Chapter 14 Chapter 14 Invalid Debate

Standby is a village of about thirty thatched huts, built on lava and often enjoying the sunlight reflected off the volcano.It stretches to the end of a small fjord bounded by a series of oddly shaped rock walls. Everyone knows that basalt is a brown rock of igneous origin; it is surprisingly neat in shape.Here, nature conforms to the laws of geometry and works like human beings, as if it also has a triangular compass, compass and plumb line.If nature has elsewhere employed art and produced a disorderly scene, devising a cone or an imperfect pyramid, here she creates neat examples, and looks forward to our early Architect, everything she builds is in order, not even the luxury of Babylon and the wonders of Greece can surpass this.

I have indeed heard talk of the Giant's Causeway at Staffa in Ireland, but I have never seen the basalt formations of such grandeur as they are now at Stanby. Both sides of the fjord and the entire coast of the peninsula are continuous rows of verticals up to thirty feet high.These straight and well-proportioned pillars support the horizontal beams. The shadows of the beams just hit the pillars and stretch out to the sea. Under this natural roof, people imagine the beautiful curved gates in the open sea. The waves rolled under the gate, crashing and foaming.Pieces of basalt rock, driven down by the raging waves of the ocean, are left on the seashore like the ruins of ancient temples, forever young and unaffected by the centuries.

This is the final stage of our journey.Hannes guided us so smartly that I think he will definitely continue to be with us. The vicar's house was a very low cottage, no more handsome or comfortable than the neighboring houses.At the door we saw a man with a hammer in his hand and a leather apron, shoeing a horse. "Happy to you," said the guide. "Hello," the blacksmith replied in perfect Danish. "Priest," Hans said to his uncle, turning around. "Priest," repeated the uncle, "Axel, this good man seems to be a priest." The guide then told our case to the chaplain; the chaplain stopped working, uttering a cry no doubt familiar to horses and horse dealers, and a shrew-like woman came out of the hut at once.If she wasn't six feet tall, surely she wasn't much shorter than six feet.

I was afraid she was going to go back to her usual Icelandic kissing with all the travelers; but she didn't, and really didn't invite us in very sincerely. The parlor was the worst room in the Vicarage, small, dirty, and smelling strange.We had to bear with it - the pastor didn't look like he was going for a traditional courtesy - it didn't seem to mean it at all.Before night I found we were dealing with blacksmiths, fishermen, hunters, carpenters, and not with a servant of God.However, it is also possible that he was different on Sunday! I don't want to speak ill of these poor priests, because their situation is really sad. They get very little money from the Danish government, and they have to turn over a quarter of the church's income; But sixty.Therefore, they have to do other jobs to earn a living.They fished, hunted, shoed horses.As a result, their speech, manners, and habits are like those of fishermen, hunters, and other rougher people.I discovered that evening that our host had not made temperance one of his morals.

Uncle soon found out about him, so he decided to go on despite his fatigue, so we prepared to go up the mountain the next day after we arrived.Hannes hired three Icelanders to carry our movable property instead of horses; it was agreed that as soon as the bottom of the gap was reached, the three Icelanders would go home and leave us alone. At this point the uncle had to confide to the guide his intention of exploring as far as he could go into the depths of the volcano. Hannes just nodded.Here or there, deep into the interior of the island or just on the surface, it was all the same to him, and as for me, already distraught by what had happened along the way, I was now agitated again emotional torment.But what can I do?If it was possible to resist Professor Liedenbroek, I tried it in Hamburg, never here at the foot of the Snaeferberg.

As I thought about it, one thought agitated me, a most dreadful thought, enough to excite a man whose nerves are not so feeble as mine. "Let me see," I said, "we've got to go up Snave. Good. We've got to go down the crater of the volcano. Good. Others have done it and saved life. Not quite, though. If we could find a path to the interior of the earth, if the unlucky Saconusan had told the truth, we would perish in the underground tunnels of volcanoes. How can we be sure that Snaef is extinguished? Who can prove No explosion? If the troll has been asleep since 1229, does that mean he'll never wake up again? What would happen to us if he did?"

It seemed like a topic to consider, and I did.I dream about explosions as soon as I close my eyes, and I can't just focus on one side. At last I could bear it no longer, and at last I ran to my uncle, and I took this as the most improbable hypothesis, but kept a considerable distance between me and my uncle, lest he should have a sudden fit. "Yes, I'm thinking that too," he replied simply. Could he really start listening to me and give up his crazy plans?Wouldn't it be great if that was the case?He was silent for some minutes, and I dared not interrupt him, and at last continued:

"I have thought about it. As soon as we got to Stamby, I drew attention to the serious matter which you have just spoken to me. We must not be rash." "No." I said emphatically. "Snaefer has been stationary for six hundred years, but it might wake up. Explosions are always obvious first; I've asked the local stratum folk, and I've checked the ground, and I can assure you, Ah. Kesai, it won't explode." When I heard this sentence, I was stunned, and I couldn't speak. "Don't you believe me?" said the uncle. "Well, come with me!"

I obeyed mechanically.He led me into a path leading inwards, lined with large rocks of igneous rock, basalt, granite, and other igneous materials.Everywhere I see air sprayed into the air.Rows of white gas, known to Icelanders as Reykir, rise from the thermal stream, a condition that illustrates the volcanic activity here.It seemed that this justified my fear, so I was startled, when my uncle said: "You see the smoke, Aksai, good. They prove we don't have to worry about eruptions!" "What do you mean?" I yelled. "Remember," said the professor, "that the smoke will redouble its activity when it is about to erupt, and then it will all disappear, because the trapped gas will escape through the gaps when it loses pressure, and will not take advantage of these gaps. At that time If these vapors are in normal condition, if their energy does not increase, and if you notice that the wind and rain are not replaced by a low, still air, then you can conclude that there will be no explosion."

"But--" "Stop talking. We should follow the conclusion of science." I went back to the vicar's house with these harsh words; my one hope now was that no road should lead to the chasm below, and that night I had a dreadful dream that I was sinking in the depths of the volcano, Once again I was shot out of the volcano into interstellar space like an exploding rock. The next day was June 23rd, and Hannes and his companions, loaded with provisions, tools, and apparatus, were ready for us.The two iron-coated poles, the two guns, and the cartridge belts were left to my uncle and me.The careful Hans also prepared a leather bag for us, together with our water bottle, enough for us to drink for a week.

It is nine o'clock in the morning.The vicar and his tall shrew were waiting for us at the door, no doubt the host was saying good-bye to the traveller.But this farewell took the form of a gigantic bill in which nothing was left out.Uncle paid without negotiating the price. A person who is going to the center of the earth will not pay much attention to the few dollars. When the bill was paid, Hannes said he was leaving, and within a minute or two we had left Stamby.

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