III

Dense darkness closed in around the tender.  The lights of the harbour disappeared completely, and the little cockle-shell with the glass pavilion began to roll considerably.  The wind whistled and howled.  Sometimes it blew so hard that it seemed to be bringing the tender to a standstill.  The screw actually did rise out of the water.  Suddenly the whistle screeched several times, and again the steamer made its way through the darkness.

The rattling of the windows, the quivering of the ship’s body, the gurgling whirr-whirr of the propeller, the whistling, squalling and howling of the wind, which laid the vessel on her side, all this combined to produce extreme discomfort in the travellers.  Again and again, as if uncertain what course to pursue, the boat stopped and emitted its shrill whistle, which was so stifled in the wild commotion of the waters that it seemed nothing but the helpless breathing of a hoarse throat—­stopped and went backwards—­stopped and went forwards, until again it came to an uncertain halt, twisting and turning in the whirling waters, carried aloft, plunged down, apparently lost and submerged in the darkness.

To be exposed to impressions of this sort for only an hour and a half is enough gradually to reduce a traveller’s nerves to a state of torture.  The proximity of that awful element the surface of which marks the limits of the one element in which man is capable of living, forces upon the mind thoughts of death and destruction; all the more so since the water’s tricks seem so incalculable to the landman that he sees danger where there actually is none.  Another thing hard for the man accustomed to unhampered movement to bear is the close confinement.  All at once he loses his illusion of freedom of will.  Activity, the thing that in the eyes of the European endows life with its sublimest charm, cannot in the twinkling of an eye turn into absolute passivity.  Nevertheless, despite these novel, distressing experiences, despite throbbing pulses, over-stimulated senses, and nerves tautened to the snapping point, the situation is by no means lacking in fascination.

Thus, Frederick von Kammacher felt a flush of exaltation.  Life was straining him to her breast more closely, wildly, passionately than she had for a long time.

“Either life has again become the one tremendous adventure, or life is nothing,” a voice within him said.

Again the tender lay still.  Suddenly it groaned, churned the water, sent out huge puffs of hissing steam, whistled as if in great fear, once, twice—­Frederick counted seven times—­and started off at its utmost speed, as if to escape Satan’s clutches.  And now, all at once, it turned, swept into a region of light, and faced a mighty vision.