Journey to the Center of the Earth (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (11 page)

“Well, in the meantime, I’ll go visit the city. Won’t you do that also?”

“Oh, that doesn’t really interest me. What’s remarkable about Icelandic soil is not above but underneath.”

I went out, and wandered wherever chance happened to lead me.

It would not be easy to lose your way in Reykjavik. So I had no need to ask for directions, which leads to many mistakes in the language of gestures.

The town extends over low and marshy ground between two hills. An immense bed of lava borders on it on one side, and falls gently towards the sea. On the other side lies the vast bay of Faxa, bounded in the north by the enormous glacier of the Snaefells, where the
Valkyrie
was at the moment the only ship at anchor. Usually the English and French fish-patrols anchor here, but just then they were cruising on the eastern coast of the island.

The longer one of Reykjavik’s two streets runs parallel to the beach; here live the merchants and traders, in wooden cabins made of horizontal red boards; the other street, further west, leads to a little lake between the houses of the bishop and other non-commercial people.

I had soon explored these bleak and sad streets. Here and there I caught a glimpse of a bit of faded lawn, looking like an old wool carpet worn out by use, or of some semblance of a kitchen garden whose sparse vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, and lettuce, would have seemed appropriate for a Lilliputian table. A few sickly wallflowers were also trying to look as if they were graced by sunshine.

Toward the middle of the non-commercial street I found the public cemetery, enclosed by a mud wall, where it seemed plenty of room was left. Then, a few steps further, I arrived at the Governor’s house, a farmhouse 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 stood the church, built in Protestant style with burnt stones taken from the volcanoes themselves; in strong western winds its red roof tiles would obviously be scattered in the air, endangering the faithful.

From a neighboring hillside I saw the national school where, as I was informed later by our host, Hebrew, English, French, and Danish were taught, four languages of which, to my disgrace, I don’t know a single word.
^y
I would have been last among the forty students at this little college, and unworthy of going to bed along with them in one of those closets with two compartments, where the more delicate would die of suffocation the very first night.

In three hours I had visited not only the town but its surroundings. Their aspect was peculiarly melancholy. No trees, no vegetation worth mentioning. Everywhere the bare edges of volcanic rocks. The Icelanders’ huts are made of earth and peat, and the walls lean inward. They resemble roofs placed on the ground. But these roofs are relatively fertile meadows. Due to the heat of the house, the grass grows there almost perfectly, and is carefully mown in the hay season; otherwise domestic animals would come to pasture on top of these green abodes.

During my excursion I met few people. When I returned to the commercial street I saw the greater part of the population busy drying, salting, and loading codfish, their main export item. The men seemed robust but heavy, blond Germans of sorts with pensive eyes, who feel a bit outside the rest of mankind, poor exiles relegated to this land of ice, whom nature should have created as Eskimos, since it had condemned them to live just outside the arctic circle! In vain did I try to detect a smile on their faces; they laughed sometimes with a kind of involuntary contraction of the muscles, but they never smiled.

Their clothes consisted of a coarse jacket of black wool called ‘vadmel’ in Scandinavian countries, a hat with a very broad brim, trousers with a narrow edge of red, and a piece of leather folded up as a shoe.

The women, with sad and resigned faces of a pleasant but expressionless type, wore a bodice and skirt of dark ‘vadmel’: unmarried women wore a little knitted brown cap over their braided hair; married women tied a colored handkerchief around their heads, topped with a peak of white linen.

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

DINNER WAS READY; IT was eagerly devoured by Professor Lidenbrock, whose compulsory fast on board had converted his stomach into a deep chasm. The meal, more Danish than Icelandic, was unremarkable in and of itself; but our host, more Icelandic than Danish, reminded me of the heroes of ancient hospitality. It seemed obvious that we were more at home than he was himself.

The conversation was carried on in the local language, which my uncle mixed with German and Mr. Fridriksson with Latin for my benefit. It turned on scientific questions, as befits scholars; but Professor Lidenbrock was excessively reserved, and his eyes at every sentence enjoined me to keep the most absolute silence regarding our future plans.

In the first place Mr. Fridriksson asked what success my uncle had had at the library.

“Your library!” exclaimed the latter. “It consists of nothing but a few tattered books on almost empty shelves.”

“How so!” replied Mr. Fridriksson. “We possess eight thousand volumes, many of them valuable and rare, works in the ancient Scandinavian language, and we have all the new publications that Copenhagen provides us with every year.”

“Where do you keep your eight thousand volumes? For my part—”

“Oh, Mr. Lidenbrock, they’re all over the country. In this old island of ice, we are fond of study! There’s not a farmer or a fisherman who cannot read and doesn’t read. We believe that books, instead of growing moldy behind an iron grating, should be worn out under the eyes of readers. So these volumes pass from one to another, are leafed through, read and reread, and often they find their way back to the shelves only after an absence of a year or two.”

“And in the meantime,” said my uncle rather spitefully, “foreigners—”

“What can you do! Foreigners have their libraries at home, and the most important thing is that our farmers educate themselves.

I repeat, the love of studying runs in Icelandic blood. So in 1816 we founded a literary society that prospers; foreign scholars are honored to become members of it. It publishes books for the education of our fellow countrymen, and does the country genuine service. If you’ll consent to be a corresponding member, Mr. Lidenbrock, you’ll give us the greatest pleasure.”

My uncle, who was already a member of about a hundred learned societies, accepted with a good grace that touched Mr. Fridriksson.

“Now,” he said, “please tell me what books you hoped to find in our library, and I can perhaps advise you on how to consult them.”

I looked at my uncle. He hesitated. This question went directly to the heart of his project. But after a moment’s reflection, he decided to answer.

“Mr. Fridriksson, I’d like to know whether amongst your ancient books you have those of Arne Saknussemm?”

“Arne Saknussemm!” replied the Reykjavik professor. “You mean that learned sixteenth century scholar, simultaneously a great naturalist, a great alchemist, and a great traveler?”

“Precisely.”

“One of the glories of Icelandic literature and science?”

“Just as you say.”

“Among the most illustrious men of the world?”

“I grant you that.”

“And whose courage was equal to his genius?”

“I see that you know him well:”

My uncle was afloat in joy at hearing his hero described in this fashion. He feasted his eyes on Mr. Fridriksson’s face.

“Well,” he asked, “his works?”

“Ah! His works—we don’t have them.”

“What—in Iceland?”

“They don’t exist either in Iceland or anywhere else.”

“But why?”

“Because Arne Saknussemm was persecuted for heresy, and in 1573 his books were burned by the executioner in Copenhagen.”

“Very good! Perfect!” exclaimed my uncle, to the great dismay of the science professor.

“What?” he asked.

“Yes! everything’s logical, everything follows, everything’s clear, and I understand why Saknussemm, after being put on the Index
^z
and compelled to hide his ingenious discoveries, was forced to bury the secret in an unintelligible cryptogram—”

“What secret?” asked Mr. Fridriksson eagerly.

“A secret which—whose—” my uncle stammered.

“Do you have a particular document in your possession?” asked our host.

“No ... I was making a mere assumption.”

“Well,” answered Mr. Fridriksson, who was kind enough not to pursue the subject when he noticed the embarrassment of his conversation partner. “I hope,” he added, “that you’ll not leave our island until you’ve seen some of its mineralogical wealth.”

“Certainly,” replied my uncle; “but I’m arriving a little late; haven’t other scholars been here before me?”

“Yes, Mr. Lidenbrock; the work of Olafsen and Povelsen, carried out by order of the king, the studies of Troïl, the scientific mission of Gaimard and Robert on the French corvette La
Recherche,
^aa
and lastly the observations of scholars aboard the
Reine
Hortense,
⁶
have substantially contributed to our knowledge of Iceland. But believe me, there is plenty left.”

“Do you think so?” said my uncle with an innocent look, trying to hide the flashing of his eyes.

“Yes. So many mountains, glaciers, and volcanoes to study that are little known! Look, without going any further, look at that mountain on the horizon. That’s Snaefells.”

“Ah!” said my uncle, “Snaefells.”

“Yes, one of the most peculiar volcanoes, whose crater has rarely been visited.”

“Extinct?”

“Oh, yes, extinct for more than five hundred years.”

“Well,” replied my uncle, who was frantically crossing his legs to keep himself from jumping up, “I’d like to begin my geological studies with that Seffel-Fessel-what do you call it?”

“Snaefells,” replied the excellent Mr. Fridriksson.

This part of the conversation had taken place in Latin; I had understood everything, and I could hardly conceal my amusement at seeing my uncle trying to control the satisfaction with which he was brimming over. He tried to put on an air of innocence that looked like the grimace of an old devil.

“Yes,” he said, “your words make up my mind for me! We’ll try to scale that Snaefells, perhaps even investigate its crater!”

“I deeply regret,” replied Mr. Fridriksson, “that my engagements don’t allow me to absent myself, or I would have accompanied you with pleasure and profit.”

“Oh, no, oh, no!” replied my uncle eagerly, “we wouldn’t want to disturb anyone, Mr. Fridriksson; I thank you with all my heart. The company of a scholar such as yourself would have been very useful, but the duties of your profession—”

I like to think that our host, in the innocence of his Icelandic soul, did not understand my uncle’s crude malice.

“I very much approve of your beginning with that volcano, Mr. Lidenbrock,” he said. “You’ll gather an ample harvest of interesting observations. But tell me, how do you plan to get to the Snaefells peninsula?”

“By sea, crossing the bay. That’s the fastest route.”

“No doubt; but it’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t have a single boat in Reykjavik.”

“The devil!”

“You’ll have to go overland, following the shore. It’ll be longer, but more interesting.”

“Well. I’ll have to see about a guide.”

“I actually have one that I can offer you.”

“A reliable, intelligent man?”

“Yes, an inhabitant of the peninsula. He’s an eider duck hunter, very skilled, with whom you’ll be satisfied. He speaks Danish perfectly.”

“And when can I see him?”

“Tomorrow, if you like.”

“Why not today?”

Because he doesn’t arrive until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” replied my uncle with a sigh.

This momentous conversation ended a few moments later with warm thanks from the German professor to the Icelandic professor. During this dinner my uncle had learned important facts, among others, Saknussemm’s history, the reason for his mysterious document, that his host would not accompany him in his expedition, and that the very next day a guide would be at his service.

IN THE EVENING I took a short walk along the Reykjavik shore and returned early to lie down in my bed made of big boards, where I slept deeply

When I awoke I heard my uncle talking at a great rate in the next room. I immediately got up and hurried to join him.

He was conversing in Danish with a tall man of robust build. This large fellow had to have great strength. His eyes, set in a crude and rather naive face, seemed intelligent to me. They were of a dreamy blue. Long hair, which would have been considered red even in England, fell on his athletic shoulders. The movements of this native were smooth, but he made little use of his arms in speaking, like a man who knew nothing or cared nothing about the language of gestures. His whole appearance bespoke perfect calm, not indolence but tranquility. One could tell that he would be beholden to nobody, that he worked at his convenience, and that nothing in this world could astonish him or disturb his philosophy.

I became aware of the nuances of this character by the way in which he listened to his interlocutor’s impassioned flow of words. He remained with his arms crossed, immobile in the face of my uncle’s multiple gesticulations; for a negative his head turned from left to right; it nodded for an affirmative, so slightly that his long hair scarcely moved. It was economy of motion carried to the point of avarice.

Certainly, in looking at this man, I would never have guessed that he was a hunter; he did not look likely to frighten his game, for sure, but how could he reach it?