Journey to the Center of the Earth E-Book

Jules Verne.

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The book has a lot of scientific component from various fields: geology, paleontology, botany, zoology, physics. But everything is very accessible and understandable. The plot focuses on a exploratory journey to the center of the earth through a volcano crater. The starting button for him was an encrypted message on half-decayed parchment. By happy coincidence, it fell into the hands of the famous and very gambling scientist. How could he remain indifferent? Of course not – such people do not miss the opportunity to discover something new and are not afraid of dangerous adventures.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER 1. MY UNCLE MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 2. THE MYSTERIOUS PARCHMENT

CHAPTER 3. AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 4. WE START ON THE JOURNEY

CHAPTER 5. FIRST LESSONS IN CLIMBING

CHAPTER 6. OUR VOYAGE TO ICELAND

CHAPTER 7. CONVERSATION AND DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 8. THE EIDER-DOWN HUNTER—OFF AT LAST

CHAPTER 9. OUR START—WE MEET WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY

CHAPTER 10. TRAVELING IN ICELAND

CHAPTER 11. WE REACH MOUNT SNEFFELS—THE "REYKIR"

CHAPTER 12. THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SNEFFELS

CHAPTER 13. THE SHADOW OF SCARTARIS

CHAPTER 14. THE REAL JOURNEY COMMENCES

CHAPTER 15. WE CONTINUE OUR DESCENT

CHAPTER 16. THE EASTERN TUNNEL

CHAPTER 17. DEEPER AND DEEPER—THE COAL MINE

CHAPTER 18. THE WRONG ROAD!

CHAPTER 19. THE WESTERN GALLERY—A NEW ROUTE

CHAPTER 20. WATER, WHERE IS IT? A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

CHAPTER 21. UNDER THE OCEAN

CHAPTER 22. SUNDAY BELOW GROUND

CHAPTER 23. ALONE

CHAPTER 24. LOST!

CHAPTER 25. THE WHISPERING GALLERY

CHAPTER 26. A RAPID RECOVERY

CHAPTER 27. THE CENTRAL SEA

CHAPTER 28. LAUNCHING THE RAFT

CHAPTER 29. ON THE WATERS—A RAFT VOYAGE

CHAPTER 30. TERRIFIC SAURIAN COMBAT

CHAPTER 31. THE SEA MONSTER

CHAPTER 32. THE BATTLE OF THE ELEMENTS

CHAPTER 33. OUR ROUTE REVERSED

CHAPTER 34. A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 35. DISCOVERY UPON DISCOVERY

CHAPTER 36. WHAT IS IT?

CHAPTER 37. THE MYSTERIOUS DAGGER

CHAPTER 38. NO OUTLET—BLASTING THE ROCK

CHAPTER 39. THE EXPLOSION AND ITS RESULTS

CHAPTER 40. THE APE GIGANS

CHAPTER 41. HUNGER

CHAPTER 42. THE VOLCANIC SHAFT

CHAPTER 43. DAYLIGHT AT LAST

CHAPTER 44. THE JOURNEY ENDED

CHAPTER 1

MY UNCLE MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY

Looking back to all that has occurred to me since that eventful day, I am scarcely able to believe in the reality of my adventures. They were truly so wonderful that even now I am bewildered when I think of them.

My uncle was a German, having married my mother’s sister, an Englishwoman. Being very much attached to his fatherless nephew, he invited me to study under him in his home in the fatherland. This home was in a large town, and my uncle a professor of philosophy, chemistry, geology, mineralogy, and many other ologies.

One day, after passing some hours in the laboratory–my uncle being absent at the time–I suddenly felt the necessity of renovating the tissues–i.e., I was hungry, and was about to rouse up our old French cook, when my uncle, Professor Von Hardwigg, suddenly opened the street door, and came rushing upstairs.

Now Professor Hardwigg, my worthy uncle, is by no means a bad sort of man; he is, however, choleric and original. To bear with him means to obey; and scarcely had his heavy feet resounded within our joint domicile than he shouted for me to attend upon him.

“Harry–Harry–Harry–”

I hastened to obey, but before I could reach his room, jumping three steps at a time, he was stamping his right foot upon the landing.

“Harry!” he cried, in a frantic tone, “are you coming up?”

Now to tell the truth, at that moment I was far more interested in the question as to what was to constitute our dinner than in any problem of science; to me soup was more interesting than soda, an omelette more tempting than arithmetic, and an artichoke of ten times more value than any amount of asbestos.

But my uncle was not a man to be kept waiting; so adjourning therefore all minor questions, I presented myself before him.

He was a very learned man. Now most persons in this category supply themselves with information, as peddlers do with goods, for the benefit of others, and lay up stores in order to diffuse them abroad for the benefit of society in general. Not so my excellent uncle, Professor Hardwigg; he studied, he consumed the midnight oil, he pored over heavy tomes, and digested huge quartos and folios in order to keep the knowledge acquired to himself.

There was a reason, and it may be regarded as a good one, why my uncle objected to display his learning more than was absolutely necessary: he stammered; and when intent upon explaining the phenomena of the heavens, was apt to find himself at fault, and allude in such a vague way to sun, moon, and stars that few were able to comprehend his meaning. To tell the honest truth, when the right word would not come, it was generally replaced by a very powerful adjective.

In connection with the sciences there are many almost unpronounceable names–names very much resembling those of Welsh villages; and my uncle being very fond of using them, his habit of stammering was not thereby improved. In fact, there were periods in his discourse when he would finally give up and swallow his discomfiture–in a glass of water.

As I said, my uncle, Professor Hardwigg, was a very learned man; and I now add a most kind relative. I was bound to him by the double ties of affection and interest. I took deep interest in all his doings, and hoped some day to be almost as learned myself. It was a rare thing for me to be absent from his lectures. Like him, I preferred mineralogy to all the other sciences. My anxiety was to gain real knowledge of the earth. Geology and mineralogy were to us the sole objects of life, and in connection with these studies many a fair specimen of stone, chalk, or metal did we break with our hammers.

Steel rods, loadstones, glass pipes, and bottles of various acids were oftener before us than our meals. My uncle Hardwigg was once known to classify six hundred different geological specimens by their weight, hardness, fusibility, sound, taste, and smell.

He corresponded with all the great, learned, and scientific men of the age. I was, therefore, in constant communication with, at all events the letters of, Sir Humphry Davy, Captain Franklin, and other great men.

But before I state the subject on which my uncle wished to confer with me, I must say a word about his personal appearance. Alas! my readers will see a very different portrait of him at a future time, after he has gone through the fearful adventures yet to be related.

My uncle was fifty years old; tall, thin, and wiry. Large spectacles hid, to a certain extent, his vast, round, and goggle eyes, while his nose was irreverently compared to a thin file. So much indeed did it resemble that useful article, that a compass was said in his presence to have made considerable N (Nasal) deviation.

The truth being told, however, the only article really attracted to my uncle’s nose was tobacco.

Another peculiarity of his was, that he always stepped a yard at a time, clenched his fists as if he were going to hit you, and was, when in one of his peculiar humors, very far from a pleasant companion.

It is further necessary to observe that he lived in a very nice house, in that very nice street, the Konigstrasse at Hamburg. Though lying in the centre of a town, it was perfectly rural in its aspect–half wood, half bricks, with old-fashioned gables–one of the few old houses spared by the great fire of 1842.

When I say a nice house, I mean a handsome house–old, tottering, and not exactly comfortable to English notions: a house a little off the perpendicular and inclined to fall into the neighboring canal; exactly the house for a wandering artist to depict; all the more that you could scarcely see it for ivy and a magnificent old tree which grew over the door.

My uncle was rich; his house was his own property, while he had a considerable private income. To my notion the best part of his possessions was his god-daughter, Gretchen. And the old cook, the young lady, the Professor and I were the sole inhabitants.

I loved mineralogy, I loved geology. To me there was nothing like pebbles–and if my uncle had been in a little less of a fury, we should have been the happiest of families. To prove the excellent Hardwigg’s impatience, I solemnly declare that when the flowers in the drawing-room pots began to grow, he rose every morning at four o’clock to make them grow quicker by pulling the leaves!

Having described my uncle, I will now give an account of our interview.

He received me in his study; a perfect museum, containing every natural curiosity that can well be imagined–minerals, however, predominating. Every one was familiar to me, having been catalogued by my own hand. My uncle, apparently oblivious of the fact that he had summoned me to his presence, was absorbed in a book. He was particularly fond of early editions, tall copies, and unique works.

“Wonderful!” he cried, tapping his forehead. “Wonderful–wonderful!”

It was one of those yellow-leaved volumes now rarely found on stalls, and to me it appeared to possess but little value. My uncle, however, was in raptures.

He admired its binding, the clearness of its characters, the ease with which it opened in his hand, and repeated aloud, half a dozen times, that it was very, very old.

To my fancy he was making a great fuss about nothing, but it was not my province to say so. On the contrary, I professed considerable interest in the subject, and asked him what it was about.

“It is the Heims-Kringla of Snorre Tarleson,” he said, “the celebrated Icelandic author of the twelfth century–it is a true and correct account of the Norwegian princes who reigned in Iceland.”

My next question related to the language in which it was written. I hoped at all events it was translated into German. My uncle was indignant at the very thought, and declared he wouldn’t give a penny for a translation. His delight was to have found the original work in the Icelandic tongue, which he declared to be one of the most magnificent and yet simple idioms in the world–while at the same time its grammatical combinations were the most varied known to students.

“About as easy as German?” was my insidious remark.

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

“The letters at all events,” I said, “are rather difficult of comprehension.”

“It is a Runic manuscript, the language of the original population of Iceland, invented by Odin himself,” cried my uncle, angry at my ignorance.

I was about to venture upon some misplaced joke on the subject, when a small scrap of parchment fell out of the leaves. Like a hungry man snatching at a morsel of bread the Professor seized it. It was about five inches by three and was scrawled over in the most extraordinary fashion.

The lines shown here are an exact facsimile of what was written on the venerable piece of parchment–and have wonderful importance, as they induced my uncle to undertake the most wonderful series of adventures which ever fell to the lot of human beings.

My uncle looked keenly at the document for some moments and then declared that it was Runic. The letters were similar to those in the book, but then what did they mean? This was exactly what I wanted to know.

Now as I had a strong conviction that the Runic alphabet and dialect were simply an invention to mystify poor human nature, I was delighted to find that my uncle knew as much about the matter as I did–which was nothing. At all events the tremulous motion of his fingers made me think so.

“And yet,” he muttered to himself, “it is old Icelandic, I am sure of it.”

And my uncle ought to have known, for he was a perfect polyglot dictionary in himself. He did not pretend, like a certain learned pundit, to speak the two thousand languages and four thousand idioms made use of in different parts of the globe, but he did know all the more important ones.

It is a matter of great doubt to me now, to what violent measures my uncle’s impetuosity might have led him, had not the clock struck two, and our old French cook called out to let us know that dinner was on the table.

“Bother the dinner!” cried my uncle.

But as I was hungry, I sallied forth to the dining room, where I took up my usual quarters. Out of politeness I waited three minutes, but no sign of my uncle, the Professor. I was surprised. He was not usually so blind to the pleasure of a good dinner. It was the acme of German luxury–parsley soup, a ham omelette with sorrel trimmings, an oyster of veal stewed with prunes, delicious fruit, and sparkling Moselle. For the sake of poring over this musty old piece of parchment, my uncle forbore to share our meal. To satisfy my conscience, I ate for both.

The old cook and housekeeper was nearly out of her mind. After taking so much trouble, to find her master not appear at dinner was to her a sad disappointment–which, as she occasionally watched the havoc I was making on the viands, became also alarm. If my uncle were to come to table after all?

Suddenly, just as I had consumed the last apple and drunk the last glass of wine, a terrible voice was heard at no great distance. It was my uncle roaring for me to come to him. I made very nearly one leap of it–so loud, so fierce was his tone.

CHAPTER 2

THE MYSTERIOUS PARCHMENT

“I declare,” cried my uncle, striking the table fiercely with his fist, “I declare to you it is Runic–and contains some wonderful secret, which I must get at, at any price.”

I was about to reply when he stopped me.

“Sit down,” he said, quite fiercely, “and write to my dictation.”

I obeyed.

“I will substitute,” he said, “a letter of our alphabet for that of the Runic: we will then see what that will produce. Now, begin and make no mistakes.”

The dictation commenced with the following incomprehensible result:

mm.rnlls esruel seecJde sgtssmf unteief niedrke kt,samn atrateS Saodrrn emtnaeI nuaect rrilSa Atvaar.nscrc ieaabs ccdrmi eeutul frantu dt,iac oseibo KediiY

Scarcely giving me time to finish, my uncle snatched the document from my hands and examined it with the most rapt and deep attention.

“I should like to know what it means,” he said, after a long period.

I certainly could not tell him, nor did he expect me to–his conversation being uniformly answered by himself.

“I declare it puts me in mind of a cryptograph,” he cried, “unless, indeed, the letters have been written without any real meaning; and yet why take so much trouble? Who knows but I may be on the verge of some great discovery?”

My candid opinion was that it was all rubbish! But this opinion I kept carefully to myself, as my uncle’s choler was not pleasant to bear. All this time he was comparing the book with the parchment.

“The manuscript volume and the smaller document are written in different hands,” he said, “the cryptograph is of much later date than the book; there is an undoubted proof of the correctness of my surmise. [An irrefragable proof I took it to be.] The first letter is a double M, which was only added to the Icelandic language in the twelfth century–this makes the parchment two hundred years posterior to the volume.”

The circumstances appeared very probable and very logical, but it was all surmise to me.

“To me it appears probable that this sentence was written by some owner of the book. Now who was the owner, is the next important question. Perhaps by great good luck it may be written somewhere in the volume.”

With these words Professor Hardwigg took off his spectacles, and, taking a powerful magnifying glass, examined the book carefully.

On the fly leaf was what appeared to be a blot of ink, but on examination proved to be a line of writing almost effaced by time. This was what he sought; and, after some considerable time, he made out these letters:

“Arne Saknussemm!” he cried in a joyous and triumphant tone, “that is not only an Icelandic name, but of a learned professor of the sixteenth century, a celebrated alchemist.”

I bowed as a sign of respect.

“These alchemists,” he continued, “Avicenna, Bacon, Lully, Paracelsus, were the true, the only learned men of the day. They made surprising discoveries. May not this Saknussemm, nephew mine, have hidden on this bit of parchment some astounding invention? I believe the cryptograph to have a profound meaning–which I must make out.”

My uncle walked about the room in a state of excitement almost impossible to describe.

“It may be so, sir,” I timidly observed, “but why conceal it from posterity, if it be a useful, a worthy discovery?”

“Why–how should I know? Did not Galileo make a secret of his discoveries in connection with Saturn? But we shall see. Until I discover the meaning of this sentence I will neither eat nor sleep.”

“My dear uncle–” I began.

“Nor you neither,” he added.

It was lucky I had taken double allowance that day.

“In the first place,” he continued, “there must be a clue to the meaning. If we could find that, the rest would be easy enough.”

I began seriously to reflect. The prospect of going without food and sleep was not a promising one, so I determined to do my best to solve the mystery. My uncle, meanwhile, went on with his soliloquy.

“The way to discover it is easy enough. In this document there are one hundred and thirty-two letters, giving seventy-nine consonants to fifty-three vowels. This is about the proportion found in most southern languages, the idioms of the north being much more rich in consonants. We may confidently predict, therefore, that we have to deal with a southern dialect.”

Nothing could be more logical.

“Now,” said Professor Hardwigg, “to trace the particular language.”

“As Shakespeare says, ‘that is the question,”‘ was my rather satirical reply.

“This man Saknussemm,” he continued, “was a very learned man: now as he did not write in the language of his birthplace, he probably, like most learned men of the sixteenth century, wrote in Latin. If, however, I prove wrong in this guess, we must try Spanish, French, Italian, Greek, and even Hebrew. My own opinion, though, is decidedly in favor of Latin.”

This proposition startled me. Latin was my favorite study, and it seemed sacrilege to believe this gibberish to belong to the country of Virgil.

“Barbarous Latin, in all probability,” continued my uncle, “but still Latin.”

“Very probably,” I replied, not to contradict him.

“Let us see into the matter,” continued my uncle; “here you see we have a series of one hundred and thirty-two letters, apparently thrown pell-mell upon paper, without method or organization. There are words which are composed wholly of consonants, such as mm.rnlls, others which are nearly all vowels, the fifth, for instance, which is unteief, and one of the last oseibo. This appears an extraordinary combination. Probably we shall find that the phrase is arranged according to some mathematical plan. No doubt a certain sentence has been written out and then jumbled up–some plan to which some figure is the clue. Now, Harry, to show your English wit–what is that figure?”

I could give him no hint. My thoughts were indeed far away. While he was speaking I had caught sight of the portrait of my cousin Gretchen, and was wondering when she would return.

We were affianced, and loved one another very sincerely. But my uncle, who never thought even of such sublunary matters, knew nothing of this. Without noticing my abstraction, the Professor began reading the puzzling cryptograph all sorts of ways, according to some theory of his own. Presently, rousing my wandering attention, he dictated one precious attempt to me.

I mildly handed it over to him. It read as follows:

mmessunkaSenrA.icefdoK.segnittamurtn ecertserrette,rotaivsadua,ednecsedsadne lacartniiilrJsiratracSarbmutabiledmek meretarcsilucoYsleffenSnI.

I could scarcely keep from laughing, while my uncle, on the contrary, got in a towering passion, struck the table with his fist, darted out of the room, out of the house, and then taking to his heels was presently lost to sight.

CHAPTER 3

AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

“What is the matter?” cried the cook, entering the room; “when will master have his dinner?”

“Never.”

“And, his supper?”

“I don’t know. He says he will eat no more, neither shall I. My uncle has determined to fast and make me fast until he makes out this abominable inscription,” I replied.

“You will be starved to death,” she said.

I was very much of the same opinion, but not liking to say so, sent her away, and began some of my usual work of classification. But try as I might, nothing could keep me from thinking alternately of the stupid manuscript and of the pretty Gretchen.

Several times I thought of going out, but my uncle would have been angry at my absence. At the end of an hour, my allotted task was done. How to pass the time? I began by lighting my pipe. Like all other students, I delighted in tobacco; and, seating myself in the great armchair, I began to think.

Where was my uncle? I could easily imagine him tearing along some solitary road, gesticulating, talking to himself, cutting the air with his cane, and still thinking of the absurd bit of hieroglyphics. Would he hit upon some clue? Would he come home in better humor? While these thoughts were passing through my brain, I mechanically took up the execrable puzzle and tried every imaginable way of grouping the letters. I put them together by twos, by threes, fours, and fives–in vain. Nothing intelligible came out, except that the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth made ice in English; the eighty-fourth, eighty-fifth, and eighty-sixth, the word sir; then at last I seemed to find the Latin words rota, mutabile, ira, nec, atra.

“Ha! there seems to be some truth in my uncle’s notion,” thought I.

Then again I seemed to find the word luco, which means sacred wood. Then in the third line I appeared to make out labiled, a perfect Hebrew word, and at the last the syllables mere, are, mer, which were French.

It was enough to drive one mad. Four different idioms in this absurd phrase. What connection could there be between ice, sir, anger, cruel, sacred wood, changing, mother, are, and sea? The first and the last might, in a sentence connected with Iceland, mean sea of ice. But what of the rest of this monstrous cryptograph?

I was, in fact, fighting against an insurmountable difficulty; my brain was almost on fire; my eyes were strained with staring at the parchment; the whole absurd collection of letters appeared to dance before my vision in a number of black little groups. My mind was possessed with temporary hallucination–I was stifling. I wanted air. Mechanically I fanned myself with the document, of which now I saw the back and then the front.

Imagine my surprise when glancing at the back of the wearisome puzzle, the ink having gone through, I clearly made out Latin words, and among others craterem and terrestre.

I had discovered the secret!

It came upon me like a flash of lightning. I had got the clue. All you had to do to understand the document was to read it backwards. All the ingenious ideas of the Professor were realized; he had dictated it rightly to me; by a mere accident I had discovered what he so much desired.

My delight, my emotion may be imagined, my eyes were dazzled and I trembled so that at first I could make nothing of it. One look, however, would tell me all I wished to know.

“Let me read,” I said to myself, after drawing a long breath.

I spread it before me on the table, I passed my finger over each letter, I spelled it through; in my excitement I read it out.

What horror and stupefaction took possession of my soul. I was like a man who had received a knock-down blow. Was it possible that I really read the terrible secret, and it had really been accomplished! A man had dared to do–what?

No living being should ever know.

“Never!” cried I, jumping up. “Never shall my uncle be made aware of the dread secret. He would be quite capable of undertaking the terrible journey. Nothing would check him, nothing stop him. Worse, he would compel me to accompany him, and we should be lost forever. But no; such folly and madness cannot be allowed.”

I was almost beside myself with rage and fury.

“My worthy uncle is already nearly mad,” I cried aloud. “This would finish him. By some accident he may make the discovery; in which case, we are both lost. Perish the fearful secret–let the flames forever bury it in oblivion.”

I snatched up book and parchment, and was about to cast them into the fire, when the door opened and my uncle entered.

I had scarcely time to put down the wretched documents before my uncle was by my side. He was profoundly absorbed. His thoughts were evidently bent on the terrible parchment. Some new combination had probably struck him while taking his walk.

He seated himself in his armchair, and with a pen began to make an algebraical calculation. I watched him with anxious eyes. My flesh crawled as it became probable that he would discover the secret.

His combinations I knew now were useless, I having discovered the one only clue. For three mortal hours he continued without speaking a word, without raising his head, scratching, rewriting, calculating over and over again. I knew that in time he must hit upon the right phrase. The letters of every alphabet have only a certain number of combinations. But then years might elapse before he would arrive at the correct solution.

Still time went on; night came, the sounds in the streets ceased–and still my uncle went on, not even answering our worthy cook when she called us to supper.

I did not dare to leave him, so waved her away, and at last fell asleep on the sofa.

When I awoke my uncle was still at work. His red eyes, his pallid countenance, his matted hair, his feverish hands, his hectically flushed cheeks, showed how terrible had been his struggle with the impossible, and what fearful fatigue he had undergone during that long sleepless night. It made me quite ill to look at him. Though he was rather severe with me, I loved him, and my heart ached at his sufferings. He was so overcome by one idea that he could not even get in a passion! All his energies were focused on one point. And I knew that by speaking one little word all this suffering would cease. I could not speak it.

My heart was, nevertheless, inclining towards him. Why, then, did I remain silent? In the interest of my uncle himself.

“Nothing shall make me speak,” I muttered. “He will want to follow in the footsteps of the other! I know him well. His imagination is a perfect volcano, and to make discoveries in the interests of geology he would sacrifice his life. I will therefore be silent and strictly keep the secret I have discovered. To reveal it would be suicidal. He would not only rush, himself, to destruction, but drag me with him.”

I crossed my arms, looked another way and smoked–resolved never to speak.

When our cook wanted to go out to market, or on any other errand, she found the front door locked and the key taken away. Was this done purposely or not? Surely Professor Hardwigg did not intend the old woman and myself to become martyrs to his obstinate will. Were we to be starved to death? A frightful recollection came to my mind. Once we had fed on bits and scraps for a week while he sorted some curiosities. It gave me the cramp even to think of it!

I wanted my breakfast, and I saw no way of getting it. Still my resolution held good. I would starve rather than yield. But the cook began to take me seriously to task. What was to be done? She could not go out; and I dared not.

My uncle continued counting and writing; his imagination seemed to have translated him to the skies. He neither thought of eating nor drinking. In this way twelve o’clock came round. I was hungry, and there was nothing in the house. The cook had eaten the last bit of bread. This could not go on. It did, however, until two, when my sensations were terrible. After all, I began to think the document very absurd. Perhaps it might only be a gigantic hoax. Besides, some means would surely be found to keep my uncle back from attempting any such absurd expedition. On the other hand, if he did attempt anything so quixotic, I should not be compelled to accompany him. Another line of reasoning partially decided me. Very likely he would make the discovery himself when I should have suffered starvation for nothing. Under the influence of hunger this reasoning appeared admirable. I determined to tell all.

The question now arose as to how it was to be done. I was still dwelling on the thought, when he rose and put on his hat.

What! go out and lock us in? Never!

“Uncle,” I began.

He did not appear even to hear me.

“Professor Hardwigg,” I cried.

“What,” he retorted, “did you speak?”

“How about the key?”

“What key–the key of the door?”

“No–of these horrible hieroglyphics?”

He looked at me from under his spectacles, and started at the odd expression of my face. Rushing forward, he clutched me by the arm and keenly examined my countenance. His very look was an interrogation.

I simply nodded.

With an incredulous shrug of the shoulders, he turned upon his heel. Undoubtedly he thought I had gone mad.

“I have made a very important discovery.”

His eyes flashed with excitement. His hand was lifted in a menacing attitude. For a moment neither of us spoke. It is hard to say which was most excited.

“You don’t mean to say that you have any idea of the meaning of the scrawl?”

“I do,” was my desperate reply. “Look at the sentence as dictated by you.”

“Well, but it means nothing,” was the angry answer.

“Nothing if you read from left to right, but mark, if from right to left–”

“Backwards!” cried my uncle, in wild amazement. “Oh most cunning Saknussemm; and I to be such a blockhead!”

He snatched up the document, gazed at it with haggard eye, and read it out as I had done.

It read as follows:

In Sneffels Yoculis craterem kem delibat umbra Scartaris Julii intra calendas descende, audas viator, et terrestre centrum attinges. Kod feci. Arne Saknussemm

Which dog Latin being translated, reads as follows:

Descend into the crater of Yocul of Sneffels, which the shade of Scartaris caresses, before the kalends of July, audacious traveler, and you will reach the centre of the earth. I did it. ARNE SAKNUSSEMM

My uncle leaped three feet from the ground with joy. He looked radiant and handsome. He rushed about the room wild with delight and satisfaction. He knocked over tables and chairs. He threw his books about until at last, utterly exhausted, he fell into his armchair.

“What’s o’clock?” he asked.

“About three.”

“My dinner does not seem to have done me much good,” he observed. “Let me have something to eat. We can then start at once. Get my portmanteau ready.”

“What for?”

“And your own,” he continued. “We start at once.”

My horror may be conceived. I resolved however to show no fear. Scientific reasons were the only ones likely to influence my uncle. Now, there were many against this terrible journey. The very idea of going down to the centre of the earth was simply absurd. I determined therefore to argue the point after dinner.

My uncle’s rage was now directed against the cook for having no dinner ready. My explanation however satisfied him, and having gotten the key, she soon contrived to get sufficient to satisfy our voracious appetites.

During the repast my uncle was rather gay than otherwise. He made some of those peculiar jokes which belong exclusively to the learned. As soon, however, as dessert was over, he called me to his study. We each took a chair on opposite sides of the table.

“Henry,” he said, in a soft and winning voice; “I have always believed you ingenious, and you have rendered me a service never to be forgotten. Without you, this great, this wondrous discovery would never have been made. It is my duty, therefore, to insist on your sharing the glory.”

“He is in a good humor,” thought I; “I’ll soon let him know my opinion of glory.”

“In the first place,” he continued, “you must keep the whole affair a profound secret. There is no more envious race of men than scientific discoverers. Many would start on the same journey. At all events, we will be the first in the field.”

“I doubt your having many competitors,” was my reply.

“A man of real scientific acquirements would be delighted at the chance. We should find a perfect stream of pilgrims on the traces of Arne Saknussemm, if this document were once made public.”

“But, my dear sir, is not this paper very likely to be a hoax?” I urged.

“The book in which we find it is sufficient proof of its authenticity,” he replied.

“I thoroughly allow that the celebrated Professor wrote the lines, but only, I believe, as a kind of mystification,” was my answer.

Scarcely were the words out of my mouth, when I was sorry I had uttered them. My uncle looked at me with a dark and gloomy scowl, and I began to be alarmed for the results of our conversation. His mood soon changed, however, and a smile took the place of a frown.

“We shall see,” he remarked, with decisive emphasis.

“But see, what is all this about Yocul, and Sneffels, and this Scartaris? I have never heard anything about them.”

“The very point to which I am coming. I lately received from my friend Augustus Peterman, of Leipzig, a map. Take down the third atlas from the second shelf, series Z, plate 4.”

I rose, went to the shelf, and presently returned with the volume indicated.

“This,” said my uncle, “is one of the best maps of Iceland. I believe it will settle all your doubts, difficulties and objections.”

With a grim hope to the contrary, I stooped over the map.

CHAPTER 4

WE START ON THE JOURNEY

“You see, the whole island is composed of volcanoes,” said the Professor, “and remark carefully that they all bear the name of Yocul. The word is Icelandic, and means a glacier. In most of the lofty mountains of that region the volcanic eruptions come forth from icebound caverns. Hence the name applied to every volcano on this extraordinary island.”

“But what does this word Sneffels mean?”

To this question I expected no rational answer. I was mistaken.

“Follow my finger to the western coast of Iceland, there you see Reykjavik, its capital. Follow the direction of one of its innumerable fjords or arms of the sea, and what do you see below the sixty-fifth degree of latitude?”

“A peninsula–very like a thighbone in shape.”

“And in the centre of it–?”

“A mountain.”

“Well, that’s Sneffels.”

I had nothing to say.

“That is Sneffels–a mountain about five thousand feet in height, one of the most remarkable in the whole island, and certainly doomed to be the most celebrated in the world, for through its crater we shall reach the centre of the earth.”

“Impossible!” cried I, startled and shocked at the thought.

“Why impossible?” said Professor Hardwigg in his severest tones.

“Because its crater is choked with lava, by burning rocks–by infinite dangers.”

“But if it be extinct?”

“That would make a difference.”

“Of course it would. There are about three hundred volcanoes on the whole surface of the globe–but the greater number are extinct. Of these Sneffels is one. No eruption has occurred since 1219–in fact it has ceased to be a volcano at all.”

After this what more could I say? Yes,–I thought of another objection.

“But what is all this about Scartaris and the kalends of July–?”

My uncle reflected deeply. Presently he gave forth the result of his reflections in a sententious tone. “What appears obscure to you, to me is light. This very phrase shows how particular Saknussemm is in his directions. The Sneffels mountain has many craters. He is careful therefore to point the exact one which is the highway into the Interior of the Earth. He lets us know, for this purpose, that about the end of the month of June, the shadow of Mount Scartaris falls upon the one crater. There can be no doubt about the matter.”

My uncle had an answer for everything.

“I accept all your explanations” I said, “and Saknussemm is right. He found out the entrance to the bowels of the earth, he has indicated correctly, but that he or anyone else ever followed up the discovery is madness to suppose.”

“Why so, young man?”

“All scientific teaching, theoretical and practical, shows it to be impossible.”

“I care nothing for theories,” retorted my uncle.

“But is it not well-known that heat increases one degree for every seventy feet you descend into the earth? Which gives a fine idea of the central heat. All the matters which compose the globe are in a state of incandescence; even gold, platinum, and the hardest rocks are in a state of fusion. What would become of us?”

“Don’t be alarmed at the heat, my boy.”

“How so?”

“Neither you nor anybody else know anything about the real state of the earth’s interior. All modern experiments tend to explode the older theories. Were any such heat to exist, the upper crust of the earth would be shattered to atoms, and the world would be at an end.”

A long, learned and not uninteresting discussion followed, which ended in this wise:

“I do not believe in the dangers and difficulties which you, Henry, seem to multiply; and the only way to learn, is like Arne Saknussemm, to go and see.”

“Well,” cried I, overcome at last, “let us go and see. Though how we can do that in the dark is another mystery.”

“Fear nothing. We shall overcome these, and many other difficulties. Besides, as we approach the centre, I expect to find it luminous–”

“Nothing is impossible.”

“And now that we have come to a thorough understanding, not a word to any living soul. Our success depends on secrecy and dispatch.”

Thus ended our memorable conference, which roused a perfect fever in me. Leaving my uncle, I went forth like one possessed. Reaching the banks of the Elbe, I began to think. Was all I had heard really and truly possible? Was my uncle in his sober senses, and could the interior of the earth be reached? Was I the victim of a madman, or was he a discoverer of rare courage and grandeur of conception?

To a certain extent I was anxious to be off. I was afraid my enthusiasm would cool. I determined to pack up at once. At the end of an hour, however, on my way home, I found that my feelings had very much changed.

“I’m all abroad,” I cried; “‘tis a nightmare–I must have dreamed it.”