A Journey to the Centre of the Earth
In three hours my tour was complete. The general impression upon my mind
was sadness. No trees, no vegetation, so to speak--on all sides volcanic
peaks--the huts of turf and earth--more like roofs than houses. Thanks
to the heat of these residences, grass grows on the roof, which grass is
carefully cut for hay. I saw but few inhabitants during my excursion,
but I met a crowd on the beach, drying, salting and loading codfish, the
principal article of exportation. The men appeared robust but heavy;
fair-haired like Germans, but of pensive mien--exiles of a higher scale
in the ladder of humanity than the Eskimos, but, I thought, much more
unhappy, since with superior perceptions they are compelled to live
within the limits of the Polar Circle.
Sometimes they gave vent to a convulsive laugh, but by no chance did
they smile. Their costume consists of a coarse capote of black wool,
known in Scandinavian countries as the "vadmel," a broad-brimmed hat,
trousers of red serge, and a piece of leather tied with strings for a
shoe--a coarse kind of moccasin. The women, though sad-looking and
mournful, had rather agreeable features, without much expression. They
wear a bodice and petticoat of somber vadmel. When unmarried they wear a
little brown knitted cap over a crown of plaited hair; but when married,
they cover their heads with a colored handkerchief, over which they tie
a white scarf.
CHAPTER 7
Conversation and Discovery
When I returned, dinner was ready. This meal was devoured by my worthy
relative with avidity and voracity. His shipboard diet had turned his
interior into a perfect gulf. The repast, which was more Danish than
Icelandic, was in itself nothing, but the excessive hospitality of our
host made us enjoy it doubly.
The conversation turned upon scientific matters, and M. Fridriksson
asked my uncle what he thought of the public library.
"Library, sir?" cried my uncle; "it appears to me a collection of
useless odd volumes, and a beggarly amount of empty shelves."
"What!" cried M. Fridriksson; "why, we have eight thousand volumes of
most rare and valuable works--some in the Scandinavian language, besides
all the new publications from Copenhagen."
"Eight thousand volumes, my dear sir--why, where are they?" cried my
uncle.
"Scattered over the country, Professor Hardwigg. We are very studious,
my dear sir, though we do live in Iceland. Every farmer, every laborer,
every fisherman can both read and write--and we think that books instead
of being locked up in cupboards, far from the sight of students, should
be distributed as widely as possible. The books of our library are
therefore passed from hand to hand without returning to the library
shelves perhaps for years."
"Then when foreigners visit you, there is nothing for them to see?"
"Well, sir, foreigners have their own libraries, and our first
consideration is, that our humbler classes should be highly educated.
Fortunately, the love of study is innate in the Icelandic people. In
1816 we founded a Literary Society and Mechanics' Institute; many
foreign scholars of eminence are honorary members; we publish books
destined to educate our people, and these books have rendered valuable
services to our country. Allow me to have the honor, Professor Hardwigg,
to enroll you as an honorary member?"
My uncle, who already belonged to nearly every literary and scientific
institution in Europe, immediately yielded to the amiable wishes of good
M. Fridriksson.
"And now," he said, after many expressions of gratitude and good will,
"if you will tell me what books you expected to find, perhaps I may be
of some assistance to you."
I watched my uncle keenly. For a minute or two he hesitated, as if
unwilling to speak; to speak openly was, perhaps, to unveil his
projects. Nevertheless, after some reflection, he made up his mind.
"Well, M. Fridriksson," he said in an easy, unconcerned kind of way, "I
was desirous of ascertaining, if among other valuable works, you had any
of the learned Arne Saknussemm."
"Arne Saknussemm!" cried the Professor of Reykjavik; "you speak of one
of the most distinguished scholars of the sixteenth century, of the
great naturalist, the great alchemist, the great traveler."
"Exactly so."
"One of the most distinguished men connected with Icelandic science and
literature."
"As you say, sir--"
"A man illustrious above all."
"Yes, sir, all this is true, but his works?"
"We have none of them."
"Not in Iceland?"
"There are none in Iceland or elsewhere," answered the other, sadly.
"Why so?"
"Because Arne Saknussemm was persecuted for heresy, and in 1573 his
works were publicly burnt at Copenhagen, by the hands of the common
hangman."
"Very good! capital!" murmured my uncle, to the great astonishment of
the worthy Icelander.
"You said, sir--"
"Yes, yes, all is clear, I see the link in the chain; everything is
explained, and I now understand why Arne Saknussemm, put out of court,
forced to hide his magnificent discoveries, was compelled to conceal
beneath the veil of an incomprehensible cryptograph, the secret--"
"What secret?"
"A secret--which," stammered my uncle.
"Have you discovered some wonderful manuscript?" cried M. Fridriksson.
"No! no, I was carried away by my enthusiasm. A mere supposition."
"Very good, sir. But, really, to turn to another subject, I hope you
will not leave our island without examining into its mineralogical
riches."
"Well, the fact is, I am rather late. So many learned men have been here
before me."
"Yes, yes, but there is still much to be done," cried M. Fridriksson.
"You think so," said my uncle, his eyes twinkling with hidden
satisfaction.
"Yes, you have no idea how many unknown mountains, glaciers, volcanoes
there are which remain to be studied. Without moving from where we sit,
I can show you one. Yonder on the edge of the horizon, you see
Sneffels."
"Oh yes, Sneffels," said my uncle.
"One of the most curious volcanoes in existence, the crater of which has
been rarely visited."
"Extinct?"
"Extinct, any time these five hundred years," was the ready reply.
"Well," said my uncle, who dug his nails into his flesh, and pressed his
knees tightly together to prevent himself leaping up with joy. "I have a
great mind to begin my studies with an examination of the geological
mysteries of this Mount Seffel--Feisel--what do you call it?"
"Sneffels, my dear sir."
This portion of the conversation took place in Latin, and I therefore
understood all that had been said. I could scarcely keep my countenance
when I found my uncle so cunningly concealing his delight and
satisfaction. I must confess that his artful grimaces, put on to conceal
his happiness, made him look like a new Mephistopheles.
"Yes, yes," he continued, "your proposition delights me. I will endeavor
to climb to the summit of Sneffels, and, if possible, will descend into
its crater."
"I very much regret," continued M. Fridriksson, "that my occupation will
entirely preclude the possibility of my accompanying you. It would have
been both pleasurable and profitable if I could have spared the time."
"No, no, a thousand times no," cried my uncle. "I do not wish to disturb
the serenity of any man. I thank you, however, with all my heart. The
presence of one so learned as yourself, would no doubt have been most
useful, but the duties of your office and profession before everything."
In the innocence of his simple heart, our host did not perceive the
irony of these remarks.
"I entirely approve your project," continued the Icelander after some
further remarks. "It is a good idea to begin by examining this volcano.
You will make a harvest of curious observations. In the first place, how
do you propose to get to Sneffels?"
"By sea. I shall cross the bay. Of course that is the most rapid route."
"Of course. But still it cannot be done."
"Why?"
"We have not an available boat in all Reykjavik," replied the other.
"What is to be done?"
"You must go by land along the coast. It is longer, but much more
interesting."
"Then I must have a guide."
"Of course; and I have your very man."
"Somebody on whom I can depend."
"Yes, an inhabitant of the peninsula on which Sneffels is situated. He
is a very shrewd and worthy man, with whom you will be pleased. He
speaks Danish like a Dane."
"When can I see him--today?"
"No, tomorrow; he will not be here before."
"Tomorrow be it," replied my uncle, with a deep sigh.
The conversation ended by compliments on both sides. During the dinner
my uncle had learned much as to the history of Arne Saknussemm, the
reasons for his mysterious and hieroglyphical document. He also became
aware that his host would not accompany him on his adventurous
expedition, and that next day we should have a guide.
CHAPTER 8
THE EIDER-DOWN HUNTER--OFF AT LAST
That evening I took a brief walk on the shore near Reykjavik, after
which I returned to an early sleep on my bed of coarse planks, where I
slept the sleep of the just. When I awoke I heard my uncle speaking
loudly in the next room. I rose hastily and joined him. He was talking
in Danish with a man of tall stature, and of perfectly Herculean build.
This man appeared to be possessed of very great strength. His eyes,
which started rather prominently from a very large head, the face
belonging to which was simple and naive, appeared very quick and
intelligent. Very long hair, which even in England would have been
accounted exceedingly red, fell over his athletic shoulders. This native
of Iceland was active and supple in appearance, though he scarcely moved
his arms, being in fact one of those men who despise the habit of
gesticulation common to southern people.
Everything in this man's manner revealed a calm and phlegmatic
temperament. There was nothing indolent about him, but his appearance
spoke of tranquillity. He was one of those who never seemed to expect
anything from anybody, who liked to work when he thought proper, and
whose philosophy nothing could astonish or trouble.
I began to comprehend his character, simply from the way in which he
listened to the wild and impassioned verbiage of my worthy uncle. While
the excellent Professor spoke sentence after sentence, he stood with
folded arms, utterly still, motionless to all my uncle's gesticulations.
When he wanted to say No he moved his head from left to right; when he
acquiesced he nodded, so slightly that you could scarcely see the
undulation of his head. This economy of motion was carried to the length
of avarice.
Judging from his appearance I should have been a long time before I had
suspected him to be what he was, a mighty hunter. Certainly his manner
was not likely to frighten the game. How, then, did he contrive to get
at his prey?
My surprise was slightly modified when I knew that this tranquil and
solemn personage was only a hunter of the eider duck, the down of which
is, after all, the greatest source of the Icelanders' wealth.
In the early days of summer, the female of the eider, a pretty sort of
duck, builds its nest amid the rocks of the fjords--the name given to
all narrow gulfs in Scandinavian countries--with which every part of the
island is indented. No sooner has the eider duck made her nest than she
lines the inside of it with the softest down from her breast. Then comes
the hunter or trader, taking away the nest, the poor bereaved female
begins her task over again, and this continues as long as any eider down
is to be found.
When she can find no more the male bird sets to work to see what he can
do. As, however, his down is not so soft, and has therefore no
commercial value, the hunter does not take the trouble to rob him of his