BÖLÜM 14

STAPI IS a village composed of about thirty huts, built of lava and lying in the sunlight reflected by the volcano. It extends along a small fiord, inclosed in a basaltic wall, which has the strangest effect.

Basalt, as is well known, is a brown rock of igneous origin. It affects regular forms, the disposition of which is often surprising. Here, nature proceeds geometrically, working after the manner of men with square and compass and plummet. Though everywhere else her art is seen in large masses thrown down in disorder, in unfinished cones, in perfect pyramids with the most fantastic succession of lines, here, as if to form an example of regularity and in advance of the very earliest architects, she has created a severe order which has never been surpassed by the splendours of Babylon and the marvels of Greece.

I had heard of the Giants’ Causeway in Ireland, and Fingal’s Cave in the Hebrides, but I had never before seen a basaltic formation.

This phenomenon I was to witness at Stapi in all its beauty.

The wall of the fiord, like all the coast of the peninsula, is composed of a succession of vertical columns thirty feet high. These straight shafts of perfect proportions supported an architrave, made of horizontal columns, the overhanging portion of which formed a semi-arch over the sea. At certain intervals under this natural shelter there were vaulted openings of admirable design, through which the waves came dashing and foaming. Fragments of basalt, torn away by the fury of the ocean, lay along the ground like the ruins of an ancient temple, ruins which never grew old, over which ages had passed without leaving an imprint behind them.

This was the last stage of our terrestrial journey. Hans had proved himself an intelligent guide, and it was a comfort to think he was not going to leave us here.

On arriving at the door of the rector’s house, just a low cabin like his neighbour’s, neither grander nor more comfortable, I saw a man engaged in shoeing a horse, hammer in hand, and a leather apron round him.

“Sallvertu” said the hunter.

“God-dag” replied the blacksmith in pure Danish.

“Kyrkoherde” said Hans, turning to my uncle.

“The rector!” said my uncle. “Axel, it appears this good man is the rector.”

Meantime our guide was explaining about us to the Kyrkoherde, who left off his work, and gave a sort of cry, no doubt in common use among horses and jockeys. A tall vixenish-looking shrew instantly made her appearance. If she did not measure six feet high she certainly was not much less.

I was afraid she would offer me the Icelandic kiss, but I need not have alarmed myself, for her manner was too ungracious for any such politeness.

The visitors’ room to which she conducted us seemed to be the worst in the house, being close-smelling, dirty, and narrow. However, we were obliged to put up with it.The rector was clearly not given to ancient hospitality. Before the day was over, I saw we had to do with a blacksmith, a fisherman, a hunter, a carpenter, and not at all with a minister of Christ. True, we came on a week day. Perhaps he was a better man on Sundays.

I don’t want to say anything bad of these poor priests, who, after all, are miserably off. The sum they receive from the Danish Government is ridiculously small, and all they have besides is a fourth part of the tithe, which does not amount to more than sixty marks (about £4). Consequently, they are obliged to work for a living. But fishing, and hunting, and shoeing horses gives a man at last the tone and habits and manners of fishermen and hunters and farriers and such-like people. I found at night that even sobriety could not be reckoned among his virtues.

My uncle quickly understood his man. Instead of a good and honourable man of learning, this was a coarse, lumpish peasant. He therefore resolved to commence his great expedition with the least possible delay, and to get out of this inhospitable parsonage. In utter disregard of his fatigues, he determined to go and spend a few days in the mountain.

The very next morning our preparations began. Hans hired three Icelanders to take the place of the horses and carry our luggage, but it was distinctly understood that as soon as they had deposited it in the crater they were to turn and go back, and leave us to do the best we could.

My uncle took this opportunity of apprising Hans of his intention to explore the volcano to its furthest limits.

Hans simply nodded. To go there or anywhere else, into the bowels of the earth, or on the surface, was all alike to him. For myself, hitherto I had been amused by the incidents of the journey, and been somewhat forgetful of the future, but now my terrors returned in full force. But what was to be done? If I wished to resist Professor Lidenbrock, it was at Hamburg I should have done it, and not at Snäfell.

One thought especially tormented me—one which might appal stouter nerves than mine.

I said to myself, “We are going to ascend Snäfell. That’s well enough. We are going to visit the crater.Well enough too. Others have done that, and they came up alive. But that is not all. If there should actually be a passage into the bowels of the earth, and that unlucky Saknussemm spoke truth, we shall go and lose ourselves in the subterranean windings of the volcano. But what is there to prove that Snäfell is extinct? Who will guarantee that an eruption is not preparing to break out? Because the monster has been sleeping since 1229, does it follow that he will never wake up again? And if he does wake up what will become of us?” This was worth thinking about, and I did think about it. I could not sleep without dreaming of eruptions, and I must say I did not feel inclined to play the part of scoria.

At last I could not bear myself any longer and resolved to submit the case to my uncle with as much tact as possible and under the form of an impossible hypothesis.

I went in quest of him, and told him my fears, and then drew back to let his first outburst of passion pass over.

But all he said was:

“I have been thinking of it.”

What could he mean? Was he really going to listen to the voice of reason? Could he be going to suspend his project? It was too good to be true.

After a few minutes’ silence, which I did not venture to interrupt, he repeated again:

“I was thinking of it. Ever since we arrived here at Stapi my mind has been occupied with the grave question you have just submitted to me, for it would not do for us to be imprudent.”

“No, indeed,” I said emphatically.

“For 600 years Snäfell has been silent, but he may speak. Still, eruptions are always preceded by well-known phenomena. I have been therefore interrogating the inhabitants of this district on the subject. I have examined the ground and I am in a position to say there will be no eruption.”

I was amazed at this declaration, and could make no reply.

“Do you doubt what I tell you?” resumed my uncle, “Well, come with me!”

I obeyed mechanically. The professor took a direct course away from the sun by going through an opening in the basaltic wall. Soon we were in the open country, if the word can apply to an immense heap of volcanic matter. The whole region seemed to have been overwhelmed with a flood of enormous fragments of trap, basalt, granite, and all the pyroxene rocks.

Here and there I could see puffs of white vapour rising in the air. These are called by the Icelanders “reykir,” and issue from the thermal springs, which, by their violence, indicate the volcanic activity of the soil. This seemed to justify my fears. But I fell from the clouds when my uncle went on to say:

“You see all this smoke, Axel. Well, they prove that we have nothing to fear from the fury of the volcano.”

“What an idea!” I exclaimed.

“Remember this,” continued the professor; “at the approach of an eruption these vapours redouble their activity, but disappear entirely while the phenomenon lasts, for the electric fluids being relieved from pressure, escape by the crater instead of finding their way out through the cracks in the ground. Since, then, these vapours re now in the usual state, and there is no increase of energy, and also that the wind and rain have not given way to a heavy dead calm, you may be sure no eruption is at hand.”

“But——”

“Enough. When science has spoken, it is for us to hold our peace.”

I went back to the parsonage, very crestfallen. My uncle had vanquished me by scientific arguments. One hope, however, still remained; and this was that, on our reaching the bottom of the crater, we should find no passage, in spite of all the Saknussemms in the world.

I passed the night in all the miseries of nightmare. I was in the midst of a volcano, in the depths of the earth; I felt myself hurled into the planetary spaces, in the form of ejected rock.

The next day, the 22nd of June, Hans was ready, waiting us, with his companions bearing the provisions, tools, and instruments. Two stout sticks, tipped with iron, and two rifles and two shot-belts were reserved for my uncle and myself. Hans, like a wise man, had added to our baggage a leathern bottle filled with water, which, with our gourds, would be a sufficient supply for a week.

It was 9 A.M. The rector and his tall shrew stood at the door of the parsonage, doubtless to bid us farewell. But their adieux took the shape of a tremendous bill! They charged us for everything, even to the air we breathed, and that was polluted enough, I can vouch for it. This worthy couple fleeced us like any Swiss hotel-keeper, and made us pay a good price for their make-believe hospitality.

My uncle settled the account, however, without any higgling. A man who is just about to start for the center of the earth does not care about a few rix-dollars.

This matter arranged, Hans gave the signal for starting, and a few minutes afterwards we left Stapi.