“We shall see,” he remarked, with decisive emphasis.
“But see, what is all this about Yocul, and Sneffels, and this Scartaris? I have never heard anything about them.”
“The very point to which I am coming. I lately received from my friend Augustus Peterman, of Leipzig, a map. Take down the third atlas from the second shelf, series Z, plate 4.”
I rose, went to the shelf, and presently returned with the volume indicated.
“This,” said my uncle, “is one of the best maps of Iceland. I believe it will settle all your doubts, difficulties, and objections.”
With a grim hope to the contrary, I stooped over the map.
IV
We Start on the Journey
“You see, the whole island is composed of volcanoes,” said the Professor, “and remark carefully that they all bear the name of Yokul. The word is Icelandic, and means a glacier. In most of the lofty mountains of that region the volcanic eruptions come forth from icebound caverns. Hence the name applied to every volcano on this extraordinary island.”
“But what does this word Sneffels mean?”
To this question I expected no rational answer. I was mistaken.
“Follow my finger to the western coast of Iceland, there you see Reykjavik, its capital. Follow the direction of one of its innumerable fjords or arms of the sea, and what do you see below the sixty-fifth degree of latitude?”
“A peninsula—very like a thighbone in shape.”
“And in the center of it—?”
“A mountain.”
“Well, that’s Sneffels.”
I had nothing to say.
“That is Sneffels—a mountain about five thousand feet in height, one of the most remarkable in the whole island, and certainly doomed to be the most celebrated in the world, for through its crater we shall reach the center of the earth.”
“Impossible!” cried I, startled and shocked at the thought.
“Why impossible?” said Professor Hardwigg in his severest tones.
“Because its crater is choked with lava, by burning rocks—by infinite dangers.”
“But if it be extinct?”
“That would make a difference.”
“Of course it would. There are about three hundred volcanoes on the whole surface of the globe—but the greater number are extinct. Of these Sneffels is one. No eruption has occurred since 1219—in fact it has ceased to be a volcano at all.”
After this what more could I say? Yes—I thought of another objection.
“But what is all this about Scartaris and the kalends of July—?”
My uncle reflected deeply. Presently he gave forth the result of his reflections in a sententious tone.
“What appears obscure to you, to me is light. This very phrase shows how particular Saknussemm is in his directions. The Sneffels mountain has many craters. He is careful therefore to point the exact one which is the highway into the interior of the earth. He lets us know, for this purpose, that about the end of the month of June, the shadow of Mount Scartaris falls upon the one crater. There can be no doubt about the matter.”
My uncle had an answer for everything.
“I accept all your explanations,” I said, “and Saknussemm is right. He found out the entrance to the bowels of the earth, he has indicated correctly, but that he or anyone else ever followed up the discovery is madness to suppose.”
“Why so, young man?”
“All scientific teaching, theoretical and practical, shows it to be impossible.”
“I care nothing for theories,” retorted my uncle.
“But is it not well known that heat increases one degree for every seventy feet you descend into the earth? Which gives a fine idea of the central heat. All the matters which composed the globe are in a state of incandescence; even gold, platinum, and the hardest rocks are in a state of fusion. What would become of us?”
“Don’t be alarmed at the heat, my boy.”
“How so?”
“Neither you nor anybody else know anything about the real state of the earth’s interior. All modern experiments tend to explode the older theories. Were any such heat to exist, the upper crust of the earth would be shattered to atoms, and the world would be at an end.”
A long, learned, and not uninteresting discussion followed, which ended in this wise: