Our boat has brought a parcel bearing my address at St. Petersburg, postmarked Sydney. The message over the seas was a book written by O’Ryan, an Australian doctor who had served in the Turkish army during the Russian-Turkish war, whom I had met many years ago at Erzeroum. The book is entitled, “Under the Red Crescent.” It is mentioned in it that the author had fallen in love with me at first sight, and could not forget me till now. It was a strange coincidence that the book travelled in the same mail-bag, going to the same country, and it was very queer this unexpected discovery of an Australian adorer of long vanished times.
February 16th.—Our list of acquaintances has increased on board. There is among the passengers a Creole family bound to Marseilles, Crémazy by name. Mr. Crémazy has occupied for a long time the post of President of the Court of Justice at Saigon. His pretty daughters, Melles. Paule and Blanche, were born in the Colonies and represent the real Creole type. They are very pleasant girls, and in a few days we had become fast friends.
Another French girl, Melle. Louise Martel, is an invalid; she lay back in her deck-chair all day amidst a pile of pillows, carefully wrapped in a thick shawl, though exposed to the rays of a tropical sun. She is dying of consumption and looks very ill and sad, her face drawn and sharpened by suffering. The poor young creature is cold and indifferent to every one. She took a fancy to me nevertheless, and to-day, when I came up to bid her good-morning, her face lit up with a poor, sickly, little smile.
As a contrast to the young invalid, we have a jolly opera-singer on board, who flirts and appropriates all the passengers of the unfair sex. She especially set her cap at Mr. Schaniavski, and bored him with requests to accompany her vicious little songs.
There is a particularly nice young man on board, an Australian, according to the information of the head steward. He didn’t stare at me during the meals, he was too well-bred, but when I looked the other way, he looked at me. He sketched caricatures wickedly well, and I asked him to make a drawing of me, but it wasn’t a caricature at all, too flattering I should say. To-day the young man made a rush for a seat near me at table. I had noticed that he had put on a becoming tie adorned with a pin with a beautiful opal set in it, which I had imprudently admired, and which had cost a considerable sum of money. After dinner he came up to me and laid in my lap a little vellum box, in it was the famous opal pin, which he tried to make me accept as a souvenir, but of course I refused his offering, telling him that in Russia the opal is considered an unlucky stone. He was awfully vexed and sulked the whole evening, following me with eyes of gloomy disappointment. The Australian endeavoured to throw himself in my way everywhere; he passed beside the windows of my cabin when he couldn’t catch me elsewhere. I was not quite indifferent to the adventure, for he was very attractive that young Australian. But it appears that I was playing with fire. He placed himself close to me on deck this evening and taking my hand, which he retained in his grasp, his eyes speaking a number of things to me, he began to talk of love, murmuring a torrent of passionate words. He told me of the sleepless nights he spent in thinking of me, and said I had cast a kind of spell upon him, and that since the hour he had seen me, he had thought only of how he might see me again. His attentions became so pressing that I found it time to put a stop to them. “I think, if you don’t mind,” I said to him heartlessly whilst he was talking of his flame to me, “that I’d rather speak of the weather.” He didn’t look pleased, the poor boy, I must say.
February 20th.—We are crossing to-day the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, (the Gate of Tears.) The mariners try to pass this dangerous place by daylight.
There has been a deal of cricket-playing this afternoon on board. It seems a queer game for a ship, but the promenade-deck has nettings to keep the balls from flying overboard.
For dinner the Australians dressed as if for a ball, the ladies in low dresses, the gentlemen in smokings. The cuisine is very good on board; all the provisions are brought from Australia. The Australian passengers monopolised the salon after dinner, sitting there as if the whole place belonged to them. Someone played the piano and they all sang Australian songs in chorus.
February 21st.—The air is cool and fresh, and the Japanese passengers begin to freeze. In Australia it is summer in November, December, January and February, and thus our Australian passengers, going out to Europe for twelve months will enjoy summer the whole year round.
February 22nd.—The monotony of our crossing had begun to weary every one. The passengers saw far too much of each other, and the good-understanding between them was cooling down. They began to pick quarrels with each other and lived in strife for the remainder of the voyage.