On the eve of our departure from San Francisco we went to inspect our cabins on the mail-ship, Peru, on which we are to cross the Pacific. We are undertaking a long and dangerous voyage. It is not a small affair to settle on board for eighteen days! On our way to the quay we encountered a queer moving house, set on rollers, and being pulled along by a team of horses. The Peru, lying on the quay, was getting ready for the sea. The whole of the crew are Chinamen, who are noted to be admirable sailormen. They were taking leave just then of their sweethearts, and offering paper flowers to them as a souvenir.
11th July.—We had to start early in the morning. We hurried over our breakfast and walked rapidly towards the pier and saw the Peru getting up steam, impatient to snatch us away. A great crowd was on the quay. Mr. Artsimovitch, the Russian Consul-General at this part, had come to see us off, accompanied by Mr. Haram-Pratt, Vice-Consul, a gallant young man with a large bouquet of the most beautiful pink flowers, called “American Beauties,” for me in his hand. I had my flowers put immediately in water, wearing a few of them. The chief of the police was pacing the after-deck followed by two burly private detectives who were appointed to watch over our safety; they lounged around on each side of our party, close enough to see and hear all that was going on, and kept a close eye upon us. This guard was kept until the Peru started on her voyage. Tiresome reporters, sent by the papers to get something from us, dogged our steps pencil in hand. My husband had a long chat with a representative of the New York Herald. Sergy begged of him not to look upon him as a Governor-General, for he was meanwhile a simple Russian tourist, who had been on a visit to the World’s Fair, and is now proceeding on his journey.
“Vous cherchez un gouverneur-general, il n’y est pas. Vous voulez voir Mr. Doukhovskoy, le voici!” said my husband to the reporter. Just at that moment I appeared on the deck and Sergy motioned me to approach. “And here,” said he, “is the cause of my travelling incognito. It was for her sake that our visit to San Francisco was kept secret.” We were interrupted by a deafening blast from the ship’s horn, the first warning for all not passengers to go ashore. There was a tremendous lot of leave-taking, crying, kisses and hand-shaking. Presently the bell clanged violently, and a sailor called out, “All visitors to the shore!”
At last the farewells were over. Groups collected on the wharf and tried to say still more last words and good wishes to their friends crowding against the rail. The Peru whistled a prolonged note, the gangway was hauled up, the moorings were cast off, and the steamer glided quietly away from her stopping-place, carrying us to Asiatic shores and an unknown future. Sergy waved his hand cordially to Mr. Artsimovitch and the Vice-Consul. I stood beside him all smiles. A tugboat towed us with some difficulty among the numerous boats surrounding us, and we sailed through the narrow entrance of San Francisco, known as the Golden Gate. We are hopelessly off from terra firma for eighteen days.
The Peru is a small vessel little fitted to do battle with such waves as we encountered. The ship is plying ordinarily between America and Panama, and it is quite accidentally that she is bound now to Japan. On her last voyage the Peru touched Honolulu.
On board the Peru we occupy the cabins 37, 39, 40, known as the cabin state rooms, on the starboard side on the upper deck.
The real names of our party appear upon the ship’s list. There was no need of secrecy after we had left America behind us.
Deplorable were the first impressions of our voyage across the ill-named Pacific Ocean. The Pacific had been anything but pacific and peaceful. As soon as we were out of the Gulf of San Francisco the vessel began to roll. At half past eight the gong called us to dinner; after the second dish I returned to my cabin and lay down. I shut my eyes but sleep would not come to me. At dawn, with the aid of Mrs. Berger, the stewardess, I removed to another cabin situated on the lower deck, where the rolling was less felt. I remained in bed the whole day, feeling horribly ill. And we have still seventeen days to live on board!
Mrs. Berger is a really kind-hearted stewardess, and nurses me devotedly. She enters my cabin on tiptoe, bringing a soothing cup of tea with a drop of brandy, when I feel too ill to go down to lunch. But no persuasion of the motherly stewardess could get me out of my cabin, until she called in the ship’s doctor, who forced me to go on deck for a little fresh air.
The head-butler, a solemn and majestic-looking mulatto, told me that there were only twenty-five first-class passengers on board. The third-class is full of Japs and Chinamen, who spend their time in playing dominoes. The Celestials are a pest to the ship, their special odour pursues us everywhere. All the boys (in the Far East all the men-servants are called boys, regardless of their age), are Chinamen, who speak a mixture of English, French and German, rather difficult to understand; they call all the passengers, ladies and gentlemen likewise, Sir. The boys are excellent servants, wonderfully deft and handy. They absolutely watch the passengers, and study their tastes carefully when serving at table; once let them know your wishes, and everything will be arranged to suit them. What a difference with the rough American servants! For dinner the boys put on long white sleeves over their blue clothing and stick the ends of their long tresses into their pockets, in order that they should not dangle between their legs. When cleaning the cabins, they roll them round their head. Mme. Beurgier orders the stewards and the boys as if the boat belonged to her. She is a person not lightly to be disobeyed and would have been an excellent Prime Minister. She made friends with all her fellow-travellers and rushed over the entire ship conversing with everyone.
At five o’clock in the morning the sailors begin to clean the boat. The inspection takes place three times daily. At half-past eleven the captain, the ship’s doctor and the head-steward walk round the cabins examining minutely if everything is in order; their commanding eyes swept to-and-fro for the smallest speck of dust discovered in the remotest corner, the delinquent boy is placed for punishment at the wheel on deck for four hours. The boys stand in terrible fear of that rigorous triumvirate. They moved about the cabin flicking off an imperceptible touch of dust here, and straightening a piece of furniture there. Involuntarily I glanced round the carpet for threads, but it was all fearfully tidy, not a speck of dust, not a cobweb anywhere. The duties of inspection over, the boys faces beamed with contentment. With nightfall comes the third inspection; the triumvirate enters the cabins without ceremony, even when the passengers are in bed.
We do nothing but sleep, eat and drink. At ten o’clock came tiffin (luncheon), consisting of soup, chops, fruit and pancakes; at four—dinner; at eight—supper. The days on board are awfully long and tedious. I generally stayed in my cabin between tiffin and dinner, wiling away the weary hours by scribbling my memoirs, and practising on my mandoline. My performances threw our boy Hassan, into ecstasies; he sat on the floor before my door repeating “Veri nice, veri nice!” After dinner the music loving passengers assembled in the music-room. Mr. Shaniavski, a very good pianist, is especially appreciated.
There is a whole army of cockroaches in our cabins. Before going to bed, I chase these nasty insects, and wrapping them up in a bit of paper, I throw them into the corridor.
We are now at the extreme end of the world, and have the feeling of standing upside down; and, in fact, if the globe was being pierced through, we should have found ourselves in that uncomfortable posture conformably to the inhabitants of St. Petersburg. When it is midnight in that city it is midday here.
Severe rules and regulations hang on the wall in my cabin. First rule: The striking of matches forbidden. Second rule: The rush to the life-boats before receiving permission, forbidden. Third rule: Not to take fright when the false alarm of fire was rung. This false alarm takes place once a week for the practice of the crew. Dear me, what a noise they were making! The alarm began by the piercing sound of a whistle, and loud shouts of Fire, Fire! After which the sailors rush on deck to open the fire-pumps, and pour out the water into the ocean, laughing loudly all the time.
Travelling on the same boat with us was a company of Teutonic travellers, with Baron Korff, a German General. One of the youngest members sang German lullabies and love-songs to me, tapping ruefully over the region of his heart and rolling his eyes as if in mute appeal to heaven. His favourite song was Mit einer Rose in der hand bist Du geboren. (With a rose in the hand you are born.) The captain of a Mexican sailing vessel, a cadaverous-looking man like Don Quixote, with very black teeth and little hair, fell to my lot as companion at table. An American missionary of grave aspect sat on the other side of me. He was bound to Japan with his wife, a thin and sickly-looking lady, and a whole band of children. The youngest, a baby in arms, was born in America during the missionary’s holiday. The children ran wild in the corridor, fighting and quarrelling the whole day, and are as noisy and troublesome as they can be. The boys no sooner heard me go out of my cabin than they were upon me like an avalanche. I could not read or work in the saloon, my attention being constantly disturbed by the children. They were as wild as young colts. One little boy believed himself to be a steam-engine and raced round the saloon driving a tandem of chairs, and his little brother, getting the maximum of sound out of a trumpet, executed a sort of war-dance round me, yelling like a wild Indian. The eldest of the family, a boy of six, was especially ungovernable. The heartless little wretch amused himself in tormenting Mrs. Beurgier’s kitten, and I flew to its rescue as soon as I heard the piteous mewing of the poor little animal, which gave me a furious desire to box the little wretch’s ears.
On Sunday morning, when I entered the saloon, I saw a notice stuck up on the mirror, announcing that the missionary was going to hold a service in the lower saloon at ten o’clock. At the appointed hour a boy sounded a gong, at which all the passengers assembled in the saloon and joined in the singing of hymns. The servants, baptised Chinamen, stood in a row as near the door as they could get.
July 17th.—Oh, what a night that was! I wonder my hair didn’t turn white. We all thought we were going to the bottom. The ship was rolling and pitching violently, every board cracked and quivered, and enormous waves dashed over the deck; vases in the saloon went down with a fearful crash, and all my things were scattered about my cabin. The captain kept watch on the bridge the whole night. I heard him shouting orders to the crew to take down the sails.
The sentimental German passenger did not coo his romances to me now. He suffered from liver complications and sea-sickness, and lay stretched on a bench on the deck, looking dreadfully green in the face.
July 18th.—The wind abated somewhat towards dawn, nevertheless the rolling continued and I lay in my berth the whole day. My head, finding no support, rolled from right to left on my pillow.
In the afternoon I ventured upon deck. Heavy black clouds hung over us; a fresh air blew into my face. We are to-day at the extreme point of our voyage, quite near to the Aleutian Islands and Kamtchatka. A lark settled on our mast, and Baron Korff came to congratulate me with this first winged messenger from the distant country which was to be our new home. From San Francisco a pair of big albatrosses followed our ship, resting during night on the masts.
A whole week has past, and we have been on the sea seeing nothing but the sky and the water. The least incident takes the proportions of a whole event in the dreary, tedious life on board. To-day for the first time we perceived in the distance a boat with swelling sails. It was surely a pirate boat going out seal-hunting.
July 19th.—We are half-way over the ocean to-day, and had champagne at dinner for this occasion.
We were near the end of our provisions and starvation stared us in the face. We found at dinner, oysters, ever oysters, which I abhor: oyster soup, oyster vol-au-vent, and so on. I will try and bear all these privations stoically.
July 20th.—The fury of the ocean has increased. Our boat tossed, dipped and shook as a mere plaything. It was a difficult matter to stand upright. Everyone was more or less ill and cross. Dr. Pokrovski was the only one of our company to venture on deck in such weather. A rough movement of the ship threw him rolling out of his chair, and made him turn somersaults. Mme. Beurgier saw our poor Esculapius creep back to his cabin, looking a veritable wreck of humanity, yellow as a marigold, and his necktie all crooked.
July 21st.—To-day we pass the 18th meridian, and have lost a whole day. This is Monday, 21st July, and to-morrow we shall be at Wednesday, 23rd July. We have to put our watches back a whole hour every day.
July 23rd.—I passed again a sleepless night. The ship was rolling a good deal, and the howling of the wind in the rigging was something dreadful. I couldn’t remain alone any longer, and stole into Sergy’s cabin for company. He persuaded me to go and lie down again, but it was useless to think of sleeping, and I gave up the attempt.
July 24th.—A grey dawn is rising; white vapours surround us. Our boat, pushed by a favourable wind, makes twelve knots an hour, in spite of the fog. If our captain does not arrive in time at Yokohama, he will have to pay the sum of 500 dollars as penalty.
July 25th.—The colour of the ocean has changed from dark grey to a very bright blue. After dull grey days the sky has suddenly brightened up, and a glittering sun has succeeded the dense haze which enveloped the sea this morning. After ten days of wind, tossing and tempest, all at once an absolute calm. Flying fishes are gamboling all around our ship and two fountains are spouted by whales close by.
July 26th.—To-day is our last Sunday on board. The missionary read prayers in the saloon. He gave out a hymn and all the passengers sang it together. He prayed for the President of the United States, for Queen Victoria and our Emperor, and preached a capital sermon. He said that the passengers, coming from different parts of the world, had gathered here to join together in fervent prayer. In a few days, probably, we shall all have to part for evermore, but in the sight of God we shall always be united.
July 27th.—The weather is quite warm, one feels that we are nearing Japan. Half-naked Japs and Chinamen lay stretched on mats in the hold, fanning themselves lazily, whilst their spouses are occupied in dressing their hair. They grease it with an ointment which makes it stick together, and mould it into a solid mass. This marvellous structure is left without being taken down for a week at a time. These voluntary martyrs sleep with their necks resting on a sort of wooden footstool placed under a thin bolster, which supports the neck, not the head, so that not one hair should be put out of place. They are evidently acquainted with the French proverb which says, Pour être belle il faut souffrir.
I was told that an old Chinaman, who had died on board on the third day of our voyage, had been embalmed on the boat. I remember now that the smell of aromas had spread all over the ship that day. Ancestor worship is a striking feature of China. All Chinamen insist on being buried in their native land, and when death overtakes one of them in a foreign country, his remains are always transported to China to be interred there, after the Buddhist rites.