And the fourth day. One awakens unspeakably lazy;--this must be the West
Indian languor. Same sky, with a few more bright clouds than
yesterday;--always the warm wind blowing. There is a long swell. Under
this trade-breeze, warm like a human breath, the ocean seems to
pulse,--to rise and fall as with a vast inspiration and expiration.
Alternately its blue circle lifts and falls before us and behind us;--we
rise very high; we sink very low,--but always with a slow long motion.
Nevertheless the water looks smooth, perfectly smooth; the billowings
which lift us cannot be seen;--it is because the summits of these swells
are mile-broad,--too broad to be discerned from the level of our deck.
... Ten A.M.--Under the sun the sea is a flaming, dazzling lazulite. My
French friend from Guadeloupe kindly confesses this is _almost_ the
color of tropical water.... Weeds floating by, a little below the
surface, are azured. But the Guadeloupe gentleman says he has seen water
still more blue. I am sorry,--I cannot believe him.
Mid-day.--The splendor of the sky is weird! No clouds above--only blue
fire! Up from the warm deep color of the sea-circle the edge of the
heaven glows as if bathed in greenish flame. The swaying circle of the
resplendent sea seems to flash its jewel-color to the zenith.
Clothing feels now almost too heavy to endure; and the warm wind brings
a languor with it as of temptation.... One feels an irresistible desire
to drowse on deck;--the rushing speech of waves, the long rocking of the
ship, the lukewarm caress of the wind, urge to slumber;--but the light
is too vast to permit of sleep. Its blue power compels wakefulness. And
the brain is wearied at last by this duplicated azure splendor of sky
and sea. How gratefully comes the evening to us,--with its violet glooms
and promises of coolness!
All this sensuous blending of warmth and force in winds and waters more
and more suggests an idea of the spiritualism of elements--a sense of
world-life. In all these soft sleepy swayings, these caresses of wind
and sobbing of waters, Nature seems to confess some passional mood.
Passengers converse of pleasant tempting things,--tropical fruits,
tropical beverages, tropical mountain-breezes, tropical women.... It is
a time for dreams--those day-dreams that come gently as a mist with
ghostly realization of hopes, desires, ambitions.... Men sailing to the
mines of Guiana dream of gold.
The wind seems to grow continually warmer; the spray feels warm like
blood. Awnings have to be clewed up, and wind-sails taken in;--still,
there are no whitecaps,--only the enormous swells, too broad to see, as
the ocean falls and rises like a dreamer's breast....
The sunset comes with a great burning yellow glow, fading up through
faint greens to lose itself in violet light;--there is no gloaming. The
days have already become shorter.... Through the open ports, as we lie
down to sleep, comes a great whispering,--the whispering of the seas:
sounds as of articulate speech under the breath,--as of women telling
secrets....
V
Fifth day out. Trade-winds from the south-east; a huge tumbling of
mountain-purple waves;--the steamer careens under a full spread of
canvas. There is a sense of spring in the wind to-day,--something that
makes one think of the bourgeoning of Northern woods, when naked trees
first cover themselves with a mist of tender green,--something that
recalls the first bird-songs, the first climbings of sap to sun, and
gives a sense of vital plenitude.
... Evening fills the west with aureate woolly clouds,--the wool of the
Fleece of Gold. Then Hesperus beams like another moon, and the stars
burn very brightly. Still the ship bends under the even pressure of the
warm wind in her sails; and her wake becomes a trail of fire. Large
sparks dash up through it continuously, like an effervescence of
flame;--and queer broad clouds of pale fire swirl by. Far out, where the
water is black as pitch, there are no lights: it seems as if the steamer
were only grinding out sparks with her keel, striking fire with her
propeller.