A Group of Penguins,—Visitors to the Belgica. (To the Left is a Lead into which They dive for Food.)
At last we feel again the pleasure of being out of the frigid stillness and on the bound of the broad ice-free waters. We have left the white line of the pack-ice under the black sea behind us, and now the ever-present electric glimmer, the ice-blink, is fading over our stern. As the blink vanishes, and the sky is screened by the normal South Pacific dulness, we descend from our world of lofty thoughts, in which we had been raised and upheld by the long months of isolation, and frost, and storm; and with this descent our minds and our hearts are set on the joys of home-going. The feeling of isolation and desertion now comes over us stronger than ever before. There is still a long spread of tempestuous waters between us and Punta Arenas, the nearest outpost of civilisation, and as we plough this hopeless sea, with souls raised to a fever-heat of anticipation, our old winged companions in the long drift with the frozen sea leave us. While among them, we thought we were wearied of their songless poses on the icy spires, and of their noiseless flights. We believed that we had seen all of their cold white world that we ever desired, but even before we have felt the heat of the sunny inner zones we are half sorry to leave this weird other-world life. A year hence, I am sure we shall all long to return again to this death-like sleep of the snowy southern wilderness; but just at present we long, as no tongue can tell, for the kindly breast of Mother Earth, with her soul-stirring warmth, her running streams, her sweet-smelling flowers, and her air of colour, of perfume, and of pleasant musical sounds.
On the morning of March 28, 1899, we steamed into the port of Punta Arenas. After a fifteen months’ absence from civilisation the new delights which we saw around this end-of-the-world town were surprising. We noticed with considerable interest the worn roads snaking through grassy fields, around groups of trees to the summits of green hills. Behind us were the olive and purple waters of Magellan Strait. The harsh Cape Horn winds, which blew over the forest-covered lands, seemed soft to us; to our frozen perceptions the sweets which these winds brought seemed to combine into one joyous perfume.
Little time was lost in seeking the shore. We were hungry for home news, and anxious to tread on solid ground. The sensation of having real earth under our feet was new to us. For more than a year we had roamed about over the moving frozen waters of the antarctic sea, with no sight of land, and no feeling of stability. When we mount the first hill we shall sit down and watch and wait to see if it, too, does not move like the hills of ice upon which we have rested so long. We landed quietly, and almost unnoticed; there was no crowd, no tooting of whistles, and no display of bunting as we passed over the long iron pier. In Patagonia nothing short of a volcanic eruption creates an uproar, which was to our liking, for we hated excitement and display and much desired to spend our time as it best suited our inclinations. A few of the sailors who came ashore remained on the beach, kicked about in the sand, and tossed pebbles. So much were they interested in this first touch of solid ground that they continued to play in the sand for hours, with the delight of children at the seashore. The officers marched straightway to a hotel, but in getting there they were made to feel their own previously unnoticed awkwardness. It is a sad undertaking for one endowed with a graceful walk to engage in polar exploration. I do not know whether any one on the Belgica ever boasted of such an accomplishment, but I do know that our walking attitudes, as we strolled up these streets, were a study in alcoholism. We had travelled on skis and other snowshoes so long, and had been tossed about on the sea so much, that we had forgotten how to walk normally. We spread our legs, dragged our feet, braced and balanced our bodies with every step, and altogether our gait was ridiculous. It may all be imagination, but we felt unnatural, as, indeed, we must have looked.
M. Van Rysselberghe.
J. Koren.
H. Johansen.