Of all the heroes of the Golden Age of Antarctic exploration (1897–1922), the name Ernest Shackleton shines the brightest. Although, alongside true pioneers such as Amundsen, Scott, or Peary, he was in fact the great loser: on all four of his expeditions, three under his command, he failed to reach his goal or arrived too late. His true achievement, however, was bringing his men and himself safely home from the most hopeless situations. In other words, rescuing everyone from the greatest disasters and getting them all out alive. Not all unscathed, but at least all alive, that is what Shackleton accomplished, a remarkable feat. No wonder his methods of motivation are still taught in management seminars today.
Shackleton was also said to be a charmer and a brilliant talker, an engaging speaker, everybody’s darling. In fact, Ernest might have become famous as a poet rather than a polar explorer, for in that field he truly excelled. His letters to his wife Emily Dorman are pearls of poetry and romance. His declarations of love overflow with such intensity and passion that one first wipes away a tear of emotion, and then soon begins to wonder who this much-praised Emily really was. According to the saying that behind every great man stands a strong woman, she must also have been a heroine, yet a forgotten one. While Ernest Shackleton’s life and writings, journeys and deeds fill entire libraries, the factual record about Mrs. Shackleton is thin. Like Odysseus’ faithful wife Penelope, Emily Shackleton, née Dorman (born 1868 in Kent), waited for years at home until her hero returned triumphantly from the ends of the earth. Such women who stayed at home rarely make history. In Emily Shackleton’s case, that is a pity, because she too performed acts of quiet heroism.
A first bold move for her time: she married at the “advanced” age of 36, choosing an adventurer seven years her junior, a man driven by wanderlust, a taste for extremes, and a longing for the poles. The two, both from well-educated and respectable families, had met much earlier, in 1897. Ernest had immediately recognized Emily as the love of his life; from then on, all his vows and praise were devoted to her. She remained unimpressed for a long time by his charm and his colorful stories, he had already seen much of the world as a member of the merchant navy: Asia, China. And from 1901 onward, he was gone again, on Robert Falcon Scott’s Discovery Expedition. A disastrous journey that cost Scott his ship, his dogs, his health, and his friendship with Shackleton. In the summer of 1903, Ernest returned to England and immediately embarked on a lecture tour.
In order to offer his future wife not only beautiful words but also a livelihood, he accepted a position he did not enjoy: secretary and treasurer of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, in short, an office job. And that for a free spirit like Shack, as his friends called him.
At least in private, things soon reached a happy peak: Ernest and Emily married in April 1904, and a year later their son Raymond was born, followed by Cecily and Edward. Domestic happiness did not last long. The proud father failed in several ventures, unsuccessful as a politician, secretary, and speculator, and soon felt the itch again, wanderlust, a thirst for exploration, the desire for discovery, the ambition “to make a name for myself, and for you (Emily, who else?).” Despite their precarious finances, Ernest dreamed of another expedition, his own. And another. And yet another.
How she supported herself and her three children while her husband set off into the unknown is not entirely clear. Twice, the once-glorious names of his expeditions became synonymous with failure: Nimrod and Endurance. The Quest expedition would be his last. Shackleton died on January 5, 1922, in Grytviken on South Georgia of a heart attack and, at his wife’s request, was buried there. He left Emily not only with their three children and his passionate love letters, but also with debts equivalent today to around 1.8 million euros. Fortunately, his biography sold extremely well, and the proceeds benefited his wife and children.
Emily showed one final heroic act of renunciation and a lion’s heart by agreeing not to bring Ernest back to England for burial, but to let him remain in Grytviken on South Georgia. There he receives much admiration and many visitors: everyone who lands in Grytviken on the way to Antarctica pays their respects at his grave with a shot of vodka. He will remain forever in our memory, and so will his Emily.
Greta Paulsdottir