Frederick was standing near the log-line, which dragged in the broad,
churning wake. Even in the ghostly dawn, hungry gulls were following the
ship, sometimes flying near, sometimes dropping back, ever and anon
swooping down into the foamy wake with a mournful cry, as of condemned
souls. This was no vision, and yet Frederick scarcely distinguished it
from a dream. With his nerves unstrung, with his being still penetrated
by the marvels of his sleeping life, which remained partially present to
him, the strange heaving waste of the ocean seemed no less miraculous
than his dreams. Thus the ocean had been tossing its mountains of waves
beneath the blind eyes of millions of years, itself no less blind than
those eons. Thus and not otherwise had it been since the first day of
creation: "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the
earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the
deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters."
Frederick shivered. Had he ever lived with anything else than a spirit
and spirits, that is, with ghosts? And at this moment was he not farther
removed than ever from what is considered immovable solid ground, from
what is called reality? In his state of mind, did he not believe in fairy
tales, sailors' superstitions, the Flying Dutchman, and hobgoblins? What
was that ocean hiding in its infinite waves rolling under the low, grey
sky? Had not everything arisen from the ocean? Had not everything gone
down into its depths again? Had some power disclosed the submerged
Atlantis to Frederick's mental vision? Why not?
He was passing through profound, enigmatic moments of a fearful yet
pleasurable dread. There was the ocean, on which an apparently abandoned
vessel, a small spot in infinity, was staggering forward with no visible
goal ahead and no visible starting-point behind. There were the heavens
lying heavily upon it, grey and dismal. There was Frederick himself,
alone. Every animate creature in that solitude was transformed in his
soul into visions, phantoms and apparitions. Man is always facing the
unfathomable alone. That gives him a sense of greatness along with a
sense of desertion. There was a man standing at the stern of a vessel,
while the darkness of night was yielding to the dawn, bound by the
invisible, glowing threads of his fate to two continents of the globe,
and awaiting the new, less tormenting form of life that comes from the
sun, a strange star millions of miles removed from the planet earth. All
this was a miracle to Frederick, almost overwhelming him, as if he were
imprisoned in marvels. In a sudden seizure of hopelessness that he would
ever throw off the suffocating oppression of riddles and miracles, the
temptation came upon him to leap over the railing. Close upon this
feeling followed the timidity of a man with a bad conscience. He glanced
about, as if in fear of discovery. He wiped his eyes and forehead with
his hands, because it seemed to him that the dead stoker with the bloody
wound had for a long time been sitting nearby on a coil of rope. His
chest felt heavy, as if a load were dragging it down. He heard voices. He
saw his wife, Angèle, wringing her hands. Suddenly he thought he was to
blame for her illness, that he was a criminal; and all his thoughts of
Ingigerd Hahlström made him doubly despicable in his own eyes. His ideas
grew confused. In a wave of absolute credulity, he thought the voice of
his conscience was condemning him to death. He thought that his life was
being demanded as an atonement, that he must sacrifice himself, or else
the _Roland_, with all it carried, would sink.
At that moment Frederick heard a strong voice saying:
"Good morning, Doctor von Kammacher."
It was the first mate, Von Halm, on his way to the bridge. Before the
healthy beauty of the human voice, the haunting visions instantly fled,
and Frederick's soul was restored to sanity.
"Were you making deep-sea researches?" Von Halm asked.
"Yes," said Frederick with a laugh, "I was about to make a sounding for
the submerged Atlantis. What do you think of the weather?"
The giant was wearing his sou'wester and oilskin. He pointed to the
barometer. Frederick saw it had dropped considerably. Adolph, the
steward, came in search of Frederick. Having failed to find him in his
cabin, he was bringing him his zwieback and large peasant cup of tea on
deck. Frederick seated himself on the same bench as the day before,
opposite the companionway. He sipped the cordial drink and warmed
his hands on the cup.
Before he had finished, the wind was again beginning to boom in the
rigging of the four masts, and a stiff, obstinate wind was heeling the
vessel to starboard. Frederick set to bargaining inwardly, as if he had
to reckon with the powers on account of the new hardships to be gone
through. He suddenly longed to be with Peter Schmidt in America. Since
his dream, it seemed more and more important for him to see, and
associate with, his old comrade again. He thought he was rid of Ingigerd,
the more surely as she had played no part at all in the momentous
Atlantis dream. The sooner the voyage with her ended the better.