Where never before a keel has sped,
Where never before a name was spoken,
By Norway’s name is the silence broken.’”
“‘We could not help a peculiar feeling, almost akin to shame, when comparing the toil and privation, and frequently incredible sufferings, undergone by our predecessors in earlier expeditions with the easy manner in which we are drifting across unknown expanses of our globe larger than it has been the lot of most, if not all, of the former polar explorers to travel over at a stretch. Yes, truly, I think we have every reason to be satisfied with our voyage so far and with the Fram, and I trust we shall be able to bring something back to Norway in return for the trust, the sympathy, and the money which she has expended on us. But let us not on this account forget our predecessors; let us admire them for the way in which they struggled and endured; let us remember that it is only through their labors and achievements that the way has been prepared for the present voyage. It is owing to their collective experience that man has now got so far as to be able to cope to some extent with what has hitherto been his most dangerous and obstinate enemy in the Arctic regions—viz., the drift-ice—and to do so by the very simple expedient of going with it and not against it, and allowing one’s self to be hemmed in by it, not involuntarily, but intentionally, and preparing for it beforehand. On board this vessel we try to cull the fruits of all our predecessors’ experiences. It has taken years to collect them; but I felt that with these I should be enabled to face any vicissitude of fate in unknown waters. I think we have been fortunate. I think we are all of the opinion that there is no imaginable difficulty or obstacle before us that we ought not to be able to overcome with the means and resources we possess on board, and be thus enabled to return at last to Norway safe and sound, with a rich harvest. Therefore let us drink a bumper to the Fram!’
“Next there followed some musical items and a performance by Lars, the smith, who danced a pas seul, to the great amusement of the company. Lars assured us that if he ever reached home again and were present at a gathering similar to those held at Christiania and Bergen on our departure, his legs should be taxed to their uttermost. This was followed by a toast to those at home who were waiting for us year after year, not knowing where to picture us in thought, who were vainly yearning for tidings of us, but whose faith in us and our voyage was still firm—to those who consented to our departure, and who may well be said to have made the greatest sacrifice.
“The festivity continued with music and merriment throughout the evening, and our good humor was certainly not spoiled when our excellent doctor came forward with cigars—a commodity which is getting highly valued up here, as, unfortunately it is becoming very scarce. The only cloud in our existence is that Sverdrup has not yet quite recovered from his catarrh. He must keep strict diet, and this does not at all suit him, poor fellow! He is only allowed wheaten bread, milk, raw bear’s flesh, and oatmeal porridge; whereas if he had his own way he would eat everything, including cake, preserves, and fruit. But he has returned to duty now, and has already been out for a turn on the ice.
“It was late at night when I retired to my cabin, but I was not yet in a fit mood to go to sleep. I felt I must go out and saunter in the wonderful moonlight. Around the moon there was, as usual, a large ring, and above it there was an arc, which just touched it at the upper edge, but the two ends of which curved downward instead of upward. It looked as if it were part of a circle whose centre was situated far below the moon. At the lower edge of the ring there was a large mock moon, or, rather, a large luminous patch, which was most pronounced at the upper part, where it touched the ring, and had a yellow upper edge, from which it spread downward in the form of a triangle. It looked as if it might be an arc of a circle on the lower side of, and in contact with, the ring. Right across the moon there were drifting several luminous cirrus streaks. The whole produced a fantastic effect.
“Saturday, December 22d. The same southeasterly wind has turned into a regular storm, howling and rattling cheerily through the rigging, and we are doubtless drifting northward at a good rate. If I go outside the tent on deck, the wind whistles round my ears, and the snow beats into my face, and I am soon covered with it. From the snow-hut observatory, or even at a lesser distance, the Fram is invisible, and it is almost impossible to keep one’s eyes open, owing to the blinding snow. I wonder whether we have not passed 83°? But I am afraid this joy will not be a lasting one; the barometer has fallen alarmingly, and the wind has generally been up to 13 or 14 metres (44 or 50 feet) per second. About half-past twelve last night the vessel suddenly received a strong pressure, rattling everything on board. I could feel the vibration under me for a long time afterwards while lying in my berth. Finally, I could hear the roaring and grating caused by the ice-pressure. I told the watch to listen carefully, and ascertain where the pressure was, and to notice whether the floe on which we were lying was likely to crack, and whether any part of our equipment was in danger. He thought he could hear the noise of ice-pressure both forward and aft, but it was not easy to distinguish it from the roar of the tempest in the rigging. To-day about 12.30 P.M. the Fram received another violent shock, even stronger than that we had experienced during the night. There was another shake a little later; I suppose there has been a pressure aft, but could hear nothing for the storm. It is odd about this pressure: one would think that the wind was the primary cause; but it recurs pretty regularly, notwithstanding the fact that the spring-tide has not yet set in; indeed, when it commenced a few days ago it was almost a neap-tide. In addition to the pressure of yesterday and last night, we had pressure on Thursday morning at half-past nine and again at half-past eleven. It was so strong that Peter, who was at the sounding-hole, jumped up repeatedly, thinking that the ice would burst underneath him. It is very singular, we have been quiet for so long now that we feel almost nervous when the Fram receives those shocks; everything seems to tremble as if in a violent earthquake.
“Sunday, December 23d. Wind still unchanged, and blowing equally fresh, up to 13 or 14 metres (44 or 47 feet). The snow is drifting and sweeping so that nothing can be distinguished; the darkness is intense. Abaft on the deck there are deep mounds of snow lying round the wheel and the rails, so that when we go up on deck we get a genuine sample of an Arctic winter. The outlook is enough to make you shudder, and feel grateful that instead of having to turn out in such weather, you may dive back again into the tent, and down the companionway into your warm bunk; but soon, no doubt, Johansen and I will have to face it out, day and night, even in such weather as this, whether we like it or not. This morning Pettersen, who has had charge of the dogs this week, came down to the saloon and asked whether some one would come out with him on the ice with a rifle, as he was sure there was a bear. Peter and I went, but we could not find anything. The dogs left off barking when we arrived on the scene, and commenced to play with each other. But Pettersen was right in saying that it was ‘horrid weather,’ it was almost enough to take away one’s breath to face the wind, and the drifting snow forced its way into the mouth and nostrils. The vessel could not be distinguished beyond a few paces, so that it was not advisable to go any distance away from her, and it was very difficult to walk; for, what with snow-drifts and ice-mounds, at one moment you stumbled against the frozen edge of a snow-drift, at another you tumbled into a hole. It was pitch-dark all round. The barometer had been falling steadily and rapidly, but at last it has commenced to rise slightly. It now registers about 726 mm. (28.6 inches). The thermometer, as usual, is describing the inverse curve. In the afternoon it rose steadily until it registered -21.3°C. Now it appears to be falling again a little, but the wind still keeps exactly in the same quarter. It has surely shifted us by now a good way to the north, well beyond the 83d degree. It is quite pleasant to hear the wind whistling and rattling in the rigging overhead. Alas! we know that all terrestrial bliss is short-lived.
“About midnight the mate, who has the watch, comes down and reports that the ice has cracked just beyond the thermometer house, between it and the sounding-hole. This is the same crack that we had in the summer, and it has now burst open again, and probably the whole floe in which we are lying is split from the lane ahead to the lane astern of us. The thermograph and other instruments are being brought on board, so that we may run no risk of losing them in the event of pressure of ice. But otherwise there is scarcely anything that could be endangered. The sounding apparatus is at some distance from the open channel, on the other side. The only thing left there is the shears with the iron block standing over the hole.