The vegetation on this desolate continent struck me as quite limited. A few lichens of the species Usnea melanoxanthra sprawled over the black rocks. The whole meagre flora of this region consisted of certain microscopic buds, rudimentary diatoms made up of a type of cell positioned between two quartz-rich shells, plus long purple and crimson fucus plants, buoyed by small air bladders and washed up on the coast by the surf.
The beach was strewn with molluscs—small mussels, limpets, smooth heart-shaped cockles, and especially some sea butterflies with oblong, membrane-filled bodies whose heads are formed from two rounded lobes. I also saw myriads of those northernmost sea butterflies three centimetres long, which a baleen whale can swallow by the thousands in one gulp. The open waters at the shoreline were alive with these delightful pteropods, true butterflies of the sea.
Among other zoophytes present in these shallows, there were a few coral tree forms that, according to Sir James Clark Ross, live in these Antarctic seas at depths as great as one-thousand metres, then small alcyon coral belonging to the species Procellaria pelagica, also a large number of starfish unique to these climes, plus some feather stars spangling the sand.
But it was in the air that life was superabundant. There various species of birds flew and fluttered by the thousands, deafening us with their calls. Crowding the rocks, other fowl watched without fear as we passed and pressed familiarly against our feet. These were auks, as agile and supple in water, where they are sometimes mistaken for fast bonito, as they are clumsy and heavy on land. They uttered outlandish calls and participated in numerous public assemblies that featured much noise but little action.
Among other fowl I noted some sheathbills from the wading-bird family, the size of pigeons, white in colour, the beak short and conical, the eyes framed by red circles. Conseil laid in a supply of them, because when they’re properly cooked, these winged creatures make a pleasant dish. In the air there passed sooty albatross with four-metre wingspans, birds aptly dubbed ‘vultures of the ocean’, also gigantic petrels including several with arching wings, enthusiastic eaters of seal that are known as quebrantahuesos, and cape pigeons, a sort of small duck, the tops of their bodies black and white—in short, a whole series of petrels, some whitish with wings trimmed in brown, others blue and exclusive to these Antarctic seas, the former, “So oily,” I told Conseil, “that inhabitants of the Faroe Islands simply fit the bird with a wick, then light it up.”
“With that minor addition,” Conseil replied, “these fowl would make perfect lamps.
After this, we should insist that nature equip them with wicks in advance.”
Half a mile farther on, the ground was completely riddled with penguin nests, egg-laying burrows from which numerous birds emerged. Later Captain Nemo had hundreds of them hunted because their black flesh is highly edible. They brayed like donkeys. The size of a goose with slate-coloured bodies, white undersides, and lemon-coloured neck bands, these animals let themselves be stoned to death without making any effort to get away.
Meanwhile the mists didn’t clear, and by eleven o’clock the sun still hadn’t made an appearance. Its absence disturbed me. Without it, no sights were possible. Then how could we tell whether we had reached the pole?
When I rejoined Captain Nemo, I found him leaning silently against a piece of rock and staring at the sky. He seemed impatient, baffled. But what could we do? This daring and powerful man couldn’t control the sun as he did the sea.
Noon arrived without the orb of day appearing for a single instant. You couldn’t even find its hiding place behind the curtain of mist. And soon this mist began to condense into snow.
“Until tomorrow,” the captain said simply, and we went back to the Nautilus, amid flurries in the air.
During our absence the nets had been spread, and I observed with fascination the fish just hauled on board. The Antarctic seas serve as a refuge for an extremely large number of migratory fish that flee from storms in the subpolar zones, in truth only to slide down the gullets of porpoises and seals. I noted some one-decimetre southern bullhead, a species of whitish cartilaginous fish overrun with bluish grey stripes and armed with stings, then some Antarctic rabbitfish three feet long, the body very slender, the skin a smooth silver white, the head rounded, the topside furnished with three fins, the snout ending in a trunk that curved back towards the mouth. I sampled its flesh but found it tasteless, despite Conseil’s views, which were largely approving.
The blizzard lasted until the next day. It was impossible to stay on the platform. From the lounge, where I was writing up the incidents of this excursion to the polar continent, I could hear the calls of petrel and albatross cavorting in the midst of the turmoil. The Nautilus didn’t stay idle, and cruising along the coast, it advanced some ten miles farther south amid the half light left by the sun as it skimmed the edge of the horizon.
The next day, March 20, it stopped snowing. The cold was a little more brisk. The thermometer marked -2 degrees centigrade. The mist had cleared, and on that day I hoped our noon sights could be accomplished.
Since Captain Nemo hadn’t yet appeared, only Conseil and I were taken ashore by the skiff. The soil’s nature was still the same—volcanic. Traces of lava, slag, and basaltic rock were everywhere, but I couldn’t find the crater that had vomited them up. There as yonder, myriads of birds enlivened this part of the polar continent. But they had to share their dominion with huge herds of marine mammals that looked at us with gentle eyes. These were seals of various species, some stretched out on the ground, others lying on drifting ice floes, several leaving or reentering the sea. Having never dealt with man, they didn’t run off at our approach, and I counted enough of them thereabouts to provision a couple hundred ships.
“Ye gods,” Conseil said, “it’s fortunate that Ned Land didn’t come with us.”
The words weighed heavy on my heart, but I answered as lightly as I was able, “Why so, Conseil?”
“Because that madcap hunter would kill every animal here.”
“Every animal may be overstating it, but in truth I doubt we could keep our Canadian friend from harpooning some of these magnificent cetaceans. Which would be an affront to Captain Nemo, since he hates to slay harmless beasts needlessly.”
“He’s right.”
“Certainly, Conseil.” Talk of my absent lover depressed me, so I changed the subject by gesturing towards the creatures. “But tell me, haven’t you finished classifying these superb specimens of marine fauna?”
“Master is well aware,” Conseil replied, “that I’m not seasoned in practical application.
When master has told me these animals’ names…”
“They’re seals and walruses.”
It was eight o’clock in the morning. We had four hours to ourselves before the sun could be productively observed. I guided our steps towards a huge bay that made a crescent-shaped incision in the granite cliffs along the beach.
There, all about us, I swear that the shores and ice floes were crowded with marine mammals as far as the eye could see, and I involuntarily looked around for old Proteus, that mythological shepherd who guarded King Neptune’s immense flocks. To be specific, these were seals. They formed distinct male-and-female groups, the father watching over his family, the mother suckling her little ones, the stronger youngsters emancipated a few paces away. When these mammals wanted to relocate, they moved in little jumps made by contracting their bodies, clumsily helped by their imperfectly developed flippers, which, as with their manatee relatives, form actual forearms. In the water, their ideal element, I must say these animals swim wonderfully thanks to their flexible backbones, narrow pelvises, close-cropped hair, and webbed feet. Resting on shore, they assumed extremely graceful positions. Consequently, their gentle features, their sensitive expressions equal to those of the loveliest women, their soft, limpid eyes, their charming poses, led the ancients to glorify them by metamorphosing the males into sea gods and the females into mermaids.
I drew
Conseil’s attention to the considerable growth of the cerebral lobes found in these intelligent cetaceans. No mammal except man has more abundant cerebral matter.
Accordingly, seals are quite capable of being educated, they make good pets, and together with certain other naturalists, I think these animals can be properly trained to perform yeoman service as hunting dogs for fishermen.
Most of these seals were sleeping on the rocks or the sand. Among those properly termed seals—which have no external ears, unlike sea lions whose ears protrude—I observed several varieties of the species stenorhynchus, three metres long, with white hair, bulldog heads, and armed with ten teeth in each jaw, four incisors in both the upper and lower, plus two big canines shaped like the fleur-de-lis. Among them slithered some sea elephants, a type of seal with a short, flexible trunk—these are the giants of the species, with a circumference of twenty feet and a length of ten metres. They didn’t move as we approached.
“Are these animals dangerous?” Conseil asked me.
“Only if they’re attacked,” I replied. “But when these giant seals defend their little ones, their fury is dreadful, and it isn’t rare for them to smash a fisherman’s longboat to bits.”
“They’re within their rights,” Conseil answered.
“I don’t say nay.”
Two miles farther on, we were stopped by a promontory that screened the bay from southerly winds. It dropped straight down to the sea, and surf foamed against it. From beyond this ridge there came fearsome bellows, such as a herd of cattle might produce.
“Gracious,” Conseil put in, “a choir of bulls?”
“No,” I said, “a choir of walruses.”
“Are they fighting with each other?”
“Either fighting or playing.”
“With all due respect to master, this we must see.”
“Then see it we must, Conseil.”
And there we were, climbing these blackish rocks amid sudden landslides and over stones slippery with ice. More than once I took a tumble at the expense of my backside.
Conseil, more cautious or more stable, barely faltered and would help me up, saying, “If master’s legs would kindly adopt a wider stance, master will keep his balance.”
Arriving at the topmost ridge of this promontory, I could see vast white plains covered with walruses. These animals were playing among themselves. They were howling not in anger but in glee.
Walruses resemble seals in the shape of their bodies and the arrangement of their limbs.
But their lower jaws lack canines and incisors, and as for their upper canines, they consist of two tusks eighty centimetres long with a circumference of thirty-three centimetres at the socket. Made of solid ivory, without striations, harder than elephant tusks, and less prone to yellowing, these teeth are in great demand. Accordingly, walruses are the victims of a mindless hunting that soon will destroy them all, since their hunters indiscriminately slaughter pregnant females and youngsters, and over four-thousand individuals are destroyed annually.
Passing near these unusual animals, I could examine them at my leisure since they didn’t stir. Their hides were rough and heavy, a tan colour leaning towards a reddish brown, their coats were short and less than abundant. Some were four metres long. More tranquil and less fearful than their northern relatives, they posted no sentinels on guard duty at the approaches to their campsite.
After examining this community of walruses, I decided to return in my tracks. It was eleven o’clock, and if Captain Nemo found conditions favourable for taking his sights, I wanted to be present at the operation. But I held no hopes that the sun would make an appearance that day. It was hidden from our eyes by clouds squeezed together on the horizon. Apparently the jealous orb didn’t want to reveal this inaccessible spot on the globe to any human being.
Yet I decided to return to the Nautilus. We went along a steep, narrow path that ran over the cliff’s summit. By 11:30 we had arrived at our landing place. The beached skiff had brought the captain ashore. I spotted him standing on a chunk of basalt. His instruments were beside him. His eyes were focused on the northern horizon, along which the sun was sweeping in its extended arc.
I found a place near him and waited without speaking. Noon arrived, and just as on the day before, the sun didn’t put in an appearance.
It was sheer bad luck. Our noon sights were still lacking. If we couldn’t obtain them tomorrow, we would finally have to give up any hope of fixing our position.
In essence, it was precisely March 20. Tomorrow, the 21st, was the day of the equinox, the sun would disappear below the horizon for six months not counting refraction, and after its disappearance the long polar night would begin. Following the September equinox, the sun had emerged above the northerly horizon, rising in long spirals until December 21. At that time, the summer solstice of these southernmost districts, the sun had started back down, and tomorrow it would cast its last rays.
I shared my thoughts and fears with Captain Nemo.
“You’re right, Professor Aronnax,” he told me. “If I can’t take the sun’s altitude tomorrow, I won’t be able to try again for another six months. But precisely because sailors’
luck has led me into these seas on March 21, it will be easy to get our bearings if the noonday sun does appear before our eyes.”
“Why easy, Captain?”
“Because when the orb of day sweeps in such long spirals, it’s difficult to measure its exact altitude above the horizon, and our instruments are open to committing serious errors.”
“Then what can you do?”
“I use only my chronometer,” Captain Nemo answered me. “At noon tomorrow, March 21, if, after accounting for refraction, the sun’s disc is cut exactly in half by the northern horizon, that will mean I’m at the South Pole.”
“Right,” I said. “Nevertheless, it isn’t mathematically exact proof, because the equinox needn’t fall precisely at noon.”
“No doubt, sir, but the error will be under one-hundred metres, and that’s close enough for us. Until tomorrow then.”
Captain Nemo went back on board. Conseil and I stayed behind until five o’clock, surveying the beach, observing and studying. The only unusual object I picked up was an auk’s egg of remarkable size, for which a collector would have paid more than one-thousand francs. Its cream-coloured tint, plus the streaks and markings that decorated it like so many hieroglyphics, made it a rare trinket. I placed it in Conseil’s hands, and holding it like precious porcelain from China, that cautious, sure-footed lad got it back to the Nautilus in one piece.
There I put this rare egg inside one of the glass cases in the museum. I ate supper, feasting with appetite on an excellent piece of seal liver whose flavour reminded me of pork.
Then I went to bed, but not without praying, like a good Hindu, for the favours of the radiant orb.
The next day, March 21, bright and early at five o’clock in the morning, I climbed onto the platform. I found Captain Nemo there.
“The weather is clearing a bit,” he told me. “I have high hopes. After breakfast we’ll make our way ashore and choose an observation post.”
This issue settled, I went to find Ned Land. We’d barely seen each other for days, and I wanted to take him with me. The obstinate Canadian refused, and I could clearly see that his tight-lipped mood and his bad temper were growing by the day. He did his best to assure me that his feelings for me hadn’t changed, but he begged I leave him to himself, lest we argue needlessly. I was dismayed by his continued depression, but under the circumstances, I wasn’t sorry that he refused to join me ashore. In truth, there were too many seals there, and it would never do to expose this impulsive fisherman to such temptations.
Breakfast over, I made my way ashore. The Nautilus had gone a few more miles during the night. It lay well out, a good league from the coast, which was crowned by a sharp peak four-hundred to five-hundred metres high. In addition to me, the skiff carried Captain Nemo, two crewmen, and the i
nstruments—in other words, a chronometer, a spyglass, and a barometer.
During our crossing I saw numerous baleen whales belonging to the three species unique to these southernmost seas—the bowhead whale—or ‘right whale’, according to the English—which has no dorsal fin, the humpback whale from the genus Balaenoptera—in other words, ‘winged whales’—beasts with wrinkled bellies and huge whitish fins that, genus name regardless, do not yet form wings, and the finback whale, yellowish brown, the swiftest of all cetaceans. This powerful animal is audible from far away when it sends up towering spouts of air and steam that resemble swirls of smoke. Herds of these different mammals were playing about in the tranquil waters, and I could easily see that this Antarctic polar basin now served as a refuge for those cetaceans too relentlessly pursued by hunters.
I also noted long, whitish strings of salps, a type of mollusc found in clusters, and some jellyfish of large size that swayed in the eddies of the billows.
By nine o’clock we had pulled up to shore. The sky was growing brighter. Clouds were fleeing to the south. Mists were rising from the cold surface of the water. Captain Nemo headed towards the peak, which he no doubt planned to make his observatory. It was an arduous climb over sharp lava and pumice stones in the midst of air often reeking with sulphurous fumes from the smoke holes. For a man out of practice at treading land, the captain scaled the steepest slopes with a supple agility I couldn’t equal, and which would have been envied by hunters of Pyrenees mountain goats.
It took us two hours to reach the summit of this half-crystal, half-basalt peak. From there our eyes scanned a vast sea, which scrawled its boundary line firmly against the background of the northern sky. At our feet—dazzling tracts of white. Over our heads—a pale azure, clear of mists. North of us—the sun’s disc, like a ball of fire already cut into by the edge of the horizon. From the heart of the waters—jets of liquid rising like hundreds of magnificent bouquets. Far off, like a sleeping cetacean—the Nautilus. Behind us to the south and east, an immense shore, a chaotic heap of rocks and ice whose limits we couldn’t see.