September 30th.—We took passage to-day on the Melbourne one of the finest steamers of the Méssageries Maritimes. We slipped down the Woosung on board the Chenan a small steamboat which transported the passengers from Shanghai to the big ocean vessels, which could not enter the mouth of the Woosung.
When we stepped on board the Melbourne the captain met us in full naval uniform with big epaulettes and a three-cornered hat. The commander of a Russian cruiser moored in the harbour, and the chief admiral of the French fleet came also to pay their respects to my husband.
We started in the afternoon on our way to the equatorial regions. Whilst we passed before the Khabarovsk, the sailors waved their caps and cheered us loudly.
There are about fifty first-class passengers on the Melbourne. Kontski and his wife have also taken passage on that boat. The celebrated Polish pianist proved a most cheery and entertaining companion. Though the aged mæstro has passed his eightieth birthday, his spring-like vigour and abounding vitality are surprising; he defies the march of time. Kontski speaks five languages with equal facility. His wit is sparkling. During five o’clock tea he told us a number of rather risky anecdotes which kept his neighbours in fits of laughter. When I handed the old mæstro his cup of tea, asking him if he had sugar enough, he said, “Everything proceeding from the hands of Your Excellence can’t be otherwise than excellent!” Gallant old man!
Between the hours of five and seven the passengers take their siesta on deck, sitting down in canvas chairs and fading slowly into a deep slumber, conscious of the rhythmic throbbing of the engine and of the beat of warm air on their cheek.
At eight o’clock the gong sounded for dinner. The captain would have me placed next him; at my left hand sat the Director of the French Post, a Corsican bearing the high-sounding name of Casanova. That compatriot of Bonaparte leads, as it seems to me, the depraved life that his famous namesake did before him. He said gallant things to me, and related scandalous stories about his amorous exploits.
After dinner we expected that Kontski would play the piano, but he said he would do it, for my sole benefit, at Hong-Kong.
October 1st.—I had little sleep last night, for the ship was rolling a good deal. I climbed on deck at sunrise. Sergy tucked me up in my chair and I soon fell into a deep slumber. When I woke the rolling had ceased and the sea was quite calm. I was so comfortable I didn’t want to get out of my rug, and took my breakfast on deck.
October 2nd.—This morning, whilst we took our coffee, a weird procession of gentlemen, in extremely impromptu costume, with towels over their arms, passed by on their way to the bath-cabin. After luncheon the captain led us over the inner mysteries of the ship. We went down the deck ladder into the engine-room, where he, who would taste purgatory, had but to find employment there. The stokers are all niggers, who support better that stifling atmosphere than their white brethren.