A Mystery to Solve at Any Cost

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.

His study was a museum, nothing else. Specimens of everything known in mineralogy were arranged in perfect order, each correctly labeled. They were divided into flammable, metallic, and stony 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.

How well I knew all these scientific specimens! Often, instead of enjoying the company of boys my own age, I had preferred dusting these graphites, anthracites, coals, lignites, and peats! There were also bitumens, resins, and organic salts to protect from the slightest speck of dust. And there were metals, from iron to gold. Their market value meant nothing among scientific specimens, where all were equal, as in a republic. There were stones too, enough to rebuild the house in Königstrasse entirely. There would even have been enough for a fine extra room, which would have suited me perfectly.

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.

But as I entered the study now, I thought of none of these wonders. My uncle was all I could think about. He had thrown himself into a velvet armchair. He held a book in both hands and bent over it, studying it with intense admiration.

"Here's a remarkable book! What a wonderful book!" he was exclaiming.

"Here's an amazing book! What a wonderful book!" he exclaimed.

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.

These exclamations reminded me that my uncle was prone to occasional fits of book obsession. But he valued an old book only if it could be found nowhere else, or at least was impossible to read.

"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."

"Well, don't you see it yet? I've got a priceless treasure! I found it this morning while rummaging in old Hevelius's shop. He's the Jew."

"Magnificent!" I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm.

"Magnificent!" I replied, doing a good job of sounding enthusiastic.

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?

Why all the fuss over an old book? It was bound in rough calfskin, yellow and faded, with a ragged seal hanging from it.

But for all that there was no lull yet in the admiring exclamations of the Professor.

But the Professor still kept crying out in admiration.

"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!"

“Look,” he went on, asking the questions and answering them himself. “Isn’t it beautiful? Yes, splendid! Have you ever seen such a binding? Doesn’t the book open easily? Yes, it stays open at any page. But does it close just as well? Yes, because the binding and the pages line up perfectly, with no gaps or openings anywhere. And look at the spine after seven hundred years. Why, Bozerian, Closs, or Purgold could 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.

As my uncle quickly made these comments, he kept opening and closing the old book. I could hardly avoid asking what it was about, although I wasn't interested in the slightest.

"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.

"And what is the title of this wonderful book?" I asked, pretending to be eager. He would have had to be blind not to see through my act.

"Indeed;" I cried, keeping up wonderfully, "of course it is a German translation?"

"Really?" I cried, doing a remarkable job of keeping up. "Of course it's 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."

"What!" the Professor replied sharply. "A translation! What would I do with a translation? This is the Icelandic original, in the magnificent native language. It is both rich and simple, and allows an infinite variety of grammatical combinations and changes to words."

"Like German." I happily ventured.

"Like German," I suggested happily.

"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."

"Yes," my uncle replied, shrugging his shoulders. "But Icelandic also has three grammatical numbers, like Greek, and irregular declensions of proper nouns, like Latin."

"Ah!" said I, a little moved out of my indifference; "and is the type good?"

"Ah!" I said, a little less indifferent. "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."

“Type! What do you mean by type, you miserable Axel? Type! Do you think it’s a printed book, you ignorant fool? It’s a manuscript, a Runic manuscript.”

"Runic?"

"Runic?"

"Yes. Do you want me to explain what that is?"

"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 nothing about.

"Of course not," I replied, sounding offended. But my uncle kept going. Against my wishes, he told me many things I didn't care about.

"Runic characters were in use in Iceland in former ages. They were invented, it is said, by Odin himself. Look there, and wonder, impious young man, and admire these letters, the invention of the Scandinavian god!"

"Runic characters were used in Iceland long ago. It is said that Odin himself invented them. Look at them and marvel, you godless young man! Admire these letters, invented by the Scandinavian god!"

Well, well! not knowing what to say, I was going to prostrate myself before this wonderful book, a way of answering equally pleasing to gods and kings, and which has the advantage of never giving them any embarrassment, when a little incident happened to divert conversation into another channel.

Well, well! I didn't know what to say, so I was about to bow down before this wonderful book. That kind of answer pleases gods and kings alike and has the advantage of never embarrassing them. But then a small incident turned the conversation in another direction.

This was the appearance of a dirty slip of parchment, which slipped out of the volume and fell upon the floor.

This was what the dirty slip of parchment looked like. It slipped out of the book and fell to the floor.

My uncle pounced upon this shred with incredible avidity. An old document, enclosed an immemorial time within the folds of this old book, had for him an immeasurable value.

My uncle pounced on the scrap with incredible eagerness. To him, an old document hidden for ages within the folds of this old book was priceless.

"What's this?" he cried.

"What's this?" he cried.

And he laid out upon the table a piece of parchment, five inches by three, and along which were traced certain mysterious characters.

He laid a piece of parchment on the table. It was five inches by three inches, with mysterious characters written on it.

Here is the exact facsimile. I think it important to let these strange signs be publicly known, for they were the means of drawing on Professor Liedenbrock and his nephew to undertake the most wonderful expedition of the nineteenth century.

Here is an exact copy. I think it is important to make these strange signs public. They led Professor Liedenbrock and his nephew to undertake the most wonderful expedition of the nineteenth century.

[Runic glyphs occur here]

[Runic glyphs appear here]

The Professor mused a few moments over this series of characters; then raising his spectacles he pronounced:

The Professor studied the series of characters for a few moments. Then he raised his glasses and said:

"These are Runic letters; they are exactly like those of the manuscript of Snorre Turlleson. But, what on earth is their meaning?"

"These are Runic letters. They are exactly like the ones in Snorre Turlleson's manuscript. But what on earth do they mean?"

Runic letters appearing to my mind to be an invention of the learned to mystify this poor world, I was not sorry to see my uncle suffering the pangs of mystification. At least, so it seemed to me, judging from his fingers, which were beginning to work with terrible energy.

I thought runic letters were an invention of learned people, meant to puzzle this poor world. So I was not sorry to see my uncle struggling with them. At least, he seemed to be struggling, judging by the fierce energy with which his fingers were beginning to move.

"It is certainly old Icelandic," he muttered between his teeth.

"It is certainly old Icelandic," he muttered through clenched teeth.

And Professor Liedenbrock must have known, for he was acknowledged to be quite a polyglot. Not that he could speak fluently in the two thousand languages and twelve thousand dialects which are spoken on the earth, but he knew at least his share of them.

And Professor Liedenbrock must have known, for he was widely recognized as someone who knew many languages. Not that he could speak all the world's two thousand languages and twelve thousand dialects fluently. But he knew at least his fair share of them.

So he was going, in the presence of this difficulty, to give way to all the impetuosity of his character, and I was preparing for a violent outbreak, when two o'clock struck by the little timepiece over the fireplace.

So, faced with this difficulty, he was about to give in to his impulsive nature. I was bracing for a violent outburst when the little clock over the fireplace struck two.

At that moment our good housekeeper Martha opened the study door, saying:

At that moment, our good housekeeper Martha opened the study door and said:

"Dinner is ready!"

"Dinner is ready!"

I am afraid he sent that soup to where it would boil away to nothing, and Martha took to her heels for safety. I followed her, and hardly knowing how I got there I found myself seated in my usual place.

I'm afraid he sent that soup somewhere it would boil away to nothing, and Martha ran for safety. I followed her. Hardly knowing how I got there, I found myself sitting in my usual place.

I waited a few minutes. No Professor came. Never within my remembrance had he missed the important ceremonial of dinner. And yet what a good dinner it was! There was parsley soup, an omelette of ham garnished with spiced sorrel, a fillet of veal with compote of prunes; for dessert, crystallised fruit; the whole washed down with sweet Moselle.

I waited a few minutes. The Professor did not come. As far as I could remember, he had never missed the important ritual of dinner. And what a good dinner it was! There was parsley soup and a ham omelette garnished with spiced sorrel. There was also a fillet of veal with stewed prunes. For dessert, there was candied fruit. We had sweet Moselle wine to drink with it all.

All this my uncle was going to sacrifice to a bit of old parchment. As an affectionate and attentive nephew I considered it my duty to eat for him as well as for myself, which I did conscientiously.

My uncle was going to sacrifice all this for a piece of old parchment. As a loving and attentive nephew, I felt it was my duty to eat for him as well as myself. I did so faithfully.

"I have never known such a thing," said Martha. "M. Liedenbrock is not at table!"

"I've never seen anything like this," said Martha. "M. Liedenbrock isn't at the table!"

"Who could have believed it?" I said, with my mouth full.

"Who would have believed it?" I said, with my mouth full.

"Something serious is going to happen," said the servant, shaking her head.

"Something serious is going to happen," said the servant, shaking her head.

My opinion was, that nothing more serious would happen than an awful scene when my uncle should have discovered that his dinner was devoured. I had come to the last of the fruit when a very loud voice tore me away from the pleasures of my dessert. With one spring I bounded out of the dining-room into the study.

I thought the worst that would happen was an awful scene when my uncle discovered his dinner had been eaten. I was eating the last of the fruit when a very loud voice interrupted my dessert. With one leap, I bounded out of the dining room and into the study.