Journey to the Center of the Earth (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (14 page)

I had heard of the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland, and Fingal’s Cave in Staffa, one of the Hebrides; but I had never yet laid eyes on a basaltic formation.

At Stapi, this phenomenon offered itself in all its beauty.

The wall that enclosed the fjord, like all the coast of the peninsula, consisted of a series of vertical columns, thirty feet high. These straight shafts of pure proportions supported an archivolt of horizontal slabs, the overhanging portion of which formed a half-vault over the sea. At intervals, under this natural shelter, the eye came to rest on vaulted openings of an admirable design, through which the waves came crashing and foaming. A few shafts of basalt, torn off by the fury of the sea, were dispersed on the soil like the remains of an ancient temple, eternally young ruins over which the centuries passed without a trace.

This was the last stage of our journey above ground. Hans had led us here with intelligence, and it gave me comfort to think that he would continue to accompany us.

When we arrived at the door of the rector’s house, a simple low cabin, neither more beautiful nor more comfortable than the neighboring ones, I saw a man shoeing a horse, hammer in hand, and with a leather apron on.

“Sællvertu,” said the hunter to him.

“God dag,” replied the blacksmith in perfect Danish.

“Kyrkoherde,” said Hans, turning round to my uncle.

“The rector!” repeated the latter. “It seems, Axel, that this good man is the rector.”

In the meantime, our guide informed the ‘kyrkoherde’ of the situation; the latter, suspending his work, uttered a shout no doubt used among horses and horse dealers, and immediately a tall and ugly hag emerged from the cabin. She must have been almost six feet tall.

I feared that she would come and offer the Icelandic kiss to the travelers; nothing of the sort, nor did she lead us into the house with much grace.

The guest room, narrow, dirty, and foul-smelling seemed to me the worst in the whole house. But we had to resign ourselves to it. The rector seemed not to practice ancient hospitality. Far from it. Before the day was over, I saw that we were dealing with a blacksmith, a fisherman, a hunter, a carpenter, but not at all with a minister of God. To be sure, it was a week-day. Perhaps on Sundays he made amends.

I don’t mean to speak ill of these poor priests, who are after all miserably poor; from the Danish Government they receive a ridiculously small pittance, and a fourth of the tithe from their parish, which does not amount to sixty marks
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a year. Hence the necessity to work for a living; but when one fishes, hunts, and shoes horses, one ends up adopting the tone and manners of fishermen, hunters, and other somewhat rude folk. That very evening, I found out that temperance was not among the virtues that distinguished our host.

My uncle soon understood what sort of a man he was dealing with; instead of a good and worthy man he found a rude and coarse peasant. He therefore decided to start his great expedition as soon as possible, and to leave this inhospitable parsonage. He cared nothing about his exhaustion and decided to spend some days on the mountain.

The preparations for our departure were therefore carried out the next day after our arrival at Stapi. Hans hired the services of three Icelanders to replace the horses in the transport of the luggage; but once we arrived at the crater, these natives would turn back and leave us to our own devices. This point was clearly agreed upon.

On this occasion, my uncle had to explain to Hans that it was his intention to pursue the investigation of the volcano to its farthest limits.

Hans merely nodded. There or elsewhere, traveling down into the bowels of his island or on its surface, made no difference to him. For my own part, the incidents of the journey had so far distracted me, and had made me forget the future a little, but now emotion once again got the better of me. What to do? The place to resist Professor Lidenbrock would have been Hamburg, not the foot of Snaefells.

One thought, above all others, tortured me, a frightening idea that might shake firmer nerves than mine.

“Let’s see,” I said to myself, “we’ll climb the Snaefells. Fine. We’ll visit the crater. Good. Others have done as much without dying. But that’s not all. If there’s a way to penetrate into the bowels of the earth, if that unfortunate Saknussemm has told the truth, we’ll lose our way among the subterranean passages of the volcano. Now, there’s no proof that Snaefells is extinct! Who can prove that an eruption is not brewing at this very moment? Because the monster has slept since 1229,
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does it follow that it will never wake up again? And if it wakes up, what becomes of us?”

It was worth thinking about, and I thought about it. I could not sleep without dreaming about eruptions. Now, playing the part of ejected scoria seemed rather brutal to me.

Finally I could not stand it any longer; I decided to lay the case before my uncle as skillfully as possible, in the form of an almost impossible hypothesis.

I went to find him. I conveyed my fears to him, and stepped back to give him room to explode as he liked.

“I thought of that,” he replied simply.

What did these words mean? Was he actually going to listen to reason? Was he considering suspending his plans? That was too good to be true.

After a few moments’ silence, during which I dared not question him, he resumed:

“I thought of that. Ever since we arrived at Stapi I’ve been concerned with the serious question you’ve just mentioned, for we must not be guilty of carelessness.”

“No,” I replied forcefully.

“Snaefells hasn’t spoken for six hundred years; but he may speak again. Now, eruptions are always preceded by certain well-known phenomena. I have therefore questioned the locals, I have studied the soil, and I can tell you, Axel, that there’ll be no eruption.”

At this statement I was stunned, and could not answer.

“You doubt my words?” said my uncle. “Well, follow me.”

I obeyed mechanically. Leaving the parsonage, the professor took a straight path, which led away from the sea through an opening in the basaltic wall. We were soon in open country, if one can give that name to a vast accumulation of volcanic debris. This land seemed crushed under a rain of enormous rocks, trapp, basalt, granite, and all the pyroxenic rocks.
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Here and there I could see fumaroles curling up into the air; this white steam, called ‘reykir’ in Icelandic, issued from thermal springs, and they indicated by their force volcanic activity underneath. This seemed to justify my fears. So my spirits sank when my uncle said to me:

“You see all this steam, Axel; well, it proves that we have nothing to fear from the fury of the volcano!”

“How can I believe that?” I exclaimed.

“Remember this,” resumed the professor. “At the approach of an eruption these jets increase their activity, but disappear completely during the interval of the eruption. For the gases, which no longer have the necessary pressure, are released by way of the crater instead of escaping through fissures in the soil. Therefore, if this steam remains in its usual condition, if its force does not increase, and if you add to this the observation that the wind and rain are not being replaced by a still and heavy atmosphere, then you can state with certainty that there is no upcoming eruption.”

“But . . .”

“Enough. Once science has spoken, one should remain silent.”

I returned to the parsonage crestfallen. My uncle had beaten me with scientific arguments. Still I had one hope left, and that was that once we had reached the bottom of the crater, it would prove impossible to descend any further for lack of a passage, in spite of all the Saknussemms of the world.

I spent the following night in constant nightmare in the heart of a volcano, and from the depths of the earth I saw myself tossed up into interplanetary spaces in the form of a volcanic rock.

The next day, June 23, Hans was waiting for us with his companions carrying food, tools, and instruments; two iron-tipped walking sticks, two rifles, and two ammunition belts were set aside for my uncle and myself. Hans, as a cautious man, had added to our luggage a leather bottle full of water that, together with our flasks, would give us a supply for eight days.

It was nine in the morning. The rector and his tall shrew were waiting at the door. They wanted no doubt to bid us the kindest farewell of host to traveler. But this farewell took the unexpected shape of a huge bill, in which we were charged even for the air in the parsonage—foul-smelling air, I might mention. This worthy couple was fleecing us just like a Swiss innkeeper, and estimated their exaggerated hospitality at a high price.

My uncle paid without debate. A man who is setting out for the center of the earth did not care about a few rix-dollars.

This point being settled, Hans gave the signal for departure, and we soon left Stapi behind.

SNAEFELLS IS 5,000 FEET high. Its double cone is the end of a trachytic stratum that stands out from the mountain system of the island. From our point of departure we could see the two peaks boldly projected against the dark grey sky; I noticed an enormous cap of snow drawn down low on the giant’s brow.

We walked in single file, headed by the hunter, who ascended on narrow tracks where two could not have gone side by side. Conversation was therefore almost impossible.

After we had passed the basaltic wall of the Stapi fjord we passed first over a grassy, fibrous peat soil, left from the ancient vegetation of this peninsula. The vast quantity of this unused fuel would be sufficient to warm the whole population of Iceland for a century; this vast peat bog was up to seventy feet deep when measured from the bottom of certain ravines, and consisted of layers of carbonized vegetation residues alternating with thinner layers of tufaceous pumice.

As a true nephew of professor Lidenbrock, and in spite of my dismal prospects, I could not help observing with interest the mineralogical curiosities which lay about me as in a vast museum, and I constructed for myself a complete geological account of Iceland.

This most interesting island has evidently been pushed up from the bottom of the sea at a comparatively recent date. Possibly, it is still subject to gradual elevation. If this is so, its origin may well be attributed to subterranean fires. In that case, Sir Humphry Davy’s theory, Saknussemm’s document, and my uncle’s claims would all go up in smoke. This hypothesis led me to examine the appearance of the surface with more attention, and I soon arrived at a conclusion as to the nature of the forces which presided at its creation.

Iceland, which is entirely devoid of alluvial soil, is wholly composed of volcanic tuff, that is to say, an agglomeration of porous rocks and stones. Before the volcanoes erupted, it consisted of trapp rocks slowly raised to sea level by the action of central forces. The interior fires had not yet forced their way through.

But at a later period a wide chasm opened up diagonally from the south-west to the north-east of the island, through which the trachytic mass was gradually squeezed out. No violence accompanied this change; the quantity of ejected matter was vast, and the molten substances oozing out from the bowels of the earth slowly spread over extensive plains or in hillocky masses. In this period feldspar, syenites, and porphyries appeared.

But with the help of this outflow the thickness of the crust of the island increased materially, and therefore also its powers of resistance. It may easily be conceived what vast quantities of elastic gases, what masses of molten matter accumulated beneath its solid surface while no exit was practicable after the cooling of the trachytic crust. Therefore a moment came when the mechanical force of these gases was such that it lifted up the heavy crust and forced their way out through tall chimneys. Hence the volcano created by pushing up the crust, then the crater suddenly formed at the summit of the volcano.

Eruptive phenomena were succeeded by volcanic phenomena. Through the newly created outlets, basalt residues were first ejected, of which the plain we were crossing offered the most wonderful specimens. We walked over heavy rocks of a dark grey color, which the cool-down had shaped into hexagonal prisms. In the distance we could see a large number of flattened cones that were once fire-spitting mouths.

Then, after the basalt eruption had exhausted itself, the volcano, whose power increased through the extinction of the lesser craters, provided a passage for lava and tuff of ashes and scoriae, whose scattered streams I noticed on the mountain sides like abundant hair.

This was the succession of phenomena that produced Iceland, all deriving from the action of interior fire. To suppose that the mass within was not still in a state of liquid incandescence was madness. Madness above all trying to reach the earth’s center.

So I felt a little comforted as we advanced to the assault of Snaefells.

The path grew more and more arduous, the ascent steeper and steeper; loose fragments of rock trembled beneath us, and utmost care was needed to avoid dangerous falls.

Hans continued on as calmly as if he were on level ground; sometimes he disappeared behind huge blocks, and we momentarily lost sight of him; then a shrill whistle from his lips would indicate the direction we should follow. Often he would stop, pick up a few bits of stone, stack them up into a recognizable shape, and thereby create landmarks to guide us on our way back. A wise precaution in itself, but as things turned out, quite useless.