June 26.—It is Sunday; the weather is warm, wet, and too stormy to permit our usual Sabbath excursions. We are playing cards and grinding the music-boxes, and trying in various ways to throw off the increasing gloom of the night; but something has happened which has added another cloud to the hell of blackness which enshrouds us. One of the sailors brought with him from Europe a beautiful young kitten. This kitten has been named “Nansen,” and it has steadily grown into our affections. “Nansen” was at home alike in the forecastle and in the cabin, but with characteristic good sense he did not venture out on exploring trips. A temperature thirty degrees below zero was not to his liking; the quarters about the stove and the bed of a favourite sailor were his choice. Since the commencement of the long darkness he has been ill at ease, but previously he was happy and contented, and glad to be petted and loved by everybody. The long night, however, brought out all the bad qualities of his ancestors. For nearly a month he has been in a kind of stupour, eating very little and sleeping much. If we tried to arouse him he displayed considerable anger. We have brought in a penguin occasionally to try to infuse new ambitions and a new friendship in the cat, but both the penguin and the cat were contented to take to opposite corners of the room. Altogether “Nansen” seemed thoroughly disgusted with his surroundings and his associates, and lately he has sought exclusion in unfrequented corners. His temperament has changed from the good and lively creature to one of growling discontent. His mind has wandered and from his changed spiritual attitude we believe that his soul has wandered too. A day or two ago his life departed, we presume for more congenial regions. We are glad that his torture is ended, but we miss “Nansen” very much. He has been the attribute to our good fortune to the present, the only speck of sentimental life within reach. We have showered upon him our affections, but the long darkness has made him turn against us. In the future we shall be without a mascot and what will be our fate?
June 29.—Since my last writing there has been nothing to mark time or disturb the gloom of the long black monotony. The temperature has been high with its usual accompaniment of stormy discomfort. Yesterday and the day before the thermometer rose to zero and everybody accordingly rose to a spirit of discontent. Such disaffections are always heaped upon the meteorologist who is blamed for all the freaks of the weather, but he receives no credit for the blessings of the steady cold weather which we like.
Amundsen After a Ski Run.
July 4.—It is the day of the Declaration of Independence of the United States. With characteristic Belgian thoughtfulness the Commandant has ordered a special feast and has sent up the Stars and Stripes to float over the Belgica to be waved by the virgin antarctic breezes. America and American affairs are the topics around which our ideas revolve to-day. It is curious to watch our thoughts wheel around the incidents of current events. The beauty contest in April was succeeded by heated discussions and sentimental philosophy for several weeks. This was followed by the serious sentiments caused by the last sight of the sun and the death of Danco. Then followed a lot of light talk about “Nansen,” the cat, and his future. Has he a soul and is there a Heaven for him? To-day we are building up a United States of Europe, and are dreaming of annexing Canada and all of South America into one grand Union of States.
There is a strong, steady, westerly wind charged with great quantities of drift snow. The ice is separating, leaving wide, endless, ice-free leads running north and south. In these we have seen a few finback whales, spouting, and sporting, and courting, in the midday twilight. The increasing light at noon is now very evident. From 10 A. M. to 2 P. M. on bright days it is clear enough to make ski runs over the pack, without tumbling over the many hummocks which a week ago were invisible. Though the curtain of night is lifting, the men, when carefully examined, show an alarming physical condition. Almost everybody when questioned vows that he feels well, complaining only of a lack of ambition, but the actual condition is otherwise. We are pale and green about the facial folds. A slight exercise makes us gasp for breath, and the heart runs at an alarming speed. We now make it a rule to take an hour’s walk outside in a path about the bark, and during these walks the men easily freeze parts of the face, the fingers and toes, without knowing it. The reason for this is the blunted condition of our senses and the enfeebled circulation, with imperfect blood.
July 8.—The temperature is again falling; to-day it is -30° C. (-22° F.). All of the leads and open spaces of water of a few days ago are covered with ice thick enough to travel over without fear of breaking through. In this new ice there are small holes about two inches in diameter. Along the edge of these holes is a ring of silvery hoar-frost, and out of it there comes a jet of vapour every few minutes. These are the blow-holes of seals, and the puff of vapour is the expired air of the animals as they breathe. We have been anxious to see these seals, for we have seen none since sunset, more than fifty days ago. They must have come southward from the outer edges of the pack, through the open leads a few days ago. In travelling over the new ice we found a place to-night where the new ice had been broken, and out of it came one seal after another, until about twenty had mounted to the surface of the old ice. They all marched towards us, and when within fifteen feet they stopped, sniffed the air, grunted, showed their teeth, and then sought for a comfortable place to sleep. Evidently our odour was not to their liking, for they ignored our presence until we attacked them a half hour later. We killed three, and surrounded two with the intention of driving them to the Belgica. After a long chase over a tortuous path we brought the animals to the side of the bark, and there examined them scientifically and gastronomically at our leisure.
The Belgica in September. The New Tent and the Pack Travelling Outfit.
June 10.—It is a bright, calm day, with a gentle air from the south and a temperature of -30° C. The men are scattered over the pack in little cliques. The Norwegians are quite separated from the Belgians, and all are on ski. Some are aiming for a favourite nook where there is a prospect of finding seals or penguins; others are striking out for a hummock eastward, which offers a splendid slope for ski exercises. We of the cabin have formed a small party to make the first long journey. There is an iceberg about two miles westward which had been the favourite spot for ski sport in the early winter, and we are anxious to see what effect the winter has wrought upon this berg.