The quarters for officers and men are fairly good--palatial, as comfort is measured on a sealer. The Commandant has a neat little room behind the mizzenmast, opposite to the kitchen. It is carpeted, nicely furnished, and the walls are artistically bedecked by old Dutch sketches, some paintings, and many photographs of polar scenes. We are so pressed for space, that we are told even this room will be partly filled with coal at Punta Arenas. The cabin is well aft; like the laboratory, the Commandant’s room, and the kitchen, it is on deck. As we enter, to the right of the engines are the berths of the Captain and the mates, where they have the soot, steam, and smoke of the engine-room to impress upon them the importance of their work, while the noise is such that prolonged sleep is impossible. The cabin is small, but full of comfort. It is as if eight men stood up around a small table, and a box were built around them, the corners and walls and ceiling being lined with books and instruments. It is not a very joyful place in the tropics, but when an endless sea of ice surrounds us, and the wind is blowing, and the decks are covered with snow, then, with steaming food on the table, we shall find its true value. A door through the left of the cabin opens into an aisle, to the side of which are the four berths where the devotees of science sleep. The sides are thoughtfully lined with lockers, but every nook, the beds, the ceiling, and at times even the floor, is covered with clothing, instruments and books. After a storm it is a sad rivalry in hopeless entanglement. The forecastle occupies the space between decks from the foremast to the stem. It is large, light, and, compared with the officers’ quarters, extremely comfortable. We speak French in the cabin, German and French in the laboratory, and a mixture of English, Norwegian, French, and German in the forecastle. The life and order on board of the _Belgica_ is that of a well-regulated family. Each man has his duties to perform, but he will also be expected to lend a brotherly hand to his companions as occasion may require. On clear evenings the music-box is often brought up on deck, and as the familiar tunes bound out into the strangely clear atmosphere, some sing, others dance; some walk about, and still others play games. The scene is truly melancholy upon reflection. We are going farther and farther away from home to the most desolate and forbidding part of the known or the unknown world. Our return is uncertain, our future is dark; but we have set out with this knowledge before us, and now it is our duty to aid in keeping up the general family cheerfulness. Whatever else may be our future success or failure, our domestic comforts are assured. When we assemble on deck after dinner, with the music to draw out a general feeling of well-being, a generous and unanimous air of joy rises with the ascending dew of the setting sun of the South Atlantic. CHAPTER V