Journey to the Centre of the Earth

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t appeal to me very much. What’s interesting in Iceland isn’t above ground but underneath.’

  I went out and roamed about at random.

  It would have been hard for me to lose my way in the two streets which make up Reykjavik. I therefore had no need to ask for directions, something which easily leads to misunderstanding when the language of gestures is used.

  The town stretches along some low, marshy ground between two hills. A huge bed of lava lies on one side of it and slopes gently towards the sea. On the other side extends the vast Faxa Bay, shut in at the north by the enormous Sneffels glacier and of which the Valkyrie was the only occupant just then. Usually the English and French fishery protection vessels are anchored in this bay, but at the time they were on duty off the eastern coasts of the island.

  The longer of Reykjavik’s two streets runs parallel with the shore; here the merchants and shopkeepers live in wooden cabins made of red beams laid horizontally. The other street, more to the west, leads towards a little lake between the Bishop’s house and the houses of the other people not involved in trade.

  I had soon walked the whole length of these sad, dismal streets; here and there I caught a glimpse of a patch of faded turf, looking like an old woollen carpet worn threadbare by use, or else a sort of kitchen garden, whose sparse vegetables – potatoes, cabbages, and lettuces – would have figured appropriately on a Lilliputian table. There were also a few sickly looking wallflowers trying to obtain a little sunshine.

  About the middle of the non-commercial street, I found the public cemetery, enclosed by a mud wall and with plenty of room in it.

  Then, a few yards farther on, I came to the Governor’s house, a hovel compared to the town hall of Hamburg, a palace in comparison with the cabins of the Icelandic population.

  Between the little lake and the town there stood the church, built in the Protestant style out of calcined stones provided by the volcanoes at their own expense; in high westerly winds it was obvious that the red tiles of its roof would take to the air, to the peril of the congregation.

  On a neighbouring hill I saw the national school, where, as I was later informed by our host, the pupils were taught Hebrew, English, French, and Danish, four languages of which, to my shame, I did not know a single word. If I had gone to that school, I should have been the last of its forty pupils, and unworthy to sleep with them in their little double closets where more delicate children would have died of suffocation on the very first night.

  In three hours I had seen everything there was to see, not only in the town itself but also in its environs. The view was remarkably dreary. No trees, and indeed scarcely any vegetation. Everywhere the bare bones of volcanic rocks. The Icelanders’ huts are made of earth and peat, with their walls sloping inwards so that they look like roofs resting on the ground. But these roofs are fields, and comparatively fertile fields at that. Because of the warmth inside, grass grows on them quite thickly, and at haymaking time it is carefully mown, for otherwise the domestic animals would come and graze on these verdant dwellings.

  During my walk I met few people. Returning to the main street, I found the greater part of the population busy drying, salting, and loading cod, their chief export. The men looked robust but clumsy, like fair-haired Germans with pensive eyes, conscious of being somewhat apart from the rest of mankind, poor exiles relegated to this land of ice and whom Nature should have made Eskimoes, seeing that she condemned them to live on the edge of the Arctic Circle. I tried in vain to detect a smile on their lips; now and then their facial muscles contracted in a sort of laugh, but they never smiled.

  Their costume consisted of a coarse jersey made of a black wool known in the Scandinavian countries as vadmel, a broad-brimmed hat, trousers with a red stripe, and a piece of folded leather by way of footwear.

  The women, who had sad, resigned faces, quite pretty but expressionless, were dressed in bodices and skirts of dark vadmel; the girls wore a little knitted brown cap over their plaited hair while the married women covered their heads with a coloured handkerchief, with a piece of white linen on top.

  After a good walk, I returned to Mr Fridriksson’s house, where I found my uncle in company with his host.

  10

  Our First Dinner in Iceland

  Dinner was ready. Professor Lidenbrock did full justice to it, for his compulsory fast on board had turned his stomach into an unfathomable gulf. There was nothing remarkable about the meal itself, which was more Danish than Icelandic; but our host, who was more Icelandic than Danish, reminded me of the hospitable heroes of old. It was obvious that we were more at home than he was himself.

  The conversation was in the vernacular, but my uncle put in some German and Mr Fridriksson some Latin so that I should understand. It was chiefly concerned with scientific questions, as befitted a couple of savants, but Professor Lidenbrock was extremely reserved, and with every sentence his eyes enjoined absolute silence on me as to our plans.

  First of all Mr Fridriksson asked my uncle how his research at the library had gone.

  ‘Your library!’ exclaimed the Professor. ‘Why, it consists of nothing but a few odd books on almost empty shelves.’

  ‘What!’ replied Mr Fridriksson. ‘But we have eight thousand volumes, many of them valuable and rare, both works in the old Scandinavian language and all the latest books which Copenhagen sends us every year.’

  ‘How do you make out that there are eight thousand volumes? As far as I could see …’

  ‘Oh, Professor Lidenbrock, they are all over the country. On our old icy island people are fond of study. There isn’t a single farmer or fisherman who can’t read and doesn’t read. We believe that books, instead of mouldering behind an iron grating, far from inquisitive gazes, should be worn out under the eyes of a great many readers. Consequently these volumes are passed from one person to another, and often return to their shelves only after an absence of a year or two.’

  ‘And in the meantime,’ said my uncle rather crossly, ‘foreigners …’

  ‘What can you expect? Foreigners have their own libraries at home, and, after all, the important thing is that our peasants should be educated. As I have already said, the love of study is in our blood. In 1816, for instance, we founded a literary society which has done very well; foreign savants pride themselves on belonging to it; and it publishes books to educate our compatriots and does great services to the country. If you would agree to be one of our corresponding members, Professor Lidenbrock, you would give us the greatest pleasure.’

  My uncle, who already belonged to about a hundred learned societies, accepted with a good grace which obviously touched Mr Fridriksson.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘will you be kind enough to tell me what books you hoped to find in our library, and I may perhaps be able to tell you something about them?’

  I looked at my uncle. He hesitated before replying. This question went to the heart of his plans. However, after a moment’s reflection he decided to speak.

  ‘Mr Fridriksson,’ he said, ‘I wanted to know whether, among your old books, you had those of Arne Saknussemm.’

  ‘Arne Saknussemm!’ replied the Reykjavik teacher. ‘You mean the sixteenth-century savant who was at one and the same time a great naturalist, a great alchemist, and a great traveller?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘One of the glories of Icelandic literature and science?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘A most illustrious man?’

  ‘I grant you that.’

  ‘And whose courage matched his genius?’

  ‘I see that you know him well.’

  My uncle was clearly delighted to hear his hero spoken of in this way. His eyes were fixed on Mr Fridriksson.

  ‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what about his works?’

  ‘Oh, his works … We haven’t got them.’

  ‘What – not in Iceland?’

  ‘They aren’t to be found in Iceland or anywhere else.’
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  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because Arne Saknussemm was persecuted for heresy and in 1573 his works were burnt by the common hangman at Copenhagen.’

  ‘Excellent! Splendid!’ cried my uncle, to the horror of the Icelandic schoolmaster.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, that explains everything. It all ties up. It’s all quite clear. Now I see why Saknussemm, put on the Index and forced to hide the discoveries due to his genius, was obliged to hide his secret in an incomprehensible cryptogram …’

  ‘What secret?’ asked Mr Fridriksson, his interest aroused.

  ‘A secret which … whose …’ stammered my uncle.

  ‘Have you some secret document in your possession?’ asked our host.

  ‘No … I was just making a supposition, a pure supposition.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Mr Fridriksson, who was kind enough not to press the point when he saw the Professor’s embarrassment. ‘I hope,’ he added, ‘you won’t leave our island without seeing some of its mineralogical wealth.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ replied my uncle; ‘but I have arrived rather late in the day. I presume other savants have been here before me?’

  ‘Yes, Professor Lidenbrock. The researches carried out by Messrs Olafsen and Povelsen on the King’s instructions, Troil’s field-work, the scientific mission of Messrs Gaimard and Robert based on the French corvette La Recherche, and the recent observations made by the scientists from the frigate La Reine Hortense have greatly added to our knowledge of Iceland. But, believe me, there is still plenty to do.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked my uncle with an innocent air, trying to hide the gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, yes. There are so many mountains, glaciers, and volcanoes to be studied, about which hardly anything is known. Why, to go no farther, look at that mountain you can see on the horizon. That is Sneffels.’

  ‘Ah!’ said my uncle. ‘Sneffels.’

  ‘Yes, one of the most interesting volcanoes, with a crater which is seldom visited.’

  ‘Is it extinct?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It has been extinct for the past five hundred years.’

  ‘Well,’ my uncle went on, frantically crossing his legs to keep himself from jumping into the air, ‘I think I should like to begin my geological studies with that Seffel … Fessel … What do you call it?’

  ‘Sneffels,’ replied the worthy Mr Fridriksson.

  This part of the conversation had been in Latin, so I had understood it all. I could scarcely conceal my amusement at seeing my uncle’s attempts to suppress his obvious elation; he kept trying to assume an innocent expression which looked more like a diabolical grin.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘what you say gives me an idea. We shall try to climb that mountain and perhaps even study its crater.’

  ‘I am very sorry,’ said Mr Fridriksson, ‘that my duties don’t allow me to leave the town; otherwise I would have accompanied you with both pleasure and profit to myself.’

  ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ my uncle replied hurriedly. ‘We wouldn’t dream of disturbing anybody, Mr Fridriksson. Thank you very much all the same. The company of a learned man such as yourself would have been extremely useful, but your professional duties …’

  I only hope that our host, in the innocence of his Icelandic soul, did not understand my uncle’s heavy irony.

  ‘Professor Lidenbrock,’ he said, ‘I thoroughly approve of your decision to begin with that volcano. You will garner a rich harvest of interesting observations there. But tell me, how do you expect to get to the Sneffels peninsula?’

  ‘By sea, by crossing the bay. That’s the shortest route.’

  ‘No doubt it is; but it’s impossible to take it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we haven’t got a single rowing-boat at Reykjavik.’

  ‘The devil you haven’t!’

  ‘You will have to go by land, following the coastline. It will take longer, but it will be more interesting.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see about getting a guide.’

  ‘I have one I can offer you.’

  ‘A reliable, intelligent man?’

  ‘Yes, a man who lives on the peninsula. He’s an eider hunter and an able fellow. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with him. He speaks perfect Danish too.’

  ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘Tomorrow, if you like.’

  ‘Why not today?’

  ‘Because he won’t be here till tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ said my uncle with a sigh.

  This momentous conversation ended a few minutes later with the German professor expressing his warmest thanks to his Icelandic colleague. In the course of this dinner my uncle had learnt some important things, including the story of Saknussemm, the reason for the mysterious nature of his document, the fact that his host would not be accompanying him on his expedition, and the information that the very next day he would have a guide at his disposal.

  11

  Our Guide Hans

  In the evening I went for a short walk on the beach, returning early to go to bed on my plank bed, where I slept soundly all night.

  When I awoke I heard my uncle talking volubly in the next room. I got up straight away and quickly joined him.

  He was chatting in Danish with a big, strapping fellow, who was obviously uncommonly strong. His eyes, set in a large, ingenuous face, were a dreamy blue and struck me as very intelligent. Long hair, which would have been called red even in England, fell over his athletic shoulders. This Icelander was supple in his movements, but he did not move his arms very much, like a man who knew or cared nothing of the language of gestures. Everything about him indicated a perfectly calm temperament, not indolent but peaceful. You could see at a glance that he asked nothing of anybody, that he worked as it suited him, and that nothing in this world could astonish or disturb his philosophy of life.

  I gathered more about his character from the way in which he listened to the Professor’s excited verbiage. He stood there with his arms folded, motionless in the face of my uncle’s wild gesticulations; to express the negative, his head turned from left to right; for the affirmative it bent forward – and that so slightly that his long hair barely moved. He carried economy of movement to the point of avarice.

  Certainly I should never have guessed from looking at this man that he was a hunter; admittedly he would not frighten the game, but how could he ever get near it?

  The mystery was explained when Mr Fridriksson told me that this calm person only hunted the eider, a bird whose plumage constitutes the chief wealth of the island. This plumage is known, in fact, as eiderdown, and no great expenditure of movement is required to obtain it.

  In early summer the female, a sort of pretty duck, goes and builds her nest among the rocks of the fjords with which the coast is fringed. After building this nest she lines it with fine feathers which she plucks from her belly. Then the hunter, or rather the trader, arrives and takes the nest, and the female starts her work all over again. This goes on as long as she has any down left. When she has stripped herself bare, the male takes his turn to pluck himself. But as his feathers are hard and coarse and have no commercial value, the hunter does not bother to take his nest. The female accordingly lays her eggs, the young hatch out, and the next year the harvesting of the eiderdown begins again.

  Now, as the eider does not pick steep cliffs on which to build her nest, but rather those smooth, terraced rocks which slope into the sea, the Icelandic hunter can pursue his occupation without undue exertion. He is a farmer who has no need to sow or cut his harvest, but simply has to gather it in.

  This grave, phlegmatic, silent individual was called Hans Bjelke, and he came recommended by Mr Fridriksson. He was to be our guide.

  His ways formed a great contrast with my uncle’s but they got on very well together. Neither of them worried about terms: the one was ready to accept what he was offered, the other to offer what he was asked. Never was a bargain more easily concl
uded.

  Under this agreement Hans undertook to guide us to the village of Stapi, on the south shore of the Sneffels peninsula, at the very foot of the volcano. The distance by land was about twenty-two miles, which my uncle reckoned we could cover in two days. But when he discovered that the Danish mile was eight thousand yards long he was obliged to revise his calculations and allow seven or eight days for the journey.

  We were to have four horses – one each for my uncle and myself, and two for our luggage. Hans, as was his custom, was to go on foot. He knew that part of the coast perfectly, and he promised to take us the shortest way.

  His engagement with my uncle did not come to an end with our arrival at Stapi: he was to continue in his service for the whole period of his scientific researches, in return for three rix-dollars a week, but it was expressly stipulated that this sum should be paid to the guide every Saturday evening, a condition which he regarded as a sine qua non of the engagement.

  The start was fixed for 16 June. My uncle wanted to pay the hunter a sum in advance, but he refused with a single word.

  ‘Efter,’ he said.

  ‘After,’ said the Professor, for my edification.

  Once the agreement had been concluded, Hans promptly withdrew.

  ‘A splendid fellow,’ exclaimed my uncle, ‘but he little knows what a wonderful part he is going to play in the future!’

  ‘So he’s coming with us to …’

  ‘Yes, Axel, to the centre of the earth.’

  Forty-eight hours remained until our departure; to my great regret I had to spend them on our preparations. All our ingenuity was devoted to packing every article to the best advantage: instruments here, arms there, tools in this package, provisions in that – four sets of parcels in all.

  The instruments consisted of:

  1. An Eigel Centigrade thermometer, reading up to 150°, which seemed to me either too high or too low. Too high if the temperature of the air was to rise so far, for in that case we should be baked to death. Too low if it was to take the temperature of hot springs or other melted matter.