THE SOUTH POLAR NIGHT--DEPARTURE OF THE SUN.
May 16.--The long night began at 12 o’clock last night. We did not know
this until this afternoon. At 4 o’clock Lecointe got an observation
by two stars which placed us in latitude 71° 34′ 30″, longitude 89°
10′. According to a careful calculation from these figures the captain
announces the melancholy news that there will be no more day--no more
sun for seventy days, if our position remains about the same. If we
drift north the night will be shorter, if south it will be longer.
Shortly before noon the long prayed-for southerly wind came, sweeping
from the pack the warm, black atmosphere, and replacing it with a
sharp air and a clearing sky. Exactly at noon we saw a brightening in
the north. We expected to see the sun by refraction, though we knew
it was actually below the horizon, but we were disappointed. The cold
whiteness of our earlier surroundings has now been succeeded by a
colder blackness. Even the long, bright twilight, which gladdened our
hearts on first entering the pack, has been reduced to but a fraction
of its earlier glory; this now takes the place of our departed day.
The winter and the darkness have slowly but steadily settled over us.
By such easy stages has the light departed that we have not, until
now, appreciated the awful effect. The circumstance has furnished a
subject for our conversation for most of the time which we now mis-name
day, and a large part of the sleeping hours of the night. It is not
difficult to read on the faces of my companions their thoughts and
their moody dispositions. We are all wandering northward--homeward,
with the fugitive sun. The curtain of blackness which has fallen over
the outer world of icy desolation has also descended upon the inner
world of our souls. Around the tables, in the laboratory, and in the
forecastle, men are sitting about sad and dejected, lost in dreams
of melancholy from which, now and then, one arouses with an empty
attempt at enthusiasm. For brief moments some try to break the spell by
jokes, told perhaps for the fiftieth time. Others grind out a cheerful
philosophy; but all efforts to infuse bright hopes fail.
Each man is intent on being left alone to take what comfort he can from
memories of happier days, though such effort usually leaves him more
hopelessly oppressed by the sense of utter desertion and loneliness.
For six weeks we have been so intent in prosecuting the various lines
of research and in preparing the bark, as well as our clothing and
equipment for the winter, that we have not with sufficient interest,
noticed the melancholy decline of the day. It has gone slowly, and the
persistent storms have so screened the heavens that it has vanished as
if by stealth. Now, however, the gloom of night which has so rapidly
followed its lengthening shadow, has suddenly impressed upon our
passive minds the awful individual loneliness, and the unfathomable
solitude of this impenetrable antarctic wilderness.
Henceforth, for a period which is a blank in human history, the
fair-haired goddess of light will repose beneath the polar star over
the more hopeful arctic lands. Her pathway is no longer over the
familiar hummocks and icebergs and the even spreads of this icy desert
under the Southern Cross. Her silvery tresses have swept for the last
time this sea of frozen wave; her departing breath has stilled, as by
the hand of death, the bosom of this great body of water upon which we
have cast our fortunes.
May 17.--At ten o’clock this morning the purple twilight curve
settled over the south-west, edged with an indescribable blending of
orange, red, and gold, and at eleven o’clock this curve was met by a
zone of rose which gradually ascended over the north-east, above the
sun. The ice, which had been gray, was lighted up by a lively flash
of pink, which was relieved by long river-like leads of open water
having a glowing surface of dark violet. These, however, were the
surface colours towards the sun. In the opposite direction there was
an entirely different effect. The snow had spread evenly over it a
delicate shade of green, while the waters were a very dark purple-blue.
A few minutes before twelve a great, distorted, ill-defined
semi-globular mass of fire rose over the north, edged along the line of
sharp hummocks, and then sank beneath the ice. It was an image of the
sun, lifted above its actual position by the refractive character of
the air, through which its light passed to our eyes. It was in reality
an optical illusion, based upon the principle that if a beam of light
is compelled to pass through a medium of various densities, as the air
here is sure to be, its course is deflected. The sun, then, though
actually below the horizon to-day, was raised by this apparent uplift
and we were able to see one-half of his face.
We have been fishing through the sounding hole to-day with hooks,
but our efforts proved disappointing. The hooks, when we raised the
complicated deep-sea apparatus, were missing. Either some submarine
monsters have taken the hooks or they have dragged on a rocky bottom.
The temperature at 9 A. M. was -12° C., and the weather shows
signs of clearing, though the wind is veering northerly.
It is remarkable how a little incident, especially one surrounded
by some mystery when brought suddenly into our horizon, will arouse
great excitement. This does not often happen, which accounts for the
air of lethargy and disinterestedness which is coming over us with
the increase of darkness. The weird outline of the dying face of the
setting sun a few days ago, and the premonitions of the seventy sunless
days through which we are now to pass, aroused a new sensation. The
extraordinary effects of the moon, vague lights and shadows on the
horizon, indicating the possible outline of a new land; an occasional
peak of a new iceberg coming into our plane of vision; the uncommon
changes of the auroras, of the weather, and the visit of a penguin or
a seal, all incite new life, but the inspiration is of short duration.
In a few hours the soul sinks again into its sleep which is induced by
the long night of months. This morning, however, there was an incident
which startled everybody in a manner quite unusual.
At about seven o’clock the captain went out to find two stars from
which to obtain an observation for position. The sky was too hazy to
give him an observation, but his eye rested upon an inexplicable speck
of light in the west. He stood and looked at it for some moments. It
did not change in position, but sparkled now and then like a star.
The thing came suddenly, disappeared and again reappeared in exactly
the same spot. It was so curious and assumed so much the nature of a
surprise, that Lecointe came into the cabin and announced the news.
We accused him of having had too early an eye-opener, but we went out
quickly to see the mystery. It was about eight o’clock; the sky was a
streaky mouse colour. The ice was gray, with a slight suggestion of
lilac in the high lights, but the entire outline of the pack was vague
under a very dark twilight. We looked for some time in the direction in
which Lecointe pointed, but we saw only a gloomy waste of ice, lined in
places by breaks in the pack from which oozed a black cloud of vapour.
We were not sure that the captain’s eyesight was not defective, and
began to blackguard him afresh.
After we had stood on the snow-decked bridge for ten minutes, shivering
and kicking about to keep our blood from freezing, we saw on a floe
some distance westward a light like that of a torch. It flickered,
rose and fell, as if carried by some moving object. We went forward to
find if anybody was missing--for we could only explain the thing by
imagining a man carrying a lantern. Everybody was found to be on board,
and then the excitement ran high. Soon all hands were on deck and all
seemed to think that the light was being moved towards us. Is it a
human being? Is it perhaps some one from an unknown south polar race of
people? For some minutes no one ventured out on the pack to meet the
strange messenger. We were, indeed, not sufficiently dressed for this
mission. Few had had breakfast; all were without mittens and hats, some
without coats, and others without trousers. If it were a diplomatic
visitor we were certainly in an uncomfortable and undignified uniform
with which to receive him. Amundsen, who was the biggest, the
strongest, the bravest, and generally the best dressed man for sudden
emergencies, slipped into his _annorak_, jumped on his _ski_
and skated rapidly over the gloomy blackness of the pack to the light.
He lingered about the spot a bit, and then returned without company and
without the light, looking somewhat sheepish. It proved to be a mass of
phosphorescent snow which had been newly charged by sea algæ, and was
occasionally raised and brushed by the pressure of the ice.
May 18.--During the few hours of midday dawn we made an excursion to
a favourite iceberg to view the last signs of the departing day. It
was a weird jaunt. I shall always remember the peculiar impression it
produced upon me. When we started almost all the party were outside,
standing about in groups of three or four, discussing the prospects of
the long winter night and the short glory of the scene about. A thing
sadder by far than the fleeing sun was the illness of our companion,
Lieutenant Danco, which was emphasised to us now by his absence from
all the groups, his malady confining him to the ship. We knew at this
time that he would never again see a sunrise, and we felt that perhaps
others might follow him. “Who will be here to greet the returning sun?”
was often asked.
My companions on the excursion were Gerlache and Amundsen. Slowly and
lazily we skated over the rough surface of the snow to the northward.
We had not gone far before we discovered that the ice was cracking
and large leads were cutting off our retreat. We mounted hummocks of
unusual height, and there awaited the imitation of the rising of the
sun. Where the ice broke it separated, leaving a lane of black sea,
from which oozed a peculiar vapour--in reality a cloud of small icy
crystals which fell on the neighbouring ice-fields. The countless
miniature mountains, or hummocks, which covered the white fields,
had their northern faces brightened by a pale yellow light and their
southern shadowed by a dull blue. This gave a little light to the usual
lifeless gray of the ice-fields. Along the fresh leads there were a few
penguins and an occasional seal, and in the water, whales were spouting
jets of breath.
The pack, with the strange play of deflected light upon it, the
subdued high lights, the softened shadows, the little speck of human
and wild life, and our good ship buried under its snows, should
have been interesting to us; but we were interested only in the sky
and in the northern portion of it. A few moments before twelve the
cream-coloured zone in the north brightened to an orange hue, and
precisely at noon half of the form of the sun ascended above the ice.
It was a misshapen, dull semicircle of gold, heatless, rayless, and
sad. It sank again in a few moments, leaving almost no colour and
nothing cheerful to remember through the seventy long days of darkness
which followed. We returned to the ship, and during the afternoon laid
out the plans for our midwinter occupation.
May 20.--It is the fifth day of the long night and it certainly seems
long, very long, since we have felt the heat of the sun. During the
parting days of light the weather was exceedingly unsteady, and the
sky was then constantly veiled by a frozen smoky vapour, but now a
disturbing element seems to have been withdrawn. The horizon is not
yet clear, but the zenith is almost always high and blue, with the
Southern Cross generally visible until nine o’clock in the morning
and after three o’clock in the afternoon. From eleven to one o’clock
at noon to-day there was light enough thrown over the northern ice
to read ordinary print outside, but in our rooms it is necessary to
burn lights continually. The little midday twilight is used to make
soundings and to secure the fauna and flora of the shallow sea under
us. Those not engaged in this work are busied in still more snugly
housing the _Belgica_ and in shoveling pathways around the ship. I
have selected this part of the day to take a daily walk over the pack
to neighbouring floes, and to distant icebergs, to study the ice and
the life, and to obtain sufficient physical exercise, as well as mental
recreation, to retard the spell of indifference which is falling over
me.
[Illustration: An Old Lead.]
[Illustration: A New Crevasse.]
For fifteen minutes before and after twelve o’clock the sky and the ice
are flooded by a wealth of fascinating colours. The northern sky is
such that one momentarily expects the sun to rise. Here are the warm
shades of red and yellow and on the snow, looking in this direction,
there is a noticeable flesh colour in which one sees fetching lines
of lilac. In the opposite direction there are some weird shades of
blue-black and a few dead sheets of gray-blue in shadowed surfaces,
in the caverns of bergs, and in the fissures, but the mixed shades of
green and purple and violet are also displayed with crystal purity. I
cannot describe this short spell of midday glory as it impresses me. If
I could wield a brush, and lay these colours on canvas I feel that one
of the ambitions of my life would be accomplished. But I cannot--and
what am I to do in black, with an overworked pen, frosty ink, and a
mind which is wearied as soon as the cheer of noonday passes?
To the first of May our health had been fairly good. We have had little
complaints and some insignificant injuries, bruises, cuts, strains, and
frost bites, but there has been little of which to make a medical note.
Since entering the pack our spirits have not improved. The quantity
of food which we have consumed, individually and collectively, has
steadily decreased and our relish for food has also slowly but steadily
failed. There was a time when each man enjoyed some special dish and by
distributing these favoured dishes at different times it was possible
to have some one gastronomically happy every day. But now we are tired
of everything. We despise all articles which come out of tin, and a
general dislike is the normal air of the _Belgica_. The cook is
entitled, through his efforts to please us, to kind consideration, but
the arrangement of the menu is condemned, and the entire food store is
used as a subject for bitter sarcasm. Everybody having any connection
with the selection or preparation of the food, past or present, is
heaped with some criticism. Some of this is merited, but most of it
is the natural outcome of our despairing isolation from accustomed
comforts.
I do not mean to say that we are more discontented than other men in
similar conditions. This part of the life of polar explorers is usually
suppressed in the narratives. An almost monotonous discontent occurs
in every expedition through the polar night. It is natural that this
should be so, for when men are compelled to see one another’s faces,
encounter the few good and the many bad traits of character for weeks,
months, and years, without any outer influence to direct the mind, they
are apt to remember only the rough edges which rub up against their own
bumps of misconduct. If we could only get away from each other for a
few hours at a time, we might learn to see a new side and take a fresh
interest in our comrades; but this is not possible. The truth is, that
we are at this moment as tired of each other’s company as we are of the
cold monotony of the black night and of the unpalatable sameness of our
food. Now and then we experience affectionate moody spells and then we
try to inspire each other with a sort of superficial effervescence of
good cheer, but such moods are short-lived. Physically, mentally, and
perhaps morally, then, we are depressed, and from my past experience in
the arctic I know that this depression will increase with the advance
of the night, and far into the increasing dawn of next summer.
The mental conditions have been indicated above. Physically we are
steadily losing strength, though our weight remains nearly the same,
with a slight increase in some. All seem puffy about the eyes and
ankles, and the muscles, which were hard earlier, are now soft, though
not reduced in size. We are pale, and the skin is unusually oily. The
hair grows rapidly, and the skin about the nails has a tendency to
creep over them, seemingly to protect them from the cold. The heart
action is failing in force and is decidedly irregular. Indeed, this
organ responds to the slightest stimulation in an alarming manner. If
we walk hurriedly around the ship the pulse rises to 110 beats, and if
we continue for fifteen minutes it intermits, and there is also some
difficulty of respiration. The observers, going only one hundred yards
to the observatories, come in almost breathless after their short run.
The usual pulse, too, is extremely changeable from day to day. Now
it is full, regular, and vigorous; again it is soft, intermittent and
feeble. In one case it was, yesterday, 43, to-day it is 98, but the man
complains of nothing and does his regular work. The sun seems to supply
an indescribable something which controls and steadies the heart. In
its absence it goes like an engine without a governor.
There is at present no one disabled, but there are many little
complaints. About half of the men complain of headaches and insomnia;
many are dizzy and uncomfortable about the head, and others are sleepy
at all times, though they sleep nine hours. All of the secretions
are reduced, from which it follows that digestion is difficult. Acid
dyspepsia and frequent gastric discomforts are often mentioned. There
are also rheumatic and neuralgic pains, muscular twitchings, and an
indefinite number of small complaints, but there is but one serious
case on hand. This is Danco. He has an old heart lesion, a leak of one
of the valves, which has been followed by an enlargement of the heart
and a thickening of its walls. In ordinary conditions, when there was
no need for an unusual physical or mental strain, and when liberal
fresh food and bright sunshine were at hand, he felt no defect. But
these conditions are now changed. The hypertrophied muscular tissue is
beginning to weaken, and atrophy of the heart is the result, dilating
and weakening with a sort of measured step, which, if it continues at
the present rate, will prove fatal within a month.
May 22.--It is clear and still. The temperature has fallen to -19° C.,
and altogether, though sunless, this sharp, cold weather at present is
more agreeable to us than the dull, stormy days with warmth and light a
month ago. It is Sunday, and we have nearly all been out for a jaunt on
_skis_. We took some photographs, but they are ugly, because there
is nothing distinct in the pictures. It is not possible to make good,
clear pictures except on bright moonlight nights or on sharp, sunny
days. It is the custom aft to go into the masthead and scan the horizon
for signs of life, before starting on our tours of recreation. In this
way we are reasonably sure to return with a penguin, a seal, or the
story of an adventure. To-day we saw a seal about a mile from the ship,
but when we got to it the animal started towards the _Belgica_.
We urged it on and drove it easily to our home. The creature looked
about with much curiosity when it came to the rough, dirty snow about
the bark, and searched diligently for a hole through which it might
plunge to the sea below. But no such hole or crevasse was within a
mile of us, for the calm cold of the past week has reunited all the
broken fragments into large fields. We threw a rope around the seal,
which was a crab-eater, intending to take its temperature and make
other physiological experiments, but the thing was too slippery and too
lively for us. Several instruments were broken, and some very strong
ropes were snapped like ordinary twine. Finally the seal was shot,
and its skeleton was prepared to enrich a Belgian museum of natural
history. There was to-night a bright aurora. It began as a straight
horizontal zone low on the southern sky. Later it changed to an
arc with the parts of two other arcs below it. A similar phenomenon
appeared last night.
May 27.--The little dusk at midday is fading more and more. A feeble
deflected light falls upon the elevations, the icebergs, and the
hummocks, offering a faint cheerfulness, but this soon withdraws and
leaves a film of blackness. The pack presents daily the same despondent
surface of gray which, by contrast to the white sparkle of some time
ago, makes our outlook even more melancholy. The weather is now quite
clear and in general more settled. The temperature ranges from 5° to
10° C. below zero. We have frequent falls of snow, but the quantity is
small and the period is short. Generally we are able to see the stars
from two in the afternoon until ten in the morning. During the four
hours of midday the sky is generally screened by a thick icy vapour.
There are a few white petrels about daily, and in the sounding hole we
have noticed a seal occasionally, but there is now no other life. All
have an abundance of work, but our ambition for regular occupation,
particularly anything which requires prolonged mental concentration,
is wanting; even the task of keeping up the log is too much. There is
nothing new to write about, nothing to excite fresh interest. There are
now no auroras, and no halos; everything on the frozen sea and over it
is sleeping the long sleep of the frigid night.