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An Antarctic Mystery; or, The Sphinx of the Ice Fields: A Sequel to Edgar Allan Poe's The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym [MultiFormat]
eBook by Jules Vernes

eBook Category: Classic Literature/Fantasy
eBook Description: During his twilight years, the French author Jules Verne (1828-1905) wrote two original sequels to books that had fired his own youthful imagination but which he felt to be incomplete: Johann Wyss's "Swiss Family Robinson" and Edgar Allan Poe's "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket." "Arthur Gordon Pym" (1845) was only one of many Poe stories which Verne admired; no other single author had more impact on his writing. Verne acknowledged this debt in his only major piece of literary criticism, a detailed 1864 article entitled "Edgard [sic] Poe and His Work." Poe (1809-1849) was just emerging on the French literary scene in translation as Verne was writing his first plays and short stories. Verne was familiar with a broad range of Poe's works, the well-remembered stories as well as many that are obscure today. What is to be admired in Poe, Verne wrote, "are the novelties of his situations, the discussion of little-known facts, the observations of the unhealthy faculties of Mankind, the choice of subject-matter, the ever-strange personality of his characters, their nervous, sickly temperaments, their ways of expressing themselves by bizarre interjections. And yet, among all these improbabilities, exists at times a verisimilitude that grips the credulity of the reader." This edition features a new introduction by Verne scholar Brian Taves. The translation by Mrs. Cashel Hoy has been revised and corrected by science fiction writer John Gregory Betancourt.

eBook Publisher: Wildside Press, Published: USA, 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: October 2005


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Chapter I

The Kerguelen Islands

NO DOUBT THE following narrative will be received with entire incredulity, but I think it well that the public should be put in possession of the facts narrated in "An Antarctic Mystery." The public is free to believe them or not, at its good pleasure.

No more appropriate scene for the wonderful and terrible adventures which I am about to relate could be imagined than the Desolation Islands, so named in 1779 by Captain Cook. I lived there for several weeks, and I can affirm, on the evidence of my own eyes and my own experience, that the famous English explorer and navigator was happily inspired when he gave the islands that significant name.

Geographical nomenclature, however, insists on the more proper name of Kerguelen, which is generally adopted for the group which lies in 49 45' south latitude, and 69 6' east longitude. This is because Baron Kerguelen, a Frenchman, was the first to discover those islands in 1772 in the southern part of the Indian Ocean. Indeed, the commander of the squadron on that voyage believed that he had found a new continent on the limit of the Antarctic seas, but in the course of a second expedition he recognized his error. There was only an archipelago. I may be believed when I assert that Desolation Islands is the only suitable name for this group of three hundred isles or islets in the midst of the vast expanse of ocean, which is constantly disturbed by austral storms.

Nevertheless, the group is inhabited, and the number of Europeans and Americans who formed the nucleus of the Kerguelen population at the date of the 2nd of August, 1839 had been augmented for two months past by a unit in my person. Just then I was waiting for an opportunity to leave the place, having completed the geological and mineralogical studies which had brought me to the group in general and to Christmas Harbor in particular.

Christmas Harbor belongs to the most important islet of the archipelago, one that is about half as large as Corsica. It is safe and easy and free of access. Your ship may ride securely at single anchor in its waters while the bay remains free from ice.

The Kerguelens possess hundreds of other fjords. Their coasts are notched and ragged, especially in the parts between the north and the south-east, where little islets abound. The soil, of volcanic origin, is composed of quartz mixed with a bluish stone. In summer it is covered with green mosses, gray lichens, and various hardy plants, especially wild saxifrage. Only one edible plant grows there, a kind of cabbage not found anywhere else and very bitter of flavor. Great flocks of royal and other penguins people these islets, finding good lodging on their rocky and mossy surface. These stupid birds, in their yellow and white feathers, with their heads thrown back and their wings like the sleeves of a monastic habit, look, at a distance, like monks in single file walking in procession along the beach.

The islands afford refuge to numbers of sea-calves, seals, and sea-elephants. The taking of those amphibious animals either on land or from the sea is profitable and may lead to a trade which will bring a large number of vessels into these waters.

On the day already mentioned, I was accosted while strolling on the port by mine host of mine inn.

"Unless I'm much mistaken, time is beginning to weigh heavily on you, Mr. Jeorling?"

The speaker was a big tall American who kept the only inn on the port.

"If you won't be offended, Mr. Atkins, I will agree."

"Of course I won't be offended. I am as used to answers of that kind as the rocks of the Cape are to rollers."

"And you resist them equally well."

"Of course. From the day of your arrival at Christmas Harbor, when you came to the Green Cormorant, I said to myself that in a fortnight, if not in a week, you would have enough of it and would be sorry you had landed in the Kerguelens."

"No, indeed, Mr. Atkins; I never regret anything I have done."

"That's a good habit, sir."

"Besides, my researches have proved valuable. I have crossed the rolling plains, covered with hard stringy mosses, and I shall take away curious mineralogical and geological specimens with me. I have gone sealing and taken sea-calves with your people. I have visited the rookeries where the penguin and the albatross live together in good fellowship, and that was well worth my while. You have given me now and again a dish of petrel, seasoned by your own hand, and very acceptable when one has a fine healthy appetite. I have found a friendly welcome at the Green Cormorant, and I am very much obliged to you. But, if I am right in my reckoning, it is two months since the Chilian two-master Penăs set me down at Christmas Harbor in mid-winter."

"And you want to return to your own country, Mr. Jeorling; to return home."

"Doubtless, Mr. Atkins, for I have been a globe-trotter for close upon three years. One must come to a stop and take root at some time."

"Yes, and when one has taken root, one puts out branches."

"Just so, Mr. Atkins. However, as I have no relations living, it is likely that I shall be the last of my line. I am not likely to take a fancy for marrying at forty."

"Well, well, that is a matter of taste. Fifteen years ago I settled down comfortably at Christmas Harbor with my Betsy; she has presented me with ten children, who in their turn will present me with grandchildren."

"You will not return to the old country?"

"What should I do there, Mr. Jeorling, and what could I ever have done there? There was nothing before me but poverty. Here, on the contrary, in these Islands of Desolation, where I have no reason to feel desolate, ease and competence have come to me and mine!"

"No doubt, and I congratulate you, Mr. Atkins, for you are clearly a happy man. Nevertheless the fancy may take you some day--"

Mr. Arkins gave a vigorous and convincing shake of his head. It was very pleasant to hear this worthy American talk. He was completely acclimatized on his archipelago, and to the conditions of life here. He lived with his family as the penguins lived in their rookeries. His wife was a "valiant" woman of the Scriptural type, his sons were strong, hardy fellows, who did not know what sickness meant. His business was prosperous. The Green Cormorant had the custom of all the ships, whalers and others, that put in at Kerguelen. Atkins supplied them with everything they required, and no second inn existed at Christmas Harbor to complete with his business. His sons were carpenters, sailmakers, and fishers, and they hunted the amphibians in all the creeks during the hot season. In short, this was a family of honest folk who fulfilled their destiny without much difficulty.

"Once more, Mr. Atkins, let me assure you," I resumed, "I am delighted to have come to Kerguelen. I shall always remember the islands kindly. Nevertheless, I should not be sorry to find myself at sea again."

"Come, Mr. Jeorling, you must have a little patience," said the philosopher, "you must not forget that the fine days will soon be here. In five or six weeks--"

"Yes, and in the meantime, the hills and the plains, the rocks and the shores will be covered thick with snow, and the sun will not have strength to dispel the mists on the horizon."

"Now, there you are again, Mr. Jeorling! Why, the wild grass is already peeping through the white sheet! Just look!"

"Yes, with a magnifying glass! Between ourselves, Arkins, could you venture to pretend that your bays are not still ice-locked in this month of August, which is the February of our northern hemisphere?"

"I acknowledge that, Mr. Jeorling. But again I say have patience! The winter has been mild this year. The ships will soon show up, in the east or in the west, for the fishing season is near."

"May Heaven hear you, Atkins, and guide the Halbrane safely into port."

"Captain Len Guy? Ah, he's a good sailor, although he's English--there are good people everywhere--and he takes in his supplies at the Green Cormorant."

"You think the Halbrane--"

"Will be signaled before a week, Mr. Jeorling, or, if not, it will be because there is no longer a Captain Len Guy; and if there is no longer a Captain Len Guy, it is because the Halbrane has sunk in full sail between the Kerguelens and the Cape of Good Hope."

Thereupon Mr. Atkins walked away, with a scornful gesture, indicating that such an eventuality was out of all probability.

My intention was to take my passage on board the Halbrane so soon as she should come to her moorings in Christmas Harbor. After a rest of six or seven days, she would set sail again for Tristan d'Acunha, where she was to discharge her cargo of tin and copper. I meant to stay on that island for a few weeks of the fine season, and from thence set out for Connecticut. Nevertheless, I did not fail to take into due account the share that belongs to chance in human affairs, for it is wise, as Edgar Poe has said, always "to reckon with the unforeseen, the unexpected, the inconceivable, which have a very large share (in those affairs), and chance ought always to be a matter of strict calculation."

Each day I walked about the port and its neighborhood. The sun was growing strong. The rocks were emerging by degrees from their winter clothing of snow; moss of a wine-like color was springing up on the basalt cliffs; strips of seaweed fifty yards long were floating on the sea; and on the plain the lyella, which is of Andean origin, was pushing up its little points; and the only leguminous plant of the region, that gigantic cabbage already mentioned, valuable for its anti-scorbutic properties, was making its appearance.

I had not come across a single land mammal--sea mammals swarm in these waters--nor even animals of the batrachian or reptilian kinds. A few insects only--butterflies or others--and even these did not fly, for before they could use their wings, the atmospheric currents carried the tiny bodies away to the surface of the rolling waves.

"And the Halbrane?" I used to say to Atkins each morning.

"The Halbrane, Mr. Jeorling," he would reply with complacent assurance, "will surely come into port today, or, if not today, tomorrow."

In my rambles on the shore, I frequently routed a crowd of amphibians, sending them plunging into the newly released waters. The penguins, heavy and impassive creatures, did not disappear at my approach; they took no notice; but the black petrels, the puffins, black and white, the grebes and others, spread their wings at sight of me.

One day I witnessed the departure of an albatross, saluted by the very best croaks of the penguins, no doubt as a friend whom they were to see no more. Those powerful birds can fly for two hundred leagues without resting for a moment, and with such rapidity that they sweep through vast spaces in a few hours. The departing albatross sat motionless upon a high rock, at the end of the bay of Christmas Harbor, looking at the waves as they dashed violently against the beach.

Suddenly, the bird rose with a great sweep into the air, its claws folded beneath it, its head stretched out like the prow of a ship, uttering its shrill cry. A few moments later, it was reduced to a black speck in the vast height and disappeared behind the misty curtain of the south.


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