“The ship is superb. A veritable floating palace. There are not a great number of passengers, about eighty in the first class.... At dinner I sit at a little table with an American family. Very uncomfortable and wearisome.
“At five o’clock there was a tragic occurrence, which had a depressing effect upon me and all the other passengers. I was below, when suddenly a whistle was heard, the ship hove to, and everyone was greatly excited. A boat was lowered. I went on deck and heard that a young man, a second-class passenger, had suddenly taken out his pocket-book, scribbled a few words in haste, thrown himself overboard and disappeared beneath the waves. A life-belt was flung to him, and a boat was lowered immediately, which was watched with the greatest anxiety by all of us. But nothing was to be seen on the surface of the sea, and after half an hour’s search we continued our course. In his pocket-book was found thirty-five francs, and on a sheet of paper a few words hardly decipherable. I was the first to make them out, for they were written in German, and all the passengers were French or Americans. ‘Ich bin unschuldig, der Bursche weint ...’ followed by a few scrawls no one could read. Afterwards I heard that the young man had attracted attention by his strange conduct, and was probably insane.
“The weather is beautiful, and the sea quite calm. The ship moves so quietly that one can hardly believe oneself on the water. We have just seen the lighthouse at the Lizard. The last sight of land before we reach New York.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“April 7th (19th), 1891.
“Early this morning the tossing began, and grew gradually worse, until at times I felt horribly nervous. It was a comfort that most of the passengers had made the voyage very often, and were not in the least afraid of going down, as I was, only of being sea-sick. I was not afraid of that, for I felt no symptoms whatever. The steward to whom I spoke called it ‘une mer un peu grosse.’ What must ‘une mer très grosse’ be like? The aspect of the sea is very fine, and when I am free from alarm I enjoy watching the grand spectacle. I am interested in three huge sea-gulls which are following us. They say they will go with us to Newfoundland. When do they rest, and where do they spend the night? I read all day, for there is nothing else to do. Composition goes against the grain. I am very depressed. When I opened my heart to my acquaintance, the commercial traveller in the second class, he replied, ‘Well, at your age it is very natural,’ which hurt my feelings.... I would rather not say what I feel.... It is for the last time.... When one gets to my years it is best to stay at home, close to one’s own folk. The thought of being so far from all who are dear to me almost kills me. But otherwise I am quite well, thank God. A ‘miss’ has been singing Italian songs the whole evening, and her performance was so abominable, such an effrontery, that I was surprised no one said anything rude to her.”
To M. Tchaikovsky.
“April 8th (20th), 1891.
“I had a good night. When everyone had gone to bed I walked for a long time on deck. The wind went down, and it was quite calm by the time I went to my cabin. To-day it is sunny, but the wind has been getting up since midday. There is now a head sea instead of the waves coming broadside on. But the ship is so big that very few have been sea-sick. My friendship with the commercial traveller and his companions grows more intimate. They are very lively, and entertain me more than the correct and respectable first-class passengers.... The most interesting of these is a Canadian bishop with his secretary, who has been to Europe to receive the Pope’s blessing. Yesterday he celebrated mass in a private cabin, and I chanced to be present. While I am writing, the ship is beginning to pitch more, but now I realise it must be so in mid-ocean, and I am getting used to it.”
“April 9th (21st), 1891.