A Journey to the Interior of the Earth | Page 7

veins, and in
the midst of my specimens I was always happy.
In a word, a man might live happily enough in the little old house in the
Königstrasse, in spite of the restless impatience of its master, for
although he was a little too excitable - he was very fond of me. But the
man had no notion how to wait; nature herself was too slow for him. In
April, after a had planted in the terra-cotta pots outside his window

seedling plants of mignonette and convolvulus, he would go and give
them a little pull by their leaves to make them grow faster. In dealing
with such a strange individual there was nothing for it but prompt
obedience. I therefore rushed after him.
CHAPTER II.

A MYSTERY TO BE SOLVED AT ANY PRICE
That study of his was a museum, and nothing else. Specimens of
everything known in mineralogy lay there in their places in perfect
order, and correctly named, divided into inflammable, metallic, and
lithoid minerals.
How well I knew all these bits of science! Many a time, instead of
enjoying the company of lads of my own age, I had preferred dusting
these graphites, anthracites, coals, lignites, and peats! And there were
bitumens, resins, organic salts, to be protected from the least grain of
dust; and metals, from iron to gold, metals whose current value
altogether disappeared in the presence of the republican equality of
scientific specimens; and stones too, enough to rebuild entirely the
house in Königstrasse, even with a handsome additional room, which
would have suited me admirably.
But on entering this study now I thought of none of all these wonders;
my uncle alone filled my thoughts. He had thrown himself into a velvet
easy-chair, and was grasping between his hands a book over which he
bent, pondering with intense admiration.
"Here's a remarkable book! What a wonderful book!" he was
exclaiming.
These ejaculations brought to my mind the fact that my uncle was
liable to occasional fits of bibliomania; but no old book had any value
in his eyes unless it had the virtue of being nowhere else to be found, or,
at any rate, of being illegible.

"Well, now; don't you see it yet? Why I have got a priceless treasure,
that I found his morning, in rummaging in old Hevelius's shop, the
Jew."
"Magnificent!" I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm.
What was the good of all this fuss about an old quarto, bound in rough
calf, a yellow, faded volume, with a ragged seal depending from it?
But for all that there was no lull yet in the admiring exclamations of the
Professor.
"See," he went on, both asking the questions and supplying the answers.
"Isn't it a beauty? Yes; splendid! Did you ever see such a binding?
Doesn't the book open easily? Yes; it stops open anywhere. But does it
shut equally well? Yes; for the binding and the leaves are flush, all in a
straight line, and no gaps or openings anywhere. And look at its back,
after seven hundred years. Why, Bozerian, Closs, or Purgold might
have been proud of such a binding!"
While rapidly making these comments my uncle kept opening and
shutting the old tome. I really could do no less than ask a question
about its contents, although I did not feel the slightest interest.
"And what is the title of this marvellous work?" I asked with an
affected eagerness which he must have been very blind not to see
through.
"This work," replied my uncle, firing up with renewed enthusiasm,
"this work is the Heims Kringla of Snorre Turlleson, the most famous
Icelandic author of the twelfth century! It is the chronicle of the
Norwegian princes who ruled in Iceland."
"Indeed;" I cried, keeping up wonderfully, "of course it is a German
translation?"
"What!" sharply replied the Professor, "a translation! What should I do
with a translation? This is the Icelandic original, in the magnificent

idiomatic vernacular, which is both rich and simple, and admits of an
infinite variety of grammatical combinations and verbal modifications."
"Like German." I happily ventured.
"Yes." replied my uncle, shrugging his shoulders; "but, in addition to
all this, the Icelandic has three numbers like the Greek, and irregular
declensions of nouns proper like the Latin."
"Ah!" said I, a little moved out of my indifference; "and is the type
good?"
"Type! What do you mean by talking of type, wretched Axel? Type!
Do you take it for a printed book, you ignorant fool? It is a manuscript,
a Runic manuscript."
"Runic?"
"Yes. Do you want me to explain what that is?"
"Of course not," I replied in the tone of an injured man. But my uncle
persevered, and told me, against my will, of many things I cared