erable pressure in several places. Goodness knows what is
causing it just now; it is a whole week after new moon. I took a long
walk to the southwest, and got right in among it. Packing began where
I stood, with roars and thunders below me and on every side. I jumped,
and ran like a hare, as if I had never heard such a thing before; it
came so unexpectedly. The ice was curiously flat there to the south;
the farther I went the flatter it grew, with excellent sledging
surface. Over such ice one could drive many miles a day.

"Monday, January 15th. There was pressure forward both this morning and
towards noon, but we heard the loudest sounds from the north. Sverdrup,
Mogstad, and Peter went in that direction and were stopped by a
large, open channel. Peter and I afterwards walked a long distance
N.N.E., past a large opening that I had skirted before Christmas. It
was shining, flat ice, splendid for sledging on, always better the
farther north we went. The longer I wander about and see this sort
of ice in all directions, the more strongly does a plan take hold of
me that I have long had in my mind. It would be possible to get with
dogs and sledges over this ice to the Pole, if one left the ship for
good and made one's way back in the direction of Franz Josef Land,
Spitzbergen, or the west coast of Greenland. It might almost be called
an easy expedition for two men.

"But it would be too hasty to go off in spring. We must first see
what kind of drift the summer brings. And as I think over it, I feel
doubtful if it would be right to go off and leave the others. Imagine
if I came home and they did not! Yet it was to explore the unknown
polar regions that I came; it was for that the Norwegian people
gave their money; and surely my first duty is to do that if I can. I
must give the drift plan a longer trial yet; but if it takes us in a
wrong direction, then there is nothing for it but to try the other,
come what may.

"Tuesday, January 16th. The ice is quiet to-day. Does longing
stupefy one, or does it wear itself out and turn at last into
stolidity? Oh that burning longing night and day were happiness! But
now its fire has turned to ice. Why does home seem so far away? It
is one's all; life without it is so empty, so empty--nothing but
dead emptiness. Is it the restlessness of spring that is beginning
to come over one?--the desire for action, for something different
from this indolent, enervating life? Is the soul of man not