July 28, 1888.
On the Seas Black, Caspian, and of Life.
... A wretched little cargo steamer, _Dir_, is racing full steam from
Suhum to Poti. It is about midnight. The little cabin--the only one in the
steamer--is insufferably hot and stuffy. There is a smell of burning, of
rope, of fish and of the sea. One hears the engine going “Boom-boom-boom.”
... There are devils creaking up aloft and under the floor. The darkness is
swaying in the cabin and the bed rocks up and down.... One’s stomach’s
whole attention is concentrated on the bed, and, as though to find its
level, it rolls the Seltzer water I had drunk right up to my throat and
then lets it down to my heels. Not to be sick over my clothes in the dark I
hastily put on my things and go out.... It is dark. My feet stumble against
some invisible iron bars, a rope; wherever you step there are barrels,
sacks, rags. There is coal dust under foot. In the dark I knock against a
kind of grating: it is a cage with wild goats which I saw in the daytime.
They are awake and anxiously listening to the rocking of the boat. By the
cage sit two Turks who are not asleep either.... I grope my way up the
stairs to the captain’s bridge.... A warm but violent and unpleasant wind
tries to blow away my cap.... The steamer rocks. The mast in front of the
captain’s bridge sways regularly and leisurely like a metronome; I try to
look away from it, but my eyes will not obey me and, just like my stomach,
insist on following moving objects.... The sky and the sea are dark, the
shore is not in sight, the deck looks a dark blur ... there is not a single
light.
Behind me is a window ... I look into it and see a man who looks
attentively at something and turns a wheel with an expression as though he
were playing the ninth symphony.... Next to me stands the little stout
captain in tan shoes.... He talks to me of Caucasian emigrants, of the
heat, of winter storms, and at the same time looks intently into the dark
distance in the direction of the shore.
“You seem to be going too much to the left again,” he says to someone; or,
“There ought to be lights here.... Do you see them?”
“No, sir,” someone answers from the dark.
“Climb up and look.”
A dark figure appears on the bridge and leisurely climbs up. In a minute we
hear:
“Yes, sir.”
I look to the left where the lights of the lighthouse are supposed to be,
borrow the captain’s glasses, but see nothing.... Half an hour passes, then
an hour. The mast sways regularly, the devils creak, the wind makes dashes
at my cap.... It is not pitch dark, but one feels uneasy.
Suddenly the captain dashes off somewhere to the rear of the ship, crying,
“You devil’s doll!”
“To the left,” he shouts anxiously at the top of his voice. “To the left!
... To the right! A-va-va-a!”
Incomprehensible words of command are heard. The steamer starts, the devils
give a creak.... “A-va-va!” shouts the captain; at the bows a bell is rung,
on the black deck there are sounds of running, knocking, cries of
anxiety.... The _Dir_ starts once more, puffs painfully, and apparently
tries to move backwards.
“What is it?” I ask, and feel something like a faint terror. There is no
answer.
“He’d like a collision, the devil’s doll!” I hear the captain’s harsh
shout. “To the left!”
Red lights appear in front, and suddenly among the uproar is heard the
whistling, not of the _Dir_, but of some other steamer.... Now I understand
it: there is going to be a collision! The _Dir_ puffs, trembles, and does
not move, as though waiting for a signal to go down.... But just when I
think all is lost, the red lights appear on the left of us, and the dark
silhouette of a steamer can be discerned.... A long black body sails past
us, guiltily blinks its red eyes, and gives a guilty whistle....
“Oof! What steamer is it?” I ask the captain.
The captain looks at the silhouette through his glasses and replies:
“It is the _Tweedie_.”
After a pause we begin to talk of the _Vesta_, which collided with two
steamers and went down. Under the influence of this conversation the sea,
the night and the wind begin to seem hideous, created on purpose for man’s
undoing, and I feel sorry as I look at the fat little captain.... Something
whispers to me that this poor man, too, will sooner or later sink to the
bottom and be choked with salt water. [Footnote: Chekhov’s presentiment
about the captain was partly fulfilled: that very autumn the _Dir_ was
wrecked on the shores of Alupka.]
I go back to my cabin.... It is stuffy, and there is a smell of cooking. My
travelling companion, Suvorin-_fils_, is asleep already.... I take off
all my clothes and go to bed.... The darkness sways to and fro, the bed
seems to breathe.... Boom-boom-boom! Bathed in perspiration, breathless,
and feeling an oppression all over with the rocking, I ask myself, “What am
I here for?”
I wake up. It is no longer dark. Wet all over, with a nasty taste in my
mouth, I dress and go out. Everything is covered with dew.... The wild
goats look with human eyes through the grating of their cage and seem to be
asking “Why are we here?” The captain stands still as before and looks
intently into the distance....
A mountainous shore stretches on the left.... Elborus is seen from behind
the mountains.
A blurred sun rises in the sky.... One can see the green valley of Rion and
the Bay of Poti by the side of it.