learned to imagine that we know what they are thinking and saying, while
they have learned, or imagine they have learned, about us, too; and in
this land to imagine that you have learned these things is much the same
as if you had really done so, for in a place where life is reduced to a
few simple principles, and there is neither the reason nor the wish to
plan, or discuss, or quarrel about anything, what you say and think, or
what they say and think in reply, cannot be wide of the mark in any
case. As with time, exactness, or the lack of it, does not matter.
Indeed, nothing matters much in this balmy vale. Lingering on a lilied
bank in the sun—with—with any one of these gentle people, life becomes a
soothing impression which minuteness and detail would only mar.
We have learned, too, though rather vaguely, something of the customs of
the race, and the life of those who dwell beyond the palace gates. They
are not a numerous people and their ways are primitive. Nature provides
their food, and their garments are few and simple. Only the construction
of their dwellings calls for any serious outlay of toil, and in this
they unite as in a festival until the labor is complete. Their harvests
are conducted in the same manner, and in these things they are not
widely different from our pioneer ancestors, who exchanged labors of the
field, and merrily joined in their house-raisings.
Like the people of the Incas, the Antarcticans have no money and no need
of it. The lands are held in common, and the harvests yield more than
enough for all. Great storehouses hold the surplus, from which any one
may be provided in time of need. Famine, war, and the complications of
law are unknown. Indeed, the necessity of law here seems slight. For in
a land where there can be no concealment, crime must languish and only
such laws result as find natural and willing observance.
Although what we regarded as life is very brief here, there is no dread
of that which we know as death. Death in fact appears to have no real
empire in this land, for Ferratoni assures us that the disembodied
intelligence still vibrates to many of those clothed in the physical
life, until it passes altogether out of range in its progress toward
that great central force, which they believe to be the sun. To Ferratoni
this is no surprise. To the rest of us it is a matter of vague wonder,
which we have accepted as we have accepted everything else of this
mystic land and race.
There are no schools. Education appears to be absorbed through their
peculiar faculty of mental communication or “silent speech,” which
develops in childhood, and is now almost universal. A few appear to be
unable to master it, though their number is much less in proportion to
the race than is the number of those who with us are lacking in the
musical sense. In fact there seems to be a close analogy, or possibly a
relation between mental speech and the musical vibration—those lacking
the ear for tune and melody, they tell us, being deficient in the mental
perception as well. The number of these is decreasing, however, with
each generation, and in a land where the whole atmosphere breathes
harmony the false notes must blend out in time, and the chord at last
become universal and complete. There is a written language—a sort of
symbolic ideograph—but with the perfection of their mental attainments,
it has fallen gradually into disuse, and is now mainly employed in
ornamental decoration, and for preserving the songs and records of the
people.[3]
Footnote 3:
In no place does Mr. Chase give an example of the Antarctic speech or
writing. Even the native word for their deity or their country is
avoided, whether by intention or oversight cannot now be ascertained.
Of the latter we know but little. They are in the keeping of the
Princess, who, since our arrival, has been altogether too happy in the
present to go delving back into the myths of her ancestors. We are told
that the first Princess came from the sun, and in this, too, the
Antarcticans somewhat resemble the people of the Incas. In fact, they
have so much in common with the ancient Peruvians that we might suspect
a common origin, were it not for their difference of color, and even
this becomes less marked with each round of their ascending deity.
We are told further that when the first Princess came to the earth she
brought so much of the sunlight with her that the great luminary was
dark for three days, and that all the light there was came from the
heaven-sent being. It is said she found the people a benighted and
unsceptred race, even then ready to destroy the life of a gentle youth
who had risen up among them as a teacher and a prophet. Overawed by her
glory, they had dragged him before her for final judgment. But when the
Princess had looked upon the fair youth, and searched with her great
radiance his innermost heart, she had laid her arms about his shoulders
and declared him her spouse, beloved of heaven, and to be honored only
next to herself. And when she had wedded him there before all the
people, the sun had suddenly burst forth and laid its golden blessing
upon them, and they had lived and reigned and enlightened the race for
many years. And their land she had called the Land of the Sloping Sun,
and divided it into the Lilied Hills and the Purple Fields, and over the
one the eldest daughter, and over the other the eldest son of each
generation had ruled.
Two thousand long nights have elapsed, they tell us, since the coming of
the first Sun Princess, and though the race has never grown numerous or
hardy, it has become gentle and content, and human life has not been
destroyed for many generations.
They are deeply opposed to what we know as progress,[4] believing it
conducive only to discontent and evils innumerable. They regard with
sorrowful distrust our various mechanical contrivances. They are not
surprised to learn that men are still condemned to death in our country,
for the last man so condemned here was convicted of contriving a means
to propel a craft without oars—in fact, a sail. It was a poor sail at
that, and of little value save as an ornament. I said we might punish a
man in our country, too, for inventing such a sail, though I thought we
would hardly kill him. And then we learned that this man wasn’t killed
either, for the Princess of that time, being still very young and
unmarried, had, in accordance with divine precedent, looked upon the
inventor and loved him, and granted him her hand in marriage—for this,
it appears, was their one method of royal pardon, and certainly a
pleasant one for the inventor. The sail, she told them, had been sent
from the sun, so that the winds of the fields might aid them, which was
all very beautiful, though it seems that the sun might have sent a
better sail.
Footnote 4:
In comparing Mr. Chase’s record of the customs and characteristics of
the Antarctic race with those of the ancient Peruvians, we find in
Prescott (The Conquest) a paragraph which reveals still further the
striking similarity between the two races. Prescott says:
“Ambition, avarice, the love of change, the morbid spirit of
discontent, those passions which most agitate the minds of men, found
no place in the bosom of the Peruvian. The very condition of his being
seemed to be at war with change. He moved on in the same unbroken
circle in which his fathers had moved before him, and in which his
children were to follow. It was the object of the Incas to infuse into
their subjects a spirit of tranquillity, a perfect acquiescence in the
established order of things.”
It was the same Princess and her consort who began this great central
temple in honor of their happiness, and who established as universal
throughout the nation the “Pardon of Love”—that forever after no one who
truly loved, and was so beloved in return, could perish by violence, and
no one has so perished for more than five hundred of their long nights.
The invention of the present Princess and her brother—the
dark-dispeller—has been explained to them as also a gift of the sun, to
aid it in vanquishing the long night, though, as it has thus far never
been made to work and is regarded by Gale as hopeless, it would seem
that in this case, as in the other, the sun might have sent a better
one.
This temple, however, is flawless. It stands on an island in the midst
of a lake, or rather a widening of the river, and is, as before noted,
located exactly at the point where the sun, during its daily circuit,
appears always equidistant, above the horizon.[5] It is therefore on the
earth’s southern axis, and represents, to us, the South Pole.
Footnote 5:
It is noticeable that Mr. Chase furnishes us with no clue as to the
astronomical knowledge of the Antarctic people. We are left to surmise
that they believe the earth to be a flat circle about which the sun
travels, instead of a revolving orb such as we know it to be. Many
other things which seem of importance are also overlooked. We would be
glad to know more of the yellow metal once referred to, and something
of their minerals and precious stones, which are nowhere mentioned.
Each day we have come to the borders of the lake and viewed this
wonderful edifice from afar. When I say “each day,” I mean about as
often as that, if time were divided in the old way, and when I say “we”
I refer to Chauncey Gale, Mr. Sturritt and myself, also to the Princess
and Ferratoni when they chose to honor us, and to such others of the
court as cared to follow.
We have meant to cross over to this island, but we could come any time,
and when we did come we would have to ascend the long Ladder of the
Sun—the steps leading to the top—so it was not well to hurry. To-day,
however, is a sort of ceremonial—the end, or somewhere near it, of the
first period of their long day, which they divide into four parts, as we
do our lunar periods. The Princess and Ferratoni and a train of
followers are coming, so we have set out ahead, and are resting here on
the upper or topmost terrace, awaiting them.
There are four of these terraces, and they are very high. They represent
the four divisions of the day period—the Flowers, the Fruitage, the
Harvest, and the Farewell. They are connected by long stairs—two series,
on opposite sides of the temple—one for the sun to climb, and one by
which it is supposed to descend after the midsummer solstice. As I
suspected, the people build their habitations to conform, not only to
the earth’s surface, but also to the solar phases, and this temple is
their great architectural culmination and model.
In the center of the upper terrace there is carved a huge dial, or
calendar, somewhat resembling that used by the Aztecs. It is divided
into four equal parts, and two of these into smaller divisions by rays
from a central sun, each ray signifying a solar circuit—one hundred and
eighty-two and one-half such divisions representing their entire summer
day. The other half of the dial is left unilluminated, so to speak, thus
to signify the long night. In this dial the point of beginning indicates
the direction opposite to that from which we came. Here, also, ends the
stairway by which the sun is supposed to climb, and from this direction,
out of the unknown and uninhabited lands beyond, a fair river flows into
the central lake. Between two hills in the far distance its waters touch
the sky, thus forming a narrow gateway on the horizon. And through this
come the earliest rays of morning after the period of darkness. The
first returning gleams are caught and borne to the waiting people by the
ripple of the inward flowing stream. And for this they have named it the
“River of Living Dawn.”
[Illustration:
THE ANTARCTIC CALENDAR. RUDE SKETCH FROM MR. CHASE’S NOTE-BOOK.
]
Directly across from this is the sun’s descending stairway, and there
also, and flowing out of the lake, is the river by which we came. It,
too, has a horizon gate, and through it, when its last half-circle is
complete, linger the feeble rays of the parting sun. So they have named
this the “River of Coming Dark,” and down its still current are sent
those to whom night and cold no longer matter.
XXXII.
AN OFFERING TO THE SUN.
“Which way is north?” asked Gale, as we looked down at the huge
compass-like carving.
“All ways,” I said. “We are at the end of South, here. The center of
that diagram is the spot we set out to reach. It is the South Pole.”
Gale reflected on this a moment, and then with something of the old
spirit said:
“I’d like to know how anybody is ever going to lay out an addition here!
Latitudes and longitudes, and directions, and hemispheres, all mixed up,
and no difference in east and west fronts, or afternoon sun.” He paused
a moment, and seemed reflecting; then he grew even more like the Gale of
earlier days. “Say,” he added suddenly, “but wouldn’t this temple make a
great hotel, though! Center of everything, and sun in every window once
in twenty-four hours. Do you know, if it wasn’t for Ferratoni, I’d try
to make some sort of a—a matrimonial alliance with the Princess, and get
her interested in developing this country and stirring things up. I’d
pitch that jim-crow electric apparatus, that don’t work, into this lake,
and I’d put a light on top of this pyramid that would show from here to
the snow-line. Then I’d run an elevator up here, and have trolley cars
connecting all over, and steam launches going up and down these rivers.”
He paused for breath, and then his face saddened. “But what’s the use,
Nick?” he said mournfully. “How is anybody going to do business here?
Nobody wants any homes and firesides, or trolleys, or steamboats, and if
they did, they haven’t got any money to pay for anything with. Think of
it! Not a dollar in the whole country! Not a nickel! Not a red penny!”
It was as the flare of the expiring candle. He ceased. The spell of the
country once more lay upon him. The ways of progress such as he had
known seemed as far off and forgotten as the cold northern pole beneath
us.
Mr. Sturritt looked sad, too, and shook his head silently. There seemed
no need of his food preparations in a land where people never journeyed
afar, and had ample time to consume the ample stores so lavishly
provided by nature, and in such uncondensed forms. Like the rest of us,
he would forget, and let the world go by.
We loitered back to the edge of the terrace and looked down. Far below,
the Princess and her court were just arriving. We watched them alight
from their barges and ascend the stairway that led to the first terrace.
They were a fair throng, and the sight from above was beautiful in the
extreme. In front there came a troop of singing children with garlands
of flowers. Just behind these walked the Princess in her robe of state,
and by her side, our companion, Ferratoni, her guest of honor. After
them followed the people of the court, young men and maids—all laden
with great floral bonds, festooned from one couple to the next in a
mighty double chain. There was no solemnity. All were chanting gaily. As
they reached the top of each stairway, they paused to face the sun and
unite in a jubilant chorus. Truly, I thought, theirs is a religion of
joy and goodwill.
“I’m sorry, now, we didn’t wait and come up with the crowd,” said Gale.
“Still, we get a better view by not being in it. But will you just look
at Tony! Talk about catching on! Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say
this was a wedding performance and that Tony had the star part.”
They were near enough now for us to see that Ferratoni’s face was
lighted with smiles, and that the Princess, too, looked very happy.
“It is hardly that, yet,” I said, “but I think we need not be surprised
at anything. Though such an alliance, I suppose, would require some
special dispensation or sanction of the sun.”
“Yes,” assented Gale, “and, by the way, Nick, who is that little
yellow-haired girl that is setting up to you—the one that sings a good
deal and plays on that little bandolin arrangement—and that other one,
Bill, that dark-eyed one who walks about with you so much, holding
hands, and wondering how old you could live to be, if you really tried?”
I made no immediate reply, and Mr. Sturritt showed languid confusion.
“I—that is——” he began, “she—she is——”
“I think,” I interposed, “she is a cousin to that very delightful little
auburn-haired creature, who sits all day at the feet of our Admiral,
listening to “How Doth the Little Busy Bee” and “Twinkle, Twinkle,
Little Star.”
“Nick,” said Gale, “if anything should happen that we ever did get out
of this snap, and back to—to people—the yacht, and Biff, and Johnnie, I
mean—I suppose it would be just as well not to mention some of the
things that happen down here. They wouldn’t quite understand the
conditions, you see—the—the atmosphere, as the artists say—the poetry of
it, you know. You wouldn’t want to say anything, yourself——”
He was interrupted at this point by the arrival on our terrace of the
singing children. I had no opportunity to reply, but I did not at once
join very heartily in the ceremonies.
The latter were very simple, and consisted of little more than a
continuance of the marching and singing, with a pause at short intervals
to shout a great pæan to their divinity. Then there ensued a wonderfully
graceful dance, and after this a marvellous floral decoration of the
entire temple, within and without. In this the Princess took but a brief
initiatory part, and presently, when the upper terrace was finished,
most of her followers descended to the work below, leaving with her only
her ladies-in-waiting, a few gentlemen of the court, and ourselves.
We reclined among the flowers, and for a time there was a silence,
broken only by the distant singing voices of those still busy below. It
seemed a sort of benediction after the offering, and then for some
reason there came upon me a feeling like that when at the opera the
curtain descends and the chorus dies into the distance; the feeling that
something is over and completed—that something new and different is
about to begin.
XXXIII.
THE TOUCH OF LIFE.
The music below grew fainter and died. Those with us upon the terrace
remained silent, awaiting the pleasure of the Princess. When she spoke
at last it was to Ferratoni, and then I noticed for the first time that
he had brought, or caused to be brought, a little case which I
recognized as one of his telephones. We had known that for the
entertainment of the Princess he had been experimenting with his
materials, and we realized that he was about to demonstrate from the
elevation of the temple the practicability of his invention. Remembering
what we had been told of the national prejudice against mechanical
progress, I momentarily doubted the wisdom of such an exhibition, but
reflected that with the approval of the Princess the result could hardly
be otherwise than pleasant. Those who remained with us seemed also to
encourage the experiment, and showed some interest as to the outcome.
They were those of the inner household. Among them were the three to
whom Chauncey Gale, Mr. Sturritt and myself had paid some slight social
attention (the merest courtesies, indeed, as courtesies go in that land)
since our arrival in the Lilied Hills.
Ferratoni now arranged the telephone apparatus and adjusted it
carefully, explaining to us, meantime, that he had constructed another
which he had left at the palace below, whence a little party of those
returning would presently communicate with us. When all was ready, he
touched the annunciator bell, but there came no response. Evidently
those who were to answer had not yet reached the palace. We waited a
little in expectant silence—then once more he touched the bell. Still no
response—our friends at court were proceeding but leisurely, as was
their wont. Indeed a mental communication just then established the fact
that they had paused for refreshments in the palace gardens. I thought
Ferratoni looked a little annoyed. He was anxious, I suppose, to please
the Princess, though the latter showed no impatience. Refreshments and
pausing were the peaceful characteristics of her gentle race.
While we waited I found myself recalling some of the former times when
the little telephone had brought messages from the unseen. I recalled
the first trial, when we were frozen in the pack, and Edith Gale and I
had carried it to the top of the lonely berg, and so listened to
Ferratoni’s mysterious message from the ship—the message all now could
understand. I remembered, too, the chill waiting on the top of the
Pacemaker when voices from the Billowcrest heartened me and gave me
comfort and hope. And then there came the recollection of the weary days
when, toiling down the great white way, we had been cheered and
encouraged by the voices of those behind, and of the desolate nights
when I had found peace and repose in the soothing influence of “Old
Brown Cows.”
Recalling these things dreamily, I was almost as much startled as the
listless ones about us, when suddenly on the little telephone in our
midst there came a sharp returning ring. Not a timid and hesitating
signal, as from one unused and half afraid, but emphatic, eager and
prolonged. There was something about it that thrilled me, and I saw
Chauncey Gale suddenly sit upright. Ferratoni, however, quickly handed
the transmitter to the Princess, and held the receiver to her ear. But
as she listened there came into her face only a strange, puzzled
expression, and she did not answer. Instead, she returned the
transmitter to Ferratoni, who now held the receiver to his own ear. For
a moment only, then hastily turning, and with eager, outstretched hands
he held the telephone complete toward Chauncey Gale and me!
We grabbed for it as children scramble for a toy. It was an unseemly
display to those serene ones about us, and in a brief instant must have
damaged their good opinion of us, and their regard. We did not think of
that, and we did not care. We knew that in that telephone were voices
for us only—voices long silent to us—at times almost forgotten,—but that
now, from far across the snowy wastes and scented fields, were calling
us to awake, and remember, and reply.
I seized the receiver. Gale, who had managed to get hold of the
transmitter, commenced shouting in it.
“Hello! Hello, Johnnie! Hello! Hello! Why don’t you answer?” Then,
suddenly realizing that I held the receiver, he snatched it to his own
ear, but not before I had caught a few brief joyous words in the voice
of Edith Gale.
“Yes, it’s us!” he called frantically. “All right, yes!—Yes, as well and
happy as—that is, of course we’re awful homesick!—I mean not suffering
any.—Yes, warm, and fine country!—Oh, yes, nice people!—Girls? Oh,
yes.—N—no, I don’t think you’d think so—some people might, but we don’t.
Matter of taste, you know.—How’s the ship?—That’s good.—Biff, too?—What?
Oh, ice out of the bay. Bully!—No—it didn’t work till just now. Too low
down.—Why, on top of the South Pole.—Ha, ha, yes.—No. Temple of
worship.—Yes, high! High as Washington monument!—Why didn’t we try it
before?—Why, we—that is—we’ve been busy—very busy!—Doing? Us? Oh, why,
we’ve been—that is—we—we’ve been studying habits—and customs—customs of
the people.—Yes, interesting.—Yes.”
I had been so absorbed in Gale’s one-sided dialogue that I had forgotten
the presence of those about us. He ceased speaking now, for a moment,
evidently listening to a lengthier communication. Recalling myself, I
glanced about at the others, wondering how much or how little of it they
had comprehended. Probably very little, yet the effect upon them had
been startling. They had witnessed our sudden transformation from people
not greatly different to themselves into what must have appeared to them
unholy barbarians—wild untamed savages, awakened to a fierce and to them
brutal frenzy by the unseen electric summons. In their faces was a
horror and condemnation never before written there. An awakening,
indeed, had followed the galvanic touch. Gale, all unconscious of this,
now broke loose again.