Letter 1

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.

St. Petersburgh, December 11, 17...

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

You will be glad to hear that no disaster has occurred at the start of the venture you feared so much. I arrived here yesterday. My first task is to assure you, dear sister, that I am well and increasingly confident that my venture will succeed.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

I am already far north of London. As I walk through the streets of Petersburgh, a cold northern breeze brushes my cheeks, strengthening my nerves and filling me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? The breeze has traveled from the regions I am heading toward, giving me a taste of those icy lands. Inspired by this promising wind, my daydreams grow more passionate and vivid. I try in vain to convince myself that the pole is a place of frost and desolation. My imagination always sees it as a region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is always visible. Its broad disk just skirts the horizon, spreading endless splendor. There, snow and frost are banished. With your permission, my sister, I will put some trust in earlier navigators. Sailing over a calm sea, we may be carried to a land more wonderful and beautiful than any yet discovered on the habitable globe. Its plants, animals, and features may be unlike anything known, just as the movements of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered, remote places. What might we not expect in a country of eternal light? I may discover there the wondrous power that attracts the compass needle. I may also put a thousand observations of the heavens in order. They need only this voyage to make their apparent irregularities consistent forever. I will satisfy my eager curiosity by seeing a part of the world never visited before. I may set foot on a land where no human has ever walked. These are the things that draw me on, and they are enough to overcome all fear of danger or death. They make me begin this difficult voyage with the joy of a child setting out in a little boat with his holiday companions, exploring the river near his home. But even if all these guesses prove false, you cannot deny the priceless benefit I will bring to all humanity, down to the last generation. I may discover a passage near the pole to countries that now take many months to reach. Or I may discover the secret of the magnet. If that is possible at all, it can only be done through an undertaking like mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas’ library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These thoughts have calmed the agitation I felt when I began my letter. My heart now glows with an enthusiasm that lifts me to heaven. Nothing calms the mind so much as a steady purpose, something the soul can focus its thoughts on. This expedition has been my favorite dream since my early years. I eagerly read accounts of voyages that sought to reach the North Pacific Ocean through the seas around the pole. You may remember that our good Uncle Thomas’ entire library consisted of histories of voyages of discovery. My education was neglected, yet I loved reading passionately. I studied those books day and night. The more familiar I became with them, the more I regretted what I had learned as a child. My father’s dying wish had forbidden my uncle to let me become a sailor.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

These visions faded when I first read the poets whose works captivated my soul and lifted it to heaven. I became a poet too, and for one year I lived in a paradise of my own creation. I imagined that I might also earn a place in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are honored. You know well how I failed and how deeply I felt the disappointment. But just then, I inherited my cousin’s fortune, and my thoughts returned to their earlier interests.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.

Six years have passed since I decided to undertake my present journey. Even now, I remember the hour when I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I began by training my body to endure hardship. I joined whalers on several expeditions to the North Sea. I willingly endured cold, hunger, thirst, and lack of sleep. I often worked harder than the ordinary sailors during the day. At night, I studied mathematics, medical theory, and the physical sciences most useful to a seafaring explorer. Twice I hired myself out as a junior officer on a Greenland whaling ship, and performed admirably. I must admit that I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the ship's second-highest rank. He valued my services so highly that he begged me to stay.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

And now, dear Margaret, don’t I deserve to achieve some great purpose? I could have lived in comfort and luxury, but I chose glory over everything wealth offered me. Oh, if only an encouraging voice would say yes! My courage and determination are firm, but my hopes rise and fall, and I often feel discouraged. I am about to set out on a long and difficult voyage. Its challenges will demand all my strength. I must not only lift the spirits of others, but sometimes keep up my own when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs—a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.

This is the best time of year to travel in Russia. People fly quickly over the snow in their sledges. The ride is pleasant and, in my opinion, far more comfortable than an English stagecoach. The cold is not too severe if you wrap yourself in furs, as I have already done. Walking on deck is very different from sitting motionless for hours. Without exercise, your blood can actually freeze in your veins. I have no desire to die on the post road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

I will leave for the latter town in two or three weeks. There I plan to hire a ship, which is easy to do if I pay the owner’s insurance. I will also hire as many sailors as I think necessary from among those experienced in whaling. I do not intend to sail until June. And when will I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer that question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before we can meet again. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

Goodbye, my dear, wonderful Margaret. May heaven shower you with blessings and keep me safe. Then I can thank you again and again for all your love and kindness.