Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI. Stopi is a town consisting of thirty huts, built on a large plain of lava, exposed to the rays of the sun, reflected from the volcano. It stretches its humble tenements along the end of a little fjord, surrounded by a basaltic wall of the most singular character. Basalt is a brown rock of igneous origin. It assumes regular forms, which astonish by their singular appearance.
Here we found nature proceeding geometrically and working quite after a human fashion, as if she had employed the plummet line, the compass, and the rule. If elsewhere she produces grand artistic effects by piling up huge masses without order or connection, if elsewhere we see truncated cones, imperfect pyramids, with an odd succession of lines, here, as if wishing to give a lesson in regularity and preceding the architects of the early ages, she has erected a severe order
of architecture which neither the splendors of Babylon nor the marvels of Greece ever surpassed. I had often heard of the giant's causeway in Ireland and of Fingal's cave in one of the Hebrides, but the grand spectacle of a real basaltic formation had never yet come before my eyes. This Estapi gave us an idea of one in all its wonderful beauty and grace. The wall of the fjord, like nearly the whole of the peninsula, consisted of a series of vertical columns in
height about 30 feet. These upright pillars of stone of the finest proportions supported an archivalent of horizontal columns which formed a kind of half-vaulted roof above the sea. At certain intervals, and below this natural basin, the eye was pleased and surprised by the sight of oval openings through which the outward waves came thundering in volleys of foam. Some banks of vessel, torn from their fastenings by the fury of the waves, lay scattered on the
ground like the ruins of an ancient temple, ruins eternally young, over which the storms of ages swept without producing any perceptible effect. This was the last stage of our journey. Hans had brought us along with fidelity and intelligence, and I began to feel somewhat more comfortable when I reflected that he was to accompany us still further on our way. When we halted before the house of the rector, a small and incommodious cabin, neither handsome nor more comfortable than
those of his neighbors, I saw a man in the act of shoeing a horse, a hammer in his hand, and a leathern apron tied round his waist. Be happy, said the eider-down hunter, using his national salutation in his own language. Godag, good day, replied the former in excellent Danish.
Kier kohord, cried Hans, turning round and introducing him to my uncle. The rector, repeated the worthy professor, it appears, my dear Harry, that this worthy man is the rector and is not above doing his own work. During the speaking of these words, the guide intimated to
the kayaker herd what was the true state of the case. The good man, ceasing from his occupation, gave a kind of halloo, upon which a tall woman, almost a giantess, came out of the hut. She was at least six feet high, which in that region is something considerable. My first impression was one of horror. I thought she had come to give us the Icelandic kiss. I had, however, nothing to fear, for she did not even show much inclination to receive us into her house. The room devoted
to strangers appeared to me to be by far the worst in the presbytery. It was narrow, dirty, and offensive. There was, however, no choice about the matter. The rector had no notion of practicing the usual cordial and antique hospitality. Far from it. Before the day was over, I found we had to deal with a blacksmith, a fisherman, a hunter, a carpenter, anything but a clergyman. It must be said in his favor that we had caught him on a weekday. Probably he appeared
to greater advantage on the Sunday. These poor priests received from the Danish government a most ridiculously inadequate salary and collect one quarter of the tithe of their parish, not more than 60 marks current, or about L310S sterling, hence the necessity of working to live. In truth, we soon found that our host did not count civility among the cardinal virtues. My uncle soon became aware of the kind of man he had to deal with. Instead of a worthy and learned
scholar, he found a dull, ill-mannered peasant. He therefore resolved to start on his great expedition as soon as possible. He did not care about fatigue, and resolved to spend a few days in the mountains. The preparations for our departure were made the very next day after our arrival at Stapi. Hans now hired three Icelanders to take the place of the horses, which could no longer carry our luggage. When, however, these worthy islanders had reached the
bottom of the crater, they were to go back and leave us to ourselves. This point was settled before they would agree to start. On this occasion, my uncle partly confided in Hans, the eider duck hunter, and gave him to understand that it was his intention to continue his exploration of the volcano to the last possible limits. Hans listened calmly, and then nodded his head. To go there, or elsewhere, to bury himself in the bowels of the earth, or to travel over its
summits, was all the same to him. As for me, amused and occupied by the incidents of travel, I had begun to forget the inevitable future. But now I was once more destined to realize the actual state of affairs. What was to be done? Run away? But if I really had intended to leave Professor Hardwig to his fate, it should have been at Hamburg, and not at the foot of Sneffels. One idea, above all others, began to trouble me. A very terrible idea, and one calculated to shake
the nerves of a man even less sensitive than myself. Let us consider the matter, I said to myself, we are going to ascend the Sneffels mountain. Well and good. We are about to pay a visit to the very bottom of the crater. Good still. Others have done it, and did not perish from that course. That, however, is not the whole matter to be considered. If a road does really present itself by which to ascend into the dark and subterraneous bowels of Mother Earth, if this
thrice unhappy Sack Newsome was really told the truth, we shall be most certainly lost in the midst of the labyrinth of subterraneous galleries of the volcano. Now we have no evidence to prove that Sneffels is really extinct. What proof have we that an eruption is not shortly about to take place? Because the monster has slept soundly since 1219, does it follow that he is never to wake? if he does wake what is to become of us these were questions worth thinking about and upon them i reflected long and deeply i could not lie down in search of sleep without dreaming of eruptions
the more i thought the more i objected to be reduced to the state of dross and ashes i could stand it no longer so i determined at last to submit the whole case to my uncle in the most adroit manner possible and under the form of some totally irreconcilable hypothesis i sought him i laid before him my fears and then drew back in order to let him get his passion over at his ease i have been thinking about the matter he said in the quietest tone in the world what did he mean was he at last about to listen to the voice of reason did he think of suspending his projects it was almost too much happiness to be true i however made no remark in fact i was only too anxious not to interrupt him and allowed him to reflect at his leisure after some moments he spoke out i have been thinking about the matter he resumed ever since we have been at stapi my mind has been almost solely occupied with the grave question which has been submitted to me by yourself for nothing would be unwiser and more inconsistent than to act with imprudence i heartily agree with you my dear uncle was my somewhat hopeful rejoinder it is now six hundred years since knifels has spoken but though now reduced to a state of utter silence he may speak again
new volcanic eruptions are always preceded by perfectly well-known phenomena i have closely examined the inhabitants of this region i have carefully studied the soil and i beg to tell you emphatically my dear harry there will be no eruption at present as i listened to his positive affirmations i was stupefied and could say nothing i see you doubt my word said my uncle follow me i obeyed mechanically leaving the presbytery the professor took a road through an opening in the basaltic rock which led far away from the sea we were soon in open country if we could give such a name to a place all covered with volcanic deposits the whole land seemed crushed under the weight of enormous stones of trap of balsek of granite of lava and of all other volcanic substances i could see many spouts of steam rising in the air these white vapours called in the icelandic language reikir come from hot water fountains and indicate by their violence the volcanic activity of the soil
now the sight of these appeared to justify my apprehension i was therefore all the more surprised and mortified when my uncle thus addressed me you see all this smoke harry my boy yes sir well as long as you see them thus you have nothing to fear from the volcano How can that be? Be careful to remember this, continued the professor. At the approach of an eruption, these spouts of vapor redouble their activity to disappear altogether during the period of volcanic eruption, for the elastic fluids, no longer having the necessary tension, seek refuge in the interior of the crater instead of escaping through the fissures of the earth.
If, then, the steam remains in its normal and habitual state, if their energy does not increase, and if you add to this the remark that the wind is not replaced by heavy atmospheric pressure and dead calm, you may be quite sure that there is no fear of any immediate eruption. Enough, my boy. When science has sent forth her fiat, it is only to hear and obey. I came back to the house quite downcast and disappointed. My uncle had completely defeated me with his scientific arguments.
Nevertheless, I had still one hope, and that was when once we were at the bottom of the crater, that it would be impossible in default a gallery or tunnel to descend any deeper, and this despite all the learned Sacknesens in the world. I passed the whole of the following night with a nightmare on my chest, and after unheard of miseries and tortures, found myself in the very depths of the earth from which I was suddenly launched into planetary space under the form of an eruptive rock. Next day, June 30th, Hans calmly awaited us outside the presbytery with his three companions loaded with provisions, tools, and instruments.
Two iron-shod poles, two guns, and two large game bags were reserved for my uncle and myself. Hans, who was a man who never forgot even the minutest precautions, had added to our baggage a large skin full of water as an addition to our gourds. This assured us water for eight days. It was nine o'clock in the morning when we were quite ready.
The rector and his huge wife or servant, I never knew which, stood at the door to see us off. They appeared to be about to inflict on us the usual final kiss of the Icelanders. To our supreme astonishment, their adieu took the shape of a formidable bill in which they even counted the use of the pastoral house, really and truly the most abominable and dirty place I ever was in.
The worthy couple cheated and robbed us like a Swiss innkeeper, and made us feel, by the sum we had to pay, the splendours of their hospitality. My uncle, however, paid without bargaining. A man who had made up his mind to undertake a voyage into the interior of the earth is not the man to haggle over a few miserable rick's dollars.
This important matter settled. Hans gave the signal for departure, and some few moments later, We have left Stapi. End of chapter 11. Recording by Chris Donnelly.
Devon, Alberta, Canada.
