She no longer looked toward me; I saw her ascending higher and higher; she reached the glowing gates; she was about to disappear behind a cloud.… Then a much-whiter light dazzled me and when the cloud parted, I saw angels. Ellis was in their midst, but I could not recognize her; each angel, with upraised arms, was shaking what I had mistaken for the aurora—a curtain that had again been lowered in front of immortal flashes of light; each flame was a veil through which shone the Light. Great flashes escaped through the fringes—but when the angels pulled aside the curtain, such a cry rent the skies that I covered my eyes with my hand and fell prostrate with terror.

When I arose again, night had closed in once more; in the distance I heard the voice of the sea. When I returned to the huts, I found my companions still asleep; I lay down near them, overcome by sleep.

Journey toward the pole. The excessive whiteness of things produces a strange glow; they are bathed in radiance. The wind blows furiously, and the snow, lifted up and driven by the wind, scatters, piles up, whirls, undulates, furls as cloth or human hair. One obstacle after another along the route made our journey very slow; we had to cut our way through the ice, chiseling stairs as we advanced. I do not wish to speak of our labors; they were so painful, so hard that I would seem to be complaining if I merely recounted them. Nor do I wish to speak of either the cold or our suffering; it would be ridiculous to say, “We suffered terribly,” for our suffering was immeasurably greater than anything these words might suggest. I would never succeed in conveying through words the supreme bitterness of our suffering; I would never be able to explain how the very acridity of our suffering gave birth to something resembling joy, pride; nor the rabid bite of the cold.

Far to the north towered a strange rampart of ice; an enormous and prismatic block stood there like a wall. Leading up to it was a deep ravine into which spilled a whirling mass of snow, driven perhaps by an unwavering wind. Without the ropes that linked us to each other, we would have been buried in the snow. Soon we were so tired of walking through the storm that, in spite of the danger of lying down on the snow, we stretched out to sleep. We took shelter behind a big block of ice; the wind blew the snow overhead; the wall formed a grotto. We were lying on the bed of the sled and on the skin of the slaughtered reindeer.

While the other six were sleeping, I went out alone from the grotto to see if it had stopped snowing. Through the shroud of snow I thought I saw Ellis, pensive near a white rock. She seemed not to see me; she was looking toward the pole; her hair was loose, and the wind was blowing it across her face. I dared not speak to her because she seemed so sad, and I doubted that it was she. And as I was unable to be sad and to finish the voyage at the same time, I left her and went back to sleep.

The snow is now flying over our heads because of the very violence of the wind. We are at the foot of a great wall. A strange passageway leads there. The wall, as smooth as a mirror and as transparent as crystal is depressed at the end of the passageway. One spot where no snow has fallen is also transparent. Bending under the weight of our presentiments, we read these two words, written on the wall as if by a diamond on glass and reminiscent of a voice from the grave:

HIC DESPERATVS

and then a blurred date.

And under these words we saw, after we had fallen on our knees in a common gesture—we saw a corpse lying inside the transparent ice. Settling all around him, the ice had entombed him, and the intense cold inside his sepulcher had prevented decomposition. His features betrayed frightful fatigue. He held a paper in his hand.

We felt that we had come almost to the end of our voyage; we still felt strong enough, however, to climb down the frozen wall, suspecting all the while that our goal lay beyond but not knowing for sure. And now that we had done everything possible to reach it, we found it almost futile to persevere. Before this unknown tomb we remained still on our knees impassive, unreflective, for we had reached the point where compassion turns to self-pity and where sadness must be ignored if strength is to be conserved. The heart is emboldened only through induration.