The jingle of the breakfast bell and Johnny’s piercing voice shouting “First call for breakfast,” awakened me in the morning. I had to crouch up and dress on my berth, and succeeded in putting on my frock in a series of contortions. The Americans are very unceremonious people; peeping through the curtain of my division, I saw unattractive-looking bare legs underneath. All the passengers assembled in the saloon to drink coffee, which was brought in by Johnny and tasted very nasty.
We pass the towns of Rochester and Albion, and are speeding along the wooded banks of Niagara River. The opposite bank is Canada, a territory belonging to England. Johnny began cleaning manipulations over our clothes, proceeding with bold strikes of his brush, as if he were grooming a horse. Then he took off Sergy’s hat unceremoniously, gave a vigorously brushing to it, and clapped it upon his head again. After that he made a dash at my hat, but without success, I having jumped back in time.
Here we are at “Niagara Village,” an agglomeration of splendid hotels. The next train left at 9-15, and we had plenty of time to spare. We made our way to “Hôtel National,” as we had no porters to carry our things, we had to do it ourselves. We passed before a negro boy perched on a high seat, motionless like a black statue, sticking out both feet adorned with boots shining like twin stars. We were told that the black statue was a boot-boy serving as advertisement to a patent shoe cream.
At the entrance hall of the “National” we found negroes with brushes who made dusting attacks at our clothes.
We are just in time for luncheon. The big hall was filled with tourists who had come to see the Falls, the great wonder of the world. We were served by a staff of waiters, negroes of blackest ebony, the head waiter wore a flower in his buttonhole, and looked awfully smart. During luncheon a pianist played to the accompaniment of an orchestra. After lunch we stretched ourselves comfortably in rocking-chairs on the veranda, looking out into a shady park, and after a good rest, we took a carriage and drove to Goat Island to see the Falls.
Niagara, in the Indian language, means “Thundering Waters,” and in fact, from afar the thunder of the Niagara filled the air. We wandered away in the direction of the huge roar. As we advanced the sound became sharper and we had to shout to make ourselves heard above the noise of the cataract. At length we came face to face with the Falls. The sight of the foaming rapids fringed by splendid trees, was awfully grand. Rainbows are reflected in the water. The tumult of the Falls which attained the height of seventy yards, broke in clouds of spray against the rocks. It was well worth travelling all the way to see. Here and there we saw inscriptions: “Don’t venture in dangerous places!” Leaning over the Falls, I felt very small and strangely attracted by its foaming wonderful sheet of water, just the same as I did whilst standing on Mount Vesuvius, on the very brink of the crater. In a part of the park called “The Cape of the Winds,” where the Falls have the form of a horse-shoe, we met a party of audacious tourists, enveloped in yellow mackintoshes, who were slowly groping their way along a narrow bridge thrown across the cataract; underneath, the Niagara rolled gigantic and majestic in a vast flood. After having rested for a little while on the grass, discoursing about the beauty of the wonderful water-fall, we returned to the hotel just in time for dinner. After the repast, all my companions went out for a sail on the Niagara River; as for me, I had quite enough of thrilling sensations for that day and pleaded a headache as an excuse for remaining within. They went underneath the Falls in oilskin coats and caps, supplied by the hotel, after which they descended in a lift, and then walked along passages scooped out of the rock, until they were underneath the Falls, which poured over in front of them like a curtain, and then reached a steamboat called “The Maid of the Mist.”
When my indefatigable companions returned, we walked across the park to Canada “abroad,” as they call it here, and crossed the river by a suspended bridge joining Canada to the United States. We had to pay 25 cents each to cross the Suspension Bridge, which seemed to hang over the water. This bridge had recently collapsed and was now built again.
Whilst our companions explored Canada, I entered with Mrs. Serebriakoff, a white farm-house with green shutters, entirely covered with creeping plants, which announced in large white letters “New Milk,” where we regaled ourselves with strawberries and cream.
We were back to the hotel towards sunset and walked to the station laden with our bags and umbrellas, where we arrived just as the train was about to start.
This time our sleeping berths were still more uncomfortable, arranged behind the partition for two persons on one bunk. This is all very well for married couples but is it not particularly cosy for strangers of different sexes to lie down all night side by side. This lot befell Mme. Beurgier; her berth-mate turned out to be Mr. Koulomsine, who after long parleys succeeded in finding a sleeping berth in the next car.