Distorted Face of the Rising Sun.
Lecointe and Amundsen were standing on an iceberg close to me. They faced the light, and watched the fragment of the sun slide under bergs, over hummocks, and along the even expanse of the frozen sea, with a worshipful air. Their eyes beamed with delight, but under this delight there was noticeable the accumulated suffering of seventy dayless nights. Their faces were drawn and thin, though the weight of their bodies was not reduced. The skin had a sickly, jaundiced colour, green, and yellow, and muddy. Altogether, we accused each other of appearing as if we had not been washed for months. The uncertainty of our exact latitude made it impossible to estimate just how much of the sun’s disk would be visible. Our time, too, was uncertain, for our pocket timepieces were not reliable, and we were far from the chronometers. We watched and watched, expecting that the crest of fire would rise and give us an increased glow of light and some heat, but it only slid teasingly on the verge of the sea. It seemed as though our world of ice was not yet worthy of the blessings of the “sun-god.” A few minutes after twelve the light was extinguished, a smoky veil of violet was drawn over the dim outline of the ice, and quickly the stars again twinkled in the gobelin-blue of the sky as they had done, without being outshone, for nearly seventeen hundred hours.
July 23.—We have just finished breakfast, and at 8 A.M. are out on deck to welcome the promise of the coming day. It is long since we have taken such interest in the cold outer world, but we are now anxious to free ourselves from the darkness of the cabins, and the tiresome sameness of the daily routine of life. The meteorologist is reading the barometers and thermometers and recording the sky phenomena. The captain has just finished a magnetic observation. The crew are taking their usual hourly exercise by a brisk walk in a path about the bark. The officers are planning the day’s work for the men to perform to-morrow. The scientific cranks are all scattered about the deck, shivering and noting matters of special interest to each. I took a short ski run out over the hazy purple ice to get away from the local drift of thought, and then reclined upon a hummock to study the scene. The temperature was -25° C., there was almost no air stirring, and aside from the life and muffled noise about the vessel, a death-like silence reigned over the entire scene. The Belgica was distinctly visible in the brightening twilight; her body was buried under the heavy weight of the accumulated winter snows, but the masts stood out in bold relief against a background of gold on the eastern sky. The masts and ropes and spars were heavily coated with hoar-frost, and they sparkled in the reflected glimmer of the dawn, as if beset by millions of diamonds.
Crossing Hummocks and Crevasses.
Edge of the Belgica Field in October.
At a few minutes past eleven a wave of light spread over the vast expanse of the cold heavens, and then a gleam of fire burst through a large purple cloud on the horizon northward. The lonely spread of lifeless ice assumed a face of rose, and soon after, the entire northern sky was streaked with warm bands of carmine, but the sun was still partly under the surface snows at noon, and its face was twisted and distorted in such a manner that its globular form was not recognisable. Later in the afternoon we secured two royal penguins. During the night we saw and studied an aurora of the usual type. To-night the days of feasting end, and the freedom from routine work for the men ceases. The music-boxes and the accordion are forced to grind out music until late. We are playing cards and are having a joyous time generally in response to the stimulation of the few moments of noonday splendour.
July 24.—It is another beautifully clear day with a temperature of -34° C. What a blessing it is to have clear air and a clear sky during these important days when the sun is edging over the ice beneath which it has reposed so long. There is a bright blue twilight now at 7 A. M., and three hours later the light of dawn which shoots over the horizon makes the scene bright and day-like. Perhaps we shall see the real sun without refraction to-day; but if our latitude remains about the same as the last observation indicates we shall not have it over the horizon until to-morrow. There are many mirages on the horizon, inverted icebergs, raised ridges of hummocks, and bits of pack-ice, looking like mountains of some strange land. We played a game of whist to-night with unusual vigour. We have played a few hours each evening regularly, for several months, but up to the present we have all lost and won with about an equal measure of success; in the last few days, however, the luck has changed. Last night Raco won one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. To-night I won two hundred and fifty thousand. We are now satisfied with our success and in the future we shall decline all offers at whist.
Edge of the Antarctic Pack.