FROM SINGAPORE TO SUEZ
February 9th.—To-day we take our passage on the _Laos_. A Prussian
officer, with an unpronounceable name, who was stopping with us at
the hotel, came on board to see us off. He had just returned from a
tour in Sumatra, where cannibalism still exists, and narrated to us,
with Teutonical phlegm, his experiences among man-eaters. In that
barbarian country the tribes engaged in war eat their prisoners. Those
who slaughter them are also risking their life, for if one single drop
of blood falls upon the executioner, he is devoured in his turn. This
officer brought back from Sumatra the head and the hands of a man who had
been eaten in his presence. Ugh—the horror!
The _Laos_ is a veritable floating palace. There are about one hundred
first-class passengers on board. I found some old acquaintances from
the _Salasie_, Melle. Jeanne Mougin amongst them, merry and pleasant as
ever. She threw herself stormingly upon my neck; I was very pleased, in
my turn, to have such a gay companion during our crossing. The steamer
included among its passengers a nuncio of the Pope, a Pole, Zalessky by
name, a high personage of the Church, who will soon be appointed to the
rank of Cardinal. He inhabits Kandy and is now making the round of his
diocese. _Monseigneur_, as he is called on board, wears a broad violet
waistband over his black cassock. He is awfully nice, without a particle
of bigotry. He told me, as we paced up and down the long deck, that he
had been very fond of society in the days of his youth, and that it had
been extremely hard for him to take final vows and to part with his
moustache.
February 12th.—After dinner everyone who had pretensions to music played
or sang in the salon. The wife of a French officer, who was returning to
Toulon after having ended his military service in Cochin-China, favoured
the company with arias and cavatinas. The lady is very smart and elegant,
but her warbling does not suit her plumage, her musical gifts not being
of an extraordinary order. At first she was somewhat nervous and, in
her agitation, dropped all her notes. Another would-be prima donna, an
old hen that imagined that she could crow, and whose singing would make
the dogs howl, with many simpers began to squeak love songs as high as
she could reach, with a voice particularly discordant with tune. She
accompanied herself on the piano, and thumped the poor instrument enough
to destroy the keys. Her performance put my teeth on edge, and I cast her
no tender glances; but my neighbour, a meagre exalted German lady, went
into raptures, showing the whites of her eyes and repeating, “_Famos,
colossal!_” A pretentious and bad pianist took her place, and massacred,
with the greatest assurance, one of Chopin’s most beautiful compositions.
After the pianist a young girl sat down at the piano, whose musical gift
didn’t go further than “_La prière d’une vierge_.” After two hours of
such anti-musical performance, the salon emptied little by little, and
her solo was executed, so to speak, to empty seats.
February 13th.—We arrived at Colombo this morning, and immediately
took passage on the _Armand Behic_ an ocean liner sailing to Suez from
Australia. We have abandoned the _Laos_ to avoid the quarantine at
Bombay, where the ship was to stop. Nearly all her passengers passed
over on the _Armand Behic_. There were many Australians and Japs on
board and some French officers who are returning from Tonkin, very pale
and suffering, whilst the Australians are all blooming with health.
There were different sets, of course, among a throng of four hundred
passengers. There was the “gay set,” who got up plays and dances on
board, the “cultured set,” the “musical set,” etc., etc.
A concert with tombola is being got up on board for the benefit of the
families of the sailors who have perished at sea. A subscription has been
started amongst the first-class passengers. I consented to take part in
the concert and to play a solo on the concertina. Active preparations
are made. The piano of the salon has been screwed down to the floor,
the piano of the second-class was carried out on the deck, which is
transformed into a veritable concert-hall.
February 14th.—In the afternoon we all went to draw the lottery. A jolly
French colonel took upon himself to be auctioneer at the tombola. He
presided with extraordinary gravity, hammer in hand, and kept the whole
company alive by puffing his wares unblushingly. The programmes of our
concert, painted by one of the Australian lady-passengers, were sold by
auction, 12 francs each; the bids rose finally to 40 francs. Our concert
yielded about 1,500 francs. The evening wound up with a ball. Between
the dances tea and all sorts of refreshments were being carried round by
sailors. I had no notion of the hour and found it was three o’clock when
I got to bed.
February 15th.—The Chinese element has disappeared on board, but in
return, the number of Hindoos, Malays and Arabs have increased. They are
all on the fore and aft of the ship, piled up on heaps of luggage.
Our boat has brought a parcel bearing my address at St. Petersburg,
postmarked Sydney. The message over the seas was a book written by
O’Ryan, an Australian doctor who had served in the Turkish army during
the Russian-Turkish war, whom I had met many years ago at Erzeroum. The
book is entitled, “Under the Red Crescent.” It is mentioned in it that
the author had fallen in love with me at first sight, and could not
forget me till now. It was a strange coincidence that the book travelled
in the same mail-bag, going to the same country, and it was very queer
this unexpected discovery of an Australian adorer of long vanished times.
February 16th.—Our list of acquaintances has increased on board. There
is among the passengers a Creole family bound to Marseilles, Crémazy by
name. Mr. Crémazy has occupied for a long time the post of President
of the Court of Justice at Saigon. His pretty daughters, Melles. Paule
and Blanche, were born in the Colonies and represent the real Creole
type. They are very pleasant girls, and in a few days we had become fast
friends.
Another French girl, Melle. Louise Martel, is an invalid; she lay back in
her deck-chair all day amidst a pile of pillows, carefully wrapped in a
thick shawl, though exposed to the rays of a tropical sun. She is dying
of consumption and looks very ill and sad, her face drawn and sharpened
by suffering. The poor young creature is cold and indifferent to every
one. She took a fancy to me nevertheless, and to-day, when I came up to
bid her good-morning, her face lit up with a poor, sickly, little smile.
As a contrast to the young invalid, we have a jolly opera-singer on
board, who flirts and appropriates all the passengers of the unfair
sex. She especially set her cap at Mr. Schaniavski, and bored him with
requests to accompany her vicious little songs.
There is a particularly nice young man on board, an Australian, according
to the information of the head steward. He didn’t stare at me during the
meals, he was too well-bred, but when I looked the other way, he looked
at me. He sketched caricatures wickedly well, and I asked him to make a
drawing of me, but it wasn’t a caricature at all, too flattering I should
say. To-day the young man made a rush for a seat near me at table. I
had noticed that he had put on a becoming tie adorned with a pin with
a beautiful opal set in it, which I had imprudently admired, and which
had cost a considerable sum of money. After dinner he came up to me and
laid in my lap a little vellum box, in it was the famous opal pin, which
he tried to make me accept as a souvenir, but of course I refused his
offering, telling him that in Russia the opal is considered an unlucky
stone. He was awfully vexed and sulked the whole evening, following me
with eyes of gloomy disappointment. The Australian endeavoured to throw
himself in my way everywhere; he passed beside the windows of my cabin
when he couldn’t catch me elsewhere. I was not quite indifferent to the
adventure, for he was very attractive that young Australian. But it
appears that I was playing with fire. He placed himself close to me on
deck this evening and taking my hand, which he retained in his grasp,
his eyes speaking a number of things to me, he began to talk of love,
murmuring a torrent of passionate words. He told me of the sleepless
nights he spent in thinking of me, and said I had cast a kind of spell
upon him, and that since the hour he had seen me, he had thought only
of how he might see me again. His attentions became so pressing that I
found it time to put a stop to them. “I think, if you don’t mind,” I said
to him heartlessly whilst he was talking of his flame to me, “that I’d
rather speak of the weather.” He didn’t look pleased, the poor boy, I
must say.
February 20th.—We are crossing to-day the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, (the
Gate of Tears.) The mariners try to pass this dangerous place by daylight.
There has been a deal of cricket-playing this afternoon on board. It
seems a queer game for a ship, but the promenade-deck has nettings to
keep the balls from flying overboard.
For dinner the Australians dressed as if for a ball, the ladies in low
dresses, the gentlemen in smokings. The _cuisine_ is very good on board;
all the provisions are brought from Australia. The Australian passengers
monopolised the salon after dinner, sitting there as if the whole place
belonged to them. Someone played the piano and they all sang Australian
songs in chorus.
February 21st.—The air is cool and fresh, and the Japanese passengers
begin to freeze. In Australia it is summer in November, December, January
and February, and thus our Australian passengers, going out to Europe for
twelve months will enjoy summer the whole year round.
February 22nd.—The monotony of our crossing had begun to weary every one.
The passengers saw far too much of each other, and the good-understanding
between them was cooling down. They began to pick quarrels with each
other and lived in strife for the remainder of the voyage.