One of the bears on board, the poor little female cub, was most touching, when this pistolled bear was brought on board. She longed for a mother, and tore at her cage to get out to this last bear, a female, but in no time it was skinned and cut up to become our daily food, for we must eat bear now three times a day, our fresh food from Trömso having gone bad and tasteless some time ago.
The mist lifted in bands, and strips of colour came into the sky where the sun ought to have set, but obstinately swung round high above the horizon, and the sea became literally as calm as a mill-pond, and now all the scraps of floe, separating in the stillness, are perfectly reflected. One piece of ice in particular we notice against the vivid lavender with deep bottle-green transparency when the midnight sun shines through it.
As we enjoyed the stillness and mystery of the rising mist, Hamilton said he thought—no, he said he did see land; and we said, “Oh!” and “Really!” and doubted, but it was!—a little hard point above the low bank of mist on the horizon, and everyone got their glasses out and gradually Greenland became more distinct—no doubt now, mountain-tops, heaven be praised, hills again. We have only been about four weeks away from land; still, that gives one a deep heart-longing for it. We had almost made up our minds that we were not to see Greenland this year, possibly never, but we have seen its mountains! Even supposing the floes close up and gales come, and we are driven back, still, we have seen these icy mountains we promised to see long ago. I wish there were several artists here—there is beauty, delicacy and colour enough to keep all busy.
Possibly the colour and reflections, and the view of mountains appeal to us on account of the many days we have spent in the misty plains of flat ice floe. It will be difficult now to sleep with the thought of land and rocks under foot, saxifrage, Arctic poppies, and possibly musk oxen, and possibly even a mosquito or two, and ptarmigan, and possibly great walrus on the land ice. I certainly greatly desire one splendid pair of walrus tusks. That and a musk ox’s head and a narwhal’s horn will satisfy me. I do not want a museum; still, there is always some small corner in a house or studio where such things may be stowed to serve as reminders of days in the open.
There is very fine ice forming on the still water; the surface looks as if it had a scum of liquid like melted sugar in an imperceptible form of ice. Other parts are covered with more developed ice-crystals. There is a pleasant, soft, rustling sound, or hissing, as we go through it.
We have a seal or two in view—a hooded-seal we have just got. Don Luis Velasquez made a very pretty shot at its neck at a hundred yards. Now there is a larger kind, a mile or two off in our line of route; Gisbert will have a shot at it. This thin ice forming now is pleasant enough, but the same formation, if we were here a little later, would make us anxious to get out and off home before it got too strong.
There is really colouring in the sky this midnight, sun reflections, salmon and pink—the first decidedly warm colours we have seen since leaving Trömso. Some of the ice-blocks assume strange tints, one piece with dark lilac pillars supporting the portal of a cave with three arched entrances each fringed with icicles—inside a glory of greens and blues. Did fairies live in this cold land, such should be their palace.
