At present the sky is overcast and dark in the north; it is a long time since the sun has shown itself. The sea is very rough.
The flag hoisted on top of the mountain, behind the balloon-shed, to indicate the direction of the wind, was blown down last night by the squall. It was the opinion of the ice-pilot that we were in no danger of being packed in the ice until the end of the month; but the captain, who was answerable for the safety of the men, declared that the Virgo should weigh anchor on the 20th at the latest, at any cost, to resume her voyage southwards, no matter what the fate of the polar expedition might be.
Andrée and his two companions were patiently waiting for the clouds to break up and for a fresh southern wind, in order to take their flight. They have the faith which gives courage. The balloon seems anxious to be freed from her fetters to show her strength and her power. Everything is ready, weighed and anticipated; everything is seen to and checked in the smallest details by Andrée; provisions, instruments, and outfits, all are in their places.
We have only to suspend the car and to pull down the northern part of the shed. This would not take many hours, but we want a favourable wind, and for this we are waiting in vain. The delay, unavoidable though it is, endangers the success of Andrée’s expedition, and is very regrettable, for the sun is very low, and the polar night is approaching.
August 5th, noon.—The snow keeps on falling, but the wind is turning to the south-west. It is almost what is required, and hope is quickly reviving. May Fate soon open the route to the north to Andrée, and return me to my country and my anxious family! At seven o’clock in the evening the state of the atmosphere remains unchanged; the snow is whirling about, and the sky is gloomy.
Dansk-Gatt, August 6th.—A small balloon, launched at 6 o’clock, having ascended to the height of 325 yards, took an easterly direction. The gas apparatus is working; the balloon which has been inflated for ten days, is full. It is covered with snow and there is not a single spot on the balloon shed that is not white. The car is, however, protected by an awning, but the whirling snow penetrates everywhere.
It is impossible to stop on deck, for the wind is raging, and the day goes by in monotony and gloom. Every one longs for the end of this campaign which seems interminable; so long as tourists and whaling boats were moored near us, and brought with them life and movement to this solitary spot, our stay was very agreeable—it was a lively and cheerful international colony. Now Dansk-Gatt has resumed its mournful and forsaken aspect. “And the snow was still falling,” as Xavier de Montépin would say.
Then, confined within the walls of my cabin, my dominion of two square metres, I begin to peruse the few books I have and which, alas! I know already by heart, but still hoping to find therein something very interesting, if not new, at least old. And I was not disappointed, for I read over with great interest La Mer, by my playfellow, the excellent poet Jean Richepin, whose verses on snow were very much to the point.
It is long, long since, when sitting on the benches in our little school at Belleville, we were looking together over the top of the map of Europe at this small archipelago, named Spitzbergen, which appeared to my childest imagination to be an inaccessible point.