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Updated: May 15, 2025
One feels "the dearth of human words, the roughness of mortal speech" in trying to describe things intangible, but a record of our journeys would be incomplete without a reference to a subject very near to our hearts. Our first night at the whaling-station was blissful. Crean and I shared a beautiful room in Mr. Sorlle's house, with electric light and two beds, warm and soft.
"I know your voice," he replied doubtfully. "You're the mate of the Daisy." "My name is Shackleton," I said. Immediately he put out his hand and said, "Come in. Come in." "Tell me, when was the war over?" I asked. "The war is not over," he answered. "Millions are being killed. Europe is mad. The world is mad." Mr. Sorlle's hospitality had no bounds.
He gave us coffee and cakes in the Norwegian fashion, and then showed us upstairs to the bathroom, where we shed our rags and scrubbed ourselves luxuriously. Mr. Sorlle's kindness did not end with his personal care for the three wayfarers who had come to his door.
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