1. Across the Ocean

Return to the homeland. — On the deck of a German ship. — Victim of a shark. —Descendant of the Varangians. — Brother Slav and the international language of Slavic peoples. — Sunday and two sermons. — An American preacher. — Shore of the Old World. — The Channel and the German Sea. — Sorrow and joy.

“Home is where things are good—Ubi bene, ibi patria,” says the rule of cosmopolitanism. Nothing could be more false than this rule. It is an idle production of frivolous fancy by people who have never been abroad, or those in whose withered souls there is not a drop of moral feeling. A foreign land can be interesting for observation, profitable for earning money, but it can in no way replace one’s fatherland or make one forget it. Sympathy can be found in people and abroad, but this sympathy gives little to a man’s heart, and it mournfully yearns for the place where the sweet memories of his childhood live, where his hopes were nurtured, where all who love him live, and all whom he himself loves and cannot but love. I spent a year and a half in America. It is one of those countries that can stifle homesickness with a mass of interesting and varied impressions. But this is only temporary. Natural feeling takes its course. That is why I received word of the possibility of returning home with such joyful rapture as is seldom experienced.

At a huge dock on the Hudson River, the enormous ship “Donau” was already ready to embark on its distant ocean voyage. The machines raised the gangplanks, and the hearts of passengers and their relatives and friends shuddered with the pain of parting. A final whistle roared, the ship’s orchestra played a farewell march, the engine creaked, adults wept, children cried out, farewell handkerchiefs fluttered over heads, and blue waves boiled beneath the mighty blows of the giant screw. Picturesque shores flashed on both sides, and ahead already the cool breath of grandfather Ocean was felt. Passengers mournfully followed the fleeing shores; each was absorbed in his own thoughts. Parting is always sad, even if it is freely undertaken and followed by a joyful reunion; all the more painful is parting on such a distant journey fraught with every chance and danger. Summer travel across the ocean is considered the most favorable, and thousands of more or less wealthy Americans depart for Europe simply for the pleasures of the summer season. Nevertheless, the vastness of the water route retains its terrifying power for the imagination. The heart involuntarily shudders at the thought of having to live for whole ten days under fear of the capricious elements. For me, ocean travel was no longer a novelty. I had experienced it in one of the stormiest seasons—late autumn. Now I boldly looked upon the approaching voyage and only wished that the canvas wings of the ship would fill more strongly with a favorable wind and carry me more quickly to the shores of my native continent. Meanwhile the magnificent panorama of New York and the host of neighboring cities had already blended into an indifferent gray mass, and when the fiery orb of the setting sun descended to the azure surface of the ocean, the American metropolis struggled helplessly against the wave that soon engulfed it and it vanished from sight. The ship found itself in an enchanted circle of water and sky, from which the evening stars smiled welcomingly.

The ship “Danube” belongs to the wealthy German company “North German Lloyd” and makes voyages between New York and Bremen. It is in every sense a German ship—with German economy, a German table, and German sailors, though in the healthy broad faces of the latter the Slavic type is clearly visible, consumed by German culture. To Bremen, the “Danube” charges the same fare that English ships charge to Liverpool and French ones to Le Havre, despite the considerable difference in distance. An ocean crossing costs $100 in first class, $60 in second class, and $30 in third class. For Americans this equals the same amount in rubles, but for a Russian traveler, thanks to the low value of our currency and the difference in wages, this amounts to exactly double the sum. The cabins were crowded with Germans who struggled along in broken English. It is interesting to observe these types of American Germans. They are all full citizens of the American republic, yet at the same time subjects of their beloved fatherland. Most of them arrived in America as poor emigrants decades ago. Fortune smiled upon them in the new land, they grew rich, acquired families, and now were setting off to look at their former homeland, to see relatives and childhood friends. The history of their lives is inscribed on their entire appearance. All these are stern, gnarled faces, in whose deep wrinkles is written hieroglyphically the tale of their laborious, much-tried lives, but on their hands gleam massive diamond rings and on their chests hang heavy gold chains attached to gold pocket watches. The old men continue to speak in provincial German dialect, while the younger generation has become thoroughly Americanized, speaks pure English, and uses German only to please the elders. Material well-being provides moral contentment, and the passengers, free from the sadness of parting, at the magnificent dinner of the first day transformed into a company of merry and carefree people. When after dinner, on the ship’s deck, beneath the starry sky and to the harmonious splash of gentle waves, the orchestra played a German waltz, the Germans whirled in a frenzy of their native dance.

Joy spread across the surface of the floating craft. When the orchestra finished its music, groups of singers formed, and grandfather Ocean listened until deep midnight to the mixed melodies of German and American songs from happy Teutons. But happiness depends not so much on external contentment as on internal satisfaction! When the latter is lacking, external merriment only oppresses the soul further. Among the carefree revelers was a young girl who sat alone at the rail with a mournful, motionless gaze following the running waves. No one spoke to her, and she spoke to no one. The next day she stood in the same place and took no part in the endless chatter of passengers getting acquainted with one another. It was Sunday. The sun shone brightly on a cloudless horizon, and the German orchestra opened its pre-dinner concert with a sacred hymn: “My God is my rock.” The solemn music of the sacred hymn, together with the music of softly splashing ocean waves, spread bliss among contented souls, but for the unhappy soul of the gloomy passenger it was a funeral dirge. When the hymn ended and reverent silence fell under its influence, the girl rose above the rail as if to gaze more closely at the waves cut by the ship. But in another moment—only a dress flickered above the rail, and she plunged into the water, where she was at once caught in the boiling wake of the propeller. Passengers cried out in horror, an alarm signal sounded, a lifeboat was quickly lowered, but the unfortunate girl was already buried in the fathomless watery grave. Sorrow settled on the deck, passengers gazed grimly at the waves that had engulfed a human life, yet they flowed on as carelessly as before, murmuring gently, and only from the boiling surface appeared at times the black back of a terrible sea monster, waiting for a new victim. The unfortunate girl became the prey of a shark, which thus forever devoured both her and the sorrow that drove her to this terrible suicide.

This terrible incident cast a shadow of grief over the entire company of passengers. But the grief of strangers is fleeting, and by evening of the same day merriment resumed. Among the passengers, besides Germans, were people of all nations, ranks, and conditions. There was a “most reverend” (as the official title goes) American bishop from Cleveland, who with his wife was setting off on a summer excursion to Europe, and an American businessman traveling on commercial business to the land of pyramids; a German writer studying the public life of the Yankees and a Norwegian adventurer returning home from the wild reaches of the American Far West, where he had lived nine months among red-skinned Indians solely for the sake of adventure; an American preacher setting off to observe the religious and moral life of the Old World, and a Spanish artist carrying home the monetary laurels gathered in America, and so forth. This diverse assembly, necessarily bound together by the limited space of the ship’s deck, formed a single intimate family. For me all were equally foreign people. But it is remarkable how expandable the sense of kinship is. The farther you are from home, the wider the circle this feeling encompasses. Those closest to me were those of the same profession, but the Norwegian was the most kindred, and solely because he was from a country geographically nearest to my homeland. He is more familiar than others with Russia, has a brother in the Swedish embassy in St. Petersburg, and is more familiar than others with our history, which is extraordinarily pleasant to encounter after the usual dark ignorance about such matters among foreigners. By natural association the conversation turned to the question of the Varangians, and the Norwegian proved to be an ardent adherent of the Norman school on this question. According to his account, Norwegian historians have carefully worked out this period and have no doubt whatsoever that the Varangians were none other than Norse knights. The word “Varangian” still survives in the language of Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon peoples. In Norwegian waranger and in English “warrior” means a fighter, a warrior. Listening to the animated speech of this modern Varangian, one could not help thinking that he was a direct descendant of those valiant Varangians who were summoned to establish order in our abundant but disorganized land. We are very little acquainted with the ancient history of the Scandinavian Peninsula, and careful study of it would undoubtedly shed considerable light on the still obscure question of the origin of our first princes, over which our historians have fruitlessly broken lances to this day. To those same valiant Varangians belongs the honor of first discovering the New World. The fact, though little known, is nonetheless firmly established by Norwegian and American history, that America saw white men on its shores five centuries before the bold Genoese loudly proclaimed the discovery of this continent. As early as the beginning of the eleventh century, Norwegian Vikings boldly roamed the entire width of the northern half of the Atlantic Ocean, had settlements in Iceland and Greenland, and one of them, namely Leif Erikson, made his way to America, where within the present state of New York a colony was founded, of which archaeological remains have been found. The colony was too weak to withstand the onslaught of the red-skinned natives, and the colonists had to abandon the newly discovered land, and Erikson’s name along with the path he had traced was forgotten for whole centuries. Now in America there is a plan to erect a monument in honor of the valiant Viking, which should have been done long ago, as my interesting interlocutor declared, visibly overflowing with patriotic pride at the remembrance of his historical ancestors.

Thus, in idle conversations, day followed day while the ship rushed tirelessly along the blue waves of the ocean, daily covering about five hundred versts. The weather was excellent and remained so throughout, despite the desperate leaps of the porpoises which, according to sailors’ observation, usually foretell a storm. In summer the ocean is much more lively than in winter, and we daily encountered several vessels and ships which, like dots, passed along the rim of the watery circle. Once, in the rays of the setting sun, I stood at the bow of the ship gazing into the boundless blue, awaiting the appearance of some oncoming vessel. A ruddy-cheeked, self-satisfied German approached me and asked what nation I was from. Upon my answer, he said that in the third class there was a young sick man who spoke no European language, and yet he was extremely helpless, and perhaps something could be done to help him. Could it be a Russian, flashed through my head, and I went to him at the German’s direction. Pale and emaciated, poorly dressed, the young man sat mournfully and alone on a bench, presenting a living picture of misery and misfortune, whose sorrowful features stood out all the more sharply against the surrounding picture of German self-satisfaction. I addressed him in Russian, and the gloomy features of his face instantly brightened. He understood me and was glad of the possibility of breaking the unbearable silence. It turned out that he was an Orthodox Serb. Only six months before, he had set off with money earned through intense labor to America, hoping to find better happiness there. Unfortunately, he knew no other European language besides his native Slavic tongue, and so could serve only as heavy labor. Exhausting work quickly broke down his health, he fell ill, and now in despair was returning home. I had previously encountered Serbs, and they usually understand Russian poorly, but this young man seemed to have need instilled in him a special gift of linguistic understanding, and he perfectly understood every word. Moreover, I deliberately clothed my speech in Church Slavonic form, and this undoubtedly greatly facilitated his understanding. Our Slavophiles in their pan-Slavic aspirations constantly encountered the fact that cooled their desire for pan-Slavic brotherhood—that individual Slavic tribes do not understand one another, so that for more or less serious relations one must resort to the mediation of some European language, and chiefly German. It has always seemed to me that the Slavic peoples, at least the Orthodox ones, have such a common, unchanging, classical language that could serve as an international language for them and an excellent means of communication among themselves and moral unity. This is precisely Church Slavonic, in which all of them equally perform their divine service and which from childhood they all grow accustomed to understand. One should only pay more attention to it in popular education, and then all Orthodox Slavic peoples could easily speak with one another in a common and moreover sacred language, and there would be no need to resort to German, which serves as one of the strongest instruments of Slavic Germanization. My Slavic interlocutor factually confirmed the truth of this theory. To make his speech more intelligible to me, he also began to clothe it in Church Slavonic form, and concluded the sorrowful tale of his adventures with an exclamation: “Hey, brother, it is good for a healthy man to be in America, but for an unhealthy man all is evil!” The poor fellow had no money at all for the passage from Bremen to his homeland, and so his joy could not be expressed in any language when, through the active mediation of the American preacher, a small sum of German marks was collected in his behalf. On the ship was another helpless man, a Swiss poisoned by lead at the factory where he worked in America. In him the American bishop took a lively interest and also collected a sum for him. Whatever philosophers may say about pure humanism as a fully sufficient source of charity, its true foundation can only be religion. Many of the passengers sympathized with both unfortunates, but without the active initiative of religious ministers, this sympathy would scarcely have expressed itself in actual charity.

The ocean giant creaked and labored tirelessly for more than a week, yet could not break free from the enchanted circle of water and sky. One might even doubt whether it was moving forward at all, if the map did not daily mark the number of miles traveled and indicate the point where it was located that day. By the second Sunday, this point on the map had already moved far beyond the midway point of the ocean. According to calculations, only two days’ journey remained before the shores of England, and passengers, tired of the tedious monotony of travel, came to life again. On German ships, regular divine services are not held on Sundays as they are on English ones. But nevertheless, the maritime life by its very character inspires a prayerful disposition, and the customary morning concert on this day consisted entirely of sacred hymns. After the concert, passengers were invited to the hall, where after a few moments an American bishop appeared in full ecclesiastical vestments and delivered a sermon on an Old Testament text: “People walk to and fro and thereby increase their wisdom”; the bishop eloquently depicted the significance of travel for people’s moral and intellectual development and reviewed events that had taken place on the ship during the past week. After the bishop, an American preacher also came forward with a sermon, and to the serious impression produced by the bishop’s speech, he added some humorous touches customary in American preaching.