A Journey to the Centre of the Earth
one real thought. My ear was keenly on the watch to catch the sound of a
spring. But no pleasant sound of falling water fell upon my listening
ear.
But at last the time came when my limbs refused to carry me longer. I
contended heroically against the terrible tortures I endured, because I
did not wish to compel my uncle to halt. To him I knew this would be the
last fatal stroke.
Suddenly I felt a deadly faintness come over me. My eyes could no longer
see; my knees shook. I gave one despairing cry--and fell!
"Help, help, I am dying!"
My uncle turned and slowly retraced his steps. He looked at me with
folded arms, and then allowed one sentence to escape, in hollow accents,
from his lips:
"All is over."
The last thing I saw was a face fearfully distorted with pain and
sorrow; and then my eyes closed.
When I again opened them, I saw my companions lying near me, motionless,
wrapped in their huge traveling rugs. Were they asleep or dead? For
myself, sleep was wholly out of the question. My fainting fit over, I
was wakeful as the lark. I suffered too much for sleep to visit my
eyelids--the more, that I thought myself sick unto death--dying. The
last words spoken by my uncle seemed to be buzzing in my ears--all is
over! And it was probable that he was right. In the state of prostration
to which I was reduced, it was madness to think of ever again seeing the
light of day.
Above were miles upon miles of the earth's crust. As I thought of it, I
could fancy the whole weight resting on my shoulders. I was crushed,
annihilated! and exhausted myself in vain attempts to turn in my granite
bed.
Hours upon hours passed away. A profound and terrible silence reigned
around us--a silence of the tomb. Nothing could make itself heard
through these gigantic walls of granite. The very thought was
stupendous.
Presently, despite my apathy, despite the kind of deadly calm into which
I was cast, something aroused me. It was a slight but peculiar noise.
While I was watching intently, I observed that the tunnel was becoming
dark. Then gazing through the dim light that remained, I thought I saw
the Icelander taking his departure, lamp in hand.
Why had he acted thus? Did Hans the guide mean to abandon us? My uncle
lay fast asleep--or dead. I tried to cry out, and arouse him. My voice,
feebly issuing from my parched and fevered lips, found no echo in that
fearful place. My throat was dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of my
mouth. The obscurity had by this time become intense, and at last even
the faint sound of the guide's footsteps was lost in the blank distance.
My soul seemed filled with anguish, and death appeared welcome, only let
it come quickly.
"Hans is leaving us," I cried. "Hans--Hans, if you are a man, come
back."
These words were spoken to myself. They could not be heard aloud.
Nevertheless, after the first few moments of terror were over, I was
ashamed of my suspicions against a man who hitherto had behaved so
admirably. Nothing in his conduct or character justified suspicion.
Moreover, a moment's reflection reassured me. His departure could not be
a flight. Instead of ascending the gallery, he was going deeper down
into the gulf. Had he had any bad design, his way would have been
upwards.
This reasoning calmed me a little and I began to hope!
The good, and peaceful, and imperturbable Hans would certainly not have
arisen from his sleep without some serious and grave motive. Was he bent
on a voyage of discovery? During the deep, still silence of the night
had he at last heard that sweet murmur about which we were all so
anxious?
CHAPTER 20
WATER, WHERE IS IT? A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT
During a long, long, weary hour, there crossed my wildly delirious brain
all sorts of reasons as to what could have aroused our quiet and
faithful guide. The most absurd and ridiculous ideas passed through my
head, each more impossible than the other. I believe I was either half
or wholly mad.
Suddenly, however, there arose, as it were from the depths of the earth,
a voice of comfort. It was the sound of footsteps! Hans was returning.
Presently the uncertain light began to shine upon the walls of the
passage, and then it came in view far down the sloping tunnel. At length
Hans himself appeared.
He approached my uncle, placed his hand upon his shoulder, and gently
awakened him. My uncle, as soon as he saw who it was, instantly arose.
"Well!" exclaimed the Professor.
"Vatten," said the hunter.
I did not know a single word of the Danish language, and yet by a sort
of mysterious instinct I understood what the guide had said.
"Water, water!" I cried, in a wild and frantic tone, clapping my hands,
and gesticulating like a madman.
"Water!" murmured my uncle, in a voice of deep emotion and gratitude.
"Hvar?" ("Where?")
"Nedat." ("Below.")
"Where? below!" I understood every word. I had caught the hunter by the
hands, and I shook them heartily, while he looked on with perfect
calmness.
The preparations for our departure did not take long, and we were soon
making a rapid descent into the tunnel.
An hour later we had advanced a thousand yards, and descended two
thousand feet.
At this moment I heard an accustomed and well-known sound running along
the floors of the granite rock--a kind of dull and sullen roar, like
that of a distant waterfall.
During the first half hour of our advance, not finding the discovered
spring, my feelings of intense suffering appeared to return. Once more I
began to lose all hope. My uncle, however, observing how downhearted I
was again becoming, took up the conversation.
"Hans was right," he exclaimed enthusiastically; "that is the dull
roaring of a torrent."
"A torrent," I cried, delighted at even hearing the welcome words.
"There's not the slightest doubt about it," he replied, "a subterranean
river is flowing beside us."
I made no reply, but hastened on, once more animated by hope. I began
not even to feel the deep fatigue which hitherto had overpowered me. The
very sound of this glorious murmuring water already refreshed me. We
could hear it increasing in volume every moment. The torrent, which for
a long time could be heard flowing over our heads, now ran distinctly
along the left wall, roaring, rushing, spluttering, and still falling.
Several times I passed my hand across the rock hoping to find some trace
of humidity--of the slightest percolation. Alas! in vain.
Again a half hour passed in the same weary toil. Again we advanced.
It now became evident that the hunter, during his absence, had not been
able to carry his researches any farther. Guided by an instinct peculiar
to the dwellers in mountain regions and water finders, he "smelt" the
living spring through the rock. Still he had not seen the precious
liquid. He had neither quenched his own thirst, nor brought us one drop
in his gourd.
Moreover, we soon made the disastrous discovery that, if our progress
continued, we should soon be moving away from the torrent, the sound of
which gradually diminished. We turned back. Hans halted at the precise
spot where the sound of the torrent appeared nearest.
I could bear the suspense and suffering no longer, and seated myself
against the wall, behind which I could hear the water seething and
effervescing not two feet away. But a solid wall of granite still
separated us from it!
Hans looked keenly at me, and, strange enough, for once I thought I saw
a smile on his imperturbable face.
He rose from a stone on which he had been seated, and took up the lamp.
I could not help rising and following. He moved slowly along the firm
and solid granite wall. I watched him with mingled curiosity and
eagerness. Presently he halted and placed his ear against the dry stone,
moving slowly along and listening with the most extreme care and
attention. I understood at once that he was searching for the exact spot
where the torrent's roar was most plainly heard. This point he soon
found in the lateral wall on the left side, about three feet above the
level of the tunnel floor.
I was in a state of intense excitement. I scarcely dared believe what
the eider-duck hunter was about to do. It was, however, impossible in a
moment more not to both understand and applaud, and even to smother him
in my embraces, when I saw him raise the heavy crowbar and commence an
attack upon the rock itself.
"Saved!" I cried.
"Yes," cried my uncle, even more excited and delighted than myself;
"Hans is quite right. Oh, the worthy, excellent man! We should never
have thought of such an idea."
And nobody else, I think, would have done so. Such a process, simple as
it seemed, would most certainly not have entered our heads. Nothing
could be more dangerous than to begin to work with pickaxes in that
particular part of the globe. Supposing while he was at work a break-up
were to take place, and supposing the torrent once having gained an inch
were to take an ell, and come pouring bodily through the broken rock!
Not one of these dangers was chimerical. They were only too real. But at
that moment no fear of falling in of the roof, or even of inundation was
capable of stopping us. Our thirst was so intense that to quench it we
would have dug below the bed of old Ocean itself.
Hans went quietly to work--a work which neither my uncle nor I would
have undertaken at any price. Our impatience was so great that if we had
once begun with pickax and crowbar, the rock would soon have split into
a hundred fragments. The guide, on the contrary, calm, ready, moderate,
wore away the hard rock by little steady blows of his instrument, making
no attempt at a larger hole than about six inches. As I stood, I heard,
or I thought I heard, the roar of the torrent momentarily increasing in
loudness, and at times I almost felt the pleasant sensation of water
upon my parched lips.
At the end of what appeared an age, Hans had made a hole which enabled
his crowbar to enter two feet into the solid rock. He had been at work
exactly an hour. It appeared a dozen. I was getting wild with
impatience. My uncle began to think of using more violent measures. I
had the greatest difficulty in checking him. He had indeed just got hold
of his crowbar when a loud and welcome hiss was heard. Then a stream, or
rather jet, of water burst through the wall and came out with such force
as to hit the opposite side!
Hans, the guide, who was half upset by the shock, was scarcely able to
keep down a cry of pain and grief. I understood his meaning when,
plunging my hands into the sparkling jet, I myself gave a wild and
frantic cry. The water was scalding hot!
"Boiling," I cried, in bitter disappointment.
"Well, never mind," said my uncle, "it will soon get cool."
The tunnel began to be filled by clouds of vapor, while a small stream
ran away into the interior of the earth. In a short time we had some
sufficiently cool to drink. We swallowed it in huge mouthfuls.
Oh! what exalted delight--what rich and incomparable luxury! What was
this water, whence did it come? To us what was that? The simple fact
was--it was water; and, though still with a tingle of warmth about it,
it brought back to the heart, that life which, but for it, must surely
have faded away. I drank greedily, almost without tasting it.
When, however, I had almost quenched my ravenous thirst, I made a
discovery.
"Why, it is chalybeate water!"
"A most excellent stomachic," replied my uncle, "and highly mineralized.
Here is a journey worth twenty to Spa."
"It's very good," I replied.
"I should think so. Water found six miles under ground. There is a
peculiarly inky flavor about it, which is by no means disagreeable. Hans
may congratulate himself on having made a rare discovery. What do you