"Thursday, January 18th. The wind that began yesterday has gone on

blowing all to-day with a velocity of 16 to 19 feet per second, from

S.S.E., S.E., and E.S.E. It has no doubt helped us on a good way north;

but it seems to be going down; now, about midnight, it has sunk to

4 metres; and the barometer, which has been rising all the time, has

suddenly begun to fall; let us hope that it is not a cyclone passing

over us, bringing northerly wind. It is curious that there is almost

always a rise of the thermometer with these stronger winds; to-day it

rose to 13° Fahr. below zero (-25° C). A south wind of less velocity

generally lowers the temperature, and a moderate north wind raises

it. Payer's explanation of this raising of the temperature by strong

winds is that the wind is warmed by passing over large openings in

the ice. This can hardly be correct, at any rate in our case, for

we have few or no openings. I am rather inclined to believe that the

rise is produced by air from higher strata being brought down to the

surface of the earth. It is certain that the higher air is warmer

than the lower, which comes into contact with snow and ice surfaces

cooled by radiation. Our observations go to prove that such is the

case. Add to this that the air in its fall is heated by the rising

pressure. A strong wind, even if it does not come from the higher

strata of the atmosphere, must necessarily make some confusion in the

mutual position of the various strata, mixing the higher with those

below them, and vice versa.

"I had a strange dream last night. I had got home. I can still feel

something of the trembling joy, mixed with fear, with which I neared

land and the first telegraph station. I had carried out my plan;

we had reached the North Pole on sledges, and then got down to Franz

Josef Land. I had seen nothing but drift-ice; and when people asked

what it was like up there, and how we knew we had been to the Pole, I

had no answer to give; I had forgotten to take accurate observations,

and now began to feel that this had been stupid of me. It is very

curious that I had an exactly similar dream when we were drifting on

the ice-floes along the east coast of Greenland, and thought that we

were being carried farther and farther from our destination. Then

I dreamed that I had reached home after crossing Greenland on the

ice; but that I was ashamed because I could give no account of what

I had seen on the way--I had forgotten everything. Is there not a

lucky omen in the resemblance between these two dreams? I attained

my aim the first time, bad as things looked; shall I not do so this

time too? If I were superstitious I should feel surer of it; but,

even though I am not at all superstitious, I have a firm conviction

that our enterprise must be successful. This belief is not merely the

result of the last two days' south wind; something within me says that

we shall succeed. I laugh now at myself for having been weak enough to

doubt it. I can spend hours staring into the light, dreaming of how,

when we land, I shall grope my way to the first telegraph station,

trembling with emotion and suspense. I write out telegram after

telegram; I ask the clerk if he can give me any news from home.

"Friday, January 19th. Splendid wind, with velocity of 13 to 19

feet per second; we are going north at a grand rate. The red,

glowing twilight is now so bright about midday that if we were in

more southern latitudes we should expect to see the sun rise bright

and glorious above the horizon in a few minutes; but we shall have

to wait a month yet for that.

"Saturday, January 20th. I had about 600 pounds of pemmican and 200

pounds of bread brought up from the hold to-day and stowed on the

forecastle. It is wrong not to have some provisions on deck against

any sudden emergency, such as fire.

"Sunday, January 21st. We took a long excursion to the northwest;

the ice in that direction, too, was tolerably flat. Sverdrup and

I got on the top of a high-pressure mound at some distance from

here. It was in the centre of what had been very violent packing,

but, all the same, the wall at its highest was not over 17 feet,

and this was one of the highest and biggest altogether that I have

seen yet. An altitude of the moon taken this evening showed us to

be in 79° 35' north latitude--exactly what I had thought. We are so

accustomed now to calculating our drift by the wind that we are able

to tell pretty nearly where we are. This is a good step northward,

if we could take many more such. In honor of the King's birthday we

have a treat of figs, raisins, and almonds.

"Tuesday, January 23d. When I came on deck this morning 'Caiaphas'

was sitting out on the ice on the port quarter, barking incessantly

to the east. I knew there must be something there, and went off with

a revolver, Sverdrup following with one also. When I got near the dog

he came to meet me, always wriggling his head round to the east and

barking; then he ran on before us in that direction; it was plain that

there was some animal there, and of course it could only be a bear. The

full moon stood low and red in the north, and sent its feeble light

obliquely across the broken ice-surface. I looked out sharply in all

directions over the hummocks, which cast long, many-shaped shadows; but

I could distinguish nothing in this confusion. We went on, 'Caiaphas'

first, growling and barking and pricking his ears, and I after him,

expecting every moment to see a bear loom up in front of us. Our

course was eastward along the opening. The dog presently began to go

more cautiously and straighter forward; then he stopped making any

noise except a low growl--we were evidently drawing near. I mounted

a hummock to look about, and caught sight among the blocks of ice of

something dark, which seemed to be coming towards us. 'There comes a

black dog,' I called. 'No, it is a bear,' said Sverdrup, who was more

to the side of it and could see better. I saw now, too, that it was a

large animal, and that it had only been its head that I had taken for

a dog. It was not unlike a bear in its movements, but it seemed to me

remarkably dark in color. I pulled the revolver out of the holster and

rushed forward to empty all its barrels into the creature's head. When

I was just a few paces from it, and preparing to shoot, it raised its

head and I saw that it was a walrus, and that same moment it threw

itself sideways into the water. There we stood. To shoot at such a

fellow with a revolver would be of as much use as squirting water at

a goose. The great black head showed again immediately in a strip

of moonlight on the dark water. The animal took a long look at us,

disappeared for a little, appeared again nearer, bobbed up and down,

blew, lay with its head under water, shoved itself over towards us,

raised its head again. It was enough to drive one mad; if we had only

had a harpoon I could easily have stuck it into its back. Yes, if we

had had--and back to the Fram we ran as fast as our legs would carry

us to get harpoon and rifle. But the harpoon and line were stored

away, and were not to be had at once. Who could have guessed that

they would be needed here? The harpoon point had to be sharpened,

and all this took time. And for all our searching afterwards east and

west along the opening, no walrus was to be found. Goodness knows

where it had gone, as there are hardly any openings in the ice for

a long distance round. Sverdrup and I vainly fret over not having

known at once what kind of animal it was, for if we had only guessed

we should have him now. But who expects to meet a walrus on close ice

in the middle of a wild sea of a thousand fathoms depth, and that in

the heart of winter? None of us ever heard of such a thing before; it

is a perfect mystery. As I thought we might have come upon shoals or

into the neighborhood of land, I had soundings taken in the afternoon

with 130 fathoms (240 metres) of line, but no bottom was found.

"By yesterday's observations we are in 79° 41' north latitude and 135°

29' east longitude. That is good progress north, and it does not much

matter that we have been taken a little west. The clouds are driving

this evening before a strong south wind, so we shall likely be going

before it soon too; in the meantime there is a breeze from the south

so slight that you hardly feel it.

"The opening on our stern lies almost east and west. We could see

no end to it westward when we went after the walrus; and Mogstad and

Peter had gone three miles east, and it was as broad as ever there.

"Wednesday, January 24th. At supper this evening Peter told some of his

remarkable Spitzbergen stories--about his comrade Andreas Bek. 'Well,

you see, it was up about Dutchman's Island, or Amsterdam Island, that

Andreas Bek and I were on shore and got in among all the graves. We

thought we'd like to see what was in them, so we broke up some of

the coffins, and there they lay. Some of them had still flesh on

their jaws and noses, and some of them still had their caps on their

heads. Andreas, he was a devil of a fellow, you see, and he broke up

the coffins and got hold of the skulls, and rolled them about here

and there. Some of them he set up for targets and shot at. Then he

wanted to see if there was marrow left in their bones, so he took

and broke a thigh-bone--and, sure enough, there was marrow; he took

and picked it out with a wooden pin.'

"'How could he do a thing like that?'

"'Oh, it was only a Dutchman, you know. But he had a bad dream that

night, had Andreas. All the dead men came to fetch him, and he ran

from them and got right out on the bowsprit, and there he sat and

yelled, while the dead men stood on the forecastle. And the one with

his broken thigh-bone in his hand was foremost, and he came crawling

out, and wanted Andreas to put it together again. But just then he

wakened. We were lying in the same berth, you see, Andreas and me,

and I sat up in the berth and laughed, listening to him yelling. I

wouldn't waken him, not I. I thought it was fun to hear him getting

paid out a little.'

"'It was bad of you, Peter, to have any part in that horrid plundering

of dead bodies.'

"'Oh, I never did anything to them, you know. Just once I broke up a

coffin to get wood to make a fire for our coffee; but when we opened

it the body just fell to pieces. But it was juicy wood, that, better

to burn than the best fir-roots--such a fire as it made!'

"One of the others now remarked, 'Wasn't it the devil that used a

skull for his coffee-cup?'

"'Well, he hadn't anything else, you see, and he just happened to

find one. There was no harm in that, was there?'

"Then Jacobsen began to hold forth: 'It's not at all such an uncommon

thing to use skulls for shooting at, either because people fancy them

for targets, or because of some other reason; they shoot in through

the eyeholes,' etc., etc.

"I asked Peter about 'Tobiesen's' coffin--if it had ever been dug up

to find out if it was true that his men had killed him and his son.

"'No, that one has never been dug up.'

"'I sailed past there last year,' begins Jacobsen again; 'I didn't

go ashore, but it seems to me that I heard that it had been dug up.'

"'That's just rubbish; it has never been dug up.'

"'Well,' said I, 'it seems to me that I've heard something about it

too; I believe it was here on board, and I am very much mistaken if

it was not yourself that said it, Peter.'

"'No, I never said that. All I said was that a man once struck a

walrus-spear through the coffin, and it's sticking there yet.'

"'What did he do that for?'

"'Oh, just because he wanted to know if there was anything in the

coffin; and yet he didn't want to open it, you know. But let him lie

in peace now.'"

"Friday January 26th. Peter and I went eastward along the opening this

morning for about seven miles, and we saw where it ends, in some old

pressure-ridges; its whole length is over seven miles. Movement in the

ice began on our way home; indeed, there was pretty strong pressure

all the time. As we were walking on the new ice in the opening it

rose in furrows or cracked under our feet. Then it raised itself up

into two high walls, between which we walked as if along a street,

amidst unceasing noises, sometimes howling and whining like a dog

complaining of the cold, sometimes a roar like the thunder of a great

waterfall. We were often obliged to take refuge on the old ice, either

because we came to open water with a confusion of floating blocks, or

because the line of the packing had gone straight across the opening,

and there was a wall in front of us like a high frozen wave. It seemed

as if the ice on the south side of the opening where the Fram is lying

were moving east, or else that on the north side was moving west;

for the floes on the two sides slanted in towards each other in these

directions. We saw tracks of a little bear which had trotted along

the opening the day before. Unfortunately it had gone off southwest,

and we had small hope, with this steady south wind, of its getting

scent of the ship and coming to fetch a little of the flesh on board.

"Saturday, January 27th. The days are turning distinctly lighter

now. We can just see to read Verdens Gang [45] about midday. At that

time to-day Sverdrup thought he saw land far astern; it was dark and

irregular, in some places high; he fancied that it might be only an

appearance of clouds. When I returned from a walk, about 1 o'clock,

I went up to look, but saw only piled-up ice. Perhaps this was the

same as he saw, or possibly I was too late. (It turned out next day

to be only an optical illusion.) Severe pressure has been going on

this evening. It began at 7.30 astern in the opening, and went on

steadily for two hours. It sounded as if a roaring waterfall were

rushing down upon us with a force that nothing could resist. One

heard the big floes crashing and breaking against each other. They

were flung and pressed up into high walls, which must now stretch

along the whole opening east and west, for one hears the roar the

whole way. It is coming nearer just now; the ship is getting violent

shocks; it is like waves in the ice. They come on us from behind,

and move forward. We stare out into the night, but can see nothing,

for it is pitch-dark. Now I hear cracking and shifting in the hummock

on the starboard quarter; it gets louder and stronger, and extends

steadily. At last the waterfall roar abates a little. It becomes more

unequal; there is a longer interval between each shock. I am so cold

that I creep below.

"But no sooner have I seated myself to write than the ship begins to

heave and tremble again, and I hear through her sides the roar of the

packing. As the bear-trap may be in danger, three men go off to see

to it, but they find that there is a distance of 50 paces between

the new pressure-ridge and the wire by which the trap is secured,

so they leave it as it is. The pressure-ridge was an ugly sight,

they say, but they could distinguish nothing well in the dark.

"Most violent pressure is beginning again. I must go on deck and

look at it. The loud roar meets one as one opens the door. It is

coming from the bow now, as well as from the stern. It is clear that

pressure-ridges are being thrown up in both openings, so if they reach

us we shall be taken by both ends and lifted lightly and gently out of

the water. There is pressure near us on all sides. Creaking has begun

in the old hummock on the port quarter; it is getting louder, and,

so far as I can see, the hummock is slowly rising. A lane has opened

right across the large floe on the port side; you can see the water,

dark as it is. Now both pressure and noise get worse and worse; the

ship shakes, and I feel as if I myself were being gently lifted with

the stern-rail, where I stand gazing out at the welter of ice-masses

that resemble giant snakes writhing and twisting their great bodies

out there under the quiet, starry sky, whose peace is only broken by

one aurora serpent waving and flickering restlessly in the northeast. I

once more think what a comfort it is to be safe on board the Fram, and

look out with a certain contempt at the horrible hurly-burly Nature

is raising to no purpose whatever; it will not crush us in a hurry,

nor even frighten us. Suddenly I remember that my fine thermometer

is in a hole on a floe to port on the other side of the opening,

and must certainly be in danger. I jump on to the ice, find a place

where I can leap across the opening, and grope about in the dark until

I find the piece of ice covering the hole; I get hold of the string,

and the thermometer is saved. I hurry on board again well pleased, and

down into my comfortable cabin to smoke a pipe of peace--alas! this

vice grows upon me more and more--and to listen with glee to the

roar of the pressure outside and feel its shakings, like so many

earthquakes, as I sit and write my diary. Safe and comfortable, I

cannot but think with deep pity of the many who have had to stand by

on deck in readiness to leave their frail vessels on the occurrence

of any such pressure. The poor Tegethoff fellows--they had a bad time

of it, and yet theirs was a good ship in comparison with many of the

others. It is now 11.30, and the noise outside seems to be subsiding.

"It is remarkable that we should have this strong pressure just now,

with the moon in its last quarter and neap tide. This does not agree

with our previous experiences; no more does the fact that the pressure

the day before yesterday was from 12 A.M. to about 2 P.M., and then

again at 2 A.M., and now we have had it from 7.30 to 10.30 P.M. Can

land have something to do with it here, after all? The temperature

to-day is 42° Fahr. below zero (-41.4° C), but there is no wind, and

we have not had such pleasant weather for walking for a long time;

it feels almost mild here when the air is still.

"No, that was not the end of the pressure. When I was on deck at

a quarter to twelve roaring and trembling began again in the ice

forward on the port quarter; then suddenly came one loud boom after

another, sounding out in the distance, and the ship gave a start;

there was again a little pressure, and after that quietness. Faint

aurora borealis.

"Sunday, January 28th. Strange to say, there has been no pressure

since 12 o'clock last night; the ice seems perfectly quiet. The

pressure-ridge astern showed what violent packing yesterday's was;

in one place its height was 18 or 19 feet above the surface of the

water; floe-ice 8 feet thick was broken, pressed up in square blocks,

and crushed to pieces. At one point a huge monolith of such floe-ice

rose high into the air. Beyond this pressure-wall there was no great

disturbance to be detected. There had been a little packing here and

there, and the floe to port had four or five large cracks across it,

which no doubt accounted for the explosions I heard last night. The

ice to starboard was also cracked in several places. The pressure

had evidently come from the north or N.N.E. The ridge behind us is

one of the highest I have seen yet. I believe that if the Fram had

been lying there she would have been lifted right out of the water. I

walked for some distance in a northeasterly direction, but saw no

signs of pressure there.

"Another Sunday. It is wonderful that the time can pass so quickly

as it does. For one thing we are in better spirits, knowing that we

are drifting steadily north. A rough estimate of to-day's observation

gives 79° 50' north latitude. That is not much since Monday; but then

yesterday and to-day there has been almost no wind at all, and the

other days it has been very light--only once or twice with as much

as 9 feet velocity, the rest of the time 3 and 6.

"A remarkable event happened yesterday afternoon: I got Munthe's

picture of the 'Three Princesses' fastened firmly on the wall. It is

a thing that we have been going to do ever since we left Christiania,

but we have never been able to summon up energy for such a heavy

undertaking--it meant knocking in four nails--and the picture has

amused itself by constantly falling and guillotining whoever happened

to be sitting on the sofa below it.

"Tuesday, January 30th. 79° 49' north latitude, 134° 57' east

longitude, is the tale told by this afternoon's observations, while

by Sunday afternoon's we were in 79° 50' north latitude, and 133° 23'

east longitude. This fall-off to the southeast again was not more than

I had expected, as it has been almost calm since Sunday. I explain the

thing to myself thus: When the ice has been set adrift in a certain

direction by the wind blowing that way for some time it gradually

in process of drifting becomes more compressed, and when that wind

dies away a reaction in the opposite direction takes place. Such a

reaction must, I believe, have been the cause of Saturday's pressure,

which stopped entirely as suddenly as it began. Since then there has

not been the slightest appearance of movement in the ice. Probably the

pressure indicates the time when the drift turned. A light breeze has

sprung up this afternoon from S.E. and E.S.E., increasing gradually

to almost 'mill wind.' We are going north again; surely we shall get

the better of the 80th degree this time.

"Wednesday, January 31st. The wind is whistling among the hummocks;

the snow flies rustling through the air; ice and sky are melted into

one. It is dark; our skins are smarting with the cold; but we are

going north at full speed, and are in the wildest of gay spirits.

"Thursday, February 1st. The same sort of weather as yesterday, except

that it has turned quite mild--7 1/2° Fahr. below zero (-22° C.). The

snow is falling exactly as it does in winter weather at home. The

wind is more southerly, S.S.E. now, and rather lighter. It may be

taken for granted that we have passed the 80th degree, and we had a

small preliminary fête this evening--figs, raisins, and almonds--and

dart-shooting, which last resulted for me in a timely replenishment

of my cigarette-case."

"Friday, February 2d. High festival to-day in honor of the 80th degree,

beginning with fresh rye-bread and cake for breakfast. Took a long

walk to get up an appetite for dinner. According to this morning's

observation, we are in 80° 10' north latitude and 132° 10' east

longitude. Hurrah! Well sailed! I had offered to bet heavily that we

had passed 80°, but no one would take the bet. Dinner menu: Ox-tail

soup, fish-pudding, potatoes, rissoles, green pease, haricot beans,

cloudberries with milk, and a whole bottle of beer to each man. Coffee

and a cigarette after dinner. Could one wish for more? In the evening

we had tinned pears and peaches, gingerbread, dried bananas, figs,

raisins, and almonds. Complete holiday all day. We read aloud the

discussions of this expedition published before we left, and had some

good laughs at the many objections raised. But our people at home,

perhaps, do not laugh if they read them now.

"Monday, February 5th. Last time we shall have Ringnes beer at

dinner. Day of mourning.

"Tuesday, February 6th. Calm, clear weather. A strong sun-glow above

the horizon in the south; yellow, green, and light blue above that;

all the rest of the sky deep ultramarine. I stood looking at it,

trying to remember if the Italian sky was ever bluer; I do not think

so. It is curious that this deep color should always occur along with

cold. Is it perhaps that a current from more northerly, clear regions

produces drier and more transparent air in the upper strata? The color

was so remarkable to-day that one could not help noticing it. Striking

contrasts to it were formed by the Fram's red deck-house and the white

snow on roof and rigging. Ice and hummocks were quite violet wherever

they were turned from the daylight. This color was specially strong

over the fields of snow upon the floes. The temperature has been 52°

Fahr. and 54° Fahr. below zero (-47° and -48° C.). There is a sudden

change of 125° Fahr. when one comes up from the saloon, where the

thermometer is at 72° Fahr. (+22° C.); but, although thinly clad and

bareheaded, one does not feel it cold, and can even with impunity take

hold of the brass door-handle or the steel cable of the rigging. The

cold is visible, however; one's breath is like cannon smoke before it

is out of one's mouth; and when a man spits there is quite a little

cloud of steam round the fallen moisture. The Fram always gives off

a mist, which is carried along by the wind, and a man or a dog can be

detected far off among the hummocks or pressure-ridges by the pillar

of vapor that follows his progress.

"Wednesday, February 7th. It is extraordinary what a frail thing hope,

or rather the mind of man, is. There was a little breeze this morning

from the N.N.E., only 6 feet per second, thermometer at 57° Fahr. below

zero (-49.6° C.), and immediately one's brow is clouded over, and it

becomes a matter of indifference how we get home, so long as we only

get home soon. I immediately assume land to the northward, from which

come these cold winds, with clear atmosphere and frost and bright blue

skies, and conclude that this extensive tract of land must form a pole

of cold with a constant maximum of air-pressure, which will force us

south with northeast winds. About midday the air began to grow more

hazy and my mood less gloomy. No doubt there is a south wind coming,

but the temperature is still too low for it. Then the temperature,

too, rises, and now we can rely on the wind. And this evening it came,

sure enough, from S.S.W., and now, 12 P.M., its velocity is 11 feet,

and the temperature has risen to 43° Fahr. below zero ( -42° C.). This

promises well. We should soon reach 81°. The land to the northward

has now vanished from my mind's eye.

"We had lime-juice with sugar at dinner to-day instead of beer,

and it seemed to be approved of. We call it wine, and we agreed

that it was better than cider. Weighing has gone on this evening,

and the increase in certain cases is still disquieting. Some have

gained as much as 4 pounds in the last month--for instance, Sverdrup,

Blessing, and Juell, who beats the record on board with 13 stone. 'I

never weighed so much as I do now,' says Blessing, and it is much

the same story with us all. Yes, this is a fatiguing expedition,

but our menus are always in due proportion to our labors. To-day's

dinner: Knorr's bean soup, toad-in-the-hole, potatoes, rice and milk,

with cranberry jam. Yesterday's dinner: Fish au gratin (hashed fish)

with potatoes, curried rabbit with potatoes and French beans, stewed

bilberries, and cranberries with milk. At breakfast yesterday we

had freshly baked wheat-bread, at breakfast to-day freshly baked

rye-bread. These are specimens of our ordinary bills of fare. It

is as I expected: I hear the wind roaring in the rigging now; it is

going to be a regular storm, according to our ideas of one here.

"Saturday, February 10th. Though that wind the other day did not

come to much after all, we still hoped that we had made good way

north, and it was consequently an unwelcome surprise when yesterday's

observation showed our latitude to be 79° 57' N., 13' farther south

instead of farther north. It is extraordinary how little inured

one gets to disappointments; the longing begins again; and again

attainment seems so far off, so doubtful. And this though I dream at

nights just now of getting out of the ice west of Iceland. Hope is a

rickety craft to trust one's self to. I had a long, successful drive

with the dogs to-day.

"Sunday, February 11th. To-day we drove out with two teams of

dogs. Things went well; the sledges got on much better over this ice

than I thought they would. They do not sink much in the snow. On flat

ice four dogs can draw two men.

"Tuesday, February 13th. A long drive southwest yesterday with white

dogs. To-day still farther in the same direction on snow-shoes. It

is good healthy exercise, with a temperature of 43° Fahr. to 47°

Fahr. below zero (-42° and -44° C.) and a biting north wind. Nature is

so fair and pure, the ice is so spotless, and the lights and shadows

of the growing day so beautiful on the new-fallen snow. The Fram's

hoar-frost-covered rigging rises straight and white with rime towards

the sparkling blue sky. One's thoughts turn to the snow-shoeing days

at home.

"Thursday, February 15th. I went yesterday on snow-shoes farther

northeast than I have ever been before, but I could still see the

ship's rigging above the edge of the ice. I was able to go fast,

because the ice was flat in that direction. To-day I went the same

way with dogs. I am examining the 'lie of the land' all round, and

thinking of plans for the future.

"What exaggerated reports of the Arctic cold are in circulation! It

was cold in Greenland, and it is not milder here; the general

day temperature just now is about 40° Fahr. and 43° Fahr. below

zero. I was clothed yesterday as usual as regards the legs--drawers,

knickerbockers, stockings, frieze leggings, snow-socks, and moccasins;

my body covering consisted of an ordinary shirt, a wolf-skin cape,

and a sealskin jacket, and I sweated like a horse. To-day I sat still,

driving with only thin ducks above my ordinary leg wear, and on my

body woollen shirt, vest, Iceland woollen jersey, a frieze coat,

and a sealskin one. I found the temperature quite pleasant, and even

perspired a little to-day, too. Both yesterday and to-day I had a

red-flannel mask on my face, but it made me too warm, and I had to take

it off, though there was a bitter breeze from the north. That north

wind is still persistent, sometimes with a velocity of 9 or even 13

feet, but yet we do not seem to be drifting south; we lie in 80° north

latitude, or even a few minutes farther north. What can be the reason

of this? There is a little pressure every day just now. Curious that

it should again occur at the moon's change of quarter. The moon stands

high in the sky, and there is daylight now, too. Soon the sun will

be making his appearance, and when he does we shall hold high festival.

"Friday, February 16th. Hurrah! A meridian observation to-day shows

80° 1' north latitude, so that we have come a few minutes north since

last Friday, and that in spite of constant northerly winds since

Monday. There is something very singular about this. Is it, as I have

thought all along from the appearance of the clouds and the haziness

of the air, that there has been south wind in the south, preventing

the drift of the ice that way, or have we at last come under the

influence of a current? That shove we got to the south lately in

the face of southerly winds was a remarkable thing, and so is our

remaining where we are now in spite of the northerly ones. It would

seem that new powers of some kind must be at work. "To-day another

noteworthy thing happened, which was that about midday we saw the

sun, or, to be more correct, an image of the sun, for it was only

a mirage. A peculiar impression was produced by the sight of that

glowing fire lit just above the outermost edge of the ice. According

to the enthusiastic descriptions given by many Arctic travellers of

the first appearance of this god of life after the long winter night,

the impression ought to be one of jubilant excitement; but it was

not so in my case. We had not expected to see it for some days yet,

so that my feeling was rather one of pain, of disappointment, that

we must have drifted farther south than we thought. So it was with

pleasure I soon discovered that it could not be the sun itself. The

mirage was at first like a flattened-out glowing red streak of fire

on the horizon; later there were two streaks, the one above the other,

with a dark space between; and from the main-top I could see four, or

even five, such horizontal lines directly over one another, and all

of equal length; as if one could only imagine a square dull-red sun

with horizontal dark streaks across it. An astronomical observation we

took in the afternoon showed that the sun must in reality have been 2°

22' below the horizon at noon; we cannot expect to see its disk above

the ice before Tuesday at the earliest: it depends on the refraction,

which is very strong in this cold air. All the same, we had a small

sun-festival this evening, on the occasion of the appearance of its

image--a treat of figs, bananas, raisins, almonds, and gingerbread.

"Sunday, February 18th. I went eastward yesterday on snow-shoes, and

found a good snow-shoeing and driving road out to the flats that lie

in that direction. There is a pretty bad bit first, with hummocks and

pressure-ridges, and then you come out on these great wide plains,

which seem to extend for miles and miles to the north, east, and

southeast. To-day I drove out there with eight dogs; the driving

goes capitally now; some of the others followed on snow-shoes. Still

northerly wind. This is slow work; but anyhow we are having clear,

bright weather. Yes, it is all very well--we snow-shoe, sledge,

read both for instruction and amusement, write, take observations,

play cards, chat, smoke, play chess, eat and drink; but all the same

it is an execrable life in the long-run, this--at least, so it seems

to me at times. When I look at the picture of our beautiful home in

the evening light, with my wife standing in the garden, I feel as

if it were impossible that this could go on much longer. But only

the merciless fates know when we shall stand there together again,

feeling all life's sweetness as we look out over the smiling fjord,

and ... Taking everything into calculation, if I am to be perfectly

honest, I think this is a wretched state of matters. We are now in

about 80° north latitude, in September we were in 79°; that is,

let us say, one degree for five months. If we go on at this rate

we shall be at the Pole in forty-five, or say fifty, months, and

in ninety or one hundred months at 80° north latitude on the other

side of it, with probably some prospect of getting out of the ice

and home in a month or two more. At best, if things go on as they

are doing now, we shall be home in eight years. I remember Brogger

writing before I left, when I was planting small bushes and trees in

the garden for future generations, that no one knew what length of

shadows these trees would cast by the time I came back. Well, they

are lying under the winter snow now, but in spring they will shoot

and grow again--how often? Oh! at times this inactivity crushes one's

very soul; one's life seems as dark as the winter night outside;

there is sunlight upon no part of it except the past and the far,

far distant future. I feel as if I must break through this deadness,

this inertia, and find some outlet for my energies. Can't something

happen? Could not a hurricane come and tear up this ice, and set it

rolling in high waves like the open sea? Welcome danger, if it only

brings us the chance of fighting for our lives--only lets us move

onward! The miserable thing is to be inactive onlookers, not to be

able to lift a hand to help ourselves forward. It wants ten times

more strength of mind to sit still and trust in your theories and let

nature work them out without your being able so much as to lay one

stick across another to help, than it does to trust in working them

out by your own energy--that is nothing when you have a pair of strong

arms. Here I sit, whining like an old woman. Did I not know all this

before I started? Things have not gone worse than I expected, but,

on the contrary, rather better. Where is now the serene hopefulness

that spread itself in the daylight and the sun? Where are those proud

imaginings now that mounted like young eagles towards the brightness of

the future? Like broken-winged, wet crows they leave the sunlit sea,

and hide themselves in the misty marshes of despondency. Perhaps it

will all come back again with the south wind; but, no--I must go and

rummage up one of the old philosophers again.

"There is a little pressure this evening, and an observation just

taken seems to indicate a drift of 3' south.

"11 P.M. Pressure in the opening astern. The ice is cracking and

squeezing against the ship, making it shake.

"Monday, February 19th. Once more it may be said that the night is

darkest just before the dawn. Wind began to blow from the south

to-day, and has reached a velocity of 13 feet per second. We did

some ice-boring this morning, and found that the ice to port is 5

feet 11-5/8 inches (1.875 metres) thick, with a layer of about 1

1/2 inches of snow over it. The ice forward was 6 feet 7 1/2 inches

(2.08 metres) thick, but a couple of inches of this was snow. This

cannot be called much growth for quite a month, when one thinks that

the temperature has been down to 58° Fahr. below zero.

"Both to-day and yesterday we have seen the mirage of the sun again;

to-day it was high above the horizon, and almost seemed to assume

a round, disk-like form. Some of the others maintain that they have

seen the upper edge of the sun itself; Peter and Bentzen, that they

have seen at least half of the disk, and Juell and Hansen declare

that the whole of it was above the horizon. I am afraid it is so long

since they saw it that they have forgotten what it is like.

"Tuesday, February 20th. Great sun festival to-day without any

sun. We felt certain we should see it, but there were clouds on the

horizon. However, we were not going to be cheated out of our festival;

we can hold another on the occasion of really seeing it for the first

time. We began with a grand rifle practice in the morning; then there

was a dinner of three or four courses and 'Fram wine,' otherwise

lime-juice, coffee afterwards with 'Fram cake.' In the evening

pineapple, cake, figs, bananas, and sweets. We go off to bed feeling

that we have over-eaten ourselves, while half a gale from the S.E. is

blowing us northward. The mill has been going to-day, and though the

real sun did not come to the festival, our saloon sun lighted up our

table both at dinner and supper. Great face-washing in honor of the

day. The way we are laying on flesh is getting serious. Several of

us are like prize pigs, and the bulge of cook Juell's cheeks, not

to mention another part of his body, is quite alarming. I saw him in

profile to-day, and wondered how he would ever manage to carry such

a corporation over the ice if we should have to turn out one of these

fine days. Must begin to think of a course of short rations now.

"Wednesday, February 21st. The south wind continues. Took up the

bag-nets to-day which were put out the day before yesterday. In the

upper one, which hung near the surface, there were chiefly amphipoda;

in Murray's net, which hung at about 50 fathoms' depth, there was a

variety of small crustacea and other small animals shining with such a

strong phosphorescence that the contents of the net looked like glowing

embers as I emptied them out in the cook's galley by lamplight. To

my astonishment the net-line pointed northwest, though from the wind

there ought to be a good northerly drift. To clear this matter up I

let the net down in the afternoon, and as soon as it got a little way

under the ice the line pointed northwest again, and continued to do

so the whole afternoon. How is this phenomenon to be explained? Can

we, after all, be in a current moving northwest? Let us hope that the

future will prove such to be the case. We can reckon on two points of

variation in the compass, and in that case the current would make due

N.N.W. There seems to be strong movement in the ice. It has opened

and formed channels in several places.

"Thursday, February 22d. The net-line has pointed west all day till

now, afternoon, when it is pointing straight up and down, and we

are presumably lying still. The wind slackened to-day till it was

quite calm in the afternoon. Then there came a faint breeze from

the southwest and from the west, and this evening the long-dreaded

northwester has come at last. At 9 P.M. it is blowing pretty hard from

N.N.W. An observation of Capella taken in the afternoon would seem

to show that we are in any case not farther north than 80° 11' and

this after almost four days' south wind. Whatever can be the meaning

of this? Is there dead-water under the ice, keeping it from going

either forward or backward? The ice to starboard cracked yesterday,

away beyond the bear-trap. The thickness of the solid floe was 11 1/2

feet (3.45 metres), but, besides this, other ice was packed on to it

below. Where it was broken across, the floe showed a marked stratified

formation, recalling the stratification of a glacier. Even the darker

and dirtier strata were there, the color in this case produced by the

brownish-red organisms that inhabit the water, specimens of which I

found at an earlier date. In several places the strata were bent and

broken, exactly in the same manner as the geological strata forming the

earth's crust. This was evidently the result of the horizontal pressure

in the ice at the time of packing. It was especially noticeable at

one place, near a huge mound formed during the last pressure. Here

the strata looked very much as they are represented in the annexed

drawing. [46]

It was extraordinary too to see how this floe of over three yards in

thickness was bent into great waves without breaking. This was clearly

done by pressure, and was specially noticeable, more particularly

near the pressure-ridges, which had forced the floe down so that its

upper surface lay even with the water-line, while at other places it

was a good half-yard above it, in these last cases thrust up by ice

pressed in below. It all shows how extremely plastic these floes are,

in spite of the cold; the temperature of the ice near the surface

must have been from 4° Fahr. to 22° Fahr. below zero (-20° to -30°

C.) at the time of these pressures. In many places the bending had

been too violent, and the floe had cracked. The cracks were often

covered with loose ice, so that one could easily enough fall into them,

just as in crossing a dangerous glacier.

"Saturday, February 24th. Observations to-day show us to be in 79°

54' north latitude, 132° 57' east longitude. Strange that we should

have come so far south when the north or northwest wind only blew

for twenty-four hours.

"Sunday, February 25th. It looks as if the ice were drifting eastward

now. Oh! I see pictures of summer and green trees and rippling

streams. I am reading of valley and mountain life, and I grow sick

at heart and enervated. Why dwell on such things just now? It will

be many a long day before we can see all that again. We are going

at the miserable pace of a snail, but not so surely as it goes. We

carry our house with us; but what we do one day is undone the next.

"Monday, February 26th. We are drifting northeast. A tremendous

snow-storm is going on. The wind has at times a velocity of over 35

feet per second; it is howling in the rigging, whistling over the

ice, and the snow is drifting so badly that a man might be lost in

it quite near at hand. We are sitting here listening to the howling

in the chimney and in the ventilators, just as if we were sitting in

a house at home in Norway. The wings of the windmill have been going

round at such a rate that you could hardly distinguish them; but we

have had to stop the mill this evening because the accumulators are

full, and we fastened up the wings so that the wind might not destroy

them. We have had electric light for almost a week now.

"This is the strongest wind we have had the whole winter. If

anything can shake up the ice and drive us north, this must do

it. But the barometer is falling too fast; there will be north

wind again presently. Hope has been disappointed too often; it is

no longer elastic; and the gale makes no great impression on me. I

look forward to spring and summer, in suspense as to what change

they will bring. But the Arctic night, the dreaded Arctic night,

is over, and we have daylight once again. I must say that I see no

appearance of the sunken, wasted faces which this night ought to have

produced; in the clearest daylight and the brightest sunshine I can

only discover plump, comfortable-looking ones. It is curious enough,

though, about the light. We used to think it was like real day down

here when the incandescent lamps were burning; but now, coming down

from the daylight, though they may be all lit, it is like coming into a

cellar. When the arc lamp has been burning all day, as it has to-day,

and is then put out and its place supplied by the incandescent ones,

the effect is much the same.

"Tuesday, February 27th. Drifting E.S.E. My pessimism is justified. A

strong west wind has blown almost all day; the barometer is low,

but has begun to rise unsteadily. The temperature is the highest we

have had all winter; to-day's maximum is 15° Fahr. above zero (-9.7°

C.). At 8 P.M. the thermometer stood at 7° Fahr. below zero (-22°

C.). The temperature rises and falls almost exactly conversely with

the barometer. This afternoon's observation places us in about 80°

10' north latitude.

"Wednesday, February 28th. Beautiful weather to-day, almost still,

and temperature only about 15° Fahr. to 22° Fahr. below zero (-26° to

-30° 5' C.). There were clouds in the south, so that not much was to

be seen of the sun; but it is light wonderfully long already. Sverdrup

and I went snow-shoeing after dinner--the first time this year that we

have been able to do anything of the kind in the afternoon. We made

attempts to pump yesterday and to-day; there ought to be a little

water, but the pump would not suck, though we tried both warm water

and salt. Possibly there is water frozen round it, and possibly there

is no water at all. In the engine-room there has been no appearance

of water for more than a month, and none comes into the forehold,

especially now that the bow is raised up by the pack-ice; so if there

is any it can only be a little in the hold. This tightening may be

attributed chiefly to the frost.

"The wind has begun to blow again from the S.S.W. this evening, and

the barometer is falling, which ought to mean good wind coming; but

the barometer of hope does not rise above its normal height. I had

a bath this evening in a tin tub in the galley; trimmed and clean,

one feels more of a human being.

"Thursday, March 1st. We are lying almost still. Beautiful mild

weather, only 2 1/2° Fahr. below zero (-19° C.), sky overcast; light

fall of snow, and light wind. We made attempts to sound to-day, having

lengthened our hemp line with a single strand of steel. This broke

off with the lead. We put on a new lead and the whole line ran out,

about 2000 fathoms, without touching bottom, so far as we could make

out. In process of hauling in, the steel line broke again. So the

results are: no bottom, and two sounding-leads, each of 100 pounds'

weight, making their way down. Goodness knows if they have reached the

bottom yet. I declare I feel inclined to believe that Bentzen is right,

and that it is the hole at the earth's axis we are trying to sound.

"Friday, March 2d. The pups have lived until now in the chart-room,

and have done all the mischief there that they could, gnawing the

cases of Hansen's instruments, the log-books, etc. They were taken

out on deck yesterday for the first time, and to-day they have been

there all the morning. They are of an inquiring turn of mind, and

examine everything, being specially interested in the interiors of

all the kennels in this new, large town.

"Sunday, March 4th. The drift is still strong south. There is

northwesterly wind to-day again, but not quite so much of it. I

expected we had come a long way south, but yesterday's observation

still showed 79° 54' north latitude. We must have drifted a good way

north during the last days before this wind came. The weather yesterday

and to-day has been bitter, 35° Fahr. and 36 1/2° Fahr. below zero

(-37° and -38° C.), with sometimes as much as 35 feet of wind per

second, must be called cool. It is curious that now the northerly

winds bring cold, and the southerly warmth. Earlier in the winter it

was just the opposite.

"Monday, March 5th. Sverdrup and I have been a long way northeast

on snow-shoes. The ice was in good condition for it; the wind has

tossed about the snow finely, covering over the pressure-ridge as

far as the scanty supply of material has permitted.

"Tuesday, March 6th. No drift at all. It has been a bitter day to-day,

47° Fahr. to 50° Fahr. below zero (-44° to -46° C.), and wind up to

19 feet. This has been a good occasion for getting hands and face

frost-bitten, and one or two have taken advantage of it. Steady

northwest wind. I am beginning to get indifferent and stolid as

far as the wind is concerned. I photographed Johansen to-day at the

anemometer, and during the process his nose was frost-bitten.

"There has been a general weighing this evening again. These weighings

are considered very interesting performances, and we stand watching in

suspense to see whether each man has gained or lost. Most of them have

lost a little this time. Can it be because we have stopped drinking

beer and begun lime-juice? But Juell goes on indefatigably--he has

gained nearly a pound this time. Our doctor generally does very well

in this line too, but to-day it is only 10 ounces. In other ways he is

badly off on board, poor fellow--not a soul will turn ill. In despair

he set up a headache yesterday himself, but he could not make it last

over the night. Of late he has taken to studying the diseases of dogs;

perhaps he may find a more profitable practice in this department.

"Thursday, March 8th. Drifting south. Sverdrup and I had a good

snow-shoeing trip to-day, to the north and west. The snow was in

splendid condition after the winds; you fly along like thistledown

before a breeze, and can get about everywhere, even over the worst

pressure-mounds. The weather was beautiful, temperature only 38°

Fahr. below zero (-39° C.); but this evening it is quite bitter again,

55° Fahr. (-48.5° C.) and from 16 to 26 feet of wind. It is by no means

pleasant work standing up on the windmill, reefing or taking in the

sails; it means aching nails, and sometimes frost-bitten cheeks; but

it has to be done, and it is done. There is plenty of 'mill-wind' in

the daytime now--this is the third week we have had electric light--but

it is wretched that it should be always this north and northwest wind;

goodness only knows when it is going to stop. Can there be land north

of us? We are drifting badly south. It is hard to keep one's faith

alive. There is nothing for it but to wait and see what time will do.

"After a long rest the ship got a shake this afternoon. I went on

deck. Pressure was going on in an opening just in front of the bow. We

might almost have expected it just now, as it is new moon; only we

have got out of the way of thinking at all about the spring tides,

as they have had so little effect lately. They should of course be

specially strong just now, as the equinox is approaching.

"Friday, March 9th. The net-line pointed slightly southwest this

morning; but the line attached to a cheese which was only hanging

a few fathoms below the ice to thaw faster, seemed to point in the

opposite direction. Had we got a southerly current together with the

wind now? H'm! in that case something must come of it! Or was it,

perhaps, only the tide setting that way?

"Still the same northerly wind; we are steadily bearing south. This,

then, is the change I hoped the March equinox would bring! We have been

having northerly winds for more than a fortnight. I cannot conceal

from myself any longer that I am beginning to despond. Quietly

and slowly, but mercilessly, one hope after the other is being

crushed and ... have I not a right to be a little despondent? I long

unutterably after home, perhaps I am drifting away farther from it,

perhaps nearer; but anyhow it is not cheering to see the realization

of one's plans again and again delayed, if not annihilated altogether,

in this tedious and monotonously killing way. Nature goes her age-old

round impassively; summer changes into winter; spring vanishes away;

autumn comes, and finds us still a mere chaotic whirl of daring

projects and shattered hopes. As the wheel revolves, now the one

and now the other comes to the top--but memory betweenwhiles lightly

touches her ringing silver chords--now loud like a roaring waterfall,

now low and soft like far off sweet music. I stand and look out over

this desolate expanse of ice with its plains and heights and valleys,

formed by the pressure arising from the shifting tidal currents of

winter. The sun is now shining over them with his cheering beams. In

the middle lies the Fram, hemmed in immovably. When, my proud ship,

will you float free in the open water again?

"'Ich schau dich an, und Wehmuth,

Schleicht mir in's Herz hinein.'

Over these masses of ice, drifting by paths unknown, a human

pondered and brooded so long that he put a whole people in motion

to enable him to force his way in among them--a people who had

plenty of other claims upon their energies. For what purpose all

this to-do? If only the calculations were correct these ice-floes

would be glorious--nay, irresistible auxiliaries. But if there has

been an error in the calculation--well, in that case they are not

so pleasant to deal with. And how often does a calculation come out

correct? But were I now free? Why, I should do it all over again,

from the same starting-point. One must persevere till one learns to

calculate correctly.

"I laugh at the scurvy; no sanatorium better than ours.

"I laugh at the ice; we are living as it were in an impregnable castle.

"I laugh at the cold; it is nothing.

"But I do not laugh at the winds; they are everything; they bend to

no man's will.

"But why always worry about the future? Why distress yourself as to

whether you are drifting forward or backward? Why not carelessly let

the days glide by like a peacefully flowing river? every now and then

there will come a rapid that will quicken the lazy flow. Ah! what

a wondrous contrivance is life--one eternal hurrying forward, ever

forward--to what end? And then comes death and cuts all short before

the goal is reached.

"I went a long snow-shoe tour to-day. A little way to the north there

were a good many newly formed lanes and pressure-ridges which were

hard to cross, but patience overcomes everything, and I soon reached

a level plain where it was delightful going. It was, however, rather

cold, about 54° Fahr. below zero (-48° C.) and 16 feet of wind from

N.N.E., but I did not feel it much. It is wholesome and enjoyable

to be out in such weather. I wore only ordinary clothes, such as I

might wear at home, with a sealskin jacket and linen outside breeches,

and a half-mask to protect the forehead, nose, and cheeks.

"There has been a good deal of ice-pressure in different directions

to-day. Oddly enough, a meridian altitude of the sun gave 79° 45'. We

have therefore drifted only 8' southward during the four days since

March 4th. This slow drift is remarkable in spite of the high winds. If

there should be land to the north? I begin more and more to speculate

on this possibility. Land to the north would explain at once our not

progressing northward, and the slowness of our southward drift. But

it may also possibly arise from the fact of the ice being so closely

packed together, and frozen so thick and massive. It seems strange

to me that there is so much northwest wind, and hardly any from the

northeast, though the latter is what the rotation of the earth would

lead one to expect. As a matter of fact, the wind merely shifts

between northwest and southeast, instead of between southwest and

northeast, as it ought to do. Unless there is land I am at a loss to

find a satisfactory explanation, at all events, of this northwest

direction. Does Franz Josef Land jut out eastward or northward, or

does a continuous line of islands extend from Franz Josef Land in one

or other of those directions? It is by no means impossible. Directly

the Austrians got far enough to the north they met with prevailing

winds from the northeast, while we get northwesterly winds. Does the

central point of these masses of land lie to the north, midway between

our meridian and theirs? I can hardly believe that these remarkably

cold winds from the north are engendered by merely passing over an

ice-covered sea. If, indeed, there is land, and we get hold of it,

then all our troubles would be over. But no one can tell what the

future may bring forth, and it is better, perhaps, not to know.

"Saturday, March 10th. The line shows a drift northward; now, too,

in the afternoon, a slight southerly breeze has sprung up. As usual,

it has done me good to put my despondency on paper and get rid of

it. To-day I am in good spirits again, and can indulge in happy dreams

of a large and high land in the north with mountains and valleys,

where we can sit under the mountain wall, roast ourselves in the sun,

and see the spring come. And over its inland ice we can make our way

to the very Pole.

"Sunday, March 11th. A snow-shoe run northward. Temperature -50°

C. (58° Fahr. below zero), and 10 feet wind from N.N.E. We did not

feel the cold very much, though it was rather bad for the stomach

and thighs, as none of us had our wind trousers [47] on. We wore

our usual dress of a pair of ordinary trousers and woollen pants,

a shirt, and wolfskin cloak, or a common woollen suit with a light

sealskin jacket over it. For the first time in my life I felt my

thighs frozen, especially just over the knee, and on the kneecap; my

companions also suffered in the same way. This was after going a long

while against the wind. We rubbed our legs a little, and they soon

got warm again; but had we kept on much longer without noticing it we

should probably have been severely frost-bitten. In other respects we

did not suffer the least inconvenience from the cold--on the contrary,

found the temperature agreeable; and I am convinced that 10°, 20°,

or even 30° lower would not have been unendurable. It is strange how

one's sensations alter. When at home, I find it unpleasant if I only

go out-of-doors when there are some 20 degrees of cold, even in calm

weather. But here I don't find it any colder when I turn out in 50

degrees of cold, with a wind into the bargain. Sitting in a warm

room at home one gets exaggerated ideas about the terribleness of

the cold. It is really not in the least terrible; we all of us find

ourselves very well in it, though sometimes one or another of us does

not take quite so long a walk as usual when a strong wind is blowing,

and will even turn back for the cold; but that is when he is only

lightly clad and has no wind clothes on. This evening it is 51.2°

Fahr. below zero, and 14 1/2 feet N.N.E. wind. Brilliant northern

lights in the south. Already there is a very marked twilight even

at midnight.

"Monday, March 12th. Slowly drifting southward. Took a long snow-shoe

run alone, towards the north; to-day had on my wind breeches, but found

them almost too warm. This morning it was 51.6° Fahr. below zero, and

about 13 feet N. wind; at noon it was some degrees warmer. Ugh! this

north wind is freshening; the barometer has risen again, and I had

thought the wind would have changed, but it is and remains the same.

"This is what March brings us--the month on which my hopes relied. Now

I must wait for the summer. Soon the half-year will be past, it

will leave us about in the same place as when-it began. Ugh! I am

weary--so weary! Let me sleep, sleep! Come, sleep! noiselessly close

the door of the soul, stay the flowing stream of thought! Come dreams,

and let the sun beam over the snowless strand of Godthaab!

"Wednesday, March 14th. In the evening the dogs all at once began to

bark, as we supposed on account of bears. Sverdrup and I took our guns,

let 'Ulenka' and 'Pan' loose, and set off. There was twilight still,

and the moon, moreover, began to shine. No sooner were the dogs on

the ice than off they started westward like a couple of rockets,

we after them as quickly as we could. As I was jumping over a lane

I thrust one leg through the ice up to the knee. Oddly enough, I

did not get wet through to the skin, though I only had Finn shoes

and frieze gaiters on; but in this temperature, 38° Fahr. below

zero (-39° C.), the water freezes on the cold cloth before it can

penetrate it. I felt nothing of it afterwards; it became, as it were,

a plate of ice armor that almost helped to keep me warm. At a channel

some distance off we at last discovered that it was not a bear the

dogs had winded, but either a walrus or a seal. We saw holes in

several places on the fresh-formed ice where it had stuck its head

through. What a wonderfully keen nose those dogs must have: it was

quite two-thirds of a mile from the ship, and the creature had only

had just a little bit of its snout above the ice. We returned to the

ship to get a harpoon, but saw no more of the animal, though we went

several times up and down the channel. Meanwhile 'Pan,' in his zeal,

got too near the edge of the lane and fell into the water. The ice

was so high that he could not get up on it again without help, and

if I had not been there to haul him up I am afraid he would have been

drowned. He is now lying in the saloon, and making himself comfortable

and drying himself. But he, too, did not get wet through to the skin,

though he was a good time in the water: the inner hair of his close,

coarse coat is quite dry and warm. The dogs look on it as a high treat

to come in here, for they are not often allowed to do so. They go round

all the cabins and look out for a comfortable corner to lie down in.

"Lovely weather, almost calm, sparklingly bright, and moonshine:

in the north the faint flush of evening, and the aurora over the

southern sky, now like a row of flaming spears, then changing into

a silvery veil, undulating in wavy folds with the wind, every here

and there interspersed with red sprays. These wonderful night effects

are ever new, and never fail to captivate the soul."

"Thursday, March 15th. This morning 41.7°, and at 8 P.M. 40.7°

Fahr. below zero, while the daytime was rather warmer. At noon it

was 40.5° and at 4 P.M. 39° Fahr. below zero. It would almost seem

as if the sun began to have power.

"The dogs are strange creatures. This evening they are probably

sweltering in their kennels again, for four or five of them are

lying outside or on the roof. When there are 50 degrees of cold most

of them huddle together inside, and lie as close to one another as

possible. Then, too, they are very loath to go out for a walk; they

prefer to lie in the sun under the lee of the ship. But now they find

it so mild and such pleasant walking that to-day it was not difficult

to get them to follow.

"Friday, March 16th. Sverdrup has of late been occupied in making sails

for the ship's boats. To-day there was a light southwesterly breeze,

so we tried one of the sails on two hand-sledges lashed together. It

is first-rate sailing, and does not require much wind to make them

glide along. This would be a great assistance if we had to go home

over the ice.

"Wednesday, March 21st. At length a reaction has set in: the wind is

S.E. and there is a strong drift northward again. The equinox is past,

and we are not one degree farther north since the last equinox. I

wonder where the next will find us. Should it be more to the south,

then victory is uncertain; if more to the north, the battle is won,

though it may last long. I am looking forward to the summer; it must

bring a change with it. The open water we sailed in up here cannot

possibly be produced by the melting of the ice alone; it must be

also due to the winds and current. And if the ice in which we are now

drifts so far to the north as to make room for all this open water,

we shall have covered a good bit on our way. It would seem, indeed,

as if summer must bring northerly winds, with the cold Arctic Sea

in the north and warm Siberia in the south. This makes me somewhat

dubious; but, on the other hand, we have warm seas in the west:

they may be stronger; and the Jeannette, moreover, drifted northwest.

"It is strange that, notwithstanding these westerly winds, we do not

drift eastward. The last longitude was only 135° east longitude.

"Maundy Thursday, March 22d. A strong southeasterly wind still, and

a good drift northward. Our spirits are rising. The wind whistles

through the rigging overhead, and sounds like the sough of victory

through the air. In the forenoon one of the puppies had a severe

attack of convulsions; it foamed at the mouth and bit furiously at

everything round it. It ended with tetanus, and we carried it out

and laid it down on the ice. It hopped about like a toad, its legs

stiff and extended, neck and head pointing upward, while its back

was curved like a saddle. I was afraid it might be hydrophobia or

some other infectious sickness, and shot it on the spot. Perhaps I

was rather too hasty; we can scarcely have any infection among us

now. But what could it have been? Was it an epileptic attack? The

other day one of the other puppies alarmed me by running round and

round in the chart-house as if it were mad, hiding itself after

a time between a chest and the wall. Some of the others, too, had

seen it do the same thing; but after a while it got all right again,

and for the last few days there has been nothing amiss with it.

"Good Friday, March 23d. Noonday observation gives 80° north

latitude. In four days and nights we have drifted as far north as

we drifted southward in three weeks. It is a comfort, at all events,

to know that!

"It is remarkable how quickly the nights have grown light. Even stars

of the first magnitude can now barely manage to twinkle in the pale

sky at midnight.

"Saturday, March 24th. Easter Eve. To-day a notable event

has occurred. We have allowed the light of spring to enter the

saloon. During the whole of the winter the skylight was covered with

snow to keep the cold out, and the dogs' kennels, moreover, had been

placed round it. Now we have thrown out all the snow upon the ice, and

the panes of glass in the skylight have been duly cleared and cleaned.

"Monday, March 26th. We are lying motionless--no drift. How long will

this last? Last equinox how proud and triumphant I was! The whole

world looked bright; but now I am proud no longer.

"The sun mounts up and bathes the ice-plain with its radiance. Spring

is coming, but brings no joys with it. Here it is as lonely and cold

as ever. One's soul freezes. Seven more years of such life--or say

only four--how will the soul appear then? And she...? If I dared to

let my longings loose--to let my soul thaw. Ah! I long more than I

dare confess.

"I have not courage to think of the future.... And how will it be at

home, when year after year rolls by and no one comes?

"I know this is all a morbid mood; but still this inactive, lifeless

monotony, without any change, wrings one's very soul. No struggle,

no possibility of struggle! All is so still and dead, so stiff and

shrunken, under the mantle of ice. Ah! ... the very soul freezes. What

would I not give for a single day of struggle--for even a moment

of danger!

"Still I must wait, and watch the drift; but should it take a wrong

direction, then I will break all the bridges behind me, and stake

everything on a northward march over the ice. I know nothing better

to do. It will be a hazardous journey--a matter, maybe, of life or

death. But have I any other choice?

"It is unworthy of a man to set himself a task, and then give in when

the brunt of the battle is upon him. There is but one way, and that

is Fram--forward.

"Tuesday, March 27th. We are again drifting southward, and the wind is

northerly. The midday observation showed 80° 4' north latitude. But

why so dispirited? I am staring myself blind at one single point--am

thinking solely of reaching the Pole and forcing our way through to

the Atlantic Ocean. And all the time our real task is to explore

the unknown polar regions. Are we doing nothing in the service of

science? It will be a goodly collection of observations that we

shall take home with us from this region, with which we are now

rather too well acquainted. The rest is, and remains, a mere matter

of vanity. 'Love truth more, and victory less.'

"I look at Eilif Peterssen's picture, a Norwegian pine forest, and I

am there in spirit. How marvellously lovely it is there now, in the

spring, in the dim, melancholy stillness that reigns among the stately

stems! I can feel the damp moss in which my foot sinks softly and

noiselessly; the brook, released from the winter bondage, is murmuring

through the clefts and among the rocks, with its brownish-yellow water;

the air is full of the scent of moss and pine-needles; while overhead,

against the light-blue sky, the dark pine-tops rock to and fro in

the spring breeze, ever uttering their murmuring wail, and beneath

their shelter the soul fearlessly expands its wings and cools itself

in the forest dew.

"O solemn pine forest, the only confidant of my childhood, it was from

you I learned nature's deepest tones--its wildness, its melancholy! You

colored my soul for life.

"Alone--far in the forest--beside the glowing embers of my fire on

the shore of the silent, murky woodland tarn, with the gloom of night

overhead, how happy I used to be in the enjoyment of nature's harmony!

"Thursday, March 29th. It is wonderful what a change it makes to have

daylight once more in the saloon. On turning out for breakfast and

seeing the light gleaming in, one feels that it really is morning.

"We are busy on board. Sails are being made for the boats and

hand-sledges. The windmill, too, is to have fresh sails, so that it can

go in any kind of weather. Ah, if we could but give the Fram wings as

well! Knives are being forged, bear-spears which we never have any use

for, bear-traps in which we never catch a bear, axes, and many other

things of like usefulness. For the moment there is a great manufacture

of wooden shoes going on, and a newly started nail-making industry. The

only shareholders in this company are Sverdrup and Smith Lars, called

'Storm King,' because he always comes upon us like hard weather. The

output is excellent and is in active demand, as all our small nails

for the hand-sledge fittings have been used. Moreover, we are very busy

putting German-silver plates under the runners of the hand-sledges, and

providing appliances for lashing sledges together. There is, moreover,

a workshop for snow-shoe fastenings, and a tinsmith's shop, busied

for the moment with repairs to the lamps. Our doctor, too, for lack

of patients, has set up a bookbinding establishment which is greatly

patronized by the Fram's library, whereof several books that are in

constant circulation, such as Gjest Baardsens Liv og Levnet, etc.,

are in a very bad state. We have also a saddlers' and sail-makers'

workshop, a photographic studio, etc. The manufacture of diaries,

however, is the most extensive--every man on board works at that. In

fine, there is nothing between heaven and earth that we cannot turn

out--excepting constant fair winds.

"Our workshops can be highly recommended; they turn out good solid

work. We have lately had a notable addition to our industries, the firm

'Nansen & Amundsen' having established a music-factory. The cardboard

plates of the organ had suffered greatly from wear and damp, so that

we had been deplorably short of music during the winter. But yesterday

I set to work in earnest to manufacture a plate of zinc. It answers

admirably, and now we shall go ahead with music sacred and profane,

especially waltzes, and these halls shall once more resound with the

pealing tones of the organ, to our great comfort and edification. When

a waltz is struck up it breathes fresh life into many of the inmates

of the Fram.

"I complain of the wearing monotony of our surroundings; but in reality

I am unjust. The last few days, dazzling sunshine over the snow-hills;

to-day, snow-storm and wind, the Fram enveloped in a whirl of foaming

white snow. Soon the sun appears again, and the waste around gleams

as before.

"Here, too, there is sentiment in nature. How often, when least

thinking of it, do I find myself pause, spell-bound by the marvellous

hues which evening wears. The ice-hills steeped in bluish-violet

shadows, against the orange-tinted sky, illumined by the glow of

the setting sun, form as it were a strange color-poem, imprinting an

ineffaceable picture on the soul. And these bright, dream-like nights,

how many associations they have for us Northmen! One pictures to one's

self those mornings in spring when one went out into the forest after

blackcock, under the dim stars, and with the pale crescent moon peering

over the tree-tops. Dawn, with its glowing hues up here in the north,

is the breaking of a spring day over the forest wilds at home; the

hazy blue vapor beneath the morning glow turns to the fresh early

mist over the marshes; the dark low clouds on a background of dim

red seem like distant ranges of hills.

"Daylight here, with its rigid, lifeless whiteness, has no attractions;

but the evening and night thaw the heart of this world of ice;

it dreams mournful dreams, and you seem to hear in the hues of the

evening sounds of its smothered wail. Soon these will cease, and the

sun will circle round the everlasting light-blue expanse of heaven,

imparting one uniform color to day and night alike.

"Friday, April 6th. A remarkable event was to take place to-day which,

naturally, we all looked forward to with lively interest. It was an

eclipse of the sun. During the night Hansen had made a calculation that

the eclipse would begin at 12.56 o'clock. It was important for us to be

able to get a good observation, as we should thus be able to regulate

our chronometers to a nicety. In order to make everything sure, we

set up our instruments a couple of hours beforehand, and commenced to

observe. We used the large telescope and our large theodolite. Hansen,

Johansen, and myself took it by turns to sit for five minutes each at

the instruments, watching the rim of the sun, as we expected a shadow

would become visible on its lower western edge, while another stood

by with the watch. We remained thus full two hours without anything

occurring. The exciting moment was now at hand, when, according to

calculation, the shadow should first be apparent. Hansen was sitting

by the large telescope when he thought he could discern a quivering

in the sun's rim; 33 seconds afterwards he cried out, 'Now!' as did

Johansen simultaneously. The watch was then at 12 hrs. 56 min. 7.5

sec. A dark body advanced over the border of the sun 7 1/2 seconds

later than we had calculated on. It was an immense satisfaction for us

all, especially for Hansen, for it proved our chronometers to be in

excellent order. Little by little the sunlight sensibly faded away,

while we went below to dinner. At 2 o'clock the eclipse was at its

height, and we could notice even down in the saloon how the daylight

had diminished. After dinner we observed the moment when the eclipse

ended, and the moon's dark disk cleared the rim of the sun.

"Sunday, April 8th. I was lying awake yesterday morning thinking about

getting up, when all at once I heard the hurried footsteps of some one

running over the half-deck above me, and then another followed. There

was something in those footsteps that involuntarily made me think of

bears, and I had a hazy sort of an idea that I ought to jump up out

of bed, but I lay still, listening for the report of a gun. I heard

nothing, however, and soon fell a-dreaming again. Presently Johansen

came tearing down into the saloon, crying out that a couple of bears

were lying half or quite dead on the large ice hummock astern of the

ship. He and Mogstad had shot at them, but they had no more cartridges

left. Several of the men seized hold of their guns and hurried up. I

threw on my clothes and came up a little after, when I gathered

that the bears had taken to flight, as I could see the other fellows

following them over the ice. As I was putting on my snow-shoes they

returned, and said that the bears had made off. However, I started

after them as fast as my snow-shoes would take me across the floes

and the pressure-ridges. I soon got on their tracks, which at first

were a little blood-stained. It was a she-bear, with her cub, and,

as I believed, hard hit--the she-bear had fallen down several times

after Johansen's first bullet. I thought, therefore, it would be

no difficult matter to overtake them. Several of the dogs were on

ahead of me on their tracks. They had taken a northwesterly course,

and I toiled on, perspiring profusely in the sun, while the ship sank

deeper and deeper down below the horizon. The surface of the snow,

sparkling with its eternal whiteness all around me, tried my eyes

severely, and I seemed to get no nearer the bears. My prospects of

coming up with them were ruined by the dogs, who were keen enough to

frighten the bears, but not so keen as to press on and bring them to

bay. I would not, however, give up. Presently a fog came on and hid

everything from view except the bear-tracks, which steadily pointed

forward; then it lifted, and the sun shone out again clear and bright

as before. The Fram's masts had long since disappeared over the edge

of the ice, but still I kept on. Presently, however, I began to feel

faint and hungry, for in my hurry I had not even had my breakfast,

and at last had to bite the sour apple and turn back without any bears.

"On my way I came across a remarkable hummock. It was over 20 feet

in height (I could not manage to measure it quite to the top); the

middle part had fallen in, probably from pressure of the ice, while

the remaining part formed a magnificent triumphal arch of the whitest

marble, on which the sun glittered with all its brilliancy. Was it

erected to celebrate my defeat? I got up on it to look out for the

Fram, but had to go some distance yet before I could see her rigging

over the horizon. It was not till half-past five in the afternoon that

I found myself on board again, worn out and famished from this sudden

and unexpected excursion. After a day's fasting I heartily relished a

good meal. During my absence some of the others had started after me

with a sledge to draw home the dead bears that I had shot; but they

had barely reached the spot where the encounter had taken place, when

Johansen and Blessing, who were in advance of the others, saw two fresh

bears spring up from behind a hummock a little way off. But before they

could get their guns in readiness the bears were out of range; so a new

hunt began. Johansen tore after them in his snow-shoes, but several

of the dogs got in front of him and kept the bears going, so that he

could not get within range, and his chase ended as fruitlessly as mine.

"Has good-luck abandoned us? I had plumed myself on our never having

shot at a single bear without bagging it; but to-day...! Odd that

we should get a visit from four bears on one day, after having seen

nothing of them for three months! Does it signify something? Have we

got near the land in the northwest which I have so long expected? There

seems to be change in the air. An observation the day before yesterday

gave 80° 15' north latitude, the most northerly we have had yet.

"Sunday, April 15th. So we are in the middle of April! What a ring of

joy in that word, a well-spring of happiness! Visions of spring rise

up in the soul at its very mention--a time when doors and windows are

thrown wide open to the spring air and sun, and the dust of winter

is blown away; a time when one can no longer sit still, but must

perforce go out-of-doors to inhale the perfume of wood and field

and fresh-dug earth, and behold the fjord, free from ice, sparkling

in the sunlight. What an inexhaustible fund of the awakening joys of

nature does that word April contain! But here--here that is not to be

found. True, the sun shines long and bright, but its beams fall not on

forest or mountain or meadow, but only on the dazzling whiteness of the

fresh-fallen snow. Scarcely does it entice one out from one's winter

retreat. This is not the time of revolutions here. If they come at all,

they will come much later. The days roll on uniformly and monotonously;

here I sit, and feel no touch of the restless longings of the spring,

and shut myself up in the snail-shell of my studies. Day after day

I dive down into the world of the microscope, forgetful of time and

surroundings. Now and then, indeed, I may make a little excursion

from darkness to light--the daylight beams around me, and my soul

opens a tiny loophole for light and courage to enter in--and then

down, down into the darkness, and to work once more. Before turning

in for the night I must go on deck. A little while ago the daylight

would by this time have vanished, a few solitary stars would have

been faintly twinkling, while the pale moon shone over the ice. But

now even this has come to an end. The sun no longer sinks beneath

the icy horizon; it is continual day. I gaze into the far distance,

far over the barren plain of snow, a boundless, silent, and lifeless

mass of ice in imperceptible motion. No sound can be heard save the

faint murmur of the air through the rigging, or perhaps far away the

low rumble of packing ice. In the midst of this empty waste of white

there is but one little dark spot, and that is the Fram.

"But beneath this crust, hundreds of fathoms down, there teems a

world of checkered life in all its changing forms, a world of the

same composition as ours, with the same instincts, the same sorrows,

and also, no doubt, the same joys; everywhere the same struggle for

existence. So it ever is. If we penetrate within even the hardest shell

we come upon the pulsations of life, however thick the crust may be.

"I seem to be sitting here in solitude listening to the music of

one of Nature's mighty harp-strings. Her grand symphonies peal forth

through the endless ages of the universe, now in the tumultuous whirl

of busy life, now in the stiffening coldness of death, as in Chopin's

Funeral March; and we--we are the minute, invisible vibrations of

the strings in this mighty music of the universe, ever changing,

yet ever the same. Its notes are worlds; one vibrates for a longer,

another for a shorter period, and all in turn give way to new ones....

"The world that shall be!... Again and again this thought comes back

to my mind. I gaze far on through the ages....

"Slowly and imperceptibly the heat of the sun declines, and the

temperature of the earth sinks by equally slow degrees. Thousands,

hundreds of thousands, millions of years pass away, glacial epochs

come and go, but the heat still grows ever less; little by little

these drifting masses of ice extend far and wide, ever towards more

southern shores, and no one notices it; but at last all the seas of

earth become one unbroken mass of ice. Life has vanished from its

surface, and is to be found in the ocean depths alone.

"But the temperature continues to fall, the ice grows thicker and ever

thicker; life's domain vanishes. Millions of years roll on, and the

ice reaches the bottom. The last trace of life has disappeared; the

earth is covered with snow. All that we lived for is no longer; the

fruit of all our toil and sufferings has been blotted out millions and

millions of years ago, buried beneath a pall of snow. A stiffened,

lifeless mass of ice, this earth rolls on in her path through

eternity. Like a faintly growing disk the sun crosses the sky; the

moon shines no more, and is scarcely visible. Yet still, perhaps,

the northern lights flicker over the desert, icy plain, and still the

stars twinkle in silence, peacefully as of yore. Some have burnt out,

but new ones usurp their place; and round them revolve new spheres,

teeming with new life, new sufferings, without any aim. Such is the

infinite cycle of eternity; such are nature's everlasting rhythms.

"Monday, April 30th. Drifting northward. Yesterday observations

gave 80° 42', and to-day 80° 44 1/2'. The wind steady from the south

and southeast.

"It is lovely spring weather. One feels that spring-time must have

come, though the thermometer denies it. 'Spring cleaning' has begun

on board; the snow and ice along the Fram's sides are cleared away,

and she stands out like the crags from their winter covering decked

with the flowers of spring. The snow lying on the deck is little by

little shovelled overboard; her rigging rises up against the clear

sky clean and dark, and the gilt trucks at her mastheads sparkle

in the sun. We go and bathe ourselves in the broiling sun along her

warm sides, where the thermometer is actually above freezing-point,

smoke a peaceful pipe, gazing at the white spring clouds that lightly

fleet across the blue expanse. Some of us perhaps think of spring-time

yonder at home, when the birch-trees are bursting into leaf."