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Page 15
"Yes," I thought, "and it just made my brandy sink pretty fast in my
bottle and down your throat." I was amused at his comments, and at
another time might have listened longer to his talk; but now I must be
making some arrangement with Doctor Bainbridge regarding a possible
interview with Peters; so I said to Arthur that he might take the volume
of Poe and keep it for two or three days, which offer he gladly
accepted; and with an involuntary wandering of the eye toward the brandy
bottle, he left the room.
Then Bainbridge and I seated ourselves, and I described the late scene
in Dirk Peters' room, repeating almost word for word all that had been
said. He pondered for a few minutes, during which I could see that his
versatile imagination was in active play. Then he said,
"Well, we have him! My, my, what a discovery! This will be like reaching
across the decrees of death and taking by the hand dear Poe himself! But
you were hasty--as I myself might have been. Well, we must see
Castleton--that is, you must--and get his consent for us to go right out
and stay with Peters, if necessary for a night and a day, or even
longer. We can take care of the poor old fellow, and watch our
opportunity to glean from him the facts of that strange voyage, onward
from the moment when, borne on that swift ocean current, he and Pym were
rushed into the mystery that opened to receive them, as the
white-shrouded figure arose in their pathway. 'Fire'--'salt'--'ice,'
said he? I begin almost--almost to understand! Did you ever, in England,
hear of the Peruvian tradition of an antarctic country, warm and
delightful, peopled by a civilized--or rather by a highly enlightened
and very mysterious race of whites? Such a tradition exists. Now, one
day in New York, about three years ago, I allowed myself a holiday, as
was my custom from time to time after a period of severe study. On the
day I speak of I entered the Astor Library, and was permitted to wander
at my pleasure among the books. I carried in my hand one of the small
camp-stools which stood around the room, and whenever I found a book
that particularly interested me, I would sit down and look it over. You
understand, I was dissipating in this great treasure-house of books.
About the middle of the afternoon I found myself in one of the most
unfrequented of the library alcoves. There, on a shelf so high that I
could just see over its edge as I stood on one of the library
step-ladders, I found a strange little book, purporting to have been
written in 1594. It had fallen down behind the other books. It had a
leather back, well-worn; I saw that it was a 1728 Leipsic publication;
and possibly came to the Astor Library by presentation from its wise and
liberal founder's private library--though this is pure surmise. The book
read much like other tales of the time, so far as its form went. I sat
down to look at it--and I did not arise until I had read it to its end,
some three hours later. I had not read two pages before I became
satisfied that the book had more truth than fiction in it. To have
assumed it wholly the work of imagination, I should have had to admit
that the author was an artist of artists, exceeding, through his
artfulness, in naturalness, all other fiction-writers. No; there was
truth behind the statements in the little book--truth at second or third
hand, but truth. Now this little book pretended to tell, and I believe
did tell, the story of a sailor under Sir Francis Drake, who accompanied
this English navigator on his 1577-1580 voyage. You will recall, as a
matter of history, that, in the voyage mentioned, Sir Francis crossed
the Atlantic, passed the Strait of Magellan, crossed the Pacific, and
returned to England by way of the Cape of Good Hope. Now during this
three-year voyage, the story is that he once lost his 'bearings' for a
month; in fact, it is intimated that a hiatus of two months in his 'log'
really did exist. This hiatus, however, could easily have been covered
in the ship's log-book. We may conceive of reasons for which he might
have preferred to keep a temporary silence concerning the discovery of a
strange people, in those early, savage times. The little book said,
that, when in the Pacific, after passing the strait, Sir Francis was for
two weeks driven in a southerly course--a severe, and in every way most
unusual storm prevailing. When the winds and the waves subsided, he was
surprised to find himself looking into the mouth of a harbor, on the
shores of which stood a city, by no means so large as London or even as
Paris; but exceeding in grandeur the London or the Paris of that day, as
the Paris of to-day exceeds in elegance the comparative squalor of the
Paris of three centuries ago. According to the leather-covered little
German book, the city was beautiful beyond comparison with any of the
European cities of that period. I should suppose that the author thought
of it as we do of Athens in the days of Pericles. Not much is said of
the inhabitants, who were probably infinitely superior, socially, to the
rough voyagers of that date. And for once the 'natives' were neither
bullied nor 'converted,' Sir Francis departing no richer than he
arrived, save for a few commercially valueless gifts. One thing the
natives, it seems, insisted on: Sir Francis arrived in the city without
knowing his longitude; and they compelled him on leaving to accept
conditions that prevented him from finding his bearings till he was more
than a thousand miles away. What the nature of the climate was in this
strange city may be judged by the expressions employed in the little
book, which, translated, were equivalent to 'perfect,' 'Eden-like,'
'balmy,' 'delicious.' Once the author compares this antarctic city to
Venice--admittedly to the Venice of his imagination. No; Sir Francis had
nothing to brag of in this adventure; and in those days when to be
physically subdued, or in a contest to fail to subdue others, was a
humiliation or even a disgrace, he would have kept very quiet about the
whole affair; particularly as a future navigator could not have found
the city, even had Sir Francis told all that he knew. Now I mention
these reports only to show you that others have thought of warm
antarctic lands; and I could refer you to many other old stories and
traditions, highly suggestive of inhabited lands in the Antarctic Ocean,
on which lands a refined people dwell. I certainly expect to learn from
Peters facts of some importance to the world, if only he does not die,
or is not so delirious as to throw a shadow on the verity of his story,
even if he does disclose the wonders which I most assuredly believe that
he will if he lives but another day. Really, I am, for the first time in
years, excited. How Castleton keeps so cool and so apparently
indifferent over this matter, when he is always excited over what seem
to me to be comparative nothings, I cannot comprehend. Now, sir, you
hunt him up again--he will no doubt be in his office across the street.
Get his consent, as I before suggested--Castleton is always obliging
when you appeal to him directly; then take your supper, and be ready. I
will be here at eight o'clock with my horse and a piano-box buggy. It
will be a beautiful moonlight night, and let us not risk waiting until
to-morrow. We will take with us some ice; also wine, beef extract, and a
few other things intended to sustain the poor old fellow's vitality--at
least till his story is told. We must go prepared to remain for
twenty-four hours, or even for thirty-six hours if necessary; so have
your overcoat ready, and I will find a couple of blankets in case we
have to lie down. Good-by till eight."
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