When I returned, dinner was ready.
My uncle attacked the meal with astonishing hunger. After the miserable food he had lived on aboard ship, his stomach seemed to have become a bottomless pit. The food was more Danish than Icelandic and was nothing remarkable by itself, but our host’s generous hospitality made everything taste twice as good.
Before long, the conversation turned to science.
M. Fridriksson asked my uncle what he thought of the public library.
“Library?” my uncle exclaimed. “It looked to me like a pile of useless old books and a miserable collection of empty shelves.”
“What?” cried M. Fridriksson. “We have eight thousand volumes of rare and valuable works! Some are written in Scandinavian languages, and we also receive all the latest books published in Copenhagen.”
“Eight thousand volumes? My dear sir, where are they?” my uncle asked.
“They are scattered throughout the country, Professor Hardwigg.”
“Scattered?”
“Yes. You must understand that Icelanders are very fond of learning, even though we live in such a remote country. Every farmer, every laborer, and every fisherman can read and write.”
He smiled proudly.
“We believe books should not be locked away on library shelves where students can hardly reach them. They should be placed in people’s hands. So our books are constantly passed from one person to another. Some may remain away from the library for years.”
“Then when foreigners come to Iceland, they have nothing to see in your library?”
“Foreigners have their own libraries,” he replied. “Our first concern is to make sure that even the poorest people receive a good education.”
He paused before continuing.
“Fortunately, the love of learning seems to be part of the Icelandic character. In 1816, we founded a Literary Society and Mechanics’ Institute. Many famous foreign scholars are honorary members. We publish books for the education of our people, and these books have done much good for Iceland.”
He looked warmly at my uncle.
“Professor Hardwigg, would you allow me the honor of enrolling you as an honorary member?”
My uncle already belonged to almost every important literary and scientific society in Europe, but he immediately accepted our host’s kind offer.
“Of course,” he said after thanking him warmly. “And now, perhaps you can tell me what books you expected to find in your library. I may be able to help you.”
I watched my uncle carefully.
For a moment, he hesitated. He clearly did not want to reveal what he was really looking for. Speaking too openly might expose the whole purpose of our journey.
At last, however, he made up his mind.
“Well, M. Fridriksson,” he said casually, “I was wondering whether, among your valuable books, you happened to have any works by the learned Arne Saknussemm.”
“Arne Saknussemm!” cried the professor. “You mean one of the greatest scholars of the sixteenth century? The great naturalist, alchemist, and traveler?”
“Exactly.”
“One of the most distinguished figures in the history of Icelandic science and literature.”
“As you say, sir.”
“A truly remarkable man.”
“Yes, yes. All that is true. But what about his books?”
“We have none.”
“None in Iceland?”
“There are none in Iceland—or anywhere else,” he answered sadly.
“Why not?”
“Because Saknussemm was persecuted for heresy. In 1573, his books were publicly burned in Copenhagen by the executioner.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” my uncle murmured.
M. Fridriksson stared at him in surprise.
“You said, sir?”
“Yes, yes! Everything fits together now. I see the whole chain of events. It explains everything!”
He leaned forward excitedly.
“Arne Saknussemm was condemned and forced to hide his great discoveries. That is why he must have concealed his secret beneath the cover of an incomprehensible code—”
“What secret?” asked M. Fridriksson.
“A secret which…” My uncle suddenly stopped himself.
“Have you discovered some extraordinary manuscript?” cried our host.
“No! No!” my uncle replied quickly. “I was carried away by my enthusiasm. It was nothing more than a supposition.”
“Very good, sir.”
M. Fridriksson then changed the subject.
“But really, Professor, I hope you will not leave Iceland without studying its mineral wealth.”
“Well, the truth is, I am already rather late. So many great scientists have visited Iceland before me.”
“Yes, yes, but there is still plenty to discover!” M. Fridriksson exclaimed.
“You think so?”
My uncle’s eyes began to shine with secret satisfaction.
“Indeed I do,” said our host. “You cannot imagine how many mountains, glaciers, and volcanoes remain unexplored. In fact, I can show you one without your even leaving this room.”
He pointed toward the horizon.
“Look over there. You can see Sneffels.”
“Oh yes,” said my uncle. “Sneffels.”
“It is one of the most remarkable volcanoes in existence. Very few people have ever visited its crater.”
“Is it extinct?”
“Completely. It has been extinct for at least five hundred years.”
My uncle dug his fingernails into his hands and pressed his knees together. He was trying desperately not to jump up with joy.
“Well,” he said, struggling to sound calm, “I am beginning to think I might start my studies by investigating the geological mysteries of this Mount Seffel—Feisel—whatever you call it.”
“Sneffels, my dear sir.”
The conversation had been in Latin, so I understood every word.
I could hardly keep from laughing as I watched my uncle pretend to be calm. He was hiding his excitement so badly that his strange expressions made him look like some sort of modern Mephistopheles.
“Yes, yes,” he continued. “Your suggestion is very appealing. I shall try to climb to the summit of Sneffels and, if possible, descend into its crater.”
“I am very sorry,” said M. Fridriksson, “but my duties make it impossible for me to accompany you. It would have been both enjoyable and useful if I had been free.”
“No, no, a thousand times no!” my uncle cried. “I would never dream of disturbing your peace. Thank you sincerely for the offer. Someone as learned as you would certainly be extremely useful to us, but your duties must come first.”
Our innocent host completely failed to notice the irony in my uncle’s words.
“I fully approve of your plan,” he continued. “Beginning with Sneffels is an excellent idea. You will make many interesting discoveries. But how do you intend to reach the mountain?”
“By sea, naturally. I shall cross the bay. That must be the fastest way.”
“Certainly. But unfortunately, it cannot be done.”
“Why not?”
“There is not a single boat available for us anywhere in Reykjavik.”
My uncle looked disappointed.
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
“You will have to travel overland along the coast. It will take longer, but you will see much more of the country.”
“Then I shall need a guide.”
“Of course. And I know exactly the man you need.”
“Someone I can trust?”
“Yes. He lives on the peninsula where Sneffels is located. He is clever, honest, and reliable, and I am sure you will like him. He speaks Danish as well as any Dane.”
“When can I meet him? Today?”
“Tomorrow. He will not arrive before then.”
“Tomorrow, then,” my uncle replied with a deep sigh.
The conversation ended with friendly compliments on both sides.
By the time dinner was over, my uncle had learned a great deal about Arne Saknussemm and the reasons his mysterious, cryptic writings had disappeared.
More importantly, he now knew that M. Fridriksson would not be joining our expedition.
But the next day, we would have a guide.
And that meant our journey to Sneffels was about to begin.