July 17.—If we had not fresh meat to eat and an abundance of fuel to give heat, I am sure we would have an alarming mortality in less than a month. Several lives have certainly been saved by eating penguins, and we shall always owe them a debt of gratitude. And now the sun though invisible is rising higher and higher under the horizon, giving us a long dawn from nine until three o’clock. Everybody is advancing in cheerfulness with the rising sun, but physically we are in a deplorable condition. Alcohol, even in small quantities, has now a deleterious effect upon us. We have been accustomed to take light wines at meals, but the wine has a bad effect upon the heart and kidney functions, so much so that we have stopped its use altogether.
July 19.—The health of the sailors is at its minimum. All are anæmic, but their general appearance is as good as at any previous time. They look strong and rugged, and have not lost weight; but their complexion is somewhat pale and yellowish. When they work outside for an hour the pulse runs up to from 120 to 150. In the cabin we are improving, but the Commandant, Arctowski, and Amundsen are making a slow recovery. On our excursions we now see many seal and penguin tracks, and the northern sky gives every promise of soon sending forth the sun. The shades of dawn are first green, then orange-red, followed by a bright yellow, so bright that one almost imagines a sight of the upper rim of the sun. The ice for days has been intensely purple. We have had a few feeble auroras during the past two nights, beginning at about three o’clock and lasting for only a short time. The sky is losing its bright, cheerful and restful blueness, which it has exhibited during the past fortnight of cold and comparative calm. A thin veil of gray is gathering over us, which presages another spell of warm, stormy, and dirty weather. The barometer is very high, the temperature is falling, and to-night there is a wind from the north. All of this, as usual, is an introduction to a wind from a warmer and more humid region,—the north and west.
July 21.—Yesterday the temperature was but one degree below zero, and for two days the weather has been warm and stormy. To-day it is again -24° C. A beautiful, clear and cloudless day— with a cheerful glow of reflected splendour radiating over the northern horizon. At eight o’clock the sky above the sun was a joyous golden; at noon it was crimson. We have not had an observation in twelve days, and are thus unable to determine our exact position; hence it will be impossible to calculate with precision the day of the rising of the sun, after its long and wandering debauch. We saw two white petrels, the first except one which we saw two weeks ago, since the first days of the night. There are no open leads or bands of water-sky.
Three days have been declared as official holidays. It is the time for the Belgian national feasts, and we are making, during this period, hard efforts to boom up the failing spirits of the men. Special foods have been prepared to please the palates; wines are sparingly served to infuse an air of good cheer, and we try to steer the topics of conversation in such a manner that a new interest may be created, but it seems to me that all of our good intentions in this direction are wasted. Arctowski and Dobrowolski are in a bad way. Knudsen, Johansen and Melaerts are in the baking treatment, and altogether we are in a deplorable condition. If it now became necessary to throw suddenly a difficult physical task upon the men there would be few able to endure it. If we were compelled to make a prolonged march over the cheerless pack we should fail miserably. In the cabin we know this helpless condition perfectly well, but we try to push it to the background and talk of the usual home sentiments of the feast, the coming sun, and the brighter prospects of a coming summer campaign of exploration. The sailors, always anxious for a holiday, though their work is never severe, are assembled in groups, some in the forecastle playing cards, others scattered over the pack on snowshoes drinking in the glory of the coming day.
A Hunter Taking a Sun Bath.
The Last to Enter the Three-Man Sleeping Bag.
The night is clear and sharp, with a brightness in the sky and a blueness on the ice which we have not seen since the first few days after sunset. An aurora of unusual brightness is arched across the southern sky. The transformation in its figure is rapid, and the wavy movement is strikingly noticeable. We are all out looking at the aurora, some by way of curiosity, but others are seriously studying the phenomenon. Arctowski, bundled in a wealth of Siberian furs, is walking up and down the deck, ascending to the bridge and passing in and out of the laboratory, as if some great event were about to transpire. Racovitza, with a pencil in his bare hand, in torn trousers, and without a coat or a hat, comes out every few minutes and, with a shiver, returns to make serious sketches of the aurora and humorous drafts of the unfortunate workers in the “cold, lady-less south.” These daily touches of humour by “Raco” are bitterly sarcastic but extremely amusing. Lecointe, lost in a Nansen suit of furs, has been out on the pack in his observatory, which he calls the “Hotel,” and is particularly elated because he has succeeded in getting an observation. “Now,” says he, “we will know when this bloody sun will rise.” Our position is latitude 70° 36′ 19″, longitude 86° 34′ 19″. We are drifting northward and eastward; this we have already learned by the naturalist’s drag-nets, but it is comforting to know the exact rate of drift. If we continue to drift northerly a little, if the temperature remains low enough to give a great refraction, and if the weather remains clear, the captain promises us a peep of the sun for a few moments to-morrow. This is the happiest bit of news which has come to us, and it sends a thrill of joy from the cabin to the forecastle.
