“In the night the ship pitched so that I awoke, and had palpitations and almost nervous fever. A glass of brandy soon picked me up and had a calming effect. I put on my overcoat and went on deck. It was a glorious moonlight night. When I saw that everything was going on as usual, I realised that there was no cause for fear.... By morning the wind had dropped. We were in the Gulf Stream. This was evident, because suddenly it became much warmer. There are about a hundred emigrants on board, mostly Alsatians. As soon as the weather improves they give a ball, and it is amusing to see them dancing to the strains of their concertinas. These emigrants do not appear at all unhappy. The unsympathetic lady who sits near me at table is the wife of a member of the Boston orchestra. Consequently to-day the conversation turned upon music. She related some interesting things about the Boston concerts and musical life there.
“To-day we passed a few sailing vessels, and a huge whale which sent up a spout of water into the air.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“April 10th (22nd), 1891.
“I believed I was quite immune from sea-sickness. It appears that I am not. Last night the weather got worse and worse. When I got up at seven a.m. it was so bad, and the sea so rough, that I enjoyed watching it, in spite of the huge ocean waves. It continued to blow until two o’clock, when it was so terrible that I expected every moment the ship would go down. Of course there was really no question whatever of our sinking. Not only the captain, but the sailors and all the stewards took it as a matter of course. But to me, who only know the sea from the Mediterranean, it was like hell let loose. Everything cracked and groaned. One minute we were tossed up to the clouds, the next we sank into the depths. It was impossible to go on deck, for the wind almost blew one overboard—in short, it was terrible. Most of the passengers were ill, but some enjoyed it, and even played the piano, arranged card-parties, etc. I had no appetite for breakfast, afterwards I felt very uncomfortable, and at dinner I could not bear the sight of the food. I have not really been ill, but I have experienced disagreeable sensations. It is impossible to sleep. Brandy and coffee are the only nourishment I have taken to-day.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“April 12th (24th), 1891.
“The night was horrible. Towards morning the weather improved, and remained bearable until four o’clock. Then came a fresh misery. As we approached the ‘sand banks’ of Newfoundland we passed into a belt of dense fog—which seems the usual experience here. This is the thing most dreaded at sea, because a collision, even with a small sailing vessel, may sink the ship. Our speed was considerably slackened, and every few seconds the siren was heard; a machine which emits a hideous roar, like a gigantic tiger. It gets terribly on one’s nerves.... Now the people on board have discovered who I am, and amiabilities, compliments, and conversations have begun. I can never walk about by myself. Besides, they press me to play. I refuse, but apparently it will never end until I have played something on the wretched piano.... The fog is lifting, but the rolling is beginning again.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“April 12th (24th), 1891.