All the same …’
‘Look, Axel, look!’
Above our heads, not more
than five hundred feet up, there was a volcano, through which, every quarter of an hour, with a loud explosion, there emerged a tall column of flame, mingled with pumice-stones, ashes, and lava. I could feel the convulsions of the mountain, which seemed to be breathing like a whale, and puffing out fire and air through its huge blowers. Below us, on a fairly steep slope, streams of eruptive matter stretched for a distance of seven or eight hundred feet, giving the mountain a height of about 1,800 feet. Its base was hidden in a regular bower of green trees, among which I made out olives, figs, and vines laden with purple grapes.
I had to admit that this was not at all an arctic scene.
When one’s gaze passed beyond this green girdle, it plunged away into the waters of an exquisite sea or lake, in which this enchanted land appeared as an island barely a few miles wide. To the east there was a little harbour, with a few houses scattered around it, and some ships of a peculiar kind rocking on its blue waves. Beyond it, some groups of islets rose from the liquid plain in such numbers that they looked like a vast ant-heap. To the west, distant coasts lined the horizon; on some of them gently curving mountains were silhouetted; on others, farther away, there appeared a lofty cone with a waving plume of smoke. In the north, an immense sheet of water sparkled in the rays of the sun, its expanse broken here and there by the top of a mast or the curve of a sail swelling in the wind.
The unexpectedness of such a sight increased its wonderful beauty a hundredfold.
‘Where are we? Where are we?’ I kept asking in a murmur.
Hans closed his eyes with indifference, while my uncle gazed uncomprehendingly.
‘Whatever this mountain may be,’ he said at last, ‘it’s rather hot here. The explosions are still going on, and it would be a pity to come safely out of a volcano just to be hit on the head with a piece of rock. Let us go down, and then we shall know where we stand. Besides, I am dying of hunger and thirst.’
The Professor was definitely not a contemplative character. For my part, forgetting all my needs and fatigue, I could have stayed in that spot for hours, but I had to follow my companions.
The sides of the volcano were extremely steep; we kept slipping into regular quagmires of ash, trying to avoid the streams of lava which wound down the mountain like fiery serpents. As we went down, I chattered away volubly, for my imagination was too full not to spill over in words.
‘We are in Asia,’ I cried, ‘on the Indian coast, in the Malay Archipelago, in Oceania! We have gone across the globe and come out at the antipodes of Europe.’
‘But what about the compass?’ said my uncle.
‘Yes, of course, the compass,’ I said with a puzzled air. ‘According to the compass, we have been travelling north all the time.’
‘Then was it lying?’
‘Lying? No, how could it?’
‘Then is this North Pole?’
‘The Pole? No, but …’
There was a mystery here, and I did not know what to think.
Meanwhile we were getting nearer to that greenery which was such a treat for the eyes. I was tormented by hunger and thirst. Fortunately, after walking for two hours, we reached a lovely stretch of country, entirely covered with olive trees, pomegranate trees, and vines which seemed to be common property. At any rate, in our state of destitution we were in no mood to be overscrupulous. What a joy it was to press that delicious fruit to our lips, and to bite off whole clusters of those purple grapes! Not far off, in the delightful grassy shade of the trees, I found a spring of fresh water, into which we joyfully plunged our faces and hands.
While we were enjoying the delights of repose in this way, a child appeared between two clumps of olive-trees.
‘Ah!’ I cried. A native of this happy land!’
He was a poor boy, wretchedly clothed, rather sickly-looking, and apparently greatly alarmed by our appearance; indeed, half-naked, with unkempt hair and beards, we looked anything but prepossessing, and unless this was a country of robbers we were likely to terrify the inhabitants.
Just as the boy was about to take to his heels, Hans ran after him and brought him back to us, kicking and screaming.
My uncle began by doing his best to reassure him, and asked him in German:
‘What is the name of this mountain, my boy?’
The child made no reply.
‘Good,’ said my uncle, ‘we are not in Germany.’
He then put the same question in English.
The child still did not answer. I was extremely puzzled.
‘Is the boy dumb?’ cried the Professor, who, very proud of his command of languages, repeated his question in French.
The same silence.
‘Then let’s try Italian,’ said my uncle, and he asked:
‘Dove noi siamo?’
‘Yes, where are we?’ I repeated impatiently.
The boy still made no reply.
‘Will you answer when you’re spoken to?’ cried my uncle, beginning to lose his temper and shaking the child by the ears.
‘Come si noma questa isola?’
‘Stromboli,’ replied the little shepherd-boy, slipping out of Hans’s grasp and running off to the plain through the olive trees.
We gave no thought to him. Stromboli! What an effect this unexpected name produced on my imagination! We were in the middle of the Mediterranean, in the heart of the Aeolian archipelago of mythological memory, in that ancient Strongyle where Aeolus kept the winds and storms on a chain. And those blue mountains in the east were the mountains of Calabria! And that volcano on the southern horizon was none other than the fierce and frightening Etna!
‘Stromboli! Stromboli!’ I repeated.
My uncle accompanied me with his words and gestures, so that we seemed to be singing a chorus.
Oh, what a journey! What a wonderful journey! We had gone in by one volcano and come out by another, and this other was more than three thousand miles from Sneffels, from that barren country of Iceland at the far limits of the inhabited world! The chances of our expedition had carried us into the heart of the most beautiful part of the world! We had exchanged the region of perpetual snow for that of infinite verdure, and the grey fog of the icy north for the blue skies of Sicily!
After our delicious meal of fruit and cold water, we set off again in the direction of the port of Stromboli. It seemed to us that it would be unwise to say how we had arrived on the island: the superstitious Italians would undoubtedly take us to be demons vomited out of hell, so we resigned ourselves to passing ourselves off as victims of a shipwreck. This was not so glorious but far safer.
On the way I heard my uncle murmuring:
‘But the compass! The compass! It pointed north! How can we explain that fact?’
‘Good Lord,’ I said disdainfully, ‘the best thing to do is not to explain it. That’s the simplest solution.’
‘What! A professor at the Johannaeum unable to explain a cosmic phenomenon! The idea is positively disgraceful!’
And as he spoke, my uncle, half-naked, with his leather money-belt round his waist, and settling his spectacles on his nose, became once more the awe-inspiring professor of mineralogy.
An hour after leaving the olive grove, we reached the port of San Vicenzo, where Hans claimed his thirteenth week’s wages, which were counted out to him with hearty handshakes all round.
At that moment, if he did not altogether share our very natural emotion, at least he gave vent to an extraordinary display of feeling: he gently pressed our hands with the tips of his fingers, and began to smile.
45
Home Again
Such is the conclusion of a story which even those people who pride themselves on being astonished at nothing will refuse to believe. But I am hardened in advance against human incredulity.
We were received by the Stromboli fishermen with the kindness due to the victims of shipwreck. They gave us food and clothing, and after waiting forty-eight hours, a small craft took us on 31 August to Messina, where a few days’ rest remove
d every trace of fatigue.
On Friday, 4 September, we embarked on the Volturno, one of the French Imperial packet-boats, and three days later landed at Marseilles, with nothing on our minds but the problem of our wretched compass. The mystery of its inexplicable behaviour plagued me all the time. In the evening of 9 September we arrived at Hamburg.
I cannot hope to describe Martha’s astonishment and Gräuben’s joy at our return.
‘Now that you are a hero, Axel,’ my dear fiancée said to me, ‘you will never need to leave me again.’
I looked at her, and she smiled through her tears.
I leave the reader to imagine whether Professor Lidenbrock’s return caused a sensation in Hamburg. As a result of Martha’s gossiping, the news of his departure for the centre of the earth had spread all over the world. People had refused to believe it, and when they saw him again they did not believe it any the more.
However, the presence of Hans and various pieces of information from Iceland gradually modified public opinion.
My uncle then became a great man, and I the nephew of a great man, which is not something to be despised. Hamburg gave a banquet in our honour. A public meeting was held at the Johannaeum, at which the Professor told the story of his expedition, leaving nothing out but the mystery of the compass. On the same day he deposited Saknussemm’s document in the city archives, and expressed his deep regret that circumstances, stronger than his will, had prevented him from following in the Dane’s footsteps to the very centre of the earth. He was modest in his glory, and his reputation grew as a result.
So much honour inevitably aroused envy. There were some who could not forgive him his fame; and as his theories, based on established facts, contradicted scientific doctrine on the question of the central fire, he was obliged to engage in oral and written controversy with scientists all over the world.