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.