Out of the Depths

I therefore awoke next day relieved from the preoccupation of an immediate start. Although we were in the very deepest of known depths, there was something not unpleasant about it. And, besides, we were beginning to get accustomed to this troglodyte⁹ life. I no longer thought of sun, moon, and stars, trees, houses, and towns, nor of any of those terrestrial superfluities which are necessaries of men who live upon the earth's surface. Being fossils, we looked upon all those things as mere jokes.

So I woke up the next day relieved that we did not have to leave immediately. Although we were at the deepest known depths, it was not unpleasant. Besides, we were beginning to get used to this cave-dwelling⁹ life. I no longer thought about the sun, moon, and stars, trees, houses, or towns. Nor did I think about any of those unnecessary things that people on the earth’s surface need. As fossils, we thought all those things were just jokes.

The grotto was an immense apartment. Along its granite floor ran our faithful stream. At this distance from its spring the water was scarcely tepid, and we drank of it with pleasure.

The cave was an enormous chamber. Our faithful stream ran across its granite floor. So far from its source, the water was barely warm, and we enjoyed drinking it.

After breakfast the Professor gave a few hours to the arrangement of his daily notes.

After breakfast, the Professor spent a few hours organizing his daily notes.

"First," said he, "I will make a calculation to ascertain our exact position. I hope, after our return, to draw a map of our journey, which will be in reality a vertical section of the globe, containing the track of our expedition."

"First," he said, "I will calculate our exact position. After we return, I hope to draw a map of our journey. It will show our expedition’s route in a vertical cross section of the globe."

"That will be curious, uncle; but are your observations sufficiently accurate to enable you to do this correctly?"

"That will be interesting, uncle. But are your observations accurate enough for you to do this correctly?"

"Yes; I have everywhere observed the angles and the inclines. I am sure there is no error. Let us see where we are now. Take your compass, and note the direction."

"Yes, I have checked the angles and slopes everywhere. I'm sure there is no mistake. Let's see where we are now. Take your compass and note the direction."

I looked, and replied carefully:

I looked and answered carefully:

"South-east by east."

"Southeast by east."

"Well," answered the Professor, after a rapid calculation, "I infer that we have gone eighty-five leagues since we started."

"Well," the Professor replied after a quick calculation, "I think we have traveled eighty-five leagues since we started."

"Therefore we are under mid-Atlantic?"

"So we're under the middle of the Atlantic?"

"To be sure we are."

"Of course we are."

"And perhaps at this very moment there is a storm above, and ships over our heads are being rudely tossed by the tempest."

"And perhaps there is a storm above us right now, tossing ships about over our heads."

"Quite probable."

"Very likely."

"And whales are lashing the roof of our prison with their tails?"

"And whales are beating the roof of our prison with their tails?"

"It may be, Axel, but they won't shake us here. But let us go back to our calculation. Here we are eighty-five leagues south-east of Snæfell, and I reckon that we are at a depth of sixteen leagues."

“That may be, Axel, but they won’t shake us here. But let’s get back to our calculation. We’re eighty-five leagues southeast of Snæfell. I reckon we’re sixteen leagues deep.”

"Sixteen leagues?" I cried.

"Sixteen leagues?" I exclaimed.

"No doubt."

"No doubt."

"Why, this is the very limit assigned by science to the thickness of the crust of the earth."

"Why, this is exactly how thick science says the Earth's crust is."

"I don't deny it."

"I don't deny it."

"And here, according to the law of increasing temperature, there ought to be a heat of 2,732° Fahr.!"

"And here, according to the law of increasing temperature, it should be 2,732 degrees Fahrenheit!"

"So there should, my lad."

"There should be, my boy."

"And all this solid granite ought to be running in fusion."

"And all this solid granite should be molten."

"You see that it is not so, and that, as so often happens, facts come to overthrow theories."

"You see that this is not true. And, as so often happens, facts disprove theories."

"I am obliged to agree; but, after all, it is surprising."

"I have to agree, but it is surprising all the same."

"What does the thermometer say?"

"What does the thermometer say?"

"Twenty-seven, six tenths (82° Fahr.)."

"Twenty-seven point six (82° Fahrenheit)."

"Therefore the savants are wrong by 2,705°, and the proportional increase is a mistake. Therefore Humphry Davy was right, and I am not wrong in following him. What do you say now?"

"So the scientists are wrong by 2,705°, and the proportional increase is a mistake. That means Humphry Davy was right, and I am right to follow him. What do you say now?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing."

In truth, I had a good deal to say. I gave way in no respect to Davy's theory. I still held to the central heat, although I did not feel its effects. I preferred to admit in truth, that this chimney of an extinct volcano, lined with lavas, which are non-conductors of heat, did not suffer the heat to pass through its walls.

In fact, I had a lot to say. I did not accept any part of Davy's theory. I still believed in the heat at the earth's center, although I could not feel it. Instead, I preferred to admit that the extinct volcano's chimney was lined with lava, which does not conduct heat. The lava kept the heat from passing through the chimney walls.

But without stopping to look up new arguments I simply took up our situation such as it was.

But without stopping to look for new arguments, I simply considered our situation as it was.

"Well, admitting all your calculations to be quite correct, you must allow me to draw one rigid result therefrom."

"Well, even if all your calculations are correct, you must let me draw one firm conclusion from them."

"What is it. Speak freely."

"What is it? Speak freely."

"At the latitude of Iceland, where we now are, the radius of the earth, the distance from the centre to the surface is about 1,583 leagues; let us say in round numbers 1,600 leagues, or 4,800 miles. Out of 1,600 leagues we have gone twelve!"

“At Iceland’s latitude, where we are now, the earth’s radius is about 1,583 leagues. That is the distance from its center to its surface. Let’s round it up to 1,600 leagues, or 4,800 miles. Out of 1,600 leagues, we have traveled twelve!”

"So you say."

"So you say."

"And these twelve at a cost of 85 leagues diagonally?"

"And these twelve took 85 leagues of diagonal travel?"

"Exactly so."

"Exactly."

"In twenty days?"

"In twenty days?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Now, sixteen leagues are the hundredth part of the earth's radius. At this rate we shall be two thousand days, or nearly five years and a half, in getting to the centre."

"Now, sixteen leagues are one hundredth of the earth's radius. At this rate, it will take us two thousand days to reach the center. That's nearly five and a half years."

No answer was vouchsafed to this rational conclusion. "Without reckoning, too, that if a vertical depth of sixteen leagues can be attained only by a diagonal descent of eighty-four, it follows that we must go eight thousand miles in a south-easterly direction; so that we shall emerge from some point in the earth's circumference instead of getting to the centre!"

No one answered this logical conclusion. "And that is not all. If reaching a vertical depth of sixteen leagues requires a diagonal descent of eighty-four leagues, we must travel eight thousand miles southeast. So we will emerge somewhere on the earth's surface instead of reaching the center!"

"Confusion to all your figures, and all your hypotheses besides," shouted my uncle in a sudden rage. "What is the basis of them all? How do you know that this passage does not run straight to our destination? Besides, there is a precedent. What one man has done, another may do."

"To hell with all your figures and all your theories," shouted my uncle, suddenly furious. "What are they all based on? How do you know this passage doesn't lead straight to our destination? Besides, it's been done before. What one man has done, another may do."

"I hope so; but, still, I may be permitted—"

"I hope so, but still, may I..."

"You shall have my leave to hold your tongue, Axel, but not to talk in that irrational way."

"You may keep quiet, Axel, but you may not talk so irrationally."

"Now look at your aneroid. What does that say?"

"Now look at your aneroid barometer. What does it say?"

"It says we are under considerable pressure."

"It says we are under a lot of pressure."

"Very good; so you see that by going gradually down, and getting accustomed to the density of the atmosphere, we don't suffer at all."

"Very good. So you see that by going down gradually and getting used to the denser air, we don't suffer at all."

"Nothing, except a little pain in the ears."

"Nothing, except a little pain in my ears."

"That's nothing, and you may get rid of even that by quick breathing whenever you feel the pain."

"That's nothing, and you may even get rid of it by breathing quickly whenever you feel the pain."

"Exactly so," I said, determined not to say a word that might cross my uncle's prejudices. "There is even positive pleasure in living in this dense atmosphere. Have you observed how intense sound is down here?"

"Exactly," I said. I was determined not to say anything that might challenge my uncle's prejudices. "It's actually pleasant living in this dense atmosphere. Have you noticed how intense sound is down here?"

"No doubt it is. A deaf man would soon learn to hear perfectly."

"There's no doubt about it. A deaf man would soon learn to hear perfectly."

"But won't this density augment?"

"But won't this density increase?"

"Yes; according to a rather obscure law. It is well known that the weight of bodies diminishes as fast as we descend. You know that it is at the surface of the globe that weight is most sensibly felt, and that at the centre there is no weight at all."

"Yes, according to a rather obscure law. It is well known that objects weigh less as we go deeper. You know that weight is felt most strongly at the Earth's surface. At the center, there is no weight at all."

"I am aware of that; but, tell me, will not air at last acquire the density of water?"

"I know that. But tell me, won't the air eventually become as dense as water?"

"Of course, under a pressure of seven hundred and ten atmospheres."

"Of course, under pressure of seven hundred and ten atmospheres."

"And how, lower down still?"

"And how about even farther down?"

"Lower down the density will still increase."

"The density will increase even more farther down."

"But how shall we go down then."

"But how will we go down then?"

"Why, we must fill our pockets with stones."

"Well, we have to fill our pockets with stones."

"Well, indeed, my worthy uncle, you are never at a loss for an answer."

"Well, my dear uncle, you always have an answer."

I dared venture no farther into the region of probabilities, for I might presently have stumbled upon an impossibility, which would have brought the Professor on the scene when he was not wanted.

I dared go no further in guessing what was possible. I might soon have stumbled on something impossible and brought the Professor into the picture when he wasn't wanted.

Still, it was evident that the air, under a pressure which might reach that of thousands of atmospheres, would at last reach the solid state, and then, even if our bodies could resist the strain, we should be stopped, and no reasonings would be able to get us on any farther.

Still, it was clear that the air would eventually become solid under pressure that might reach thousands of atmospheres. Then, even if our bodies could withstand the pressure, we would be stopped. No amount of reasoning could get us any farther.

But I did not advance this argument. My uncle would have met it with his inevitable Saknussemm, a precedent which possessed no weight with me; for even if the journey of the learned Icelander were really attested, there was one very simple answer, that in the sixteenth century there was neither barometer or aneroid and therefore Saknussemm could not tell how far he had gone.

But I did not make this argument. My uncle would inevitably have brought up Saknussemm, whose example meant nothing to me. Even if the learned Icelander's journey were truly verified, there was a simple answer. In the sixteenth century, there was no barometer or aneroid, so Saknussemm could not tell how far he had gone.

But I kept this objection to myself, and waited the course of events.

But I kept my objection to myself and waited to see what would happen.

The rest of the day was passed in calculations and in conversations. I remained a steadfast adherent of the opinions of Professor Liedenbrock, and I envied the stolid indifference of Hans, who, without going into causes and effects, went on with his eyes shut wherever his destiny guided him.

We spent the rest of the day doing calculations and talking. I remained firmly convinced that Professor Liedenbrock was right. I envied Hans’s calm indifference. He never questioned causes or effects, but followed wherever his destiny led him, with his eyes closed.