pairs of spectacles for us against the snow glare, the glasses of which
were made from gin bottles. The leading sledges are drawn by the lucky
ones who can see, while the 'blinded' ones trail in their wake with
closed eyes, which they open from time to time to peer at the track. The
pitiless glare hurts the eyes. Here is a picture of our progress, which I
shall never forget: we are trudging along with measured step, shoulders
hunched forward, the harness straps tight round our chests, while we
hold on to the side of the kayak with one hand. We walk with eyes
tightly closed. Each carries a ski-pole in his right hand which, with
mechanical precision, he throws forward, draws back to the right and
slowly trails behind him. How monotonously and distinctly the snow
crunches under the disk of the ski-pole. In spite of oneself one listens to
this crunching, which seems to be repeating clearly: 'Long, long way.'
We walk as though in a trance, mechanically pushing our feet forward
and throwing our weight against the straps. Today I fancied that I was
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walking along a quayside on a hot summer's day, in the shade of some
tall houses. These houses were eastern fruit stores, their doors were
wide open and the aromatic, spicy odour of fresh and dried fruits came
from them. There was a heady scent of oranges, peaches, dried apples
and cloves. Persian tradesmen watered the asphalt pavement which was
soft from the heat, and I could hear their calm, guttural speech. God,
how good it smelt, how pleasantly cool it was. Stumbling over my pole
brought me back to earth. I clutched the kayak and stared around me—
snow, snow, snow, as far as the eyes could see. The sun is as blinding
and painful to the eyes as ever.
Thursday, June 4. Today, following in Dunayev's tracks, I noticed
that he was spitting blood. I examined his gums. The last few days he
has been complaining about his legs.
Friday, June 5. I can't get Captain Tatarinov out of my mind. During
the little speech he made when seeing us off he suddenly stopped,
clenched his teeth and looked round with a sort of helpless smile. He
was ill; I had left him when he was just out of his sickbed. God, what a
frightful mistake it was! But I can't very well turn back.
Saturday, June 6. Morev has kept at me these three last days, saying
that he has spotted, from the top of an ice-hummock, a perfectly level
stretch of ice running far out to the south. 'I saw it with my own eyes.
Sir. As flat as flat can be.' This morning he was missing from the tent.
He had gone off without his skis and the tracks of his snow-shoes were
faintly visible in the thin layer of dry snow. We searched for him all day,
shouting, whistling and firing shots. He would have answered us, as he
had a magazine rifle with a dozen cartridges. But we heard nothing.
Sunday, June 7. We made a mast about ten metres high out of kayaks,
skis and ski-poles, attached two flags to it and hoisted it on a hilltop. If
he is alive he will see our signals.
Tuesday, June 9. On our way again. Thirteen men left-an unlucky
number. When shall we make land, be it even barren and inhospitable
land, but land that stands still and on which you have no fear of being
carried away to the north?
Wednesday, June 10. This evening I had another vision of a southern
town, the sea front, a cafe by night with people in panama hats.
Sukhumi? Again that spicy, aromatic odour of fruit, and the bitter
thought: 'Why did I go on this voyage to a cold, icebound sea, when it
was so good sailoring in the south? There it was warm. One could go
about in a shirt, and even barefooted. One could eat lots of oranges,
grapes and apples.' Strange, why was I never particularly fond of fruit?
But chocolate, too, is good stuff, eaten with ship's biscuits, the way we
eat it at our midday halt. Only we get very little of it-just one square
each from the bar. How good it would be to have a plateful of these
biscuits in front of you and a whole bar of chocolate all to yourself. How
many more miles, how many hours, days and weeks before this will
become possible!
Thursday, June 11. The going is hell. Deep snow with a lot of water
under it. Open water blocks our path all the time. Did no more than
three versts today. All day a mist and that dull light that makes the eyes
hurt so much. I see this notebook now as though through a film and hot
tears run down my cheeks. It will be Whitsun soon. How good it will be
'there' this day, somewhere down south, and how bad here, on the
floating ice, all cut up by open stretches of water, in latitude 82°! The ice
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shifts right before our eyes. One glade disappears to give way to another,
like giants playing a game of chess on a gigantic chessboard.
Sunday, June 14. I have made a discovery of which I have said
nothing to my companions: we are drifting past the land. Today we
reached the latitude of Franz-Josef Land and are continuing to push
south, but there is no sign of any island. We are being carried past the
land. lean tell this both from my utterly useless chronometer, from the
prevailing winds and from the direction of the line lowered in the water.
Monday, June 15. I abandoned him, a sick man, in a state of despair,
which only he was capable of concealing. This robs me of all hope for
our deliverance.
Tuesday, June 16. I now have two men with scurvy. Sotkin has fallen
ill too, his gums are bleeding and swollen. I treat them by sending them
forward on skis to find a way for us and giving them each at night a
quinine water. This may be a harsh method of treatment, but I think the
only possible one for a man whose morale has not broken down. The
worst form of scurvy I had seen was that from which Captain Tatarinov
had suffered. He had had it for close on six months and only by a
superhuman effort of will did he force himself to recover, that is, he
simply forbade himself to die. And this will, this broad, free mind and
indomitable moral courage are doomed to perish.
Thursday, June 18. Latitude 81°. The rapidity of our southward drift
is amazing.
Friday, June 19. At about four o'clock, E.S.-E. of our halting place I
spotted 'something'. It was two pinkish cloudlets on the horizon, which
