In the beginning of June we started to Khabarovsk taking the shortest way—via America—in order to visit the grand Exhibition that was being held that year at Chicago.

We were met at Paris by Mr. Shaniawski, who had prepared rooms for us at the Hôtel de Calais.

Paris was out of season and looked rather bare. We made a turn in the Bois de Boulogne, which proved a desert. We only met a middle-class wedding-party taking their traditional drive through the park, and nurses in white butterfly-like caps with flowing ribbons, wheeling perambulators and flirting with red-trousered soldiers.

On the following day we took the train to Havre, where we take passage on the “Bourgogne,” a Transatlantic liner which is one of the largest, fastest steamers plying between Europe and America. The ship is equipped with baths, electric light and all modern necessaries. We had one of the best cabins situated in the prow, containing two berths, one above the other. I was to have the upper berth and climbed into its narrow proportions by a ladder. In an adjoining cabin I hear the Serebriakoffs stirring, and can chat with them whilst lying in my berth above my husband, through tiny holes cut in the wall for ventilation. The great difficulty that night was to get anything to eat. There was no such thing as a piece of bread to be had in the boat before starting, and we went supperless to bed, having been obliged to wait a long time for the sanitary doctor, as no one is allowed to land in New York without a bill of health.

12th June.—At six o’clock in the morning the steamer gave a long whistle, announcing that the moment for starting had come. I dressed rapidly, and hurried on deck. The ship was all alive and full of the bustle of departure. Good-byes were said in haste, people clung, wept and kissed. The gangway is lifted up, and we begin slowly to move away. I watched the harbour of Havre grow smaller and smaller, until it faded away in the horizon. Swinging in a deck-chair I began to examine our travelling companions in whose company we are going to live for ten days. More than half the first-class passengers on our ship were Americans coming home; a great many seemed to know each other. I studied the passenger list, and saw that there were two Russians among them: an artillery Colonel, who is sent on business to America, and an old man, aged eighty-one, going to America to take part in a Volapuk Congress. We were taking a great number of emigrants for America. They thronged the foredeck, and crouched on the deck with their heads supported on bundles. Women stood in groups with children in their arms, or clinging to their hands and skirts. Things didn’t go well with the emigrants in their old country. They crossed the ocean in search of luck and fortune on the other side of the water, but what was the life to which they were going forth on the steamer, taking them to an unknown fate in an unknown land?

In the afternoon we passed Trouville and towards evening we perceived the Isle of Wight with its two lighthouses pointing on the horizon. The coast soon melted away in the distance. It was our last good-bye to dear old Europe—and en route for the New World!

13th June.—I awoke in tears, having dreamt that I was saying good-bye to the nearest and dearest that I had left in Russia. I am miserable and home-sick, which is even more than being sea-sick. I lay flat on my back staring at the ceiling in blank despair. If I had wings I should have flown back to St. Petersburg!

The routine of steamer-life was eating, sleeping, resting in deck-chairs and promenading on the deck. We are fed on board like cattle destined for the slaughter-house. In the morning from nine to ten, breakfast, consisting of broth, tea, coffee or chocolate, and porridge—the first course at every breakfast; at one o’clock lunch, at six dinner, and at nine tea. A waiter runs through the corridors, ringing a huge bell before each repast. We had a separate table reserved for us. The waiters on board, rigid and dignified, have the manners of a secretary of an embassy; the waiter who serves at our table looks less Olympian.

The barometer stood high all the time, nevertheless the ocean tosses us pitilessly. Our steamer was rising and falling upon the long Atlantic waves, and now came my first real experience of ocean travelling. I was obliged to leave the table during dinner.

14th June.—Dr. Pokrovski made me go on deck this morning for a little fresh air, and installed me comfortably in my deck chair, tucking me up in my rug. When I came to look at my chair I saw that it had, painted across the top my name in full. The temperature has lowered considerably; white foam covers the surface of the ocean. There is nothing in sight but a sail or two in the far distance. Suddenly we heard the shriek of a siren and soon perceived a ship coming towards us; it was a transatlantic vessel homeward bound. Lucky beggar!

15th June.—We had unfavourable winds and stood anchored the whole night, beaten by a boisterous sea. My head rolled on the pillow, and I had to hold fast to the edge of my berth not to be thrown out. Of course sleep was out of the question.

The deck to-day offers a lamentable spectacle. Sea-sickness, which had spared the greater part of the passengers, took its revenge now; nearly everybody was ill.

16th June.—The morning is grey and foggy. The siren had been croaking at regular intervals all day. It is Sunday to-day. On the upper-deck the emigrants sang prayers, after which the first-class passengers tossed coins to their offspring. Down poured a shower of small silver and copper, and little boys and girls scrambled to pick it up.

In the afternoon the rolling of the ship increased, the wind blowing steadily across the Atlantic, raised majestic swells. Our steamer pitched and rolled like a walnut. The passengers stumbled and slipped from their chairs and sprawled on all fours without any dignity. I passed the greater part of the day in our cabin, and climbed on deck just before dinner to call Sergy. We executed a pas-de-deux in our common effort to meet; my feet suddenly went back, while my body was travelling forward. I got my feet together at last, and clung to the rail not to be swept overboard.

17th June.—We are surrounded again by a thick fog. The syren was blowing all the time. We are in the season of icebergs floating from the Arctic Ocean. About six o’clock in the morning the cabin-steward rapped sharply at the door of our cabin, warning us that there were icebergs in view. I hastened on deck, but the fog was so dense that I couldn’t see two steps before me. Besides icebergs there are sandbanks to be avoided in these parts, and the steersman’s eye, accustomed to pierce sea-fogs, searched in the darkness; he signalled an iceberg, but I strained my eyes uselessly, when suddenly a gust of wind broke the mist, and we saw a huge mass floating quite close to us.

Towards evening a passing ship signalled to us that there was a great number of icebergs on the way. We were passing now a place called “Devil’s Hole,” where all the winds meet. The sea was very high and the Bourgogne shook and cracked as if it was going to fall to pieces.

18th June.—Again the whole night the syren never ceased blowing. At dawn I was wakened by a formidable noise. I heard footsteps of men running down the deck and the captain’s voice roaring out orders to the crew. It appeared that we were in imminent danger, having nearly run into an iceberg three times the size of our ship. If our captain had not been on the bridge at that moment, we should all have perished.

The provisions on board are nearly out, the milk is watered to an atrocious degree, and at breakfast I swallowed, with a grimace, a cup of weak broth instead of tea or coffee. We are fed now on mutton—mutton at luncheon, mutton at dinner. However good the mutton is, one feels towards the end of the week that a change should be welcome.

Every day we put our watches fifty minutes back, the time therefore seems to wile away still longer.

19th June.—Seven pilots have left New York yesterday in fishing-smacks to meet the Bourgogne. The pilot who would climb on board first was to receive the sum of 200 dollars. The passengers held wagers, and sweepstakes at five dollars each, had been started among the first-class passengers. One of them gained the sum of 120 dollars on the pilot No. 5, whom we had picked up first. Other pilots appeared after him, but they were told by signals that their services were not required.

20th June.—The sea is very calm to-day, not a breath of air ripples the surface of the ocean. Every morning the passengers look over the map on which our route is marked by small flags. This morning I was awfully happy to see that there was but a short distance left to New York.

After lunch a slight breeze arose, swelling out the sails and making us advance at the rate of twelve knots an hour. To-night the musical talents of the passengers manifested themselves for the first time on board. The commissaire played the flute and the second officer sang love ditties. I remained till late on deck, admiring the sea lighted by a magnificent moonshine. Suddenly I heard a shrill scream, and one of the lady-passengers ran up to me in her night-gown, shouting for help. It appeared that an enormous rat had been promenading over her during her sleep.

21st June.—To-day the dinner was excellent; we had awfully good things to eat and champagne gratis. The chef had surpassed himself in tarts and all sorts of dainties in honour of our last night on board.