The next morning he sighted land.Coming out on the bridge, the whole face of things was changed.The sea-colour had lightened to a tawny green; gulls dipped and hovered; away on the horizon lay a soft blue contour."Land Ho!" he shouted superbly, and wondered what new country he had discovered.He ran up a hoist of red and yellow signal flags, and steered gaily toward the shore.
It had grown suddenly cold: he had to fetch Captain Scottie's pea- jacket to wear at the wheel.On the long spilling crests, that crumbled and spread running layers of froth in their hurry shoreward, the Pomerania rode home.She knew her landfall and seemed to quicken.Steadily swinging on the jade-green surges, she buried her nose almost to the hawse-pipes, then lifted until her streaming forefoot gleamed out of a frilled ruffle of foam.
Gissing, too, was eager.A tingling buoyancy and impatience took hold of him: he fidgeted with sheer eagerness for life.Land, the beloved stability of our dear and only earth, drew and charmed him.Behind was the senseless, heartbreaking sea.Now he could discern hills rising in a gilded opaline light.In the volatile thin air was a quick sense of strangeness.A new world was close about him: a world that he could see, and feel, and inhale, and yet knew nothing of.
Suddenly a great humility possessed him.He had been froward and silly and vain.He had shouted arrogantly at Beauty, like a noisy tourist in a canyon; and the only answer, after long waiting, had been the paltry diminished echo of his own voice.He thought shamefully of his follies.What matter how you name God or in what words you praise Him? In this new foreign land he would quietly accept things as he found them.The laughter of God was too strange to understand.
No, there was no answer.He was doubly damned, for he had made truth a mere sport of intellectual riddling.The mind, like a spinning flywheel of fatigued steel, was gradually racked to bursting by the conflict of stresses.And yet: every equilibrium was an opposure of forces.Rotation, if swift enough, creates amazing stability: he had seen how thegyroscope can balance at apparently impossible angles.Perhaps it was so of the mind.If it twirls at high speed it can lean right out over the abyss without collapse.But the stationary mind--he thought of Bishop Borzoi-- must keep away from the edge.Try to force it to the edge, it raves in panic.Every mind, very likely, knows its own frailties, and does well to safeguard them.At any rate, that was the most generous interpretation.Most minds, undoubtedly, were uneasy in high places.They doubted their ability to refrain from jumping off.How many bones of fine intellects lay whitening at the foot of the theological cliff-- It seemed to be a lonely coast, and wintry.Patches of snow lay upon the hills, the woods were bare and brown.A bottle-necked harbour opened out before him.He reduced the engines to Dead Slow and glided gaily through the strait.He had been anxious lest his navigation might not be equal to the occasion: he did not want to disgrace himself at this final test.But all seemed to arrange itself with enchanted ease.A steep ledge of ground offered a natural pier, with tree-stumps for bollards.He let her come gently beyond the spot; reversed the propellers just at the right time, and backed neatly alongside.He moved the telegraph handle to FINISHED WITH ENGINES; ran out the gangplank smartly, and stepped ashore.He moored the vessel fore and aft, and hung out fenders to prevent chafing.
