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DINNER WAS READY; IT was eagerly devoured by Professor Lidenbrock, whose compulsory fast on board had converted his stomach into a deep chasm. The meal, more Danish than Icelandic, was unremarkable in and of itself; but our host, more Icelandic than Danish, reminded me of the heroes of ancient hospitality. It seemed obvious that we were more at home than he was himself.

The conversation was carried on in the local language, which my uncle mixed with German and Mr. Fridriksson with Latin for my benefit. It turned on scientific questions, as befits scholars; but Professor Lidenbrock was excessively reserved, and his eyes at every sentence enjoined me to keep the most absolute silence regarding our future plans.

In the first place Mr. Fridriksson asked what success my uncle had had at the library.

“Your library!” exclaimed the latter. “It consists of nothing but a few tattered books on almost empty shelves.”

“How so!” replied Mr. Fridriksson. “We possess eight thousand volumes, many of them valuable and rare, works in the ancient Scandinavian language, and we have all the new publications that Copenhagen provides us with every year.”

“Where do you keep your eight thousand volumes? For my part—”

“Oh, Mr. Lidenbrock, they’re all over the country. In this old island of ice, we are fond of study! There’s not a farmer or a fisherman who cannot read and doesn’t read. We believe that books, instead of growing moldy behind an iron grating, should be worn out under the eyes of readers. So these volumes pass from one to another, are leafed through, read and reread, and often they find their way back to the shelves only after an absence of a year or two.”

“And in the meantime,” said my uncle rather spitefully, “foreigners—”

“What can you do! Foreigners have their libraries at home, and the most important thing is that our farmers educate themselves.

I repeat, the love of studying runs in Icelandic blood. So in 1816 we founded a literary society that prospers; foreign scholars are honored to become members of it. It publishes books for the education of our fellow countrymen, and does the country genuine service. If you’ll consent to be a corresponding member, Mr. Lidenbrock, you’ll give us the greatest pleasure.”

My uncle, who was already a member of about a hundred learned societies, accepted with a good grace that touched Mr. Fridriksson.

“Now,” he said, “please tell me what books you hoped to find in our library, and I can perhaps advise you on how to consult them.”

I looked at my uncle. He hesitated. This question went directly to the heart of his project. But after a moment’s reflection, he decided to answer.

“Mr. Fridriksson, I’d like to know whether amongst your ancient books you have those of Arne Saknussemm?”

“Arne Saknussemm!” replied the Reykjavik professor. “You mean that learned sixteenth century scholar, simultaneously a great naturalist, a great alchemist, and a great traveler?”

“Precisely.”

“One of the glories of Icelandic literature and science?”

“Just as you say.”

“Among the most illustrious men of the world?”

“I grant you that.”

“And whose courage was equal to his genius?”

“I see that you know him well:”

My uncle was afloat in joy at hearing his hero described in this fashion. He feasted his eyes on Mr. Fridriksson’s face.

“Well,” he asked, “his works?”

“Ah! His works—we don’t have them.”

“What—in Iceland?”

“They don’t exist either in Iceland or anywhere else.”

“But why?”

“Because Arne Saknussemm was persecuted for heresy, and in 1573 his books were burned by the executioner in Copenhagen.”

“Very good! Perfect!” exclaimed my uncle, to the great dismay of the science professor.

“What?” he asked.

“Yes! everything’s logical, everything follows, everything’s clear, and I understand why Saknussemm, after being put on the Indexz and compelled to hide his ingenious discoveries, was forced to bury the secret in an unintelligible cryptogram—”

“What secret?” asked Mr. Fridriksson eagerly.

“A secret which—whose—” my uncle stammered.

“Do you have a particular document in your possession?” asked our host.

“No ... I was making a mere assumption.”

“Well,” answered Mr. Fridriksson, who was kind enough not to pursue the subject when he noticed the embarrassment of his conversation partner. “I hope,” he added, “that you’ll not leave our island until you’ve seen some of its mineralogical wealth.”

“Certainly,” replied my uncle; “but I’m arriving a little late; haven’t other scholars been here before me?”

“Yes, Mr. Lidenbrock; the work of Olafsen and Povelsen, carried out by order of the king, the studies of Troïl, the scientific mission of Gaimard and Robert on the French corvette La Recherche,aa and lastly the observations of scholars aboard the Reine Hortense,6 have substantially contributed to our knowledge of Iceland. But believe me, there is plenty left.”

“Do you think so?” said my uncle with an innocent look, trying to hide the flashing of his eyes.

“Yes. So many mountains, glaciers, and volcanoes to study that are little known! Look, without going any further, look at that mountain on the horizon. That’s Snaefells.”

“Ah!” said my uncle, “Snaefells.”

“Yes, one of the most peculiar volcanoes, whose crater has rarely been visited.”

“Extinct?”

“Oh, yes, extinct for more than five hundred years.”

“Well,” replied my uncle, who was frantically crossing his legs to keep himself from jumping up, “I’d like to begin my geological studies with that Seffel-Fessel-what do you call it?”

“Snaefells,” replied the excellent Mr. Fridriksson.

This part of the conversation had taken place in Latin; I had understood everything, and I could hardly conceal my amusement at seeing my uncle trying to control the satisfaction with which he was brimming over. He tried to put on an air of innocence that looked like the grimace of an old devil.

“Yes,” he said, “your words make up my mind for me! We’ll try to scale that Snaefells, perhaps even investigate its crater!”

“I deeply regret,” replied Mr. Fridriksson, “that my engagements don’t allow me to absent myself, or I would have accompanied you with pleasure and profit.”

“Oh, no, oh, no!” replied my uncle eagerly, “we wouldn’t want to disturb anyone, Mr. Fridriksson; I thank you with all my heart. The company of a scholar such as yourself would have been very useful, but the duties of your profession—”

I like to think that our host, in the innocence of his Icelandic soul, did not understand my uncle’s crude malice.

“I very much approve of your beginning with that volcano, Mr. Lidenbrock,” he said. “You’ll gather an ample harvest of interesting observations. But tell me, how do you plan to get to the Snaefells peninsula?”

“By sea, crossing the bay. That’s the fastest route.”

“No doubt; but it’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t have a single boat in Reykjavik.”

“The devil!”

“You’ll have to go overland, following the shore. It’ll be longer, but more interesting.”

“Well. I’ll have to see about a guide.”

“I actually have one that I can offer you.”

“A reliable, intelligent man?”

“Yes, an inhabitant of the peninsula. He’s an eider duck hunter, very skilled, with whom you’ll be satisfied. He speaks Danish perfectly.”

“And when can I see him?”

“Tomorrow, if you like.”

“Why not today?”

Because he doesn’t arrive until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” replied my uncle with a sigh.

This momentous conversation ended a few moments later with warm thanks from the German professor to the Icelandic professor. During this dinner my uncle had learned important facts, among others, Saknussemm’s history, the reason for his mysterious document, that his host would not accompany him in his expedition, and that the very next day a guide would be at his service.