Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - I. Spain. En Route
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evening wafts a veil of soft gray chiffon, spreading it
indulgently over the naked one.
Heaven and sea are gone. Only our little ship
remains set in a surface of pale silver, which begins at
no great distance to fade away into a bright chaos of
gray on all sides. Shades of lead and slate stand like
dark nuances in the bright gray of cement and pearl;
the smoke-stack’s smoke hangs like a skein of raw silk
over the heavy mercuric hue of our wake. There is
gray in all shades and tones, nothing but gray!
Gratifyingly soft, monotonous and yet rich, it rolls in upon
us like a tone-poem without tones. It is like the
crooning melodies of the common people all over the world;
the primal mist must have looked like this.
With the coming of night, however, the sky
dissolves into a vehement, almost aggravating purple,
which makes the pulse beat audibly again. And the
sea flows black and turgid as tar.
These nights, with their gurgling and swishing under
the ship, the faint tick of the log and the sonorous
snoring of the crew, under the forecastle! And the
great marvelous calm of the firmament, while the ship
hammers away with its heavy engine-thump, which
sounds like a grave-digger working in a large closed
alcove....
On the morning of the fifth day, Spain shoots forth
like a violet rocky wall, rising straight out of the sea,
its upper edge covered with clouds. As we approach,
the highest cliffs recede; blue glens open up and green
valleys, entire promontories step forth from the mass
and advance into the foreground - until they finally
reveal themselves as capes projecting several miles out
from the coast proper. And although the cliff had
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