Journey to the Center of the Earth (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (19 page)

I shook my head with an air of profound skepticism.

“Hear me out,” the professor continued with a firm voice. “While you were lying here motionlessly, I went to explore the structure of that tunnel. It goes directly into the bowels of the globe, and in a few hours it’ll take us to the granite formation. There we should find abundant springs. The nature of the rock implies this, and instinct agrees with logic to support my conviction. Now, this is what I propose to you. When Columbus asked his ships’ crew for three more days to discover new land, his crew, frightened and sick as they were, recognized the legitimacy of his claim, and he discovered the new world. I am the Columbus of this nether world, and I only ask for one more day. If after that day I haven’t found the water that we’re missing, I swear to you we’ll return to the surface of the earth.”

In spite of my irritation I was moved by these words and by the violence my uncle was doing to himself by speaking in this manner.

“Well then!” I exclaimed, “let’s do what you wish, and may God reward your superhuman energy. You now have only a few hours left to tempt fortune. Let’s go!”

THE DESCENT STARTED OVER again, this time by way of the other tunnel. Hans walked first, as was his custom. We had not walked a hundred paces when the professor, moving his lantern along the walls, exclaimed:

“Here are primitive rocks. Now we’re on the right way. Let’s go! Let’s go!”

When the earth was slowly cooling in its early stages, its contraction produced displacements, ruptures, retrenchments, and cracks in its crust. Our current tunnel was such a fissure, through which eruptive granite flowed at one time. Its thousand turns formed an inextricable labyrinth in the primeval soil.

As we descended, the succession of layers that made up the primitive foundation manifested itself more distinctly. Geological science considers this primitive matter the base of the mineral crust, and has discovered that it is made up of three different strata, schists, gneisses, and mica schists resting on that unshakable rock called granite.

Never had mineralogists found themselves in such wonderful circumstances to study nature in situ. What the drill, an unintelligent and brutal machine, could not relay to the surface about the inner texture of the globe, we were able to examine with our own eyes and touch with our own hands.

Through the beds of schist, colored in beautiful shades of green, meandered metallic threads of copper and manganese with traces of platinum and gold. I thought about these riches buried in the bowels of the globe that greedy humanity will never enjoy! These treasures have been buried at such depths by the upheavals of primeval days that neither ice-pick nor pickaxe will ever be able to tear them from their grave.

The schists were succeeded by stratified gneisses, remarkable for the parallelism and regularity of its laminae, then mica schists arranged in large sheets that were outlined to the eye by the sparkling of white mica.

The light from our devices, reflected from the small facets in the mass of rock, shot sparkling rays at every angle, and I imagined I was traveling through a hollow diamond, on whose inside the light beams shattered in a thousand coruscations.

At about six o’clock this feast of light diminished appreciably, then almost ceased; the walls took on a crystalline but dark appearance; mica mingled more intimately with feldspar and quartz to form the essential rock, the hardest stone of all, the one that supports the four layered terrains of the globe. We were immured in an immense prison of granite.

It was eight in the evening. There was still no water. I was suffering horribly. My uncle walked at the front. He refused to stop. He listened anxiously for the murmur of some spring. But nothing!

But my legs refused to carry me any further. I resisted my torture so as not to force my uncle to stop. It would have been a stroke of desperate misfortune for him, because the day was coming to an end, the last one that belonged to him.

Finally my strength left me. I uttered a cry and fell.

“Come to me! I’m dying!”

My uncle retraced his steps. He looked at me with his arms crossed; then these muttered words passed his lips:

“It’s all over!”

The last thing I saw was a frightening gesture of rage, and I closed my eyes.

When I reopened them I saw my two companions motionless and rolled up in their blankets. Were they asleep? As for me, I could not get one moment’s sleep. I was suffering too much, especially from the thought that there was no remedy. My uncle’s last words echoed in my ear: “It’s all over!” For in such a state of weakness it was impossible to think of going back to the surface of the globe.

We had a league and a half of terrestrial crust on top of us! It seemed to me that the weight of this mass bore down on my shoulders with all its power. I felt crushed, and exhausted myself with violent exertions to turn round on my granite couch.

A few hours passed. Deep silence reigned around us, the silence of the grave. Nothing reached us through these walls, the thinnest of which was five miles thick.

Yet in the midst of my slumber I believed I heard a sound. It was dark in the tunnel. I looked more carefully, and I seemed to see the Icelander vanishing with the lamp in his hand.

Why this departure? Was Hans going to abandon us? My uncle was fast asleep. I wanted to shout. My voice could not find a passage through my parched lips. The darkness became deeper, and the last sounds died away.

“Hans is abandoning us,” I shouted. “Hans! Hans!”

But these words were only uttered within me. They did not go any further. Yet after the first moment of terror I felt ashamed of my suspicions against a man whose conduct had had nothing suspect so far. His departure could not be an escape. Instead of ascending the tunnel, he was descending. Evil intentions would have taken him up, not down. This reasoning calmed me down a little, and I returned to another set of thoughts. Only a serious motive could have torn so peaceful a man from his sleep. Was he going on discovery? Had he heard a murmur in the silent night that had not reached me?

FOR A WHOLE HOUR I tried to work out in my delirious brain the reasons which this quiet huntsman might have. The most absurd ideas were entangled in my mind. I thought I was going mad!

But at last a noise of footsteps sounded in the depths of the abyss. Hans was returning. The dim light began to glimmer on the walls, then showed up at the opening of the tunnel. Hans appeared.

He approached my uncle, put his hand on his shoulder, and gently woke him. My uncle rose up.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Vatten!” replied the hunter.

It seems that under the impact of violent pain, everybody becomes polyglot. I did not know a word of Danish, and yet instinctively I understood our guide’s word.

“Water! water!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands and gesticulating like a madman.

“Water!” repeated my uncle. “Hvar?” he asked, in Icelandic.

“Nedat,” replied Hans.

Where? Down below! I understood it all. I seized the hunter’s hands, and pressed them while he looked at me calmly.

The preparations for our departure were not long in making, and we were soon on our way along a passage sloping down at a rate of two feet per fathom.

In an hour we had gone a thousand fathoms, and descended two thousand feet.

At that moment, I began to hear distinctly an unusual sound of something running inside the granite wall, a kind of dull rumbling like distant thunder. During the first half-hour of our walk, when we did not find the promised spring, I felt my anguish returning; but then my uncle told me the cause of these noises.

“Hans was not mistaken,” he said. “What you hear is the rushing of a torrent.”

“A torrent?” I exclaimed.

“There can be no doubt. A subterranean river is flowing around us.”

We hurried forward, overexcited because of our hope. I no longer sensed my fatigue. This sound of murmuring water was refreshing me already. It increased perceptibly. The torrent, after having for some time flowed over our heads, was now running within the left wall, roaring and bouncing. I often brushed with my hand over the rock, hoping to feel some seeping or moisture. But in vain.

Yet another half-hour passed. We put another half league behind us.

Then it became clear that the hunter had not been able to extend his investigation further during his absence. Guided by an instinct peculiar to mountaineers, to water-dowsers, he ‘felt’ this torrent through the rock, but he had certainly not seen the precious liquid; he had drunk nothing himself.

Soon it became obvious that if we continued on our walk, we would move away from the stream, whose noise was growing more faint.

We returned. Hans stopped at the precise point where the torrent seemed closest.

I sat near the wall, while the waters were rushing past me at a distance of two feet with extreme violence. But there was a thick granite wall still separating us from it.

Without reflection, without wondering if there was not some means of accessing this water, I gave way to a first moment of despair.

Hans looked at me, and I thought I saw a smile on his lips.

He rose and took the lamp. I followed him. He moved towards the wall. I looked on. He pressed his ear against the dry stone, and moved it slowly to and fro, listening intently. I understood at once that he was looking for the exact point where the torrent could be heard the loudest. He found that point on the left side of the tunnel, three feet from the ground.

How stirred up I was! I hardly dared guess what the hunter was about to do! But I had to understand and cheer him on when I saw him lay hold of the pickaxe to attack the rock.

“Saved!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” exclaimed my uncle frantically. “Hans is right. Ah! Brave hunter! We wouldn’t have thought of this!”

Absolutely true! Such an expedient, however simple, would never have entered into our minds. Nothing more dangerous than to strike a blow of the pickaxe in this part of the earth’s structure. What if there were a collapse that would crush us all! What if the torrent, bursting through, would drown us in a sudden flood! There was nothing chimerical about these dangers; but still no fears of landslides of floods could stop us now, and our thirst was so intense that, to satisfy it, we would have dug into the very bottom of the ocean.

Hans set about the task which neither my uncle nor I could have accomplished. With impatience guiding our hands, we would have shattered the rock into a thousand fragments. The guide, by contrast, calm and moderate, gradually wore down the rock with a succession of light strokes, creating a six-inch opening. I could hear the noise of the torrent grow louder, and I thought I could already feel the healing water touch my lips.

The pickaxe had soon penetrated two feet into the granite partition. The work had lasted more than an hour. I writhed with impatience! My uncle wanted to use more forceful measures. I had some difficulty stopping him and he had already taken a pickaxe in his hand, when a sudden hissing was heard. A jet of water spurted out of the rock and hit the opposite wall.

Hans, almost thrown off his feet by the shock, could not hold back a cry of pain. I understood it when, just as I had plunged my own hands into the liquid jet, I shouted out loudly in my turn. The water was scalding hot.

“The water is a hundred degrees!” I exclaimed.

“Well, it’ll cool down,” my uncle replied.

The tunnel filled with steam, while a stream formed which lost itself in subterranean meanderings; soon we had the satisfaction of swallowing our first draught.

Ah! What enjoyment! What incomparable pleasure! What was this water? Where did it come from? No matter. It was water, and though it was still warm, it brought back to one’s heart the life that had been on the point of vanishing. I drank without stopping or even tasting.

It was only after a minute of enjoyment that I exclaimed, “Why, this water contains iron!”

“Excellent for the stomach,” replied my uncle, “and full of minerals ! This journey will be as good for us as going to Spa or Töplitz!”
^aw

“Well, it’s delicious!”

“Of course it is, water found two leagues underground should be. It has an inky flavor, which is not at all unpleasant. What an excellent resource Hans has found for us here! We’ll give his name to this wholesome creek.”

“Great!” I exclaimed.

And Hansbach
^ax
it was from that moment.

Hans was none the prouder. After a moderate draught, he went to rest in a corner with his usual calm.

“Now,” I said, “we mustn’t lose this water.”

“What for?” my uncle replied. “I imagine that the source is inexhaustible.”

“Never mind! Let’s fill the leather bottle and our flasks, and then we can try to stop up the opening.”

My advice was followed. Hans tried to stop the cut in the wall with pieces of granite and tow. It was not an easy task. One scalded one’s hands without succeeding; the pressure was too strong, and our efforts remained fruitless.

“It’s obvious,” I said, “that the upper reaches of this course of water are very high up, judging by the force of the jet.”

“No doubt,” answered my uncle. “If this column of water is 32,000 feet high, it has a thousand atmospheres of pressure. But I’ve got an idea.”

“What idea?”

“Why should we trouble ourselves to close up this opening?”

“Because...”

I could not come up with a reason.

“When our flasks are empty, are we sure we’ll be able to fill them again?”

“No, obviously.”

“Well, then let’s allow the water to run on. It’ll flow down, and will both guide and refresh us on the way.”

“That’s well planned!” I exclaimed. “With this stream as our guide, there’s no reason why we should not succeed in our undertaking.”