ACROSS THE PACIFIC
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.