The Midnight Circus, стр. 15
“Itwas shortly before Christmas when we made our farewells to the summitparty. Scott had chosen Oates, Wilson, Bowers, and Evans. I admit thatI was both desolated and relieved at not being part of that group. Asense of foreboding hung over us all as we watched them disappearinto the blank emptiness of the interior, but at the time we attributedit to our fear that it might already be too late to beat the Norwegiansto our goal.”
“Asit was” I said.
“Asit was,” he conceded before continuing. “I returned toCape Evans where I took command of our base there. The daily routinekept us sane while we waited. But as the weeks went by, we becameincreasingly anxious about the fate of the summit party. Twice weprobed as far south as we dared in the face of biting blizzards, butfound no sign of them. Then the Antarctic night set in, and we could donothing but wait through the long months of a ferocious winter.”
Almostunconsciously I shivered, thinking of that place of cold comfort. Orperhaps it was that a midnight draught had come through the bedroomcurtains, for the windows overlooked the bay and took the full brunt ofthe weather. But my tremor passed unnoticed by Atkinson, wrapped up ashe was in his story.
“Atlast,” he said, ‘‘the sun returned and conditions eased enough for usto set out on a proper search. It was now almost ten months since wehad watched Scott and the others disappear into the frigid waste, andwe held out no hope at all of their survival. Yet it was still a bitterblow when we sighted their tent drifted up with snow. I was not alonein my melancholy. I saw tears in the eyes of the others as we trudgedtoward that lonely shelter.” His hands sketched the tent as he spoke.
“Iordered camp to be made a little way off while the tent was dug out. Iwas the first to enter. Of the five members of the Polar expeditiononly three had even made it this far. Two of them were fully wrapped intheir sleeping bags, so that it was necessary to unfasten the bags toidentify them. I could scarcely bear to look upon their frozenfaces.” His good eye closed again but this time the dead one keptstaring up, as if gazing on the cold, wasted past.
“Doyou wish to rest a moment?” I asked, worried that he had tired himselfto no good end. But he once again waved an impatient hand.
“Letme finish,” he said. “Let it all be finished.” And then, as ifmy very interruption lent him strength, he returned to his tale.
“Dr.Wilson—whose artistic skills have left such striking images of thepolar landscape—lay with his hands across his chest. He looked asthough he had merely fallen asleep. Stocky little Bowers, his feetpointed to the door, also appeared to have passed away without pain. Ichecked them carefully, leaving Scott ’til the very last. But in truthI was months too late to offer them succor. This was a tomb, and wewere the grave robbers. I was careful not to disturb the dead more thanI had to, simply ascertaining the manner of their deaths.
“Betweenthem lay our brave commander. He had thrown back the flaps of hissleeping bag and opened his coat, as if inviting the hostile elementsto take him. His left hand was touching Wilson’s arm, his right wasacross his own chest. Beneath the fingers of that hand, I saw anenvelope. It was kept separate from the other letters that were laidout on a ground sheet nearby. The name inscribed on the envelope was myown.”
“Ah,”I said and, all unthinking, took a sip of the brandy. But myexhalation did nothing to stop the flow of Atkinson’s story. He wenton.
“GentlyI pulled the envelope loose of the frozen body. Some indefinableinstinct prompted me to conceal it in my pocket before I invited theothers to enter—one by one—and bear witness to that tragic scene. Wehad been comradesto these dear, dead men. It was mere chance that they—and not we—hadmet eternity in this cold place. I left the others to their ownthoughts, and retired to a spot well away from that awful tent, where Imight open the envelope Scott had left for me and read the many pageshe had written at the end without the others seeing me weep.”
Atthis point Atkinson ceased his narrative and moved his hand stiffly toreach under the pillow behind him. He pulled out a fat envelope but hadnot the strength left to pass the thing on to me. I understood hisintention and picked it up from the quilt where it had dropped from hisenfeebled fingers. The envelope had yellowed, but the name EdwardAtkinson could still be clearly discerned. The flap was open, butfor some reason I hesitated to remove the contents.
“Youmust read it,” Atkinson croaked, “otherwise you will havewasted your time—and mine also, which is considerably more precious,there being so much less of it.” In spite of his bristling tone, he hadclearly exhausted himself by relating his lengthy tale.
Ipulled out Scott’s letter and began to read it aloud, so Atkinson wouldknow I was bowing to his will. Hearing my voice speaking what wereobviously familiar words, he closed his eyes, but I do not think heslept.
Mydear Atkinson, (the letter said)
Wordscannot express my heaviness of heart over subjecting you to thisextra burden when you have just found usin this sad condition. But I have no choice in the matter. Indeed thechoice was made for me in London five years ago.
Asthe wind howls outside the tent, and the men lie dead by my side, Iknow the time has come for me to tell you all. I have long wrestledwith this decision, wondering how great a disservice I do you. I evenwondered for a while whether I was making my decision with a clearmind. The bleak desolation of Antarctica induces a singular state ofconsciousness quite different from that of ordinary life. One’spriorities are shifted, attitudes are altered in a way that isimperceptible even to oneself, until one returns at