June 8th, 1896, 10.30.—We have been under way for twenty-four hours; we are in sight of Norway, off the Forsund, at a distance of nine miles from the coast, but the mist prevents us from seeing very far. The fir-clad mountains are vaguely outlined to our right, and the Virgo is heading due north-west. There is nothing for us to do but take life as it comes. I commence my diary in my cabin. The sea, though a little rough, has not yet troubled me. Andrée alone has already paid his tribute.
Tuesday, June 9th, Coasts of Norway.—Sea rough, general discomfort, moral prostration; I am unable to write. The Virgo rolls heavily. At the present moment, 6 p.m., it is as light as at midday.
Wednesday, June 10th, 6.30.—The temperature has gone down considerably; we have crossed the polar circle. A steamer has kept company with us this morning at a distance of 7½ miles on our port side. Sea rough.
Thursday, June 11th, 10 a.m.—In sight of the Loffoden Islands; sky overcast; some few rays of the sun; sea smoother; the vessel still rolls.
Friday, June 12th, 9.30.—At last we are in the straits which lead to Tromsö. I was so ill to-night that I should have thrown myself into the sea had I forgotten, for one moment, my duty and my family.
DANES ISLAND AND THE PIKE HOUSE.
At 11 p.m. I sent for the doctor; it seemed to me that I was going to die all alone in my narrow cabin. He ordered me champagne and sleep. Charlotte, the stewardess, brought me some oranges, and took off my boots, which I had not had the courage to take off for four days. Oh, Charlotte, my fair Scandinavian maid, with your clear eyes, your engaging smile, your gay face, and your lithe but robust physique, how you must have pitied “the French gentleman,” as they called me, who but the other day was so nimble, so sure of himself to all appearance, and who has suddenly become more inert and helpless than an old cap that has been cast away by the skipper!