We had flung down the adze from the top of the fall and
also the logbook and the cooker wrapped in one of our blouses. That
was all, except our wet clothes, that we brought out of the Antarctic,
which we had entered a year and a half before with well-found ship,
full equipment, and high hopes. That was all of tangible things; but in
memories we were rich. We had pierced the veneer of outside things. We
had "suffered, starved, and triumphed, grovelled down yet grasped at
glory, grown bigger in the bigness of the whole." We had seen God in
His splendours, heard the text that Nature renders. We had reached the
naked soul of man.
Shivering with cold, yet with hearts light and happy, we set off
towards the whaling-station, now not more than a mile and a half
distant. The difficulties of the journey lay behind us. We tried to
straighten ourselves up a bit, for the thought that there might be
women at the station made us painfully conscious of our uncivilized
appearance. Our beards were long and our hair was matted. We were
unwashed and the garments that we had worn for nearly a year without a
change were tattered and stained. Three more unpleasant-looking
ruffians could hardly have been imagined. Worsley produced several
safety-pins from some corner of his garments and effected some
temporary repairs that really emphasized his general disrepair.
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