Proud Odessa disappeared in the distance. It was the first time that my
eyes had beheld only sky and water. The circle of the sea rolled in
splendor on all sides, and nothing disturbed the first overpowering
impression. Peculiar emotions arose within me, as I gave myself over to
this spectacle. The dimensions of the sea exalted my spirit, and at the
same time oppressed it. At sight of the measureless horizon my chest
expanded in blessed sensations of freedom.
Today the usually treacherous Black Sea was gentle. The waves rolled
themselves calmly and regularly to their mountainous curves, and then
spread out in white, gleaming foam. Sometimes the color was green,
sometimes blue, but in the distance it was always black. Sometimes great
white sea mews settled down upon the curving waves, moving their wings
as if in rhythm with the water. Sometimes arrow swift a dolphin leaped
over the surface.
A long time I stood motionless there, absorbed in the strangeness of
this unknown picture. Then I looked up to the complex rigging above me;
at length my eyes took in the space between, where the third class
passengers were gathered in gay disorder. This quarter on ships that ply
the shore of the Black Sea, is a veritable ethnographical display. On
two sides of this covered lower deck there extended--just as in the
people’s room in a mill--high benches, upon which reclined a strange
assortment of men and women of different races and religions. Upon a
faded rug here sits, with his legs crossed, a grave mussulman; his face
expresses peace and happiness. He has procured space enough in which to
enjoy himself, to place his _nargileh_ and his yellow slippers with the
curving toes. Some tall fellows whose faces do not arouse confidence,
lie restlessly beside him. Upon their black, unkempt hair one sees the
red fez. They wore brown jackets edged with black braid; brown, galloon
trousers, wide at the hips and tapering narrower. At the waist they are
held by a sash. From the sash shine the long handles of pistols. They
are Greeks. There, gleam the kindly eyes of an honest Russian peasant;
he has blond hair and a blond beard, in caftan and flat cap; beside him,
in picturesque pose leans an old time _commis--voyageur_, a dandy from
Odessa, who expresses his superiority to his neighbors by whistling an
aria from an opera. Over there is a rich Walachian family who are
emigrating to the Caucasus. They are sunburned, dirty and disheveled,
and yet they form an interesting group. The Walachian mother has all the
dignity of the mother of the Gracchi. There is a tall Persian, with long
smooth face and tall black cap; a crafty Armenian, a priest from Georgia
in a long robe. This gayly assorted crowd sit side by side, chew garlic,
count the beads of giant rosaries, talk and quarrel in various
languages, and spread about an odor that rises to the upper deck.
They fitted well--these people--within the frame of this Eastern Sea,
which was now lighted by the fiery rays of the sun. I enjoyed less the
travelers upon the upper deck; here yawned the stupidity and stiffness
of European society. A distinguished Englishman of the usual type, a
French Governess, some Russian officers, a few emancipated Russian
women, smoking their inevitable cigarettes. A stuck-up Greek who had
tasted the civilization of the west, who was reading the Odyssey with a
new Greek accent, and a German professor who was promenading for his
health. The outward appearance of this professor was diametrically
opposed to the visions of the fabulous old world of the East, which the
turbans in Odessa call up.
How out of place against the background of this measureless sea was this
thin, dried-up figure, in the long, carefully buttoned coat, a green
umbrella under one arm, huge gold spectacles on the nose, and a spy
glass in a worn case, hanging from one shoulder. The first time my eyes
rested on this figure I wished the Black Sea would rise and swallow him
and his pedantry. But now when the brilliantly colored pictures of the
Orient had somewhat faded from my memory, I must confess that in those
days I cherished a sort of hatred for all of that Western Europe from
which the German professor came.
My German professor was, to the honor of truth be it said, a man in the
best years of life. He was shapely. He had thick blond hair and a blond
beard and noble features. His exterior gave at once the impression of
acuteness and depth, but these qualities unfortunately were united with
a prosaic pedantry which at that time particularly displeased my
Oriental mood. I was convinced that he was looking upon the Black Sea
for the first time, perhaps this was his first experience in traveling
upon any sea. He was probably looking upon the interesting group upon
the lower deck for the first time, and yet he was promenading without
any admiration or interest. His dull eyes rested upon the toes of his
shoes, as if all his intellectual activity were focused upon counting
the number of steps in today’s promenade. At length he paused and
directed his walk toward my inconsequential self. He took a seat beside
me, set his spectacles straight and--_was silent_. I made use of this
opportunity to prove that I was correct in regard to his profession and
nationality.
“It seems that we are going to have smooth weather today,” I ventured in
the German language. Without the quiver of an eyelash, he replied in the
same language:
“Don’t rejoice too soon. The Pontus Euxinus has a very unstable
disposition. When there is no wind sometimes it rages, from the very
depths, seamen say.”
The first half of my supposition was correct, and evidently a part of
the second. This “Pontus Euxinus” smelled strongly of the Professor’s
chair. The dry, sharp tone in which he spoke of the Black Sea irritated
me. In an official voice he said to me:
“May I ask your name?”