6. Ten Days at Sea

The night before boarding the ocean ship. —Morning and transfer to the “Scythia.” —Path from Liverpool to Queenstown. —Open ocean. —Storm. —Condition and hopes of passengers. —Columbus and his faith. —Sunday service in the midst of the ocean. —The shore of “the other side.”

From the gloomy nest of lords, a swift train in five hours transports you to the embrace of the younger brother of London—the rich and industrially second city in England, Liverpool. The countryside weather in England is far from what London’s is, and I admired the charming landscapes and vistas, shining in bright sunlight with almost spring beauty. But the November sun is not generous with rays and soon disappeared; meanwhile, the coastal city was approaching, and with it its charms. Looking out the window some half-hour after sunset, I no longer recognized the former cheerful vistas: blinding fog covered everything with impenetrable darkness, through which one could scarcely make out dense frost, spreading in a white-blue shroud over the earth. My heart involuntarily trembled at the sight of such a striking change; in bewilderment, I turned to my German neighbor with a naive question—what is this?—and he answered that this was “England—the sister of Siberia.” I have never happened to be in Siberia, but I do not think there could be such a depressing picture there as appeared in the environs of Liverpool. Just before the city, the train for some reason stopped for a few minutes and, apparently over some kind of abyss, in which nothing could be seen, but from the depths of which came the puffing of some machines, quickened whistles, and dull roars—a truly hellish picture. In Liverpool I was supposed to “calmly spend the night,” as the agent of the ocean steamship company, on whose ship I had a ticket, recommended to me—so that in the morning I would wake up early and head for the ship. “Calmly”… how much sarcasm sounded in my ear this kind word of the kind agent! Have you ever happened to spend the night before such an event in your life, which is fraught with the greatest dangers, in your estimation, and to resolve upon which cost you terrible inner struggle?—Such was that night in Liverpool for me: quiet sleep was out of the question. Nevertheless, strength bends even straw, and exhaustion subdued the agitated spirit, seeking now its only support in quiet, but extraordinarily loud and significant prayer for the heart.

In the morning the agent promised to wake me at 7 o’clock, but my agitated spirit anticipated his service: I myself rose much earlier. And wonderfully—there was no yesterday’s anxiety in my soul! Bright sunshine dispersed the fog and at 9 o’clock I set out for the steamer, which was transporting passengers to the ocean steamship “Scythia” (Scythia) standing at a distance from the shore. The ocean giant stood calmly and majestically on the water, raising steam, and around it bustling steamers ran about, delivering passengers and cargo. Having taken my cabin, I set out to view the “little tree” to which I entrusted my life and on which I placed my hope—to reach “the other side.” This “tree” was more than 60 sazhens in length with an enormous red funnel and several masts. On the deck in several places steam hoists were working eagerly, raising cargo from barges and steamers, and everywhere motley groups of passengers crowded. A panorama opened on all sides that was charming. From three sides, populated shores were visible, the fourth merged with the heavens: countless ships and steamers in all directions cut through the light waves of the gulf glittering in the sun, and in the air sea gulls wheeled with cheerful cries. Observing the passengers, I noted that it was not only youths seeking the open spaces of life who were striving for the “new world,” but also profound old men, whose every wish should seem by rights to be limited to a warm, quiet place on the mainland; not only solitary people, but also family men—with wives and children. For me, in whose imagination the “new world” was almost equivalent to calling it “the other side,” this was a phenomenon both as unexpected as it was encouraging. But I was even more astonished and encouraged by the cheerful mood of these passengers: one could have thought they were departing on some sort of journey along the Volga, say from Nizhny to Astrakhan, and not at all along the boundless, frightening ocean. From all this I understood that the journey from Europe to America is far from an unusual phenomenon for these people and these places—and the fears began to disperse. Entering the magnificent common hall or “salon,” I noticed here also reassuring signs: everything here was easy and elegant; over the tables on wooden shelves stood crystal and porcelain dishes in recessed places; their integrity obviously presupposed the absence of such desperate pitching that describe accounts of ocean voyages. Though later I had to become somewhat disabused of the truth of my conclusions, nevertheless they served me a good service, reassuring me at first.

At 12 o’clock on Saturday, November 3rd (the 15th by the new style), the “Scythia” weighed anchor and, with an even motion, as if with proud consciousness of its strength, set forth on its distant journey. On both sides, the ships and steamers that it was overtaking flashed by, and behind, the shores sank into the waters. With a farewell-sad gaze, I followed the receding shores; they sank more and more, and finally disappeared entirely. On the open sea, a fresh breeze blew, which, in alliance with the descending night, forced the passengers to shelter in their cabins. A magnificent dinner was served in the salon, after which the passengers, divided into groups, occupied themselves with games, conversations, reading, letter-writing, all of which presented a picture of ordinary “earthly” life: nothing gave sign that this entire dwelling with its cheerful people was not built on sand, but directly over an abyss, where terrible monsters—sharks and whales[1]—roam. The next morning shores appeared and soon the anchor was cast on the magnificent roadstead of the Irish city of Queenstown. This is the first and last station on the great Atlantic path. Passengers hurried to send letters to the post, and some set out for shore to hear Sunday worship and thus provision themselves with new strength for the great and difficult journey. At 4 o’clock in the evening, the ship weighed anchor and said Europe its final “farewell!”—From Queenstown, the open ocean begins.

Whoever has seen the ordinary sea, where the shores do not see each other, will find nothing special in the Atlantic Ocean in its calm state: the same enormous circle of water, mathematically correctly drawn by the compass of illusion, with its periphery merging into the heavens. Such was how I saw the Atlantic Ocean, having come out on deck in the morning on Monday. The sun shone as brightly as before and played with the wave, and the gulls calmly went about their usual fishing. Thus the whole day passed, and I began to reason with myself that the ocean was not a terrible thing at all, that travel upon it was not only not dangerous and difficult, but even pleasant, only somewhat monotonous; and with this a thought flashed through my head: if only a breeze could add some variety to the journey. O, a thousand times I repent of that unfortunate desire! As if wishing to punish me for thoughtless longing, the ocean resolved to come out of its calm state: the giant woke up and powerfully moved its terrifying body. By Tuesday at midday there was no longer clear sunshine on the horizon, clouds covered it; instead, a gusty wind whistled and howled in the ship’s rigging. The ocean darkened and scowled. Foamy waves angrily ran across its face. The “Scythia” trembled but still as before dashed forward majestically, cleaving and beating back the angry waves. And the wind kept strengthening and the waves grew higher. The passengers grew quiet and, settling on the sheltered side of the deck, looked gloomily at the fierce waves. And these servants of the ocean, driven by the whips of wind, threw themselves at the “Scythia” with ever greater fury and desperately stormed it from the sides. It could not endure and began to rock. The pitching soon became so severe that it was impossible to stand on deck without holding to the railing. The rows of passengers on deck thinned out; many were called by the ocean to make its vile sacrifice. But then another desperate blow of a wave—and the ship heeled so that foamy water rushed onto the deck, and the chairs on which passengers sat rolled noisily toward the side, causing indescribable tumult. One respectable mother of a family, carefully wrapped up by her husband, sat peacefully with her three children: this blow instantly knocked them all from their places and they literally rolled toward the side, where they were drenched with foamy water. The father rushed in terror to pick them up, but only the frightened mother took advantage of his services, while the children—oh, they with merry laughter jumped up themselves and turned the object of fear for adults into a plaything. At the sight of this, the adults too became more cheerful. After this, the passengers took shelter in their cabins. On the deck remained only the wild sea wind and his friends—the English sailors of the ship. Dressed in leather suits, they moved like ghosts across the deck and, tightening or fixing the rigging, sang under the whistle of the wind their English working song, the motif of which was perhaps no less disheartening than our well-known Russian working “darina.” The bell called to dinner (at 6 p.m.), but only about a quarter of the passengers appeared, and not a single woman: all were suffering from seasickness. The salon now presented a heartbreaking picture: plates, despite the grids laid on the tables with places for them, threw out their contents, spoons, knives, forks—ran and clattered across the tables, while hanging above, the dishes with their ringing and rattling, as if sang a last farewell song. Sleep during the ensuing night obviously could not be peaceful, if indeed anyone slept at all. In the morning the wind seemed to subside somewhat, and the passengers revived a bit; but alas—a new storm and almost from the opposite side again whistled across the rigging and instantly shattered hopes. The ocean was covered with a white foamy shroud and presented the appearance of snowdrifts, across which foamy spray was carried and whirled by the wind, like a snowstorm. On the deck signal bells and whistles grew more frequent, calling the sailors, and waves more often broke onto it. The pitching grew so severe that my neighbor advised me not to sleep on my hanging high bunk. I expressed hope for better weather, but he confidently remarked that tomorrow would be even worse. And his words proved true. On the 8th, Thursday, the “Scythia” with its passengers had to withstand a truly fierce storm; the wind with terrible force raged on the deck and with its whistling and roaring howl tore at the heart. A foamy snowstorm towered high above the surface and swept across the ship. Waves grew to terrifying sizes and like snowy mountains moved threateningly across the face of the ocean, as if seeking whom to crush. The enormous ship before them shrank to an ordinary insignificant steamer and, barely audibly knocking with its screw, as if pleaded for mercy. On Tuesday and Wednesday it, one could say, still struggled with the waves with some confidence and, with terrible force beating back their assault, made the ocean feel the superiority of human genius. Now—alas, the ocean was already gaining the upper hand and avenging yesterday’s superiority. Wave after wave picked up the “Scythia” and tossed it about like a ball. The pitching that resulted from this surpasses any description, and the water had fully taken possession of the deck and constantly ran across it, noisily sloshing from side to side. All the cabins were hermetically sealed, and the passengers, sitting in them, heard only how the fierce moisture ran above them with furious roar…

What must the passengers have felt at this time? First and foremost, almost all of them, with few happy exceptions (to which benevolent fate unexpectedly numbered me), suffered terribly from seasickness. But no less did they all suffer morally: this pitching, offering not a moment’s respite from physical discomfort; this continuous creaking of the cabins, causing constant shuddering; this rattling of dishes, which tore at the soul; this murmuring of water overhead; this, finally, the fierce roar and groan of the storm – all of this weighed on the soul so heavily that only those of fairly strong spirit could stand upright. The first hope of everyone in such circumstances was, of course, in Him in whose hand is the life and death of all creation, and it was evident that not only hearts but also the lips of many piously made prayer. Besides this honorable hope, a significant consolation for many, at least personally for me, was faith in human genius. In truth, I thought, this storm was not the first on the ocean, and if in all its contingencies human genius has found it possible to establish regular communication across the ocean, then evidently he foresaw all possible contingencies and has in his inexhaustible treasury of ingenuity the appropriate means of protection. The present company, for example, (Cunard Line) has existed for 37 years and annually transports across the ocean up to 100,000 people, and to this day, as its authenticated record states, not one of its steamships has suffered a single such disaster in which even one person perished.It is clear that human genius has generally managed to ensure itself against the fury of the ocean. Therefore, one can with probability suppose that this present storm represents nothing exceptional… These reflections contained much that was reassuring for me, and I began to bear the unpleasantness of the pitching more cheerfully. My thoughts, occupied as they were with such reasoning about the greatness of human genius, carried me back several centuries, to when the ocean first saw upon itself a bold man who resolved at all costs to cross over it. What guided this man, who first resolved to forge an unprecedented path? On what did he rely when venturing into an unknown and threatening path full of fantastic and real horrors? This was truly a great, a genius man; but all his greatness drew its actual force from his unconquerable faith – such faith as is hard to compare with anything except that great evangelical faith which moves mountains. Indeed, the data of the science of that time humbly remained silent to his inquiries; the counsel of the most learned men affirmed that beyond the surface of water lay a terrible abyss, and popular fantasy filled this abyss with terrible monsters ready to devour anyone daring to approach them. And despite all this, the bold seafarer, obeying exclusively his genius faith, ventures into the unknown path, and humanity owes him the greatest world-historical event – the discovery of the unknown hemisphere, the western half of the earth. By his faith he moved the mountains of ignorance from the ocean and forged through it a broad and well-trodden road. Yes, Christopher Columbus was a deeply believing man, and his anticipated canonization in the Roman Church would be one of the most fitting if only the curia were guided in this exclusively by moral rather than political motives.