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01 - My Uncle Makes a Great Discovery - Journey to the Center of the Earth - Jules Verne · Classic Science Fiction Books

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  Journey to the Center of the Earth by Schilvern, Chapter one, My uncle
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  makes a great discovery. Looking back to all that has occurred to me since
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  that eventful day, I am scarcely able to believe in the reality of my
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  adventures. They were truly so wonderful that even now I am bewildered when I
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  think of them. My uncle was a German, having married my mother's sister,
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  an englishwoman. Being very much attached to his fatherless nephew, he invited
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  me to study under him in his home in the fatherland. This home was
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  in a large town, and my uncle a professor of philosophy, chemistry,
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  geology, mineralogy, and many other ologies. One day, after passing some
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  hours in the laboratory, my uncle, being absent at the time, I
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  suddenly felt the necessity of renovating the tissus. That is, I was hungry
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  and was about to rouse up our old French cook, when my uncle,
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  Professor von Hartwick, suddenly opened the street door and came rushing upstairs. Now,
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  Professor Hartwig, my worthy uncle, is by no means a bad sort
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  of man. He is, however, coleric and original. To bear with
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  him means to obey and scarcely had his heavy feet resounded within our joint domisil.
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  Then he shouted for me to attend upon him. Hurry, hurry,
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  hurry. I hastened to obey, But before I could reach his room,
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  jumping three steps at a time, he was stamping his right foot upon the
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  landing. Hurry, he cried in a frantic tone. Are you coming up
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  now? To tell the truth? At that moment, I was far more
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  interested in the question as to what was to constitute our dinner than in any
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  problem of science. To me, soup was more interesting than soda, an
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  omelet more tempting than arithmetic, and an artichoke of ten times more value than
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  any amount of asbestos. But my uncle was not a man to be kept
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  waiting so adjourning. Therefore all minor questions I presented myself before him. He
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  was a very learned man. Now, most persons in this category supply themselves
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  with information, as peders do with goods for the benefit of others, and
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  lay up stores in order to diffuse them abroad for the benefit of society in
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  general. Not so my excellent uncle, Professor Hartwig. He studied, he
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  consumed the midnight oil. He poured over heavy tomes and digested huge quartos and
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  folios, in order to keep the knowledge acquired to himself. There was a
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  reason, and it may be regarded as a good one, why my uncle
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  objected to display his learning more than was absolutely necessary. He stammered, and,
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  when intent upon explaining the phenomena of the heavens, was apt to find
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  himself at fault and allude in such a vague way to sun, moon and
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  stars, that few were able to comprehend his meaning to tell the honest truth.
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  When the right word would not come, it was generally replaced by a
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  very powerful adjective. In connection with the sciences, there are many almost unpronounceable
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  names, names very much resembling those of Welsh villages, and my uncle,
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  being very fond of using them, his habit of stammering was not thereby improved.
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  In fact, there were periods in his discourse when he would finally give
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  up and swallow his discomfiture in a glass of water. As I said,
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  my uncle, Professor Hartwig was a very learned man, and I now add
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  a most kind relative. I was bound to him by the double ties of
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  affection and interest. I took deep interest in all his doings, and hoped
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  some day to be almost as learned myself. It was a rare thing for
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  me to be absent from his lectures. Like him, I preferred mineralogy to
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  all the other sciences. My anxiety was to gain real knowledge of the earth.
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  Geology and mineralogy were to us the sole objects of life, And in
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  connection with these studies, many a fair specimen of stone, chalk, or
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  metal did we break with our hammers, steel rods, loadstones, glass pipes,
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  and bottles of various acids were oftener before us than our meals. My
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  uncle Hartwig was once known to classify six hundred different geological specimens by their weight,
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  hardness, fusibility, sound, taste, and smell. He corresponded with
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  all the great learned and scientific men of the age. I was therefore in
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  constant communication with, at all events the letters of Sir Humphry Davy, Captain
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  Franklin, and other great men. But before I state the subject on which
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  my uncle wished to confer with me, I must say a word about his
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  personal appearance, alas my readers will see a very different portrait of him at
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  the future time, after he has gone through the fearful adventures yet to be
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  related. My uncle was fifty years old, tall, thin and wiry,
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  large spectacles hid to a certain extent, is passed round and goggle eyes,
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  while his nose was irreverently compared to a thin pile. So much indeed did
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  it resemble that useful article that a compass was said in his presence to have
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  made considerable n nasal deviation the truth being told. However, the only article
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  really attracted to my uncle's nose was tobacco. Another peculiarity of his was that
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  he always stepped the yard at a time, clenched his fists as if he
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  were going to hit you, and was, when in one of his peculiar
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  humors, very far from a pleasant companion. It is further necessary to observe
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  that he lived in a very nice house in that very nice street, the
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  kernig Strasse, at Hamburg. Though lying in the center of a town,
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  it was perfectly rural in its aspect, half wood, half bricks with old
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  fashioned gables, one of the few old houses spared by the great Fire of
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  eighteen forty two. When I say a nice house, I mean a handsome
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  house, old tottering and not exactly comfortable to English notions. A house a
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  little of the perpendicular and inclined to fall into the neighboring canal, exactly the
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  house for a wandering artist to depict, all the more that you could scarcely
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  see it for ivy and a magnificent old tree which grew over the door.
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  My uncle was rich. His house was his own property, while he had
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  a considerable private income. To my notion, the best part of his possessions
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  was his god daughter Gretchen, and the old cook, the young lady.
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  The professor and I were the soul inhabitants. I love mineralogy, I loved
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  geology. To me, there was nothing like pebbles. And if my uncle
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  had been in a little less of a fury, we should have been the
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  happiest of families. To prove the Excellent Hartwick's impatience, I solemnly declare that
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  when the flowers in the drawing room pots began to grow, he rose every
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  morning at four o'clock to make them grow quicker by pulling the leaves. Having
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  described my uncle, I will now give an account of our interview. He
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  received me in his study, a perfect museum containing every natural curiosity that can
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  well be imagined. Minerals, however, predominating every one was familiar to me,
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  having been cataloged by my own hand. My uncle, apparently oblivious of
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  the fact that he had summoned me to his presence, was as in a
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  book. He was particularly fond of early editions, tall copies, and unique
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  works. Wonderful, he cried, tapping his forehead. Wonderful, wonderful.
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  It was one of those yellow lead volumes now rarely found on stalls, and
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  to me it appeared to possess but little value. My uncle, however,
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  was in raptures. He admired its finding, the clearness of its characters,
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  the ease with which it opened in his hand, and repeated aloud half a
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  dozen times that it was very, very old. To my fancy, he
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  was making a great fuss about nothing, but it was not my province to
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  say so. On the contrary, I professed considerable interest in the subject and
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  asked him what it was about. It is the high scringlows no retarless on,
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  he said the celebrated Icelandic author of the twelfth century. It is a
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  true and correct account of the Norwegian princess who reigned in Iceland. My next
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  question related to the language in which it was written. I hoped, at
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  all events it was translated into German. My uncle was indignant at the very
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  thought, and declared he wouldn't give a penny for a translation. His delight
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  was to have found the original work in the Icelandic tongue, which he declared
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  to be one of the most magnificent and yet simple idioms in the world,
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  while at the same time its grammatical combinations were the most varied known to students.
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  About a Esars German was my insidious remark. My uncle shrugged his shoulders.
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  The letters, at all events, I said, are rather difficult of
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  comprehension. It is a Runic manuscript, the language of the original population of
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  Iceland, invented by Odin himself, cried my uncle, angry at my ignorance.
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  I was about to venture upon some misplaced yoke on the subject, when
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  a small scrap of parchment fell out of the leaves, like a hungry man
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  snatching at a morsel of bread. The professor seized it. It was about
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  five inches by three and was scrawled over in the most extraordinary fashion. The
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  lines shown here are an exact facsimila. What was written on the venerable piece
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  of parchment, and have wonderful importance, as they induced my uncle to undertake
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  the most wonderful series of adventures which ever fell to the lot of human beings.
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  My uncle looked keenly at the document for some moments, and then declared
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  that it was Runic. The letters were similar to those in the book,
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  But then what did they mean? This was exactly what I wanted to know
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  now, as I had a strong conviction that the Runic alphabet and dialect were
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  simply an invention to mystify poor human nature. I was delighted to find that
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  my uncle knew as much about the matter as I did, which was nothing
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  at all. Events, the tremulous motion of his fingers made me think so,
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  and yet he muttered to himself, it is old Icelandic. I am
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  sure of it. And my uncle ought to have known, for he was
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  a perfect polyglotictionary in himself. He did not pretend, like a certain learned
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  pundit to speak the two thousand languages and four thousand idioms made use of in
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  different parts of the globe. But he did know all the more important once.
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  It is a matter of great doubt to me now to what violent measures
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  my uncle's impetuosity might have led him, had not The clock struck two,
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  and our old French cook called out to let us know that dinner was on
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  the table. Mother the dinner, cried my uncle, but as I was
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  hungry, I sallied forth to the dining room, where I took up my
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  usual quarters. Out of politeness, I waited three minutes, but no sign
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  of my uncle. The professor. I was surprised. He was not usually
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  so blind to the pleasure of a good dinner. It was the acme of
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  German luxury, parsley soup, a ham omelet with sorrel trimmings, an oyster
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  of veal stewed with prunes, delicious fruit, and sparkling moselle. For the
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  sake of pouring over this musty old piece of parchment, my uncle and forebore
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  to share our meal. To satisfy my conscience, I ate for both.
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  The old cook and housekeeper was nearly out of her mind after taking so much
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  trouble to find her master not appear at dinner was to her a sad disappointment,
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  which, as she occasionally watched the havoc I was making on the vines
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  became also alarm if my uncle were to come to table after all. Suddenly,
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  just as I had consumed the last apple and drank the last glass of
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  wine, a terrible voice was heard at no great distance. It was my
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  uncle, roaring for me to come to him. I made very nearly one
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  leap of it, so loud, so fierce was his tone. End of Chapter one