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A JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH - 1

A JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH

By Jules Verne

CHAPTER 1

MY UNCLE MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY

Looking back to all that has occurred to me since that eventful day, I

am scarcely able to believe in the reality of my adventures. They were

truly so wonderful that even now I am bewildered when I think of them.

My uncle was a German, having married my mother's sister, an

Englishwoman. Being very much attached to his fatherless nephew, he

invited me to study under him in his home in the fatherland. This home

was in a large town, and my uncle a professor of philosophy, chemistry,

geology, mineralogy, and many other ologies.

One day, after passing some hours in the laboratory--my uncle being

absent at the time--I suddenly felt the necessity of renovating the

tissues--i.e., I was hungry, and was about to rouse up our old French

cook, when my uncle, Professor Von Hardwigg, suddenly opened the street

door, and came rushing upstairs.

Now Professor Hardwigg, my worthy uncle, is by no means a bad sort of

man; he is, however, choleric and original. To bear with him means to

obey; and scarcely had his heavy feet resounded within our joint

domicile than he shouted for me to attend upon him.

"Harry--Harry--Harry--"

I hastened to obey, but before I could reach his room, jumping three

steps at a time, he was stamping his right foot upon the landing.

"Harry!" he cried, in a frantic tone, "are you coming up?"

Now to tell the truth, at that moment I was far more interested in the

question as to what was to constitute our dinner than in any problem of

science; to me soup was more interesting than soda, an omelette more

tempting than arithmetic, and an artichoke of ten times more value than

any amount of asbestos.

But my uncle was not a man to be kept waiting; so adjourning therefore

all minor questions, I presented myself before him.

He was a very learned man. Now most persons in this category supply

themselves with information, as peddlers do with goods, for the benefit

of others, and lay up stores in order to diffuse them abroad for the

benefit of society in general. Not so my excellent uncle, Professor

Hardwigg; he studied, he consumed the midnight oil, he pored over heavy

tomes, and digested huge quartos and folios in order to keep the

knowledge acquired to himself.

There was a reason, and it may be regarded as a good one, why my uncle

objected to display his learning more than was absolutely necessary: he

stammered; and when intent upon explaining the phenomena of the heavens,

was apt to find himself at fault, and allude in such a vague way to sun,

moon, and stars that few were able to comprehend his meaning. To tell

the honest truth, when the right word would not come, it was generally

replaced by a very powerful adjective.

In connection with the sciences there are many almost unpronounceable

names--names very much resembling those of Welsh villages; and my uncle

being very fond of using them, his habit of stammering was not thereby

improved. In fact, there were periods in his discourse when he would

finally give up and swallow his discomfiture--in a glass of water.

As I said, my uncle, Professor Hardwigg, was a very learned man; and I

now add a most kind relative. I was bound to him by the double ties of

affection and interest. I took deep interest in all his doings, and

hoped some day to be almost as learned myself. It was a rare thing for

me to be absent from his lectures. Like him, I preferred mineralogy to

all the other sciences. My anxiety was to gain real knowledge of the

earth. Geology and mineralogy were to us the sole objects of life, and

in connection with these studies many a fair specimen of stone, chalk,

or metal did we break with our hammers.

Steel rods, loadstones, glass pipes, and bottles of various acids were

oftener before us than our meals. My uncle Hardwigg was once known to

classify six hundred different geological specimens by their weight,

hardness, fusibility, sound, taste, and smell.

He corresponded with all the great, learned, and scientific men of the

age. I was, therefore, in constant communication with, at all events the

letters of, Sir Humphry Davy, Captain Franklin, and other great men.

But before I state the subject on which my uncle wished to confer with

me, I must say a word about his personal appearance. Alas! my readers

will see a very different portrait of him at a future time, after he has

gone through the fearful adventures yet to be related.

My uncle was fifty years old; tall, thin, and wiry. Large spectacles

hid, to a certain extent, his vast, round, and goggle eyes, while his

nose was irreverently compared to a thin file. So much indeed did it

resemble that useful article, that a compass was said in his presence to

have made considerable N (Nasal) deviation.

The truth being told, however, the only article really attracted to my

uncle's nose was tobacco.

Another peculiarity of his was, that he always stepped a yard at a time,

clenched his fists as if he were going to hit you, and was, when in one

of his peculiar humors, very far from a pleasant companion.

It is further necessary to observe that he lived in a very nice house,

in that very nice street, the Konigstrasse at Hamburg. Though lying in

the centre of a town, it was perfectly rural in its aspect--half wood,

half bricks, with old-fashioned gables--one of the few old houses spared

by the great fire of 1842.

When I say a nice house, I mean a handsome house--old, tottering, and

not exactly comfortable to English notions: a house a little off the

perpendicular and inclined to fall into the neighboring canal; exactly

the house for a wandering artist to depict; all the more that you could

scarcely see it for ivy and a magnificent old tree which grew over the

door.

My uncle was rich; his house was his own property, while he had a

considerable private income. To my notion the best part of his

possessions was his god-daughter, Gretchen. And the old cook, the young

lady, the Professor and I were the sole inhabitants.

I loved mineralogy, I loved geology. To me there was nothing like

pebbles--and if my uncle had been in a little less of a fury, we should

have been the happiest of families. To prove the excellent Hardwigg's

impatience, I solemnly declare that when the flowers in the drawing-room

pots began to grow, he rose every morning at four o'clock to make them

grow quicker by pulling the leaves!

Having described my uncle, I will now give an account of our interview.

He received me in his study; a perfect museum, containing every natural

curiosity that can well be imagined--minerals, however, predominating.

Every one was familiar to me, having been catalogued by my own hand. My

uncle, apparently oblivious of the fact that he had summoned me to his

presence, was absorbed in a book. He was particularly fond of early

editions, tall copies, and unique works.

"Wonderful!" he cried, tapping his forehead. "Wonderful--wonderful!"

It was one of those yellow-leaved volumes now rarely found on stalls,

and to me it appeared to possess but little value. My uncle, however,

was in raptures.

He admired its binding, the clearness of its characters, the ease with

which it opened in his hand, and repeated aloud, half a dozen times,

that it was very, very old.

To my fancy he was making a great fuss about nothing, but it was not my

province to say so. On the contrary, I professed considerable interest

in the subject, and asked him what it was about.

"It is the Heims-Kringla of Snorre Tarleson," he said, "the celebrated

Icelandic author of the twelfth century--it is a true and correct

account of the Norwegian princes who reigned in Iceland."

My next question related to the language in which it was written. I

hoped at all events it was translated into German. My uncle was

indignant at the very thought, and declared he wouldn't give a penny for

a translation. His delight was to have found the original work in the

Icelandic tongue, which he declared to be one of the most magnificent

and yet simple idioms in the world--while at the same time its

grammatical combinations were the most varied known to students.

"About as easy as German?" was my insidious remark.

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

"The letters at all events," I said, "are rather difficult of

comprehension."

"It is a Runic manuscript, the language of the original population of

Iceland, invented by Odin himself," cried my uncle, angry at my

ignorance.

I was about to venture upon some misplaced joke on the subject, when a

small scrap of parchment fell out of the leaves. Like a hungry man

snatching at a morsel of bread the Professor seized it. It was about

five inches by three and was scrawled over in the most extraordinary

fashion.

The lines shown here are an exact facsimile of what was written on the

venerable piece of parchment--and have wonderful importance, as they

induced my uncle to undertake the most wonderful series of adventures

which ever fell to the lot of human beings.

My uncle looked keenly at the document for some moments and then

declared that it was Runic. The letters were similar to those in the

book, but then what did they mean? This was exactly what I wanted to

know.

Now as I had a strong conviction that the Runic alphabet and dialect

were simply an invention to mystify poor human nature, I was delighted

to find that my uncle knew as much about the matter as I did--which was

nothing. At all events the tremulous motion of his fingers made me think

so.

"And yet," he muttered to himself, "it is old Icelandic, I am sure of

it."

And my uncle ought to have known, for he was a perfect polyglot

dictionary in himself. He did not pretend, like a certain learned

pundit, to speak the two thousand languages and four thousand idioms

made use of in different parts of the globe, but he did know all the

more important ones.

It is a matter of great doubt to me now, to what violent measures my

uncle's impetuosity might have led him, had not the clock struck two,

and our old French cook called out to let us know that dinner was on the

table.

"Bother the dinner!" cried my uncle.

But as I was hungry, I sallied forth to the dining room, where I took up

my usual quarters. Out of politeness I waited three minutes, but no sign

of my uncle, the Professor. I was surprised. He was not usually so blind

to the pleasure of a good dinner. It was the acme of German

luxury--parsley soup, a ham omelette with sorrel trimmings, an oyster of

veal stewed with prunes, delicious fruit, and sparkling Moselle. For the

sake of poring over this musty old piece of parchment, my uncle forbore

to share our meal. To satisfy my conscience, I ate for both.

The old cook and housekeeper was nearly out of her mind. After taking so

much trouble, to find her master not appear at dinner was to her a sad

disappointment--which, as she occasionally watched the havoc I was

making on the viands, became also alarm. If my uncle were to come to

table after all?

Suddenly, just as I had consumed the last apple and drunk the last glass

of wine, a terrible voice was heard at no great distance. It was my

uncle roaring for me to come to him. I made very nearly one leap of

it--so loud, so fierce was his tone.