The Winter Night. 331 



"Thursday, January i6th. 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 was 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 diflerent from this indolent, enervating life ? 

 Is the soul of man nothing but a succession of moods 

 and feelings, shifting as incalculably as the changing 

 winds ? Perhaps my brain is over-tired ; day and night 

 my thoughts have turned on the one point, the possi- 

 bility of reaching the Pole and getting home. Perhaps 

 it is rest I need, to sleep, sleep ! Am I afraid of 

 venturing my life ? No, it cannot be that. But what 

 else then can be keeping me back ? Perhaps a secret 

 doubt of the practicability of the plan ? My mind is 

 confused ; the whole thing has got into a tangle ; I am 

 a riddle to myself. I am worn out, and yet I do not 

 feel any special tiredness. Is it perhaps because I sat 

 up reading last night ? Everything around is empti- 

 ness, and my brain is a blank. I look at the home 

 pictures and am moved by them in a curious, dull way ; 

 I look into the future, and feel as if it does not much 

 matter to me whether I get home in the autumn of this 

 year or next. So long as I get home in the end, a year 

 or two seem almost nothing. I have never thought this 



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