The South Pole by Roald Amundsen (best novels to read for beginners .txt) 📖

it was wanted. The weather had changed: a south-west wind had sprung up suddenly, and now the air was thick with snow. It was not a fall of snow, for one could see the stars in the zenith, but snow caught up by the wind and whirled along. A man had to know the surroundings well to find his way now; one had to feel — it was impossible to keep one’s eyes open. I took up a position in lee of a snow-drift, and waited to see what would happen. The dogs did not seem to be inconvenienced by the change of weather; some of them lay curled up in a ring, with their nose under their tail, on the snow, while others were running about. One by one the men came out; each had a lantern in his hand. As they arrived at the place where the dogs were, each was surrounded by his team, who followed him to the tents with joyous howls. But everything did not pass off peacefully; I heard — I think it was in Bjaaland’s tent —

a deafening noise going on, and looked in at the door. Down there, deep below the surface, they were having a warm time. All the dogs were mixed up together in one mass: some were biting, some shrieking, some howling. In the midst of this mass of raging dogs I saw a human figure swinging round, with a bunch of dog-collars in one hand, while he dealt blows right and left with the other, and blessed the dogs all the time. I thought of my calves and withdrew. But the human figure that I had seen evidently won the mastery, as the noise gradually subsided and all became quiet. As each man got his dogs tied up, he went over to the meat-tent and took a box of cut-up seal meat, which stood on the wall out of the dogs’ reach. This meat had been cut up earlier in the day by two men. They took it in turns, I heard; two men had this duty daily. The dogs were then fed, and half an hour after this was done the camp again lay as I had found it in the morning, quiet and peaceful. With a temperature of -65� F., and a velocity of twenty-two miles an hour, the south-wester swept over the Barrier, and whirled the snow high into the air above Framheim; but in their tents the dogs lay, full-fed and contented, and felt nothing of the storm.

In the hut preparations for a feast were going on, and now one could really appreciate a good house. The change from the howling wind, the driving snow, the intense cold, and the absolute darkness, was great indeed when one came in. Everything was newly washed, and the table was gaily decorated. Small Norwegian flags were everywhere, on the table and walls. The festival began at six, and all the “vikings” came merrily in. Lindstr�m had done his best, and that is not saying a little. I specially admired his powers and his liberality — and I think, even in the short time I have observed him, he has shown no sign of being stingy — when he appeared with the “Napoleon” cakes. Now I must tell you that these cakes were served after every man had put away a quarter of a plum-pudding. The cakes were delightful to look at — the finest puff-pastry, with layers of vanilla custard and cream. They made my mouth water. But the size of them! — there could not be one of those mountains of cake to every man? One among them all, perhaps — if they could be expected to eat Napoleon cakes at all after plum-pudding. But why had he brought in eight — two enormous dishes with four on each? Good heavens! —

one of the vikings had just started, and was making short work of his mountain. And one after another they all walked into them, until the whole eight had disappeared. I should have nothing to say about hunger, misery, and cold, when I came hone. My head was going round; the temperature must have been as many degrees above zero in here as it was below zero outside. I looked up at Wisting’s bunk, where a thermometer was hanging: +95� F. The vikings did not seem to take the slightest notice of this trifle; their work with the “Napoleons”

continued undisturbed.

Soon the gorgeous cake was a thing of the past, and cigars came out. Everyone, without exception, allowed himself this luxury. Up to now they had not shown much sign of abstinence; I wanted to know what was their attitude with regard to strong drinks. I had heard, of course, that indulgence in alcohol on Polar expeditions was very harmful, not to say dangerous. “Poor boys!” I thought to myself; “that must be the reason of your fondness for cake. A man must have one vice, at least. Deprived of the pleasure of drinking, they make up for it in gluttony.” Yes, now I could see it quite plainly, and I was heartily sorry for them. I wondered how the “Napoleons” felt now; they looked rather depressed. No doubt the cake took some time to settle down.

Lindstr�m, who now seemed unquestionably the most wideawake of them all, came in and began to clear the table. I expected to see every man roll into his bunk to digest. But no; that side of the question did not appear to trouble them much. They remained seated, as though expecting more. Oh yes, of course; there was coffee to come. Lindstr�m was already in the doorway with cups and jugs. A cup of coffee would be just the thing after such a meal.

“Stubberud!” — this was Lindstr�m’s voice, calling from some place in the far distance — “hurry up, before they get warm!” I rushed after Stubberud to see what the things were that were not to get warm; I thought it might possibly be something that was to be taken outside. Great Heaven! there was Lindstr�m lying on his stomach up in the loft, and handing down through the trap-door —

what do you think? — a bottle of Benedictine and a bottle of punch, both white with frost! Now I could see that the fish were to swim —

what’s more, they were to be drowned. A happier smile than that with which Stubberud received the bottles, or more careful and affectionate handling than they received on their way through the kitchen, I have never seen. I was touched. Ah, these boys knew how a liqueur should be served! “Must be served cold,” was on the label of the punch bottle. I can assure P. A. Larsen that his prescription was followed to the letter that evening. Then the gramophone made its appearance, and it did me good to see the delight with which it was received. They seemed to like this best, after all, and every man had music to suit his taste. All agreed to honour the cook for all his pains, and the concert therefore began with “Tarara-boom-de-ay,” followed by the “Apache” waltz. His part of the programme was concluded with a humorous recitation. Meanwhile he stood in the doorway with a beatific smile; this did him good. In this way the music went the round, and all had their favourite tunes. Certain numbers were kept to the last; I could see that they were to the taste of all. First came an air from “The Huguenots,” sung by Michalowa; this showed the vikings to be musical. It was beautifully sung. “But look here,” cried an impatient voice: “aren’t we going to have Borghild Bryhn to-night?” “Yes,” was the answer; “here she comes.” And Solveig’s Song followed. It was a pity Borghild Bryhn was not there; I believe the most rapturous applause would not have moved her so much as the way her song was received here that evening. As the notes rang clear and pure through the room, one could see the faces grow serious. No doubt the words of the poem affected them all as they sat there in the dark winter night on the vast wilderness of ice, thousands and thousands of miles from all that was dear to them. I think that was so; but it was the lovely melody, given with perfect finish and rich natural powers, that opened their hearts. One could see how it did them good; it was as though they were afraid of the sound of their own voices afterwards. At last one of them could keep silence no longer. “My word, how beautifully she sings!” he exclaimed; “especially the ending. I was a little bit afraid that she would give the last note too sharp, in spite of the masterly way in which she controls her voice. And it is outrageously high, too. But instead of that, the note came so pure and soft and full that it alone was enough to make a better man of one.” And then this enthusiastic listener tells them how he once heard the same song, but with a very different result. “It went quite well,” he says, “until it came to the final note. Then you could see the singer fill her mighty bosom for the effort, and out came a note so shrill that —

well, you remember the walls of Jericho.” After this the gramophone is put away. No one seems to want any more.

Now it is already half-past eight, it must be nearly bed-time. The feast has lasted long enough, with food, drink, and music. Then they all get on their feet, and there is a cry of “Bow and arrows.” Now, I say to myself, as I withdraw into the corner where the clothes are hanging — now the alcohol is beginning to take effect. It is evident that something extraordinarily interesting is going to take place, as they are all so active. One of them goes behind the door and fetches out a little cork target, and another brings out of his bunk a box of darts. So it is dart-throwing — the children must be amused. The target is hung up on the door of the kitchen leading to the pent-house, and the man who is to throw first takes up his position at the end of the table at a distance of three yards. And now the shooting competition begins, amid laughter and noise. There are marksmen of all kinds, good, bad, and indifferent. Here comes the champion — one can see that by the determined way in which he raises the dart and sends it flying; his will, no doubt, be the top score. That is Stubberud; of the five darts he throws, two are in the bull’s-eye and three close to it. The next is Johansen; he is not bad, either, but does not equal the other’s score. Then comes Bjaaland; I wonder whether he is as smart at this game as he is on ski? He places himself at the end of the table, like the others, but takes a giant’s stride forward. He is a leery one, this; now he is not more than a yard and a half from the target. He throws well; the darts describe a great round arch. This is what is known as throwing “with a high trajectory,” and it is received with great applause. The trajectory turns out to be too high, and all his darts land in the wall above the door. Hassel throws with “calculation.” What he calculates it is not easy to understand. Not on hitting the target, apparently; but if his calculations have to do with the kitchen-door, then they are more successful. Whether Amundsen “calculates” or not makes very little difference; his are all misses in any case. Wisting’s form is the same. Prestrud is about halfway