CHAPTER I. THE PROPHESSOR AND HIS FAMILY On the twenty-fourth of May, 1863, my uncle, Professor Liedenbrock, rushed into his little house, number 19 Kuhnigstrasse, one of the oldest streets in the oldest portion of the city of Hamburg. Martha must have concluded that she was very much behind hand, for the dinner had only just been put into the oven. Well now, said I to myself, if that most impatient of men is hungry, what a disturbance he will make. Monsieur Liedenbrock so soon, cried poor Martha in great alarm, half opening the dining-room door. Yes, Martha, but very likely the dinner is not half cooked, for it is not yet two. St. Michael's clock has only just struck half past one. Then why has the Master come home so soon? Perhaps he will tell us that himself. Here he is, Monsieur Axel, I will run and hide myself while you argue with him. And Martha retreated in safety into her own dominions. I was left alone. But how was it possible for a man of my undecided turn of mind to argue successfully was so irascible a person as the Professor? With this persuasion I was hurrying away to my own little retreat upstairs, when the street door creaked open its hinges, heavy feet made the whole flight of stairs to shake, and the Master of the house, passing rapidly through the dining-room, threw himself in haste into his own sanctum. But on his rapid way he had found time to fling his hazel stick into a corner, his rough broad brim upon the table, and these few emphatic words at his nephew. Axel, follow me! I had scarcely had time to move when the Professor was again shouting after me. What, not come yet? And I rushed into my redoubtable Master's study. Otto Liedenbrock had no mischief in him. I willingly allow that. But unless he very considerably changes as he grows older, at the end he will be a most original character. He was Professor at the Johannium, and was delivering a series of lectures on mineralogy, in the course of every one of which he broke into a passion once or twice at least. Not at all that he was overanxious about the improvement of his class, or about the degree of attention with which they listened to him, or the success which might eventually crown his labors. Such little matters of detail never troubled him much. His teaching was, as the German philosophy calls it, subjective. It was to benefit himself, not others. He was a learned egotist. He was a well of science, and the pulleys worked uneasily when you wanted to draw anything out of it. In a word, he was a learned miser. Germany has not a few Professors of this sort. To his misfortune my uncle was not gifted with a sufficiently rapid utterance, not to be sure when he was talking at home, but certainly in his public delivery. This is a want much to be deplored in a speaker. The fact is that during the course of his lectures at the Johannium the Professor often came to a complete standstill. He fought with willful words that refused to pass his struggling lips. Such words as resist and distend the cheeks, and at last break out into the unasked-for shape of a round and most unscientific oath. Then his fury would gradually abate. Now in mineralogy there are many half-Greek and half-Latin terms, very hard to articulate, and which would be most trying to uphold its measures. I don't wish to say a word against so respectable a science, far be that from me. True, in the august presence of rhombohedral crystals, retinas faultic resins, galenites, facites, molybdenites, tongue-states of manganese, and titanate of zirconium, why, the most facile of tongues may make a slip now and then. It therefore happened that this venial fault of my uncles came to be pretty well understood in time, and an unfair advantage was taken of it. The students laid wait for him in dangerous places, and when he began to stumble, loud was the laughter, which was not in good taste, not even in Germans. And if there was always a full audience to honour the leadenbrock courses, I should be sorry to conjecture how many came to make merry at my uncle's expense. Nevertheless, my good uncle was a man of deep learning, a fact I am most anxious to assert and reassert. Sometimes he might irretrievably injure a specimen by his too great ardour in handling it. But still he united the genius of a true geologist with the keen eye of the mineralogist. Armed with his hammer, his steel pointer, his magnetic needles, his blowpipe, and his bottle of nitric acid, he was a powerful man of science. He would refer any mineral to its proper place among the six hundred elementary substances now enumerated by its fracture, its appearance, its hardness, its fusibility, its sonorousness, its smell, and its taste. The name of leadenbrock was honourably mentioned in colleges and learned societies. Humphrey Davy, Humboldt, Captain Sir John Franklin, General Sabine never failed to call upon him on their way through Hamburg. Becquerel, Abelman, Brewster, Dumas, Milne-Edwards, St. Clair Davy frequently consulted him upon the most difficult problems in chemistry, a science which was indebted to him for considerable discoveries. For in 1853 there had appeared at Leipzig an imposing folio by Otto Leidenbrock entitled A Treatise Upon Transcendental Chemistry, with Plates, a work, however, which failed to cover its expenses. To all these titles to honour, let me add that my uncle was the curator of the Museum of Minerology formed by Monsieur Struva, the Russian ambassador, a most valuable collection, the fame of which is European. Such was the gentleman who addressed me in that impetuous manner. Fancy a tall, spare man of an iron constitution and with a fair complexion which took off a good ten years from the fifty he must own to. His restless eyes were in incessant motion behind his full-sized spectacles. His long, thin nose was like a knife-blade. Boys had been heard to remark that that organ was magnetised and attracted iron filings. But this was merely a mischievous report. It had no attraction except for snuff, which it seemed to draw to itself in great quantities. When I have added, to complete my portrait, that my uncle walked by mathematical strides of a yard and a half, and that in walking he kept his fists firmly closed, a sure sign of an irritable temperament. I think I shall have said enough to disenchant anyone who should, by mistake, have coveted much of his company. He lived in his own little house in Cunextrasse, a structure half brick and half wood, with a gable cut into steps. They looked upon one of those winding canals which intersect each other in the middle of the ancient quarter of Hamburg, and which the great fire of 1842 had fortunately spared. It is true that the old house stood slightly off the perpendicular, and bulged out a little towards the street. Its roof sloped a little to one side, like the cap over the left ear of a Tuggenborn student. Its lines wanted accuracy, but after all it stood firm, thanks to an old elm which buttressed it in front, and which often in spring sent its young sprays through the window panes. My uncle was tolerably well off for a German professor. The house was his own and everything in it. The living contents were his goddaughter Grauben, the young Verlindes of 17, Martha and myself. As his nephew and an orphan I became his laboratory assistant. I freely confessed that I was exceedingly fond of geology and all its kindred sciences. The blood of a mineralogist was in my veins, and in the midst of my specimens I was always happy. In a word a man might live happily enough in the little old house in Cunextrasse, in spite of the restless impatience of its master, for although he was a little too excitable, he was very fond of me. But the man had no notion how to wait. Nature herself was too slow for him. In April, after he had planted in the terracotta pots outside his window seedling plants of minionette and convolvulus, he would go out and give them a little pull by their leaves to make them grow faster. In dealing with such a strange individual there was nothing for it but prompt obedience. I therefore rushed after him. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Of A Journey Into The Interior Of The Earth by Jules Verne, translated by Frederick Malison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2 A Mystery To Be Solved At Any Price That study of his was a museum, and nothing else. Specimens of everything known in mineralogy lay there in their places in perfect order and correctly named, divided into inflammable, metallic, and lithoid minerals. How well I knew all these bits of science. Many a time, instead of enjoying the company of lads my own age, I had preferred dusting these graphites, anthracites, coals, lignites, and peats. And there were bitumens, resins, organic salts to be protected from the least grain of dust, and metals, from iron to gold, metals whose current value altogether disappeared in the presence of the Republic inequality of scientific specimens. And stones, too, enough to rebuild entirely the house in Kunigstrasse, even with a handsome additional room which would have suited me admirably. But on entering this study now, I thought of none of all these wonders. My uncle alone filled my thoughts. He had thrown himself into a velvet easy chair, and was grasping between his hands a book over which he bent, pondering with intense admiration. Here's a remarkable book! What a wonderful book! he was exclaiming. These ejaculations brought to my mind the fact that my uncle was liable to occasional fits of bibliomania. But no old book had any value in his eyes unless it had the virtue of being nowhere else to be found, or at any rate of being illegible.  Why, I have got a priceless treasure that I found this morning in rummaging in old Hevelius's shop, the Jew. Magnificent, I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm. What was the good of all this fuss about an old quarto, bound in rough calf, a yellow faded volume, with a ragged seal depending from it? But for all that, there was no lull yet in the admiring exclamations of the professor. See! he went on, both asking the questions and supplying the answers. Isn't it a beauty? Yes, splendid! Did you ever see such a binding? Doesn't the book open easily? Yes, it stops open anywhere.  Yes, for the binding in the leaves are flush, all in a straight line, and no gaps or openings anywhere. And look at its back, after seven hundred years. Why, Boserian, Kloss or Pergolt might have been proud of such a binding! While rapidly making these comments, my uncle kept opening and shutting the old tome. I really could do no less than ask a question about its contents, although I did not feel the slightest interest. And what is the title of this marvellous work, I asked, with an affected eagerness which he must have been very blind not to see through. This work, replied my uncle, firing up with renewed enthusiasm, this work is the Heinz Kringler of Snorrit-Türlissen, the most famous Icelandic author of the twelfth century. It is the chronicle of the Norwegian princes who ruled in Iceland. Indeed, I cried, keeping up wonderfully. Of course, it is a German translation. What! sharply replied the professor. A translation! What should I do with a translation? This is the Icelandic original, in the magnificent idiomatic vernacular, which is both rich and simple, and admits of an infinite variety of grammatical combinations and verbal modifications. Like German, I happily ventured. Yes, replied my uncle, shrugging his shoulders. But in addition to all this, the Icelandic has three numbers like the Greek, and irregular declensions of nouns proper like the Latin. Ah! said I, a little moved out of my indifference. And is the type good? Type! What do you mean by talking of type wretched axle? Type!  It is a manuscript, a runic manuscript. Runic? Yes, do you want me to explain what that is? Of course not, I replied in the tone of an injured man. But my uncle persevered, and told me, against my will, of many things I cared nothing about. Runic characters were in use in Iceland in former ages. They were invented, it is said, by Odin himself. Look there, and wonder, impious young man, and admire these letters, the invention of the Scandinavian god. Well, well, not knowing what to say, I was going to prostrate myself before this wonderful book, a way of answering equally pleasing to gods and kings, and which has the advantage of never giving them any embarrassment, when a little incident happened to divert conversation into another channel. This was the appearance of a dirty slip of parchment, which slipped out of the volume and fell upon the floor. My uncle pounced upon this shred with incredible avidity. An old document, enclosed in immemorial time within the folds of this old book, had for him an immeasurable value. What's this? he cried. And he laid out upon the table a piece of parchment, five inches by three, and along which were traced certain mysterious characters. Here is the exact facsimile. I think it important to let these strange signs be publicly known, for they were the means of drawing on Professor Liedenbrock and his nephew to undertake the most wonderful expedition of the nineteenth century. The professor mused a few moments over this series of characters, then, raising his spectacles, he pronounced, These are runic letters. They are exactly like those of the manuscript of Snorri Turlicen. But what on earth is their meaning? Runic letters appearing to my mind to be an invention of the learned to mystify this poor world, I was not sorry to see my uncle suffering the pangs of mystification, at least so it seemed to me, judging from his fingers, which were beginning to work with terrible energy. It is certainly old Icelandic, he muttered between his teeth. And Professor Liedenbrock must have known, for he was acknowledged to be quite a polyglot. Not that he could speak fluently in the two thousand languages and twelve thousand dialects which are spoken on the earth, but he knew at least his share of them. So he was going, in the presence of this difficulty, to give way to all the impetuosity of his character, and I was preparing for a violent outbreak, when two o'clock struck by the little timepiece over the fireplace. At that moment our good housekeeper Martha opened the study door, saying, Dinner is ready. I am afraid he sent that soup to where it would boil away to nothing, and Martha took to her heels for safety. I followed her, and hardly knowing how I got there, I found myself seated in my usual place. I waited a few minutes. No, Professor came. Never within my remembrance had he missed the important ceremonial of dinner, and yet what a good dinner it was. There was parsley soup, an omelet of ham garnished with spiced sorrel, a filet of veal with compote of prunes, for dessert crystallized fruit, the whole washed down with sweet moselle. All this my uncle was going to sacrifice to a bit of old parchment. As an affectionate and attentive nephew I considered it my duty to eat for him as well as for myself, which I did conscientiously. I have never known such a thing, said Martha. Monsieur Liedenbrock is not at table. Who could have believed it, I said, with my mouth full. Something serious is going to happen, said the servant, shaking her head. My opinion was that nothing more serious would happen than an awful scene when my uncle should have discovered that his dinner was devoured. I had come to the last of the fruit when a very loud voice tore me away from the pleasures of my dessert. With one spring I bounded out of the dining room into the study. The runic writing exercises the professor. Undoubtedly it is runic, said the professor, bending his brows, but there is a secret in it, and I mean to discover the key. A violent gesture finished the sentence. Sit there, he added, holding out his fist towards the table. Sit there and write. I was seated in a trice. Now I would dictate to you every letter of our alphabet which corresponds with each of these Icelandic characters. We will see what that will give us. But, by St. Michael, if you should dare to deceive me! The dictation commenced. I did my best. Every letter was given me one after the other, with the following remarkable result. M.M. R.N. L.L.S. S. Ravel Sekheid S.G.T.S.S.M.F. V.N. T.E.I.E.F. Nirdki K.T.S.A.M.N. Atrates Soudern M.T.N.L. N.V.E.E.C.T. R.R.I.L.S.A. Atzar N.V.C.R.C. I.E.A.B.S. C.C.R.M.I. E.E.V.T.V.I. Fur.Antiv D.T. I.A.C. O.S.A.B.O. K.D.I. When this work was ended, my uncle tore the paper from me and examined it attentively for a long time. What does it all mean? He kept repeating mechanically. Upon my honor, I could not have enlightened him. Besides, he did not ask me, and he went on talking to himself. This is what is called a cryptogram, or cipher, he said, in which letters are purposely thrown in confusion, which, if properly arranged, would reveal their sense. Only think that under this jargon there may lie concealed the clue to some great discovery. As for me, I was of opinion that there was nothing at all in it, though, of course, I took care not to say so. Then the professor took the book and the parchment, and diligently compared them together. These two writings are not by the same hand, he said. The cipher is of later date than the book, an undoubted proof of which I see in a moment. The first letter is a double M, a letter which is not to be found in Turlican's book and which was only added to the alphabet in the fourteenth century. Therefore, there are two hundred years between the manuscript and the document. I admitted that this was a strictly logical conclusion. I am therefore led to imagine, continued my uncle, that some possessor of this book wrote these mysterious letters. But who was that possessor? Is his name nowhere to be found in the manuscript? My uncle raised his spectacles, took up a strong lens, and carefully examined the blank pages of the book. On the front of the second, the title page, he noticed a sort of stain which looked like an ink blot. But in looking at it very closely, he thought he could distinguish some half-effaced letters. My uncle at once fastened upon this as the center of interest, and he labored at that blot, until by the help of his microscope he ended by making out the following runic characters which he read without difficulty. Arnsecnism! he cried in triumph. Why, that is the name of another Icelander, a savant of the sixteenth century, a celebrated alchemist. I gazed at my uncle with satisfactory admiration. Those alchemists, he resumed, Avicenna, Bacon, Lully, Paracelsus were the real and only savant of their time. They made discoveries at which we are astonished. Has not this sagnism concealed under his cryptogram some surprising invention? It is so, it must be so! The professor's imagination took fire at this hypothesis. No doubt, I venture to reply. But what interest would he have in thus hiding so marvelous a discovery? Why, why, how can I tell? Did not Galileo do the same by Saturn? We shall see. I will get at the secret of this document, and I will neither sleep nor eat until I have found it out. My comment on this was a half suppressed. Oh! Nor you either, Axel, he added. The deuce, said I to myself. Then it is lucky I have eaten two dinners today. First of all, we must find out the key to this cipher. That cannot be difficult. At these words I quickly raised my head, but my uncle went on soliloquizing. There's nothing easier. In this document there are a hundred and thirty-two letters, viz. seventy-seven consonants and fifty-five vowels. This is the proportion found in southern languages, whilst northern tongues are much richer in consonants. Therefore this is a southern language. These were very fair conclusions, I thought. But what language is it? Here I looked for a display of learning, but I met instead with profound analysis. This sacnesm, he went on, was a very well informed man. Now, since he was not writing in his own mother tongue, he would naturally select that which was currently adopted by the choice spirits of the sixteenth century. I mean Latin. If I am mistaken, I can but try Spanish, French, Italian, Greek, or Hebrew, but the savants of the sixteenth century generally wrote in Latin. I am therefore entitled to pronounce this a priori to be Latin. It is Latin. I jumped up in my chair. My Latin memories rose in revolt against the notion that these barbarous words could belong to the sweet language of Virgil. Yes, it is Latin, my uncle went on, but it is Latin confused and in disorder. Pertobata se yo in ordenata, as Euclid has it. Very well, thought I, if you could bring order out of that confusion, my dear uncle, you are a clever man.  Here is a series of one hundred and thirty-two letters in apparent disorder. There are words consisting of consonants only, as nerls, others, on the other hand, in which vowels predominate, as for instance, the fifth, unef, or the last but one, ussebo. Now this arrangement has evidently not been premeditated. It has arisen mathematically in obedience to the unknown law which has ruled in the succession of these letters. It appears to me, a certainty, that the original sentence was written in a proper manner, and afterwards distorted by a law which we have yet to discover. Whoever possesses the key of this cipher will read it with fluency. What is that key? Axel, have you got it? I answered not a word, and for a very good reason. My eyes had fallen upon a charming picture, suspended against the wall, the portrait of Grauben. My uncle's ward was at that time at Altona, staying with a relation, and in her absence I was very downhearted, for, I may confess it to you now, the pretty Verland days and the professor's nephew loved each other with a patience and a calmness entirely German. We had become engaged unknown to my uncle, who was too much taken up with geology to be able to enter into such feelings as ours. Grauben was a lovely blue-eyed blonde, rather given to gravity and seriousness, but that did not prevent her from loving me very sincerely. As for me, I adored her, if there is such a word in the German language. Thus it happened that the picture of my pretty Verland days threw me in a moment out of the world of realities into that of memory and fancy. There looked down upon me the faithful companion of my labours and my recreations. Every day she helped me to arrange my uncle's precious specimens. She and I labelled them together. Mademoiselle Grauben was an accomplished mineralogist. She could have taught a few things to a savant. She was fond of investigating abstruse scientific questions. What pleasant hours we have spent in study! And how often I envied the very stones which he handled with her charming fingers. Then, when our leisure hours came, we used to go out together and turn into the shady avenues by the Ulster and went happily side by side up to the old windmill, which formed such an improvement to the landscape at the head of the lake. On the road we chatted hand in hand. I told her amusing tales at which she laughed heartily. Then we reached the banks of the Elbe, and after having bid good-bye to the swan, sailing gracefully amidst the white water lilies, we returned to the quay by the steamer. That is just where I was in my dream, when my uncle, with a vehement thump on the table, dragged me back to the realities of life. Come, said he, the very first thing which would come into any one's head to confuse the letters of a sentence would be to write the words vertically instead of horizontally. Indeed, said I. Now we must see what would be the effect of that axle. Put down upon this paper any sentence you like, only, instead of arranging the letters in the usual way, one after the other, place them in succession in vertical columns, so as to group them together in five or six vertical lines. I caught his meaning and immediately produced the following literary wonder. I-Y-L-O-A-U-L-O-L-W-R-B-O-U-N-G-E-V-W-M-D-R-N-E-E-Y-E-A. Good, said the professor, without reading them. Now, set down those words in a horizontal line. I obeyed, and with this result. I-Y-L-O-L-W-R-B-O-N-G-V-W-M-D-R-N-E-Y-A. Excellent, said my uncle, taking the paper hastily out of my hands. This begins to look just like an ancient document. The vowels and the consonants are grouped together in equal disorder. There are even capitals in the middle of words, and commas too, just as in Sacknessum's parchment. I considered these remarks very clever. Now, said my uncle, looking straight at me, to read the sentence which you have just written, and with which I am wholly unacquainted, I shall only have to take the first letter of each word, then the second, the third, and so forth. And my uncle, to his great astonishment and my much greater, read, I love you well, my own dear Grauben. Hello, cried the Professor. Yes, indeed, without knowing what I was about, like an awkward and unlucky lover, I had compromised myself by writing this unfortunate sentence. Aha! You are in love with Grauben, he said, with the right look for a guardian. Yes, no, I stammered. You love Grauben? He went on once or twice dreamily. Well, let us apply the process I have suggested to the document in question. My uncle, falling back into his absorbing contemplations, had already forgotten my imprudent words. I merely say imprudent, for the great mind of so learned a man, of course, had no place for love affairs, and happily the grand business of the document gained me the victory. Just as the moment of the supreme experiment arrived, the Professor's eyes flashed right through his spectacles. There was a quivering in his fingers as he grasped the old parchment. He was deeply moved. At last he gave a preliminary cough, and with profound gravity, naming in succession the first, then the second letter of each word, he dictated me the following. M M E S S V N K A, capital S, E N R, capital A, period. I C E F D O, capital K, period, S E G, N I T T, A M, V R T M, E C E R T, S E R R, E T T E, comma.  I confess I felt considerably excited in coming to the end. These letters named, one at a time, had carried no sense to my mind. I therefore waited for the professor with great pomp to unfold the magnificent but hidden Latin of this mysterious phrase. But who could have foretold the result? A violent thump made the furniture rattle and spilt some ink, and my pen dropped from between my fingers. That's not it! cried my uncle. There's no sense in it! Then, darting out like a shot, bowling downstairs like an avalanche, he rushed into the cunextrasa and fled. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Of A Journey Into The Interior Of The Earth by Jules Verne Translated by Frederick Malison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 The Enemy To Be Starved Into Submission He is gone, cried Martha, running out of her kitchen at the noise of the violent slamming of doors. Yes, I replied, completely gone. Well, and how about his dinner? said the old servant. He won't have any. And his supper? He won't have any. What? cried Martha, with clasped hands. No, my dear Martha, he will eat no more. No one in the house is to eat anything at all. Uncle Leedenbrock is going to make us all fast until he has succeeded in deciphering an undecipherable scrawl. Oh, my dear, must we then all die of hunger? I hardly dared to confess that, with so absolute a ruler as my uncle, this fate was inevitable. The old servant, visibly moved, returned to the kitchen, moaning piteously. When I was alone, I thought I would go and tell Grauben all about it. But how should I be able to escape from the house? The Professor might return at any moment. And suppose he called me. And suppose he tackled me again with this logomic-y, which might vainly have been set before ancient Edipus? And if I did not obey his call, who could answer for what might happen? The wisest course was to remain where I was. A mineralogist at Bess and Cone had just sent us a collection of Solicius nodules, which I had to classify. So I set to work. I sorted, labelled, and arranged in their own glass case all these hollow specimens, in the cavity of each of which was a nest of little crystals. But this work did not succeed in absorbing all my attention. That old document kept working in my brain. My head throbbed with excitement, and I felt an undefined uneasiness. I was possessed with the presentiment of coming evil. In an hour my nodules were all arranged upon successive shelves. Then I dropped down into the old velvet armchair, my head thrown back, and my hands joined over it. I lighted my long crooked pipe, with a painting on it of an idle-looking niad. Then I amused myself watching the process of the conversion of the tobacco into carbon, which was by slow degrees making my niad into a necrus. Now and then I listened to hear whether a well-known step was on the stairs. No. Where could my uncle be at that moment? I fancied him running under the noble trees which lined the road to Altoona, gesticulating, making shots with his cane, thrashing the long grass, cutting the heads off the thistles, and disturbing the contemplative storks in their peaceful solitude. Would he return in triumph or in discouragement? Which would get the upper hand, he or the secret? I was thus asking myself questions, and mechanically taking between my fingers the sheet of paper mysteriously disfigured with the incomprehensible succession of letters I had written down. And I repeated to myself, what does it all mean? I sought to group the letters as to form words. Quite impossible. When I put them together by twos, threes, fives, or sixes, nothing came of it but nonsense. To be sure, the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth letters made the English word ice. The eighty-third and two following made sir, and in the midst of the document, in the second and third lines, I observed the words rots, mutable, ira, net, atra. Come now, I thought. These words seem to justify my uncle's view about the language of the document. In the fourth line appeared the word luco, which means a sacred wood. It is true that in the third line was the word tabled, which looked like Hebrew, and in the last the purely French words mare, arc, mere. All this was enough to drive a poor fellow crazy. Four different languages in this ridiculous sentence. What connection could there possibly be between such words as ice, sir, anger, cruel, sacred wood, changeable, mother, bow, and sea? The first and the last might have something to do with each other. It was not at all surprising that in a document written in Iceland there should be mention of a sea of ice. But it was quite another thing to get to the end of this cryptogram with so small a clue. So I was struggling with an insurmountable difficulty. My brain got heated, my eyes watered over that sheet of paper. Its 132 letters seemed to flutter and fly around me, like those motes of mingled light and darkness which float in the air around the head, when the blood is rushing upwards with undue violence. I was prey to a kind of hallucination. I was stifling. I wanted air. Unconsciously I fanned myself with the bit of paper, the back and front of which successively came before my eyes. What was my surprise when, in one of those rapid revolutions, at the moments when the back was turned to me, I thought I caught sight of the Latin words creterum, terrestre, and others? A sudden light burst in upon me. These hints alone gave me the first glimpse of the truth. I had discovered the key to the cipher. To read the document it would not even be necessary to read it through the paper. Such as it was, just such as it had been dictated to me, so it might be spelt out with ease. All those ingenious professorial combinations were coming right. He was right as to the arrangement of the letters. He was right as to the language. He had been within a hair's breath of reading this Latin document from end to end. But that hair's breath, chance had given it to me. You may be sure I felt stirred up. My eyes were dim, I could scarcely see. I laid the paper upon the table. At a glance I could tell the whole secret. At last I became more calm. I made a wise resolve to walk twice round the room quietly and settle my nerves, and then I returned into the deep gulf of the huge armchair. Now I'll read it, I cried, after having well distented my lungs with air. I leaned over the table. I laid my finger successively upon every letter. And without a pause, without one moment's hesitation, I read off the whole sentence aloud.  Terror! I sat overwhelmed as if with a sudden deadly blow. What! That which I read had actually really been done! A mortal man had had the audacity to penetrate! Ah! I cried, springing up. But no, no, my uncle shall never know it. He would insist upon doing it too. He would want to know all about it. Ropes could not hold him, such a determined geologist as he is. He would start, he would, in spite of everything and everybody, and he would take me with him, and we should never get back. No, never, never. My over-excitement was beyond all description. No, no, it shall not be, I declared energetically, and as it is in my power to prevent the knowledge of it coming into the mind of my tyrant, I will do it. By dint of turning this document round and round, he too might discover the key. I will destroy it. There was a little fire left on the hearth. I seized not only the paper, but Sagnasum's parchment. With a feverish hand I was about to fling it all upon the coals and utterly destroy and abolish this dangerous secret, when the study door opened and my uncle appeared. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 OF A JOURNEY INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE EARTH by Jules Verne Translated by Frederick Malison This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 Famine, then victory, followed by dismay I had only just time to replace the unfortunate document upon the table. Professor Liedenbrock seemed to be greatly abstracted. The ruling thought gave him no rest. Evidently, he had gone deeply into the matter, analytically and with profound scrutiny. He had brought all the resources of his mind to bear upon it during his walk, and he had come back to apply some new combination. He sat in his armchair, and, pen in hand, he began what looked very much like algebraic formula.  I took count of every movement. Might not some unhoped-for result come of it? I trembled, too, very unnecessarily, since the true key was in my hands, and no other would open the secret. For three long hours my uncle worked on without a word, without lifting his head. Rubbing out, beginning again, then rubbing out again, and so on a hundred times. I knew very well that if he succeeded in setting down these letters in every possible relative position, the sentence would come out. But I knew also that twenty letters alone could form two quintillions, four hundred and thirty-two quadrillions, nine hundred and two trillions, eight billions, a hundred and seventy-six millions, six hundred and forty thousand combinations. Now here were a hundred and thirty-two letters in this sentence, and these hundred and thirty-two letters would give a number of different sentences, each made up of at least a hundred and thirty-three figures, a number which passed far beyond all calculation or conception. So I felt reassured as far as regarded this heroic method of solving the difficulty. But time was passing away. Night came on. The street noises ceased. My uncle, bending over his task, noticed nothing, not even Martha half opening the door. He heard not a sound, not even that excellent woman saying, Will not Moncio take any supper to-night? And poor Martha had to go away unanswered. As for me, after long resistance I was overcome by sleep. And fell off at the end of the sofa, while Uncle Liedenbrock went on calculating and rubbing out his calculations. When I awoke next morning, that indefatigable worker was still at his post. His red eyes, his pale complexion, his hair tangled between his feverish fingers, the red spots on his cheeks, revealed his desperate struggle with impossibilities, and the weariness of spirit, the mental wrestlings he must have undergone all through that unhappy night. To tell the plain truth I pitied him. In spite of the approaches which I considered I had a right to lay upon him, a certain feeling of compassion was beginning to gain upon me. The poor man was so entirely taken up with his one idea that he had even forgotten how to get angry. All the strength of his feelings was concentrated upon one point alone. And as their usual event was closed it was to be feared lest extreme tension should give rise to an explosion sooner or later. I might with a word have loosened the screw of the steel vice that was crushing his brain, but that word I would not speak. Yet I was not an ill-natured fellow.  Why so insensible to my uncle's interests? No, no, I repeated, I shall not speak. He would insist upon going. Nothing on earth could stop him. His imagination is a volcano, and to do that which other geologists have never done he would risk his life. I will preserve silence. I will keep the secret which mere chance has revealed to me. To discover it would be to kill Professor Leidenbrock. Let him find it out himself if he can. I will never have it laid to my door that I led him to his destruction. Having formed this resolution I folded my arms and waited. But I had not reckoned upon one little incident which turned up a few hours after. When our good Martha wanted to go to market she found the door locked. The big key was gone. Who could have taken it out? Assuredly it was my uncle when he returned the night before from his hurried walk. Was this done on purpose, or was it a mistake? Did he want to reduce us by famine? This seemed like going rather too far. What, should Martha and I be victims of a position of things in which we had not the smallest interest? It was a fact that a few years before this, whilst my uncle was working at his great classification of minerals, he was 48 hours without eating, and all his household were obliged to share in this scientific fast. As for me, what I remember is that I got severe cramps in my stomach, which hardly suited the constitution of a hungry growing lad. Now it appeared to me as if breakfast was going to be wanting, just as supper had been the night before. Yet I resolved to be a hero, and not to be conquered by the pangs of hunger. Martha took it very seriously, and poor woman was very much distressed. As for me, the impossibility of leaving the house distressed me a good deal more, and for a very good reason. A caged lover's feelings may easily be imagined. My uncle went on working, his imagination went off rambling into the ideal world of combinations. He was far away from the earth, and really far away from earthly once. About noon hunger began to stimulate me severely. Martha had, without thinking any harm, cleared out the larder the night before, so that now there was nothing left in the house. Still I held out. I made it a point of honour. Two o'clock struck. This was becoming ridiculous. Worse than that, unbearable. I began to say to myself that I was exaggerating the importance of the document, that my uncle would surely not believe in it, that he would set it down as a mere puzzle, that if it came to the worst we should lay violent hands on him and keep him home if he thought unventuring on the expedition, that, after all, he might himself discover the key of the cypher and that then I should be clear at the mere expense of my involuntary abstinence. These reasons seemed excellent to me, though on the night before I should have rejected them with indignation. I even went so far as to condemn myself for my absurdity in having waited so long, and I finally resolved to let it all out. I was therefore meditating a proper introduction to the matter, so as not to seem too abrupt, when the Professor jumped up, clapped on his hat, and prepared to go out. Surely he was not going out to shut us in again. No, never. Uncle, I cried. He seemed not to hear me. Uncle, leadenbrock, I cried, lifting up my voice. A. he answered, like a man suddenly waking. Uncle, that key! What key? The door key? No, no, I cried, the key of the document! The Professor stared at me over his spectacles. No doubt he saw something unusual in the expression of my countenance, for he laid hold of my arm and speechlessly questioned me with his eyes. Yes, never was a question more forcibly put. I nodded my head up and down. He shook his pittingly, as if he was dealing with a lunatic. I gave him a more affirmative gesture. His eyes glistened and sparkled with live fire, his hand was shaken threateningly. This new conversation at such a momentous crisis would have riveted the attention of the most indifferent. And the fact really was that I dared not speak now, so intense was the excitement for fear lest my uncle should smother me in his first joyful embraces. But he became so urgent that I was at last compelled to answer. Yes, that key! Chance! What is it that you are saying? He shouted with indescribable emotion. There, read that, I said, presenting a sheet of paper on which I had written. But there is nothing in this, he answered, crumpling up the paper. No, nothing until you proceed to read from the end to the beginning. I had not finished my sentence when the Professor broke out into a cry, nay, auror! A new revelation burst in upon him. He was transformed. Aha! clever sagnosome! he cried. You had first written out your sentence the wrong way! And dirting upon the paper, with eyes bedimmed and voice choked with emotion, he read the whole document from the last letter to the first. It was conceived in the following terms. In Snafel's Jaculis, Craterum quem de libat, ombra scataris julii intra calendus descende, audax viator et terrestre centrum atinges, quote fecci, arn sagnosome. Which bad Latin may be translated thus. Descend, bold traveller, into the crater of the yokel of Snafel's, which the shadow of scataris touches before the callons of July, and you will attain the centre of the earth, which I have done. Arn sagnosome. In reading this, my uncle gave a spring as if he had touched a laden jar. His audacity, his joy, and his convictions were magnificent to behold. He came and he went. He seized his head between both hands. He pushed the chairs out of their places. He piled up his books. Incredible as it may seem, he rattled his precious nodules of flints together. He sent a kick here, a thump there. At last his nerves calmed down, and like a man exhausted by too lavish an expenditure of vital power, he sank back exhausted into his armchair. What o'clock is it? he asked after a few moments of silence. Three o'clock, I replied. He said, really, the dinner hour has passed, and I did not know it. I am half dead with hunger. Come on, and after dinner. Well, after dinner pack up my trunk. What! I cried. And yours, replied the indefatigable professor entering the dining-room. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Of A Journey Into The Interior Of The Earth by Jules Verne, translated by Frederick Mellison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Exciting Discussions About An Unparalleled Enterprise At these words a cold shiver ran through me. Yet I controlled myself. I even resolved to put a good face upon it. Scientific arguments alone could have any weight with Professor Liedenbrock. Now there were good ones against the practicability of such a journey. Penetrate to the centre of the earth—what nonsense! But I kept my dialectic battery in reserve for a suitable opportunity, and I interested myself in the prospect of my dinner, which was not yet forthcoming. It is no use to tell of the rage and implications of my uncle before the empty table. Explanations were given. Martha was set at liberty, ran off to the market, and did her part so well that, in an hour afterwards, my hunger was appeased, and I was able to return to the contemplation of the gravity of the situation. During all dinner time my uncle was almost merry. He indulged in some of those learned jokes which never do anybody any harm. Dessert over, he beckoned me into his study. I obeyed. He sat at one end of his table, I at the other. Axel, said he very mildly, you are a very ingenious young man. You have done me a splendid service. At a moment when, wearied out with the struggle, I was going to abandon the contest. Where should I have lost myself? None can tell. Never, my lad, shall I forget it, and you shall have your share in the glory to which your discovery will lead. O come, thought I, he is in a good way. Now is the time for discussing that same glory. Before all things, my uncle resumed, I enjoin you to preserve the most inviolable secrecy.  There are not a few in the scientific world who envy my success, and many would be ready to undertake this enterprise, to whom our return should be the first news of it. Do you really think there are many people bold enough, said I? Certainly. Who would hesitate to acquire such renown? If that document were divulged, a whole army of geologists would be ready to rush into the footsteps of our ensacnessm. I don't feel so very sure of that, uncle, I replied. For we have no proof of the authenticity of this document. What, not of the book, inside of which we have discovered it? Granted. I admit that ensacnessm may have written these lines, but does it follow that he has really accomplished such a journey? And may it not be that this old parchment is intended to mislead? I almost regretted having uttered this last word, which dropped from me in an unguarded moment. The Professor bent his shaggy brows, and I feared I had seriously compromised my own safety. Happily no great harm came of it. A smile flitted across the lip of my severe companion, and he answered, That is what we shall see. Ah! said I, rather put out. But do let me exhaust all the possible objections against this document. Speak, my boy, don't be afraid. You are quite at liberty to express your opinions. You are no longer my nephew only, but my colleague. Pray, go on. Well, in the first place. I wish to ask what are this Yogo, this Snafels, and this Skartaris, names which I have never heard before. Nothing easier. I received not long ago a map for my friend Augustus Petermann at Leipzig. Nothing could be more apropos. Take down the third Atlas in the second shelf in the large bookcase, Series Z, Plate Four. I rose, and with the help of such precise instructions, could not fail to find the required Atlas. My uncle opened it and said, Here is one of the best maps of Iceland, that of Henderson, and I believe this will solve the worst of our difficulties. I bent over the map. You see this volcanic island, said the Professor. Observe that all the volcanoes are called yocals, a word which means glacier in Icelandic, and under the high latitude of Iceland, nearly all the active volcanoes discharge the beds of ice. Hence, this term of yocal is applied to all the eruptive mountains in Iceland. Very good, said I. But what of Snafels? I was hoping that this question would be unanswerable, but I was mistaken. My uncle replied, Follow my finger along the west coast of Iceland. Do you see Reykjavik, the capital? You do. Well, ascend the innumerable fjords that indent those sea-beaten shores, and stop at the sixty-fifth degree of latitude. What do you see there? I see a peninsula looking like a thigh bone with the knee bone at the end of it. A very fair comparison, my lad. Now, do you see anything upon that knee bone? Yes, a mountain rising out of the sea. Right, that is Snafels. That Snafels? It is. It is a mountain five thousand feet high, one of the most remarkable in the world, if its crater leads down to the centre of the earth.  Impossible, said the professor severely, and why pray?  Extinct? Yes. The number of active volcanoes on the surface of the globe is at the present time only about three hundred, but there is a very much larger number of extinct ones. Now Snafels is one of these. Since historic times there has been but one eruption of this mountain, that of twelve-nineteen. From that time it has quieted down more and more, and now it is no longer reckoned among active volcanoes. To such positive statements I could make no reply. I therefore took refuge in other dark passages of the document. What is the meaning of this word skartaras, and what have the callons of July to do with it? My uncle took a few minutes to consider. For one short moment I felt a ray of hope, speedily to be extinguished, for soon he answered thus. What is darkness to you is light to me. This proves the ingenious care with which Saknasum guarded and defined his discovery. Snafels, or Snafel, has several craters. It was therefore necessary to point out which of these leads to the center of the globe. What did the Icelandic sage do? He observed that at the approach of the callons of July, that is to say, in the last days of June, one of the peaks, called skartaras, flung its shadow down the mouth of that particular crater, and he committed that fact to his document. Could there possibly have been a more exact guide? As soon as we have arrived at the summit of Snafel, we shall have no hesitation as to the proper road to take. Decidedly my uncle had answered every one of my objections. I saw that his position on the old parchment was impregnable. I therefore ceased to press him upon that part of the subject, and as above all things he must be convinced, I passed on to scientific objections, which in my opinion were far more serious. Well then, I said, I am forced to admit that Saknasum's sentence is clear and leaves no room for doubt. I will even allow that the document bears every mark and evidence of authenticity. That learned philosopher did get to the bottom of Snafels. He has seen the shadow of skartaras touch the edge of the crater before the Callens of July. He may even have heard the legendary stories told in his day about that crater reaching to the center of the world. But as for reaching it himself, as for performing the journey and returning, if he ever went, I say no. He never, never did that. Now, for your reason, said my uncle ironically. All the theories of science demonstrate such a feat to be impracticable. The theories say that, do they? replied the professor, in the tone of a meek disciple. Oh, unpleasant theories! How the theories will hinder us, won't they? I saw that he was only laughing at me, but I went on all the same. Yes, it is perfectly well known that the internal temperature rises one degree for every seventy feet in depth. Now, admitting this proportion to be constant, and the radius of the earth being fifteen hundred leagues, there must be a temperature of three hundred sixty thousand thirty-two degrees at the center of the earth. Therefore, all the substances that compose the body of this earth must exist there in a state of incandescent gas. For the metals that most resist the action of heat, gold and platinum, and the hardest of rocks, can never be either solid or liquid under such a temperature. I have therefore good reason for asking if it is possible to penetrate through such a medium. So, Axel, it is the heat that troubles you? Of course it is. Were we to reach a depth of thirty miles, we should have arrived at the limit of the terrestrial crust, for there the temperature will be more than two thousand three hundred seventy-two degrees. Are you afraid of being put into a state of fusion? I will leave you to decide that question, I answer rather sullenly. This is my decision, replied Professor Liedenbrock, putting on one of his grandest airs. Neither you nor anybody else knows with any certainty what is going on in the interior of this globe, since not the twelve thousandth part of its radius is known. Science is eminently perfectable, and every new theory is soon routed by a newer. Was it not always believed until Fourier that the temperature of the interplanetary spaces decreased perpetually? And is it not known at the present time that the greatest cold of the ethereal regions is never lower than forty degrees below zero Fahrenheit? Why should it not be the same with the internal heat? Why should it not, at a certain depth, attain an impassable limit, instead of rising to such a point as to fuse the most infusible metals? As my uncle was now taking a stand upon hypotheses, of course, there was nothing to be said. Well, I will tell you that true savants, amongst them Poisson, have demonstrated that if a heat of three hundred sixty thousand degrees existed in the interior of the globe, the fiery gases arising from the fused matter would acquire an elastic force which the crust of the earth would be unable to resist, and that it would explode like the plates of a bursting boiler. That is Poisson's opinion, my uncle, nothing more. Granted, but it is likewise decreed adopted by other distinguished geologists that the interior of the globe is neither gas nor water, nor any of the heaviest minerals known, for in none of these cases will the earth weigh what it does. Oh, with figures you may prove anything. But is it the same with facts? Is it not known that the number of volcanoes has diminished since the first days of creation? And if there is central heat, may we not thence conclude that it is in the process of diminution? My good uncle, if you will enter into the legion of speculation, I can discuss the matter no longer. But I have to tell you that the highest names have come to the support of my views. Do you remember a visit paid to me by the celebrated chemist Humphry Davy in 1825? Not at all, for I was not born until nineteen years afterwards. Well, Humphry Davy did call upon me on his way through Hamburg. We were long engaged in discussing, amongst other problems, the hypothesis of the liquid structure of the terrestrial nucleus. We were agreed that it could not be in a liquid state, for a reason which science has never been able to confute. What is that reason, I said, rather astonished? Because this liquid mass would be subject, like the ocean, to the lunar attraction, and therefore twice every day there would be internal tides, which, upheaving the terrestrial crust, would cause periodical earthquakes. Yet it is evident that the surface of the globe has been subject to the action of fire, I replied, and it is quite reasonable to suppose that the external crust cooled down first whilst the heat took refuge down to the center. Quite a mistake, my uncle answered. The earth has been heated by combustion on its surface, that is all. Its surface was composed of a great number of metals, such as potassium and sodium, which have the peculiar property of igniting at the mere contact with air and water. These metals kindled when the atmospheric vapours fell in rain upon the soil, and, by and by, when the waters penetrated into the fissures of the crust of the earth, they broke out into fresh combustion with explosions and eruptions. Such was the cause of the numerous volcanoes at the origin of the earth. Upon my word, this is a very clever hypothesis, I exclaimed, in spite rather of myself. And which Humphly Davy demonstrated to me by a simple experiment. He formed a small ball of the metals which I have named, and which was a very fair representation of our globe. Whenever he caused a fine dew of rain to fall upon its surface, it heaved up into little molecules. It became oxidized and formed miniature mountains. A crater broke open at one of its summits. The eruption took place, and communicated to the whole of the ball such a heat that it could not be held in the hand. In truth I was beginning to be shaken by the professor's arguments, besides which he gave additional weight to them by his usual ardour and fervent enthusiasm. You see, Axel, he added, the condition of the terrestrial nucleus has given rise to various hypotheses among geologists. There is no proof at all for this internal heat. My opinion is that there is no such thing, it cannot be. Besides, we shall see for ourselves, and like on psychnism we shall know exactly what to hold as truth concerning this grand question. Very well, we shall see, I replied, feeling myself carried off by his contagious enthusiasm. Yes, we shall see. That is, if it is possible to see anything there. And why not? May we not depend upon electric phenomena to give us light? May we not even expect light from the atmosphere, the pressure of which may render it luminous as we approach the centre. Yes, yes, said I. That is possible too. It is certain, exclaimed my uncle in a tone of triumph. But silence, do you hear me? Silence upon the whole subject, and let no one get before us in this design of discovering the centre of the earth. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 A woman's courage. Thus ended this memorable seance. That conversation threw me into a fever. I came out of my uncle's study as if I had been stunned, and as if there was not air enough in all the streets of Hamburg to put me right again. I came out of my uncle's study as if I had been stunned, and as if there was not air enough in all the streets of Hamburg to put me right again. I therefore made for the banks of the Elbe, where the steamer lands her passengers, which forms the communication between the city and the Hamburg Railway. Was I convinced of the truth of what I had heard? Had I not bent under the iron rule of the Professor Liedenbrock? Was I to believe him in earnest in his intention to penetrate to the centre of this massive globe? Had I been listening to the mad speculations of a lunatic or to the scientific conclusions of a lofty genius? Where did the truth stop? Where did error begin? I was all adrift amongst a thousand contradictory hypotheses, but I could not lay hold of one. Yet I remember that I had been convinced, although now my enthusiasm was beginning to cool down. But I felt a desire to start at once, and not to lose time and courage by calm reflection. I had at that moment quite courage enough to strap my knapsack to my shoulders and start. But I must confess that, in another hour, this unnatural excitement abated, my nerves became unstrong, and from the depths of the abyss of this earth I ascended to its surface again. It is quite absurd, I cried. There is no sense about it. No sensible young man should for a moment entertain such a proposal. The whole thing is nonexistent. I have had a bad night. I have been dreaming of horrors. But I had followed the banks of the Elbe and passed the town. After passing the port, too, I had reached the Eltona Road. I was led by a presentiment, soon to be realized. For shortly I aspired my little Grauben bravely returning with her light step to Hamburg. Grauben! I cried from afar off. The young girl stopped, rather frightened perhaps, to hear her name called after her on the high road. Ten yards more, and I had joined her. Axel! she cried, surprised. What, have you come to meet me? Is this why you are here, sir? But when she had looked upon me, Grauben could not fail to see the uneasiness and distress of my mind. What is the matter? she said, holding out her hand. What is the matter, Grauben? I cried. In a couple of minutes my pretty verlin days was fully informed of the position of affairs. For a time she was silent. Did her heart palpitate as mine did? I don't know about that, but I know that her hand did not tremble in mine. We went on a hundred yards without speaking. At last she said, Axel! My dear Grauben, that will be a splendid journey! I gave a bound at these words. Yes, Axel, a journey worthy of the nephew of a savant. It is a good thing for a man to be distinguished by some great enterprise.  No, my dear Axel, and I would willingly go with you, but that a poor girl would only be in your way. Is that quite true? It is true. Ah, women and young girls, how incomprehensible are your feminine hearts. When you are not the timidest, you are the bravest of creatures. Reason has nothing to do with your actions.  Would she not be afraid to join it herself? And she was driving me to do it, one whom she loved. I was disconcerted, and, if I must tell the whole truth, I was ashamed. Grauben, we will see whether you will say the same thing to-morrow. Tomorrow, dear Axel, I will say what I say to-day. Grauben and I, hand in hand, but in silence, pursued our way. The emotions of that day were breaking my heart. After all, I thought, the callons of July are a long way off, and between this and then many things may take place which will cure my uncle of his desire to travel underground. It was night when we arrived at the house in Kunigstrasse. I expected to find all quiet there, my uncle in bed, as was his custom, and Martha, giving her last touches with the feather-brush. But I had not taken into account the professor's impatience. I found him shouting, and working himself up amidst a crowd of porters and messengers, who were all depositing various loads in the passage. Our old servant was at her wit's end.  My uncle cried from as far off as we could see. Your boxes are not packed, and my papers are not arranged. Where's the key of my carpet-bag, and what have you done with my gators? I stood thunderstruck. My voice failed. Scarcely could my lips utter the words. Are we really going? Of course, you unhappy boy! Could I have dreamed that you would have gone out for a walk instead of hurrying your preparations forward? Are we to go, I asked again, with sinking hopes. Yes, the day after tomorrow, early. I could hear no more. I fled for refuge into my own little room. All hope was now at an end. My uncle had been all the morning, making purchases of a part of the tools and apparatus required for this desperate undertaking. The passage was encumbered with rope ladders, knotted cords, torches, flasks, grappling irons, Alpenstocks, pickaxes, iron shod sticks—enough to load ten men. I spent an awful night. Next morning I was called early. I had quite decided I would not open the door. But how was I to resist the sweet voice which was always music to my ears, saying, My dear Axel, I came out of my room. I thought my pale countenance and my red and sleepless eyes would work upon grub and sympathies and change your mind. Ah, my dear Axel, she said, I see you are better. A night's rest has done you good. Done me good, I exclaimed. I rushed to the glass. Well, in fact, I did look better than I had expected. I could hardly believe my own eyes. Axel, she said, I have had a long talk with my guardian. He is a bold philosopher, a man of immense courage, and you must remember that his blood flows in your veins. He has confided to me his plans, his hopes, and why and how he hopes to attain his object. He will no doubt succeed. My dear Axel, it is a grand thing to devote yourself to science. What honour will fall upon Herr Liedenbrock and so be reflected upon his companion? When you return, Axel, you will be a man, his equal, free to speak and to act independently and free to... The dear girl only finished the sentence by blushing. Her words revived me. Yet I refused to believe we should start. I drew Grubbin into the professor's study. Uncle, is it true that we are to go? Why do you doubt? Well, I don't doubt, I said, not to vex him. But I ask, what need is there to hurry? Time, time, flying with irreparable rapidity. But it is only the 16th May and until the end of June. What, you monument of ignorance, do you think you can get to Iceland in a couple of days? If you had not deserted me like a fool, I should have taken you to the Copenhagen office, to Liffender and Company, and you would have learned then that there is only one trip every month from Copenhagen to Reykjavik on the 22nd. Well? Well, if we waited for the 22nd June, we should be too late to see the Shadow of Skartaris touch the crater of Snafells. Therefore, we must get to Copenhagen as fast as we can to secure our passage.  There was no reply to this. I went to my room. Grubbin followed me. She undertook to pack up all the things necessary for my voyage. She was no more moved than if I had been starting for a little trip to Lübeck or Heligoland. Her little hands moved without haste. She talked quietly. She supplied me with sensible reasons for our expedition. She delighted me, and yet I was angry with her. Now and then I felt I ought to break out into a passion, but she took no notice and went on her way as methodically as ever. Finally the last strap was buckled. I came downstairs. All that day the philosophical instrument-makers and the electricians kept coming and going. Martha was distracted. Is Master mad? she asked. I nodded my head. And is he going to take you with him? I nodded again. Where to? I pointed with my finger downward. Down into the cellar? cried the old servant. No, I said, lower down than that. Night came, but I knew nothing about the lapse of time. Tomorrow morning at six precisely, my uncle decreed, we start. At ten o'clock I fell upon my bed, a dead lump of inert matter. All through the night terror had hold of me. I spent a dreaming of abysses. I was a prey to delirium. I felt myself grasped by the professor's sinewy hand, dragged along, hurled down, shattered into little bits. I dropped down unfathomable precipices with the accelerating velocity of bodies falling through space. My life had become an endless fall. I awoke at five with shattered nerves, trembling and weary. I came downstairs. My uncle was at table, devouring his breakfast. I stared at him with horror and disgust. But dear Grobin was there, so I said nothing, and could eat nothing. At half past five there was a rattle of wheels outside. A large carriage was there to take us to the Altona Railway Station. It was soon piled up with my uncle's multifarious preparations. Where's your box? he cried. It is ready, I replied, with faltering voice. Then make haste down, or we shall lose the train! It was now manifestly impossible to maintain the struggle against destiny. I went up again to my room, and, rolling my portman toes downstairs, I darted after him. At that moment my uncle was solemnly investing Grobin with the reins of government. My pretty Verlindaze was as calm and collected as was her want. She kissed her guardian, but could not restrain a tear in touching my cheek with her gentle lips. Grobin, I murmured. Go, my dear Axel, go! I am now your betrothed, and when you come back I will be your wife. I pressed her in my arms and took my place in the carriage. Martha and the young girl, standing at the door, waved their last farewell. Then the horses, roused by the driver's whistling, darted off at a gallop on the road to Altona. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Of A Journey Into The Interior Of The Earth by Jules Verne Translated by Frederick Mallison This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8 Serious Preparations For A Vertical Descent Altona, which has but a suburb of Hamburg, is the terminus of the Kiel Railway, which was to carry us to the belts. In twenty minutes we were in Holstein. At half-past six the carriage stopped at the station. My uncle's numerous packages, his voluminous impedimenta, were unloaded, removed, labeled, weighed, put into the luggage vans, and at seven we receded face to face in our compartment. The whistle sounded, the engine started, we were off. Was I resigned? No, not yet. Yet the cool morning air and the scenes on the road rapidly changed by the swiftness of the train drew me away somewhat from my sad reflections. As for the professor's reflections, they went far in advance of the swiftest express. We were alone in the carriage, but we sat in silence. My uncle examined all his pockets and his traveling bag with the minutest care. I saw that he had not forgotten the smallest matter of detail. Amongst other documents a sheet of paper, carefully folded, bore the heading of the Danish consulate with the signature of W. Christensen, consulate Hamburg, and the professor's friend. With this we possessed the proper introductions to the Governor of Iceland. I also observed the famous document most carefully laid up in his secret pocket in his portfolio. I bestowed a malediction upon it and then proceeded to examine the country. It was a very long succession of uninteresting loamy and fertile flats, a very easy country for the construction of railways, and propitious for the laying down of these direct-level lines so dear to railway companies. I had no time to get tired of the monotony. Four and three hours we stopped at Kiel, close to the sea. The luggage being labeled for Copenhagen we had no occasion to look after it, yet the professor watched every article with jealous vigilance, until all were safe on board. There they disappeared in the hold. My uncle, notwithstanding his hurry, had so well calculated the relations between the train and the steamer that we had a whole day to spare. The steamer Eleonora did not start until night, then sprang a fever state of excitement in which the impatient, irascible traveler devoted to perdition the railway directors and the steamboat companies and the governments which allowed such intolerable slowness. I was obliged to act coarse to him when he attacked the captain of the Eleonora upon this subject. The captain disposed of us summarily. At Kiel, as elsewhere, we must do something to while away the time. What with walking on the verdant shores of the bay within which nestles the little town, exploring the thick woods which made it look like a nest empowered amongst thick foliage, admiring the villas, each provided with a little bathing-house and moving about and grumbling, at last ten o'clock came. The heavy coils of smoke from the Eleonora's funnel unrolled in the sky. The bridge shook with a quivering of the struggling steam. We were on board, and owners for the time of two berths, one over the other, in the only saloon cabin on board. At quarter-past the moorings were loosed and the throbbing steamer pursued her way over the dark waters of the Great Belt. The night was dark. There was a sharp breeze and a rough sea. A few lights appeared on shore through the thick darkness. Later on, I cannot tell when, a dazzling light from some lighthouse threw a bright stream of fire along the waves. And this is all I can remember of this first portion of our sail. At seven in the morning we landed at Corsair, a small town on the west coast of Zealand. There we were transferred from the boat to another line of railway, which took us by just as flat a country as the plain of Holstein. Three hours' travelling brought us to the capital of Denmark.  In his impatience, I believe, he was trying to accelerate the train with his feet. At last he discerned a stretch of sea. The sound, he cried. At our left was a huge building that looked like a hospital. That's a lunatic asylum, said one of our travelling companions. Very good, thought I, just the place we went to end our days in. And great as it is that asylum is not big enough to contain all Professor Leedon Brock's madness. At ten in the morning, at last, we set our feet in Copenhagen. The luggage was put upon a carriage and taken with ourselves to the Phoenix Hotel in Breida Gate. This took half an hour, for the station is out of the town. Then my uncle, after a hasty toilet, dragged me after him. The porter at the hotel could speak German and English, but the Professor, as a polyglot, questioned him in good Danish, and it was in the same language that that person has directed him to the Museum of Northern Antiquities. The curator of this curious establishment, in which wonders are gathered together, out of which the ancient history of the country might be reconstructed by means of its stone weapons, its cups and its jewels, was a learned savant, the friend of the Danish consul at Hamburg, Professor Thomson. My uncle had a cordial letter of introduction to him. As a general rule, one savant greets another with coolness. But here the case was different. Monsieur Thomson, like a good friend, gave the Professor Liedenbrock a cordial greeting, and he even vouchsafe the same kindness to his nephew. It is hardly necessary to say the secret was sacredly kept from the excellent curator. We were simply disinterested travelers visiting Iceland out of harmless curiosity. Monsieur Thomson placed his services at our disposal, and we visited the keys with the object of finding out the next vessel to sail. I was yet in hopes that there would be no means of getting to Iceland, but there was no such luck. A small Danish schooner, the Valkyria, was set to sail for Reykjavik on the 2nd of June. The captain, Monsieur Bjarna, was on board. His intending passenger was so joyful that he almost squeezed his hands till they ached. That good man was rather surprised at his energy. To him it seemed a very simple thing to go to Iceland, as that was his business, but to my uncle it was sublime. The worthy captain took advantage of his enthusiasm to charge double fares, but we did not trouble ourselves about mere trifles. You must be on board on Tuesday, at seven in the morning, said Captain Bjarna, after having pocketed more dollars than were his due. Then we thanked Monsieur Thomson for his kindness, and we returned to the Phoenix Hotel. It's all right, it's all right, my uncle repeated. How fortunate we are to have found this boat ready for sailing!  We went first to Kangan's night tour, an irregular square in which are two innocent-looking guns, which need not alarm any one. Close by, at number five, there was a French restaurant kept by a cook of the name of Vans-Saint, where we had an ample breakfast for four marks each, two shillings, four pence. Then I took a childish pleasure in exploring the city. My uncle let me take him with me, but he took notice of nothing, neither the insignificant king's palace, nor their pretty seventeenth-century bridge, which spans the canal before the museum, nor that immense cenotaph of torfalsons, adorned with horrible mural painting and containing within it a collection of the sculptor's works, nor in a fine park the toy-like chateau of Rosenberg, nor the beautiful renaissance edifice of the exchange, nor its spire composed of the twisted tails of four bronze dragons, nor the great windmill on the ramparts, whose huge arms dilated in the sea breeze like the sails of a ship. What delicious walks we should have had together, my pretty verland days and I, along the harbour where the two-deckers and the frigate slept peaceably by the red roofing of the warehouse, by the green banks of the strait, through the deep shades of the trees amongst which the fort is half concealed, where the guns are thrusting out their black throats between branches of alder and willow. But alas, Grauben was far away, and I never hoped to see her again. But if my uncle felt no attraction towards these romantic scenes, he was very much struck with the aspect of a certain church-spire situated in the island of Amach, which forms the southwest quarter of Copenhagen. I was ordered to direct my feet that way. I embarked on a small steamer which plies on the canals, and in a few minutes she touched the key of the dockyard. After crossing a few narrow streets where some convicts, in trousers half yellow and half gray, were at work under the orders of the gangers, we arrived at the Fort Frelser's Kirk. There was nothing remarkable about the church, but there was a reason why its tall spire had attracted the professor's attention. Starting from the top of the tower, an external staircase wound around the spire, the spirals circling up into the sky. Let us get to the top, said my uncle. I shall be dizzy, I said. The more reason why we should go up, we must get used to it.  I had to obey. A keeper who lived at the other end of the street handed us the key, and the ascent began. My uncle went ahead with a light step. I followed him, not without alarm, for my head was very apt to feel dizzy. I possessed neither the equilibrium of an eagle nor his fearless nature. As long as we were protected on the inside of the winding staircase up the tower, all was well enough. But, after toiling up a hundred and fifty steps, the fresh air came to salute my face, and we were on the leads of the tower. There the aerial staircase began its gyrations, only guarded by a thin iron rail, and the narrowing steps seemed to ascend into infinite space. Never shall I be able to do it, I said.  Come up, sir, said my uncle with the coldest cruelty. I had to follow, clutching at every step. The keen air made me giddy. I felt the spire rocking with every gust of wind. My knees began to fail. Soon I was crawling on my knees, then creeping on my stomach. I closed my eyes. I seemed to be lost in space. At last I reached the apex, with the assistance of my uncle dragging me up by the collar. Look down, he cried. Look down well. You must take a lesson in a business. I opened my eyes. I saw houses squashed flat as if they had all fallen down from the skies. A smoke fog seemed to drown them. Over my head ragged clouds were drifting past, and by an optical inversion they seemed stationary, while the steeple, the ball, and I were all spinning along with fantastic speed. Far away on one side was the green country, on the other the sea sparkled, bathed in sunlight. The sound stretched away to Elsinor, dotted with a few white sails, like seagulls' wings, and in the misty east and away to the northeast lay outstretched the faintly shadowed shores of Sweden. All this immensity of space whirled and wavered, fluctuating beneath my eyes. But I was compelled to rise, to stand up, to look. My first lesson in dizziness lasted an hour. When I got permission to come down and feel the solid street pavements I was afflicted with severe lumbago. "'Tomorrow we will do it again,' said the Professor. And it was so. For five days in succession I was obliged to undergo this anti-furdiginous exercise, and whether I would or not, I made some improvement in the art of lofty contemplations.' End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 OF A JOURNEY INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE EARTH by Jules Verne, translated by Frederick Malison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9 ISLAND, BUT WHAT NEXT? The day for our departure arrived. The day before it, our kind friend, Mr. Thompson, brought us letters of introduction to Count Trampa, the Governor of Iceland, Mr. Picterson, the Bishop Suffragan, and Mr. Finson, Mayor of Reykjavik. My uncle expressed his gratitude by tremendous compressions of both his hands. On the second, at six in the evening, all our precious baggage being safely on board the Valkyria, the Captain took us into a very narrow cabin. "'Is the wind favourable?' my uncle asked. "'Excellent,' replied Captain Bjarna. "'A Southeaster. We shall pass down the sound full speed with all sail set.' In a few minutes the schooner, under her mizzen, brigantine, top sail, and top gallant sail, loosed from her moorings and made full sail through the Straits. In an hour the Captain of Denmark seemed to sink below the distant waves, and the Valkyria was skirting the coast by Elsinor. In my nervous frame of mind I expected to see the ghost of Hamlet wandering on the legendary castle terrace. "'Sublime madman,' I said. No doubt you would approve of our expedition. Perhaps you would keep us company to the centre of the globe to find the solution of your eternal doubts.' But there was no ghostly shape upon the ancient walls. Indeed, the castle is much younger than the heroic prince of Denmark. It now answers the purpose of a sumptuous lodge for the doorkeeper of the Straits of the Sound, before which every year there pass fifteen thousand ships of all nations. The castle of Kronzberg soon disappeared in the mist, as well as the tower of Helsingborg, built on the Swedish coast, and the schooner passed lightly on her way, urged by the breezes of the Categette. The Valkyria was a splendid sailor, but on a sailing vessel you can place no dependence. She was taken to Reykjavik, coal, household goods, earthen ware, woolen clothing, and a cargo of wheat. The crew consisted of five men, all Danes. How long would the passage take? my uncle asked. Ten days, the captain replied, if we don't meet a Norwester in passing the pharaohs. But are you not subject to considerable delays? No, Mr. Liedembrock, don't be uneasy. We shall get there in very good time. At evening the schooner doubled the scull at the northern point of Denmark, in the night passed the Skager Rack, skirted Norway by Cape Linnus, and entered the North Sea. In two days more we sided the coast of Scotland near Peterhead, and the Valkyria turned her lead towards the pharaoh islands, passing between the Orkneys and Shetlands. Soon the schooner encountered the great Atlantic swell. She had to tack against the north wind, and reach the pharaohs only with some difficulty. On the Eighth the captain made out McGannus, the southernmost of these islands, and from that moment took a straight course for Cape Portland, the most southerly point of Iceland. The passage was marked by nothing unusual. I bore the troubles of the sea pretty well. My uncle, to his own intense disgust, and his greater shame, was ill all through the voyage. He therefore was unable to converse with the captain about Snafell, the way to get to it, the facilities for transport. He was obliged to put off these inquiries until his arrival, and spent all his time at full length in his cabin, of which the timbers creaked and shook with every pit she took. It must be confessed he was not undeserving of his punishment. On the Eleventh we reached Cape Portland. The clear open weather gave us a good view of Myrtle's Yokel, which overhangs it. The Cape is merely a low hill with steep sides, standing lonely by the beach. The Valkyria kept at some distance from the coast, taking a westerly course amidst great shoals of whales and sharks. Soon we came inside of an enormous perforated rock, through which the sea dashed furiously. The Westman Islands seemed to rise out of the ocean like a group of rocks in a liquid plain. From that time this schooner took a wide berth and swept at a great distance round Cape or Akinness, which forms the western point of Iceland. The rough sea prevented my uncle from coming on deck to admire these shattered and surf-beaten coasts. 48 hours after, coming out of a storm which forced the schooner to scud under bare poles, we sighted east of us the beacon on Cape Skagen, where dangerous rocks extended far away seaward. An Icelandic pilot came on board, and in three hours the Valkyria dropped her anchor before Reykjavik in Foksa Bay.  The population of the town wonderfully interested in the arrival of a vessel for which everyone expected something formed in groups upon the Quay. My uncle left in haste his floating prison, or rather hospital. But before quitting the deck of the schooner he dragged me forward, and, pointing without stretch finger north of the bay at a distant mountain terminating in a double peak, a pair of cones covered with perpetual snow, he cried, Snuffel! Snuffel! Then, recommending me, by an impressive gesture to keep silence, he went into the boat which awaited him. I followed, and presently we were treading the soil of Iceland. The first man we saw was a good-looking fellow enough in a general's uniform. Yet he was not a general, but a magistrate, the governor of the island, Mr. Leberan Trampa himself. The professor was soon aware of the presence he was in. He delivered him his letters from Copenhagen, and then followed a short conversation in the Danish language, the purport of which I was quite ignorant of, and for a very good reason. But the result of this first conversation was that Baron Trampa placed himself entirely at the service of Professor Liedenbrock. My uncle was just as courteously received by the mayor, Mr. Finnsen, whose appearance was as military and disposition and office as Pacific as the governors. As for the bishop's suffragan, Mr. Picterson, he was at that moment engaged on an episcopal visitation in the north. For the time we must be resigned to wait for the honour of being presented to him. But Mr. Friedrichsen, Professor of Natural Sciences at the School of Reykjavik, was a delightful man, and his friendship became very precious to me. This modest philosopher spoke only Danish and Latin. He came to proffer me his good offices in the language of Horus, and I felt that we were made to understand each other. In fact, he was the only person in Iceland with whom I could converse at all. This good-natured gentleman made over to us two of the three rooms which his house contained, and we were soon installed in it with all our luggage, the abundance of which rather astonished the good people of Reykjavik. When Axel, said my uncle, we are getting on, and now the worst is over. The worst, I said astonished. To be sure, now we have nothing to do but go down. Oh, if that is all, you are quite right. But, after all, when we have gone down, we shall have to get up again, I suppose. Oh, I don't trouble myself about that. Come, there's no time to lose. I am going to the library. Perhaps there is a manuscript of Sagnasums there, and I should be glad to consult it. Well, while you are there, I will go into the town. Won't you? Oh, that is very uninteresting to me. It is not what is upon this island, but what is underneath that interests me. I went out and wandered wherever chance took me. It would not be easy to lose your way in Reykjavik. I was therefore under no necessity to inquire the road, which exposes one to mistakes when the only medium of intercourse is gesture. The town extends along a low and marshy level, between two hills. An immense bed of lava bounds it on one side, and falls gently towards the sea. On the other extends the vast bay of Faksa, shut in at the north by the enormous glacier of the Snafell, and of which the Valkyria was for the time the only occupant. Usually the English and French conservators of fisheries more in this bay, but just then they were cruising about the western coasts of the island. The longest of the only two streets that Reykjavik possesses was parallel with the beach. Here lived the merchants and traders, in wooden cabins made of red planks set horizontally. The other street, running west, ends at the little lake between the house of the Bishop and other non-commercial people. I had soon explored these melancholy ways. Here and there I got a glimpse of faded turf, looking like a worn-out bit of carpet, or some appearance of kitchen garden, the sparse vegetables of which, potatoes, cabbages, and lettuces, would have figured appropriately upon a little fusion table. A few sickly wall-flowers were trying to enjoy the air and sunshine. About the middle of the tin commercial street I found the public cemetery, enclosed in a mud wall, and where there seemed plenty of room. Then a few steps brought me to the governor's house, a butt compared with the town of Hamburg, a palace in comparison with the cabins of the Icelandic population. Between the little lake and the town the church is built in the Protestant style, of calcined stones extracted out of the volcanoes by their own labor and at their own expense. In high westerly winds it was manifest that the red tiles of the roof would be scattered in the air, to the great danger of the faithful worshippers. On a neighbouring hill I perceived the national school, where, as I was informed later by our host, were taught Hebrew, English, French and Danish, four languages of which, with shame I confess it, I don't know a single word. After an examination I should have to stand last of the forty scholars educated at this little college, and I should have been held unworthy to sleep along with them in one of those little double closets, where more delicate use would have died of suffocation the very first night. In three hours I had seen not only the town but its environs. The general aspect was wonderfully dull, no trees and scarcely any vegetation. Everywhere bare rocks, signs of volcanic action. The Icelandic huts are made of earth and turf, and the walls slope inward. They rather resemble roofs placed on the ground. But then these roofs are meadows of comparative fertility. Thanks to the internal heat the grass grows in them to some degree of perfection. It is carefully mown in the hay season. If it were not, the horses would come to pasture on these green abodes. In my excursion I met but few people. On returning to the main street I found the greater part of the population busyed in drying, salting, and putting on board codfish, their chief export. The men looked like robust but heavy blonde Germans with pensive eyes, conscious of being far removed from their fellow creatures, poor exiles relegated to this land of ice, poor creatures who should have been Eskimo since nature had condemned them to live only just outside the Arctic Circle. In vain did I try to detect a smile upon their lips. Sometimes by a spasmonic and involuntary contraction of the muscles they seemed to laugh, but they never smiled. Their costume consisted of a coarse jacket of black woolen cloth called in Scandinavian lands a vatmo, a hat with a very broad brim, trousers with a narrow edge of red, and a bit of leather rolled round the foot for shoes. The women looked as sad and as resigned as the men. Their faces were agreeable but expressionless, and they wore gowns and petticoats of dark vatmo. As matins they wore over their braided hair a little knitted brown cap. When married they put around their heads a colored handkerchief crowned with a peak of white linen. After a good walk I returned to Monsieur Friedrichsen's house, where I found my uncle already in his host's company. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of A Journey Into The Interior Of The Earth by Jules Verne, translated by Frederick Mellison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 Interesting Conversations With Icelandic Savants Dinner was ready. Professor Liedenbrock devoured his portion voraciously, for his compulsory fast on board had converted his stomach into a vast, unfathomable gulf. There was nothing remarkable in the meal itself, but the hospitality of our host, more Danish than Icelandic, reminded me of the heroes of old. It was evident that we were more at home than he was himself. The conversation was carried on in the vernacular tongue, which my uncle mixed with German, and Monsieur Friedrichsen with Latin for my benefit. It turned upon scientific questions as befits philosophers, but Professor Liedenbrock was excessively reserved, and at every sentence spoke to me with his eyes, enjoining the most absolute silence upon our plans. In the first place, Monsieur Friedrichsen wanted to know what success my uncle had had at the library. Your library? Why, there is nothing but a few tattered books upon almost deserted shelves. Indeed, replied Monsieur Friedrichsen, why we possess eight thousand volumes, many of them valuable and scarce, works in the old Scandinavian language, and we have all the novelties that Copenhagen sends us every year. Where do you keep your eight thousand volumes, for my part? Oh, Monsieur Liedenbrock, they are all over the country. In this icy region we are fond of study. There is not a farmer nor a fisherman that cannot read and does not read. Our principle is that books, instead of growing moldy behind an iron grating, should be worn out under the eyes of many readers. Therefore these volumes are passed from one to another, read over and over, referred to again and again, and it often happens that they find their way back to their shelves only after an absence of a year or two. Add in the meantime, said my uncle rather spitefully, strangers. Well, what would you have? Foreigners have their libraries at home, and the first essential for laboring people is that they should be educated. I repeat to you the love of reading runs in Icelandic blood. In 1816 we founded a prosperous literary society. Learned strangers think themselves honored in becoming members of it. It publishes books which educate our fellow countrymen and do the country great service. If you will consent to be a corresponding member, Herr Liedenbrock, you will be giving us great pleasure. My uncle, who had already joined about a hundred learned societies, accepted with grace which evidently touched Monsieur Friedrichsson. Now, said he, will you be kind enough to tell me what books you hope to find in our library, and I may perhaps enable you to consult them? My uncle's eyes and mine met. He hesitated. This direct question went to the root of the matter. But after a moment's reflection he decided on speaking. Monsieur Friedrichsson, I wish to know if amongst your ancient books you possessed any of the works of Arn Sagnuson. Arn Sagnuson! replied the Reykjavik professor. You mean that learned 16th-century savant, a naturalist, a chemist, and a traveler? Just so. One of the glories of Icelandic literature and science? That's the man. An illustrious man anywhere? Quite so. And whose courage was equal to his genius? I see that you know him well. My uncle was bathed in delight at hearing his hero thus described.  Well, he cried, where are his works? His works we have them not. What, not in Iceland? They are neither in Iceland nor anywhere else. Why is that? Because Arn Sagnuson was persecuted for heresy, and in 1573 his books were burned by the hands of the common hangman. Very good! Excellent! cried my uncle, to the great scandal of the professor of natural history. What! he cried. Yes, yes, now it is all clear, now it is all unravelled. And I see why Sagnuson put into the index expertogorius and compelled to hide the discoveries made by his genius, was obliged to bury in an incomprehensible cryptogram the secret. What secret? asked Monsieur Friedrichsson, starting. Oh, just a secret which, my uncle stammered. Have you some private document in your possession? asked our host. No, I was only supposing a case. Oh, very well! answered Monsieur Friedrichsson, who was kind enough not to pursue the subject when he had noticed the embarrassment of his friend. I hope you will not leave our island until you have seen some of its mineralogical wealth. Certainly, replied my uncle, but I am rather late, or have not others been here before me. Yes, Herr Liedembrock, the labors of Monsieur Oliphson and Parvusson, pursued by Order of the King, the researchers of Troil, the scientific mission of Monsieur Gémard and Robert on the French Corvette La Racheche, and, lately, the observations of scientific men who came in the Rhine Hortense have added materially to our knowledge of Iceland, but I assure you there is plenty left. Do you think so? said my uncle, pretending to look very modest, and trying to hide the curiosity was flashing out of his eyes. Oh, yes, how many mountains, glaciers, and volcanoes there are to study, which are as yet but imperfectly known. Then, without going any further, that mountain in the horizon. That is Snafell. Ah, said my uncle, as coolly as he was able. Is that Snafell? Yes, one of the most curious volcanoes, and the crater of which has scarcely ever been visited. Is it extinct? Oh, yes, more than five hundred years. Well, replied my uncle, who was frantically locking his legs together to keep himself from jumping up in the air. That is where I mean to begin my geological studies, there on that Seffel, Fessel, what do you call it? Snafell, replied the excellent Monsieur Friedrichsen. This part of the conversation was in Latin. I had understood every word of it, and I could hardly conceal my amusement at seeing my uncle trying to keep down the excitement and satisfaction which were brimming over in every limb and every feature. He tried hard to put on an innocent little expression of simplicity, but it looked like a diabolical grin. Yes, said he, your words decide me. We will try to scale that Snafell. Perhaps even we may pursue our studies in its crater. I am very sorry, said Monsieur Friedrichsen, that my engagements will not allow me to absent myself, or I would have accompanied you myself with both pleasure and profit. Oh, no, no! replied my uncle with great animation. We would not disturb anyone for the world, Monsieur Friedrichsen. Still, I thank you with all my heart. The company of such a talented man would have been very serviceable, but the duties of your profession. I am glad to think that our host, in the innocence of his Icelandic soul, was blind to the transparent artifices of my uncle. I very much approve of your beginning with that volcano, Monsieur Liedembrock. You will gather a harvest of interesting observations. But tell me, how do you expect to get to the peninsula of Snafell? By sea, crossing the bay, that's the most direct way. No doubt, but it is impossible. Why? Because we don't possess a single boat at Reykjavik. You don't mean to say so. You will have to go by land, following the shore. It will be longer, but more interesting. Very well then, and now I shall have to see about a guide. I have one to offer you. A safe, intelligent man. Yes, an inhabitant of that peninsula. He is an Eiderdown hunter and very clever. He speaks Danish perfectly. When can I see him? Tomorrow, if you like. Why not today? Because he won't be here till tomorrow. Tomorrow, then, added my uncle with a sigh. This momentous conversation ended in a few minutes, with warm acknowledgments paid by the German to the Icelandic Professor. At this dinner, my uncle had just elisted important facts, amongst others, the history of Sagnacim, the reason of the mysterious document, that his host would not accompany him in his expedition, and that the very next day a guide would be waiting upon him. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of A Journey into the Interior of the Earth by Jules Verne, translated by Frederick Mellison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 A Guide Found to the Center of the Earth In the evening I took a short walk on the beach, and returned at night to my plank bed, where I slept soundly all night. When I awoke, I heard my uncle talking at a great rate in the next room. I immediately dressed and joined him. He was conversing in the Danish language with a tall man, a robust build. This fine fellow must have been possessed of great strength. His eyes, set in a large and ingenuous face, seemed to me very intelligent. They were of a dreamy sea blue. Long hair, which would have been called red even in England, fell in long meshes upon his broad shoulders. The movements of this native were life and supple. 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 calmness and self-possession, not indolence, but tranquility. It was felt at once that he would be beholden to nobody, that he worked for his own convenience, and that nothing in this world could astonish or disturb his philosophic calmness. I caught the shades of this Icelanders character by the way in which he listened to the impassioned flow of words which fell from the professor. He stood with arms crossed, perfectly unmoved by my uncle's incessant gesticulations. Unnegative was expressed by a slow movement of the head from left to right, and affirmative by a slight bend, so slight that his long hair scarcely moved. He carried economy of motion even to parsimony. Certainly I should never have dreamt in looking at this man that he was a hunter. He did not look likely to frighten his game, nor did he seem as if he would even get near it. But the mystery was explained when Monsieur Friedrichsen informed me that this tranquil personage was only a hunter of the Eider duck whose under plumage constitutes the chief wealth of the island. This is the celebrated Eider down, and it requires no great rapidity of movement to get it. Early in the summer the female, a very pretty bird, goes to build her nest among the rocks of the fjords with which the coast is fringed. After building the nest she feathers it with down plucked from her own breast. Immediately the hunter, or rather the trader, comes and robs the nest, and the female recommends her work. 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 the coarse and hard plumage of the male has no commercial value, the hunter does not take the trouble to rob the nest of this. The female therefore lays her eggs in the spoils of her mate, the young are hatched, and next year the harvest begins again. Now as the Eider duck does not select steep cliffs for her nest, but rather the smooth terraced rocks which slope to the sea, the Icelandic hunter might exercise his calling without any inconvenient exertion. He was a farmer who was not obliged either to sow or reap his harvest, but merely to gather it in. This grave, phlegmatic, and silent individual was called Hans Bjelke, and he came recommended by Monsieur Friedrichsen. He was our future guide. His manners were a singular contrast with my uncles. Nevertheless, they soon came to understand each other. Neither looked at the amount of the payment. The one was ready to accept whatever was offered, the other was ready to give whatever was demanded. Never was bargain more readily concluded. The result of the treaty was that Hans engaged on his part to conduct us to the village of Stapi, on the south shore of the Snafel Peninsula at the very foot of the volcano. By land this would be about twenty-two miles to be done, said my uncle, in two days. But when he learned that the Danish mile was twenty-four thousand feet long he was obliged to modify his calculations and allow seven or eight days for the march. Four horses were to be placed at our disposal, two to carry him and me, two for the baggage. Hans, as was his custom, would go on foot. He knew all that part of the coast perfectly, and promised to take us the shortest way. His engagement was not to terminate with our arrival at Stapi. He was to continue in my uncle's service for the whole period of his scientific researches, for the remuneration of three rickstails a week, about twelve shillings. But it was an express article of the Covenant that his wages should be counted out to him every Saturday at six o'clock in the evening, which, according to him, was one indispensable part of the engagement. The start was fixed for the sixteenth of June. My uncle wanted to pay the hunter a portion in advance, but he refused with one word. After, he said. After, said the professor for my edification. The treaty concluded, Hans silently withdrew. A famous fellow, cried my uncle, but he little thinks of the marvelous part he has to play in the future. So he is to go with us as far as—as far as the center of the Earth, Axel. Forty-eight hours were left before our departure. To my great regret, I had to employ them in preparations, for all our ingenuity was required to pack every article to the best advantage. Instruments here, arms there, tools in this package, provisions in that, four sets of packages in all. The instruments were, one, an Igel centigrade thermometer, graduated up to one hundred fifty degrees, three hundred two degrees Fahrenheit. We seemed to me too much or too little. Too much if the internal heat was to rise so high, for in this case we should be baked, not enough to measure the temperature of springs or any matter in a state of fusion. Two, an anorhoid barometer, to indicate extreme pressures of the atmosphere. An ordinary barometer would not have answered the purpose, as the pressure would increase during our descent to a point which the mercurial barometer would not register. Three, a chronometer, made by Blasenet Jr. of Geneva, accurately set to the meridian of Hamburg. Four, two compasses, vis, a common compass, and a dipping needle. Five, a nightglass. Six, two of Rumcorp's apparatus, which, by means of an electric current, supplied a safe and handy portable light. The arms consisted of two Purdy's rifles and two brace of pistols. But what did we want arms for? We had neither savages, nor a wild beasts to fear, I supposed. But my uncle seemed to believe in his arsenal as in his instruments, and more especially in a considerable quantity of gun-cotton, which is unaffected by moisture, and the explosive force of which exceeds that of gunpowder. The tools comprised two pickaxes, two spades, a silk rope ladder, three iron-tipped sticks, a hatchet, a hammer, a dozen wedges and iron spikes, and a long knotted rope. Now this was a large load, for the ladder was three hundred feet long. And there were provisions, too. This was not a large parcel, but it was comforting to know that of essence of beef and biscuits there were six months' consumption. Spirits were the only liquid, and of water we took none. But we had flasks, and my uncle depended on springs for which to fill them. Whatever objections I hazarded as to their quality, temperature, or even absence, remained ineffectual. To complete the exact inventory of all our traveling accompaniments, I must not forget a pocket medicine chest, containing blunt scissors, splints for broken limbs, a piece of tape of unbleached linen, bandages and compresses, lint, a lancet for bleeding, all dreadful articles to take with one. Then there was a row of files containing dextreme, alcoholic ether, liquid acetate of lead, vinegar, and ammonia drugs which afforded me no comfort. Finally, all the articles needful to supply Rumcorp's apparatus. My uncle did not forget a supply of tobacco, coarse-grained powder and amadu, or a leather belt in which he carried a sufficient quantity of gold, silver, and paper money. Six pairs of boots and shoes made waterproof with a composition of India rubber and naphtha were packed amongst the tools. Clothe, shod, and equipped like this, said my uncle, there is no telling how far we may go. The fourteenth was wholly spent in arranging all our different articles. In the evening we dined with Baron Tramps, the mayor of Reykjavik and Dr. Hjaltalen, the first medical man of the place being of the party. For sure Friedrichsen was not there. I learned afterwards that he and the governor disagreed upon some question of administration and did not speak to each other. I therefore knew not a single word of all that was said at this semi-official dinner, but I could not help noticing that my uncle talked the whole time. On the fifteenth our preparations were all made. Our host gave the professor very great pleasure by presenting him with a map of Iceland far more complete than that of Henderson. It was the map of Mr. Olaf Nicholas Olsen in the proportion of one to four hundred eighty thousand of the actual size of the island and published by the Icelandic Literary Society. It was a precious document for a mineralogist. Our last evening was spent in intimate conversation with Mr. Friedrichsen, with whom I felt the liveliest sympathy. Then, after the talk, succeeded for me at any rate a disturbed and restless night. At five in the morning I was awoke by the neighing and pawing of four horses under my window. I dressed hastily and came down into the street. Hans was finishing our packing, almost as it were without moving a limb, and yet he did his work cleverly. My uncle made more noise than execution, and the guide seemed to pay very little attention to his energetic directions. At six o'clock our preparations were over. Mr. Friedrichsen shook hands with us. My uncle thanked him heartily for his extreme kindness. I constructed a few fine Latin sentences to express my cordial farewell. Then we bestowed our steeds, and with his last adieu, Mr. Friedrichsen treated me to a line of Virgil eminently applicable to such uncertain wonders as we were likely to be. Et quacomque viam didant fortuna sequamur. There ever fortune clears away, thither our ready footsteps stray. End of chapter eleven. CHAPTER XII. OF A JOURNEY INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE EARTH. BY JULES VERNE. TRANSLATED BY FREDRIK MALLISON. THIS LIBERVOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. CHAPTER XII. A BARON LAND. We had started under a sky overcast but calm. There was no fear of heat, none of disastrous rain. It was just the weather for tourists. The pleasure of riding on horseback over an unknown country made me easy to be pleased at our first start. I threw myself wholly into the pleasure of the trip and enjoyed the feeling of freedom and satisfied desire. I was beginning to take a real share in the enterprise. Besides, I said to myself, where's the risk? Here we are traveling all through a most interesting country. We are about to climb a very remarkable mountain.  It is evident that SACNISM did nothing more than this. As for a passage leading to the center of the globe, it is mere rubbish, perfectly impossible. Very well, then. Let us get all the good we can out of this expedition and don't let us haggle about the chances. This reasoning having settled my mind we got out of Reykjavik. Hans moved steadily on, keeping ahead of us at an even, smooth and rapid pace. The baggage horses followed him without giving any trouble.  Iceland is one of the largest islands in Europe. It surfaces fourteen thousand square miles, and it contains but sixteen thousand inhabitants. Geographers have divided it into four quarters, and we were crossing diagonally the southwest quarter, called the Sudvester Fjordung. A leaving Reykjavik Hans took us by the seashore. We passed lean pastures which were trying very hard but in vain to look green. The yellow came out best. The rugged peaks of the Trachite rocks presented faint outlines on the eastern horizon. At times a few patches of snow, concentrating the vague light, glittered upon the slopes of the distant mountains. Certain peaks, boldly uprising, passed through the gray clouds and reappeared above the moving mists, like breakers emerging in the heavens. Often these chains of barren rocks made a dip towards the sea and encroached upon the scanty pastures. But there was always enough room to pass. Besides, our horses instinctively chose the easiest places without ever slackening their pace. My uncle was refused even the satisfaction of stirring up his beast with whip or voice. He had no excuse for being impatient. I could not help smiling to see so tall a man on so small a pony, and as his long legs nearly touched the ground he looked like a six-legged centaur. Good horse! Good horse! he kept saying. You will see, Axel, that there is no more sagacious animal than the Icelandic horse. He is stopped by neither snow nor storm, nor impassable roads, nor rocks, glaciers, or anything. He is courageous, sober, and sure-footed. He never makes a false step, never shies. If there is a river or fjord to cross, and we shall meet with many, you will see him plunging at once, just as if he were amphibious and gaining the opposite bank. But we must not hurry him. We must let him have his way, and we shall get on at the rate of thirty miles a day. We may, but how about our guide? Oh, never mind him. People like him get over the ground without a thought. There is so little action in this man that he will never get tired. And besides, if he wants it, he shall have my horse. I shall get cramped if I don't have a little action. The arms are all right, but the legs want exercise. We were advancing at a rapid pace. The country was already almost a desert. Here and there was a lonely farm, called a boar, built either of wood or of sods or of pieces of lava, looking like a poor beggar by the wayside. These ruinous huts seemed to solicit charity from passers-by, and on very small provocation we should have given alms for the relief of the poor inmates. In this country there were no roads and paths, and the poor vegetation, however slow, would soon efface the rare traveller's footsteps. Yet this part of the province, at a very small distance from the capital, is reckoned among the inhabited and cultivated portions of Iceland. What, then, must other tracks be, more desert than this desert? In the first half-mile we had not seen one farmer standing before his cabin door, nor one shepherd tending a flock less wild than himself, nothing but a few cows and sheep left to themselves. What, then, would be those convulsed regions upon which we were advancing, regions subject to the dire phenomena of eruptions, the offspring of volcanic explosions and subterranean convulsions? We were to know them before long, but on Consulting Olsen's map I saw that they would be avoided by winding along the seashore. In fact, the Great Plutonic Action is confined to the central portion of the island. There, rocks of the Trapeyan and volcanic class, including Trachite, Basalt, and Tufts, and agglomerates associated with streams of lava, have made this a land of supernatural horrors. I had no idea of the spectacle which was awaiting us in the Peninsula of Snifel, where these ruins of a fiery nature have formed a frightful chaos. In two hours from Reykjavik we arrived at the Burg of Gafuns, called Alkirkja, or Principal Church. There was nothing remarkable here but a few houses, scarcely enough for a German hamlet. Han stopped here half an hour. He shed with us our frugal breakfast, answering my uncle's questions about the road and our resting place that night with merely yes or no, except when he said, Gardar. I consulted the map to see where Gardar was. I saw there was a small town of that name on the banks of the Hellfjord, four miles from Reykjavik. I showed it to my uncle. Four miles only? He exclaimed. Four miles out of twenty-eight!  He was about to make an observation to the guide who, without answering, resumed his place at the head and went on his way. Three hours later, still treading on the colorless grass of the pastureland, we had to work round the Kala Fjord, a longer way but an easier one than crossing that inlet. We soon entered into a pink stour, or parish, called Ejulburg, from whose steeple twelve o'clock would have struck if Icelandic churches were rich enough to possess clocks. But they are like the parishioners who have no watches and do without. There our horses were baited. Then, taking the narrow path to left between a chain of hills and the sea, they carried us to our next stage, the Alkercia of Brantar, and one mile farther on, to Saurbor and Eksia, a chapel of ease built on the south shore of the Valfjord. It was now four o'clock, and we had gone four Icelandic miles, or twenty-four English miles. In that place the fjord was at least three English miles wide. The waves rolled with a rushing din upon the sharp pointed rocks. This inlet was confined between walls of rock, precipices crowned by sharp peaks two thousand feet high, and remarkable for the brown strata which separated the beds of reddish tuff. However much I might respect the intelligence of our quadrupeds, I hardly cared to put it to the test by trusting myself to it on horseback across an arm of the sea. If they are as intelligent as they are said to be, I thought, they won't try it. In any case, I will tax my intelligence to direct theirs. But my uncle would not wait. He spurred on to the edge. His steed lowered his head to examine the nearest waves and stopped. My uncle, who had an instinct of his own, too, applied pressure and was again refused by the animal significantly shaking his head. Then followed strong language and the whip. But the brute answered these arguments with kicks and endeavors to throw his rider. At last the clever little pony with a bend of his knees started from under the professor's legs and left him standing upon two boulders on the shore just like the Colossus of Rhodes. Confounded brute, cried the unhorsed horseman, suddenly degraded into a pedestrian, just as ashamed as a cavalry officer degraded to a foot-soldier. Faria said the guy touching his shoulder. What, a boat? Dare, replied Hans, pointing to one. Yes, I cried, there is a boat. Why did you not say so then?  Tied Vaten said the guide. What is he saying? He says, Tide, said my uncle, translating the Danish word. No doubt we must wait for the tide. Forbida, said my uncle. Ja, replied Hans. My uncle stamped with his foot while the horses went on to the boat. I perfectly understood the necessity of abiding a particular moment of the tide to undertake the crossing of the fjord, when the sea having reached its greatest height it should be slack water. Then the ebb and flow have no sensible effect, and the boat does not risk being carried either to the bottom or out to sea. That favourable moment arrived only with six o'clock, when my uncle, myself, the guide, two other passengers, and the four horses, trusted ourselves to a somewhat fragile raft. Accustomed as I was to the swift and sheer steamers on the elb, I found the oars of the roars rather a slow means of propulsion. It took us more than an hour to cross the fjord, but the passage was affected without any mishap. In another half hour we had reached the Alkerge of Gardar. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of A Journey Into the Interior of the Earth by Jules Verne Translated by Frederick Malison This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13 Hospitality under the Arctic Circle It ought to have been nighttime, but under the sixty-fifth parallel there was nothing surprising in the nocturnal polar light. In Iceland during the months of June and July the sun does not set. But the temperature was much lower. I was cold and more hungry than cold. Welcome was the sight of the boar which was hospitality open to receive us. It was a peasant's house, but in point of hospitality it was equal to a king's. On our arrival the master came without stretched hands, and without more ceremony he beckoned us to follow him. To accompany him down the long narrow dark passage would have been impossible. Therefore we followed as he bit us. The building was constructed of roughly squared timbers, with rooms on both sides, four in number, all opening out into the one passage. These were the kitchen, the weaving shop, the bedstofa, or family sleeping room, and the visitor's room, which was the best of all. My uncle, whose height had not been thought of in building the house, of course he'd his head several times against the beams that projected from the ceilings. We were introduced into our apartment, a large room with a floor of earth, stamped down hard, and lighted by a window, the panes of which were formed of sheep splatter, not admitting too much light. The sleeping accommodation consisted of dry litter thrown into two wooden frames painted red and ornamented with Icelandic sentences. I was hardly expecting so much comfort. The only discomfort proceeded from the strong odor of dried fish, hung meat, and sour milk, of which my nose made bitter complaints. When we had laid aside our travelling wraps, the voice of the host was heard inviting us to the kitchen, the only room where a fire was lighted even in the severest cold. My uncle lost no time in obeying the friendly call, nor was I slack in following. The kitchen chimney was constructed on the ancient pattern. In the middle of the room was a stone for a hearth, over it in the roof a hole to let the smoke escape. The kitchen was also a dining room. At our entrance the host, as if he had never seen us, greeted us with the word selvertu, which means be happy, and came and kissed us on the cheek. After him his wife pronounced the same words, accompanied with the same ceremonial. Then the two placing their hands upon their hearts inclined profoundly before us. I hasten to inform the reader that this Icelandic lady was the mother of nineteen children, all big and little, swarming in the midst of the dense wreaths of smoke with which the fire on the hearth filled the chamber. Every moment I noticed a fair-haired and rather melancholy face peeping out of the rolling volumes of smoke. They were perfect cluster of unwashed angels. My uncle and I treated this little tribe with kindness, and in a very short time we each had three or four of these brats on our shoulders, as many on our laps and the rest between our knees. Those who could speak kept repeating selvertu in every conceivable tone. Those that could not speak made up for that want by shrill cries. This concert was brought to a close by the announcement of dinner. At that moment our hunter returned, who had been seeing his horses provided for. That is to say he had economically let them loose in the fields, where the poor beasts had to content themselves with the scanty moss they could pull off the rocks in a few meager seaweeds, and the next day they would not fail to come of themselves and resume the labors of the previous day. Selvertu, said Hans. Then calmly, automatically, and dispassionately he kissed the host, the hostess, and their 19 children. This ceremony over we sat at table, twenty-four in number, and therefore one upon another. The luckiest had only two urchins upon their knees. But silence reigned in all this little world at the arrival of the soup, and the national taciturnity resumed its empire even over the children. The host served out to us a soup made of lichen, and by no means unpleasant. Then an immense piece of dried fish floating in butter rancid with twenty years' keeping, and therefore, according to Icelandic gastronomy, much preferable to fresh butter. Along with this we had sky, a sort of clotted milk, with biscuits and a liquid prepared from juniper berries. For beverage we had a thin milk mixed with water, called in this country blanda. It is not for me to decide whether this diet is wholesome or not. All I can say is that I was desperately hungry, and that at dessert I swaddled to the very last gulp of a thick broth made from buckwheat. As soon as the meal was over the children disappeared, and their elders gathered round the peat fire, which also burnt such miscellaneous fuel as briars, cow dung and fish bones. After this little pinch of warmth the different groups retired to their respective rooms. Our hostess hospitably offered us her assistance in undressing, according to Icelandic usage. But on our gracefully declining she insisted no longer, and I was able at last to curl myself up in my mossy bed. At five next morning we bade our host farewell, my uncle with difficulty persuading him to accept a proper remuneration, and Han signaled a start. At a hundred yards from Gardar the soil began to change its aspect. It became boggy and less favorable to progress. On our right the chain of mountains was indefinitely prolonged like an immense system of natural fortifications of which we were following the counterscarp or lesser steep. Often we were met by streams which we had to ford with great care not to wet our packages. The desert became wider and more hideous. Yet from time to time we seemed to describe a human figure that flooded our approach. Sometimes a sharp turn would bring us suddenly within a short distance of one of these spectres, and I was filled with loathing at the side of a huge deformed head, the skin shining and hairless, and repulsive sores visible through the gaps in the poor creature's wretched rags. The unhappy being forebored to approach us and offer his misshapen hand. He fled away but not before Hans had saluted him with the customary Selvertu. Spatelsk, said he. A leper, my uncle repeated. This word produced a repulsive effect. The horrible disease of leprosy is too common in Iceland. It is not contagious but hereditary, and lepers are forbidden to marry. These apparitions were not cheerful and did not throw any charm over the less and less attractive landscapes. The last tufts of grass had disappeared from beneath our feet. Not a tree was to be seen unless we accept a few dwarf birches as low as brushwood. Not an animal, but a few wandering ponies that their owners would not feed. Sometimes we could see a hawk balancing himself on his wings under the gray cloud, and then darting away south with rapid flight. I felt melancholy under this savage aspect of nature, and my thoughts went away to the cheerful scenes I had left in the far south. We had to cross a few narrow fjords, and at last quite a wide gulf. The tide, then high, allowed us to pass over without delay and to reach the hamlet of Afthanes one mile beyond. That evening, after having four to two rivers full of trout and pike, called Alfa and Hedda, we were obliged to spend the night in a deserted building worthy to be haunted by all the elephants of Scandinavia. The Ice King certainly held court here and gave us all night long samples of what he could do. No particular event marked the next day. Bogs, dead levels, melancholy desert tracks were ever we traveled. By nightfall we had accomplished half our journey, and we lay at Krosopt. On the nineteenth of June, for about a mile, that is, an Icelandic mile, we walked upon hardened lava. This ground is called in the country Rån. The writhing surface presented the appearance of distorted twisted cables, sometimes stretched in length, sometimes contorted together. An immense torrent, once liquid, now solid, ran from the nearest mountains, now extinct volcanoes, but the ruins around revealed the violence of the past eruptions. Yet here and there were a few jets of steam from hot springs. We had no time to watch these phenomena. We had to proceed on our way. Soon at the foot of the mountains the boggy land reappeared, intersected by little lakes. A route now lay westward. We had turned the great bay of Faksa and the twin peaks of Snafell rose white into the cloudy sky at the distance of at least five miles. The horses did their duty well. No difficulty stopped them in their steady career. I was getting tired, but my uncle was as firm and straight as he was at our first start. I could not help admiring his persistency, as well as the hunters, who treated our expedition like a mere promenade. June twenty. At six p.m. we reached Boudir, a village on the sea shore. And the guide there claiming his due, my uncle settled with him. It was Han's own family, that is, his uncles and cousins who gave us hospitality. We were kindly received, and without taxing too much the goodness of these folks I would willingly have tarried here to recruit after my fatigues. But my uncle, who wanted no recruiting, would not hear of it, and the next morning we had to bestride our beasts again. The soil told of the neighborhood of the mountain, whose granite foundations rose from the earth like the knotted roots of some huge oak. We were rounding the immense base of the volcano. The professor hardly took his eyes off it. He tossed up his arms and seemed to defy it, and to declare, There stands the giant that I shall conquer. After about four hours walking, the horses stopped of their own accord at the door of the priest's house at Stoppy. End of chapter thirteen. Chapter fourteen. Of A Journey Into the Interior of the Earth, by Jules Verne, translated by Frederick Mallison. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter fourteen. But arctics can be inhospitable, too. Stoppy is a village consisting of about thirty huts, built of lava at the south side of the base of the volcano. It extends along the inner edge of a small fjord, enclosed between basaltic walls of the strangest construction. Basalt is a brownish rock of igneous origin. It assumes regular forms,