“Vous cherchez un gouverneur-general, il n’y est pas. Vous voulez voir Mr. Doukhovskoy, le voici!” said my husband to the reporter. Just at that moment I appeared on the deck and Sergy motioned me to approach. “And here,” said he, “is the cause of my travelling incognito. It was for her sake that our visit to San Francisco was kept secret.” We were interrupted by a deafening blast from the ship’s horn, the first warning for all not passengers to go ashore. There was a tremendous lot of leave-taking, crying, kisses and hand-shaking. Presently the bell clanged violently, and a sailor called out, “All visitors to the shore!”
At last the farewells were over. Groups collected on the wharf and tried to say still more last words and good wishes to their friends crowding against the rail. The Peru whistled a prolonged note, the gangway was hauled up, the moorings were cast off, and the steamer glided quietly away from her stopping-place, carrying us to Asiatic shores and an unknown future. Sergy waved his hand cordially to Mr. Artsimovitch and the Vice-Consul. I stood beside him all smiles. A tugboat towed us with some difficulty among the numerous boats surrounding us, and we sailed through the narrow entrance of San Francisco, known as the Golden Gate. We are hopelessly off from terra firma for eighteen days.
The Peru is a small vessel little fitted to do battle with such waves as we encountered. The ship is plying ordinarily between America and Panama, and it is quite accidentally that she is bound now to Japan. On her last voyage the Peru touched Honolulu.
On board the Peru we occupy the cabins 37, 39, 40, known as the cabin state rooms, on the starboard side on the upper deck.
The real names of our party appear upon the ship’s list. There was no need of secrecy after we had left America behind us.
Deplorable were the first impressions of our voyage across the ill-named Pacific Ocean. The Pacific had been anything but pacific and peaceful. As soon as we were out of the Gulf of San Francisco the vessel began to roll. At half past eight the gong called us to dinner; after the second dish I returned to my cabin and lay down. I shut my eyes but sleep would not come to me. At dawn, with the aid of Mrs. Berger, the stewardess, I removed to another cabin situated on the lower deck, where the rolling was less felt. I remained in bed the whole day, feeling horribly ill. And we have still seventeen days to live on board!
Mrs. Berger is a really kind-hearted stewardess, and nurses me devotedly. She enters my cabin on tiptoe, bringing a soothing cup of tea with a drop of brandy, when I feel too ill to go down to lunch. But no persuasion of the motherly stewardess could get me out of my cabin, until she called in the ship’s doctor, who forced me to go on deck for a little fresh air.
The head-butler, a solemn and majestic-looking mulatto, told me that there were only twenty-five first-class passengers on board. The third-class is full of Japs and Chinamen, who spend their time in playing dominoes. The Celestials are a pest to the ship, their special odour pursues us everywhere. All the boys (in the Far East all the men-servants are called boys, regardless of their age), are Chinamen, who speak a mixture of English, French and German, rather difficult to understand; they call all the passengers, ladies and gentlemen likewise, Sir. The boys are excellent servants, wonderfully deft and handy. They absolutely watch the passengers, and study their tastes carefully when serving at table; once let them know your wishes, and everything will be arranged to suit them. What a difference with the rough American servants! For dinner the boys put on long white sleeves over their blue clothing and stick the ends of their long tresses into their pockets, in order that they should not dangle between their legs. When cleaning the cabins, they roll them round their head. Mme. Beurgier orders the stewards and the boys as if the boat belonged to her. She is a person not lightly to be disobeyed and would have been an excellent Prime Minister. She made friends with all her fellow-travellers and rushed over the entire ship conversing with everyone.
At five o’clock in the morning the sailors begin to clean the boat. The inspection takes place three times daily. At half-past eleven the captain, the ship’s doctor and the head-steward walk round the cabins examining minutely if everything is in order; their commanding eyes swept to-and-fro for the smallest speck of dust discovered in the remotest corner, the delinquent boy is placed for punishment at the wheel on deck for four hours. The boys stand in terrible fear of that rigorous triumvirate. They moved about the cabin flicking off an imperceptible touch of dust here, and straightening a piece of furniture there. Involuntarily I glanced round the carpet for threads, but it was all fearfully tidy, not a speck of dust, not a cobweb anywhere. The duties of inspection over, the boys faces beamed with contentment. With nightfall comes the third inspection; the triumvirate enters the cabins without ceremony, even when the passengers are in bed.
We do nothing but sleep, eat and drink. At ten o’clock came tiffin (luncheon), consisting of soup, chops, fruit and pancakes; at four—dinner; at eight—supper. The days on board are awfully long and tedious. I generally stayed in my cabin between tiffin and dinner, wiling away the weary hours by scribbling my memoirs, and practising on my mandoline. My performances threw our boy Hassan, into ecstasies; he sat on the floor before my door repeating “Veri nice, veri nice!” After dinner the music loving passengers assembled in the music-room. Mr. Shaniavski, a very good pianist, is especially appreciated.