To those fortunate mortals from whom Poseidon exacts no
tribute in crossing his broad domain, a transatlantic voyage must
afford each year an ever new delight. The cares and worries
of existence fade away and disappear in company with the land, in
the deep bosom of the ocean buried. One no longer feels
like the bored mortal who has all winter turned the millstone of
work and pleasure, but seems to have transmigrated into a new
body, endowed with a ravenous appetite and perfectly fresh
sensations.
Perhaps it is only the novelty of the surroundings; but as I
lie somnolent in my chair, tucked into a corner of the white
deck, watching the jade-colored water rush past below, and the
sea-gulls circle gayly overhead, the summum bonum of
earthly contentment seems attained. The book chosen with
care remains uncut; the sense of physical and mental rest is too
exquisite to be broken by any effort, even the reading of a
favorite author.
Drowsy lapses into unconsciousness obscure the senses, like
the transparent clouds that from time to time dim the
sunlight. A distant bell in the wheel-house chimes the lazy
half-hours. Groups of people come and go like figures on a
lantern-slide. A curiously detached reeling makes the scene
and the actors in it as unreal as a painted ship manned by a
shadowy crew. The inevitable child tumbles on its face and
is picked up shrieking by tender parents; energetic youths
organize games of skill or discover whales on the horizon,
without disturbing one’s philosophic calm.
I congratulate myself on having chosen a foreign line.
For a week at least no familiar name will be spoken, no
accustomed face appear. The galling harness of routine is
loosened; one breathes freely again conscious of the unoccupied
hours in perspective.
The welcome summons to luncheon comes as a pleasant
shock. Is it possible that the morning has passed? It
seems to have but commenced. I rouse myself and descend to
the cabin. Toward the end of the meal a rubicund Frenchman
opposite makes the startling proposition that if I wish to send a
message home he will undertake to have it delivered. It is
not until I notice the little square of oiled paper he is holding
out to me that I understand this reference to the “pigeon
post” with which the Compagnie Transatlantique is
experimenting. At the invitation of this new acquaintance I
ascend to the upper deck and watch his birds depart.
The tiny bits of paper on which we have written (post-card
fashion) message and address are rolled two or three together,
and inserted into a piece of quill less than two inches long,
which, however, they do not entirely fill. While a pigeon
is held by one man, another pushes one of the bird’s
tail-feathers well through the quill, which is then fastened in
its place by two minute wooden wedges. A moment later the
pigeon is tossed up into the air, and we witness the working of
that mysterious instinct which all our modern science leaves
unexplained. After a turn or two far up in the clear sky,
the bird gets its bearings and darts off on its five-hundred-mile
journey across unknown seas to an unseen land—a voyage that
no deviation or loitering will lengthen, and only fatigue or
accident interrupt, until he alights at his cote.
Five of these willing messengers were started the first day
out, and five more will leave to-morrow, poor little aërial
postmen, almost predestined to destruction (in the latter case),
for we shall then be so far from land that their one chance of
life and home must depend on finding some friendly mast where an
hour’s rest may be taken before the bird starts again on
his journey.
In two or three days, according to the weather, we shall begin
sending French pigeons on ahead of us toward Havre. The
gentleman in charge of them tells me that his wife received all
the messages he sent to her during his westward trip, the birds
appearing each morning at her window (where she was in the habit
feeding them) with their tidings from mid-ocean. He also
tells me that the French fleet in the Mediterranean recently
received messages from their comrades in the Baltic on the third
day by these feathered envoys.
It is hoped that in future ocean steamers will be able to keep
up communication with the land at least four out of the seven
days of their trips, so that, in case of delay or accident, their
exact position and circumstances can be made known at
headquarters. It is a pity, the originator of the scheme
remarked, that sea-gulls are such hopeless vagabonds, for they
can fly much greater distances than pigeons, and are not affected
by dampness, which seriously cripples the present messengers.
Later in the day a compatriot, inspired doubtless by the
morning’s experiment, confided to me that he had hit on
“a great scheme,” which he intends to develop on
arriving. His idea is to domesticate families of porpoises
at Havre and New York, as that fish passes for having (like the
pigeon) the homing instinct. Ships provided with the parent
fish can free one every twenty-four hours, charged with the
morning’s mail. The inventor of this luminous idea
has already designed the letter-boxes that are to be strapped on
the fishes’ backs, and decided on a neat uniform for his
postmen.
It is amusing during the first days “out” to watch
the people whom chance has thrown together into such close
quarters. The occult power that impels a pigeon to seek its
kind is feeble in comparison with the faculty that travellers
develop under these circumstances for seeking out congenial
spirits. Twelve hours do not pass before affinities draw
together; what was apparently a homogeneous mass has by that time
grouped and arranged itself into three or four distinct
circles.
The “sporty” gentlemen in loud clothes have united
in the bonds of friendship with the travelling agents and have
chosen the smoking-room as their headquarters. No mellow
sunset or serene moonlight will tempt these comrades from the
subtleties of poker; the pool on the run is the event of their
day.
A portly prima donna is the centre of another circle.
Her wraps, her dogs, her admirers, and her brand-new husband (a
handsome young Hungarian with a voice like two Bacian bulls) fill
the sitting-room, where the piano gets but little rest.
Neither sunshine nor soft winds can draw them to the deck.
Although too ill for the regular meals, this group eat and drink
during fifteen out of the twenty-four hours.
The deck, however, is not deserted; two fashionable
dressmakers revel there. These sociable ladies asked the
commissaire at the start “to introduce all the young
unmarried men to them,” as they wanted to be jolly.
They have a numerous court around them, and champagne, like the
conversation, flows freely. These ladies have already
become expert at shuffleboard, but their “sea legs“
are not so good as might be expected, and the dames require to be
caught and supported by their admirers at each moment to prevent
them from tripping—an immense joke, to judge by the peals
of laughter that follow.
The American wife of a French ambassador sits on the
captain’s right. A turn of the diplomatic wheel is
taking the lady to Madrid, where her position will call for
supreme tact and self-restraint. One feels a thrill of
national pride on looking at her high-bred young face and
listening as she chats in French and Spanish, and wonders once
more at the marvellous faculty our women have of adapting
themselves so graciously and so naturally to difficult positions,
which the women of other nations rarely fill well unless born to
the purple. It is the high opinion I have of my
countrywomen that has made me cavil, before now, on seeing them
turned into elaborately dressed nullities by foolish and too
adoring husbands.
The voyage is wearing itself away. Sunny days are
succeeded by gray mornings, as exquisite in their way, when one
can feel the ship fight against contending wind and wave, and
shiver under the blows received in a struggle which dashes the
salt spray high over the decks. There is an aroma in the
air then that breathes new life into jaded nerves, and stirs the
drop of old Norse blood, dormant in most American veins, into
quivering ecstasy. One dreams of throwing off the trammels
of civilized existence and returning to the free life of older
days.
But here is Havre glittering in the distance against her
background of chalk cliffs. People come on deck in
strangely conventional clothes and with demure citified
airs. Passengers of whose existence you were unaware
suddenly make their appearance. Two friends meet near me
for the first time. “Hallo, Jones!” says one of
them, “are you crossing?”
“Yes,” answers Jones, “are you?”
The company’s tug has come alongside by this time,
bringing its budget of letters and telegrams. The brief
holiday is over. With a sigh one comes back to the positive
and the present, and patiently resumes the harness of life.
