A NATURALIST IN BRAZIL 



away. Outside the harbour Hes the ocean, a tender blue, as though 

 drawn in pastel. The horizon is defined by a milk-white line. The 

 islands float in a milky-bluish vapour; they seem not to touch the 

 water, and only their rounded tops rise clear-cut against the sky. 

 Far below lies the harbour mouth; the waves that enter from the 

 sea are visible only as the faintest crinkling of the surface. An ocean 

 steamer is putting out to sea; from this height it looks like a toy. 

 Slowly its bows rise and fall in a white gUtter of spray. 



Yonder the peninsula of Nictheroy stretches out into the bay. 

 The hills of the opposite shore fall steeply to the water, but those 

 behind uphft themselves ever more boldly. And everywhere, between 

 the green slopes or the reddish-yellow peaks, is the blue-white 

 shimmer of the sea. Loftier summits block the horizon. 



Now my gaze wanders over the innumerable inlets and headlands 

 and ridges of Nictheroy, and steeps itself in the blue Guanabara Bay. 

 Islands emerge, now here, now there; in the far distance one still 

 sees the gleam of water, until it merges with the land that extends 

 to the foot of the misty, jagged wall of the distant Organ Mountains. 

 — Now I turn my eyes to the other shore of the bay. Rio, the great 

 city, with its white houses, winds along the water's edge, climbs 

 the rounded hills, breaks against the cliffs, leaps over them, and 

 ends by climbing the spurs of Tijuca and Corcovado until it reaches 

 the green forest that clothes all the crests and ridges. Defiant, rugged 

 heads of rock peep forth from the green-clad slopes. The further the 

 glance travels, the more menacing the hills become ; more and more 

 adventurous are the geological formations, one exceeding the other 

 in boldness of outline ; the law of gravity seems annulled for these 

 overhanging tables of rock and leaning pinnacles. 



Behind the mountains the sun is sinking. The ranges turn into 

 dark corridors, behind which an orange-red flood of colour flames 

 to heaven. Range divides itself from range as a whitish mist settles 

 between them like a vapour from which worlds come into being. 

 All shapes assume an incomplete and primeval quality. 



On the other side the shadow of the Sugarloaf, after creeping 

 mysteriously across the bay, is climbing higher and higher up the 

 hills on the opposite side of the entrance. All colours fade; the 

 darkness is falling. 



And then, a sudden flash far below ; a row of lights flings itself 

 along the shore ; a second row joins it ; by fits and starts the ever- 

 lengthening chain of lights progresses, as though each kindled its 

 fellow. Suddenly there is a flash from the water-front of Nictheroy, 

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