Read the chapter
Journey to the Center of the Earth
Chapter 22. SUNDAY BELOW GROUND
I awoke on Sunday morning without any sense of hurry and bustle for an immediate departure.
Though the day to be for rest and thought was spent under strange circumstances and in such a wonderful place, the idea was pleasant.
Besides, we all began to get used to this kind of life.
I had almost stopped thinking of the sun, of the moon, of the stars, of the trees, houses, and towns.
In fact, I had stopped thinking about most surface needs.
In our peculiar position we were far above such reflections.
The grotto was a vast and magnificent hall.
Along its granitic floor the stream flowed placidly and pleasantly.
So great a distance now separated it from its fiery source that its water was scarcely warm, and could be drunk without delay or difficulty.
After a frugal breakfast, the Professor decided to spend some hours putting his notes and calculations in order.
"In the first place," he said, "I have a good many to check and prove, so that we may know our exact position".
On our return to the upper regions, I want to make a map of our journey.
I'll make a kind of vertical section of the globe.
This will be, as it were, the profile of the expedition.
"That would indeed be a curious work, Uncle, but can you make your observations with anything like certainty and precision?"
I can. I have never failed to note the angles and slopes carefully. I'm certain I made no mistake. Take the compass and see how it points.
I looked at the instrument carefully, watching the needle's slow, precise movement.
"East one quarter southeast."
"Very good," the Professor resumed, noting the observation and doing some quick calculations.
"I make out that we have journeyed two hundred and fifty miles from the point of our departure."
"Then the mighty waves of the Atlantic are rolling over our heads?"
"Certainly."
"And at this very moment it's possible that fierce tempests are raging above, and that men and ships are battling against the angry blasts just over our heads?"
"It's quite within the range of possibility," my uncle said with a smile.
"And that whales are playing in shoals, thrashing the bottom of the sea, the roof of our adamantine prison?"
"Be quite at rest on that point, there's no danger of their breaking through."
"But to return to our calculations."
We're southeast, two hundred and fifty miles from the base of Sneffels, and, by my notes, we have gone sixteen leagues downward.
"Sixteen leagues, fifty miles!" I cried.
"I'm sure of it."
"But that's the extreme limit allowed by science for the thickness of the earth's crust," I said, referring to my geological studies.
"I don't contradict that statement," he answered quietly.
"And at this stage of our journey, according to all known laws on the increase of heat, there should be here a temperature of fifteen hundred degrees of Reaumur."
"There should be, you say, my boy."
"In which case this granite wouldn't exist, but be melted."
"But you see, my boy, that it isn't so, and that facts, as usual, are very stubborn things, overruling all theories."
"I'm forced to accept the evidence of my senses, but I'm nevertheless very much surprised."
"What heat does the thermometer really show?" the professor continued.
"Twenty-seven six-tenths."
"So that science is wrong by fourteen hundred and seventy-four degrees and four-tenths."
"According to that, it's proved that the proportional increase in temperature is an exploded error."
"Humphry Davy here shines forth in all his glory."
"He's right, and I was wise to believe him."
"Have you any answer to this?"
Had I chosen to speak, I might have said a great deal.
I didn't accept the theory of Humphry Davy.
I still held to the theory of proportional increase of heat, though I didn't feel sure.
I was more willing to accept that this chimney of an extinct volcano was covered by lava of a kind resistant to heat.
In fact, this lava was a poor conductor and didn't allow the great increase of temperature to pass through its sides.
The hot water jet supported my view.
Without entering a long, useless discussion or finding new arguments against my uncle, I contented myself with the facts as they were.
"Well, sir, I take for granted that all your calculations are correct, but allow me to draw from them a strict and definite conclusion."
"Go on, my boy, have your say," cried my uncle good humoredly.
"At the place where we now are, under the latitude of Iceland, the terrestrial depth is about one thousand five hundred and eighty-three leagues."
"One thousand five hundred eighty-three and a quarter."
"Well, suppose we say sixteen hundred in round numbers. Now, out of a voyage of sixteen hundred leagues we have completed sixteen."
"As you say, what then?"
"At the cost of a diagonal journey of no less than eighty-five leagues."
"Exactly."
"We have been twenty days about it."
"Exactly twenty days."
"Now sixteen is the hundredth part of our planned expedition."
"If we go on like this we shall be two thousand days, that's about five years and a half, going down."
The Professor folded his arms, listened, but didn't speak.
If a vertical descent of sixteen leagues costs a horizontal of eighty-five, we'll have to go about eight thousand leagues southeast.
We must therefore come out somewhere on the circumference long before we can hope to reach the centre.
"Bother your calculations," cried my uncle in one of his old rages.
"On what basis do they rest?"
"How do you know that this passage doesn't take us straight to the end we need?"
"Besides, I have in my favor, luckily, a precedent."
"What I have undertaken to do, another has done, and he having succeeded, why should I not be equally successful?"
"I hope, indeed, you'll, but still, I suppose I may be allowed to, "
"You're allowed to hold your tongue," cried Professor Hardwigg, "when you talk so unreasonably as this."
I saw that the old doctorial Professor lived in my uncle, and, fearful of rousing his anger, I dropped the subject.
"Now, then," he explained, "consult the manometer. What does that show?"
"A considerable amount of pressure."
"Very good. You see, then, that by descending slowly, and by gradually getting used to the density of this lower atmosphere, we shall not suffer."
"Well, I suppose not, except it may be a certain amount of pain in the ears," I said rather grimly.
"That, my dear boy, is nothing, and you'll easily get rid of that source of discomfort by letting the outer air come into contact with the air in your lungs."
"Perfectly," I said, for I had decided not to contradict my uncle.
"I should think almost that I'd feel a certain pleasure in making a plunge into this dense atmosphere. Have you noticed how wonderfully sound is carried?"
"Of course I have. There can be no doubt that a journey into the interior of the earth would be an excellent cure for deafness."
"But then, Uncle," I ventured mildly, "this density will continue to increase."
"Yes, according to a law which, however, is hardly defined".
It's true that the intensity of weight will fall just in proportion to the depth to which we go.
You know very well that it's on the surface of the earth that its action is most strongly felt.
On the contrary, in the very centre of the earth bodies have no weight at all.
"I know that's the case, but as we go deeper won't the atmosphere finally have the density of water?"
"I know it, when placed under the pressure of seven hundred and ten atmospheres," cried my uncle with calm seriousness.
"And when we're still lower down?" I asked with natural anxiety.
"Well, lower down, the density will become even greater."
"Then how shall we be able to make our way through this atmospheric fog?"
"Well, my worthy nephew, we must ballast ourselves by filling our pockets with stones," said Professor Hardwigg.
"Faith, Uncle, you have an answer for everything," was my only reply.
I began to feel that it was unwise of me to go any farther into the wide field of hypotheses.
I'd certainly have raised some difficulty, or rather impossibility, that would have enraged the Professor.
It was clear, however, that the air under a pressure that might be multiplied by thousands of atmospheres would end by becoming perfectly solid.
Then, even if our bodies resisted the pressure, we'd have to stop despite all the reasonings in the world, Facts overcome all arguments.
But I thought it best not to press this point.
My uncle would simply have quoted the example of Saknussemm.
Supposing the learned Icelander's journey ever really took place, there was one simple answer to make.
In the sixteenth century neither the barometer nor the manometer had been invented, how.
Then , could Saknussemm have known when he did reach the centre of the earth?
This unanswerable and learned objection I, however, kept to myself and, bracing up my courage, waited for the course of events.
I was little aware of how adventurous yet were to be the incidents of our remarkable journey.
The rest of this day of leisure and rest was spent in calculation and conversation.
I made it a point to agree with the Professor in everything.
But I envied the perfect indifference of Hans, who, without taking any trouble about cause and effect, went blindly on wherever destiny chose to lead him.