Ivan Goncharov worked as Admiral Putyatin's secretary from 1852 to 1855, almost circumnavigating the world. Goncharov wrote large, detailed letters home, in which he expressed his thoughts. The only thing that depressed him was the lack of feedback, which is why he had no confidence that the letters reached the addressee. Several letters actually got lost, which did not surprise Goncharov, who knew about the deplorable state of the relevant department, and now continues to delight his compatriots with the negative qualities of providing basic services for the delivery of parcels and letters. At the same time, Goncharov will elevate the postal service of the English part of the world above the skies, showing by its example the possibility of providing truly high-quality services. Most of the journey passed through the possessions of the British, interrupting for visits to the Spanish Philippines and the Japanese islands. If not for the outbreak that followed Crimean War, then Goncharov continued his journey to America, but one should be glad that the conflict that broke out did not find them in those places where they would have been cut off from the world, or even simply drowned.
As a secretary, Goncharov is in no hurry to share information about negotiations or any other information, preferring to pour out on paper his own feelings about the life of people living completely different from the lifestyle to which he himself is accustomed. The reader will have to plunge into many adventures: Gocharov will constantly get involved in them, trying to cover the maximum amount of maneuver space available to him. Everywhere he makes comparisons with Russia, interpreting many things in favor of his native country, which is distinguished not only by its favorable, varied climate, but by its attitude to life in general. Just look at the comparisons of tea, which is consumed everywhere, but in the most in different forms. If in some places this herbal drink looks more like a drink, then in other places it is more likely a mixture used for specific purposes. The Pallada stayed in each port for a long time, so Goncharov had something to do in his free time from sailing.
In fact, is it possible to write intelligibly about a sea voyage? Nothing really happens, and you just struggle with boredom, not being able to find something you like. That is why Goncharov only mentions a little about the ship at the beginning, so that he can then forget about it forever, focusing on the customs of alien peoples. Goncharov’s main interest awoke only after the Pacific Ocean, when the frigate approached the shores of Asia. The reader will have to learn not only the peculiarities of the bureaucracy of the Japanese, the quiet disposition of the Chinese and the piety of the Filipinos, but also understand the significance of the entire expedition, whose goal was to conclude the first trade agreement with Japan, which maintained a closed position, not allowing foreigners in and not allowing its own residents to contact them. How wonderfully the reader will laugh while watching the Japanese visit to the frigate, enthusiastically devouring meat and desserts, surprising the crew of the ship with the wildness of their morals: however, it is difficult to thoroughly outrage Goncharov with anything - he will remember the recent past of Russia, where morals were almost identical.
Goncharov's travel notes should be read only with the aim of learning the worldview of a Russian person of the mid-19th century, who did not know or encounter in his life people of a different persuasion, whose culture was radically different from his own. How can one not praise Goncharov for such observations regarding the rationale for taking off shoes when entering a room or the Japanese’s legs going numb from sitting in a chair. How will the reader perceive the ancient Japanese fun of placing objects of the same type inside each other, which the Russians would later make one of their national treasures? For Goncharov, Japan is like hidden deposits of coal, which in his time was valued more than gold.
The world has changed since then, but not so dramatically that one could find differences from today in Goncharov’s travel notes.
In the work of I. Goncharov, a special place is occupied by travel essays “Frigate “Pallada”. They told the reader a lot of new things about the structure of foreign states, both civilized European and colonial ones in Africa, Asia, and the Far East. The description of the way of life of Russian people in Siberia aroused no less interest.
Masterpiece of the Russian Navy
In 1831, on the personal instructions of Nicholas I, the keel of one of the most famous Russian ships of the first half of the 19th century, the Pallada, took place. The frigate was launched a year later and served for more than 20 years.
Over the years, “Pallada” was commanded by N. Nakhimov, P. Moller, I. Unkovsky. Thanks to high technical data and skillful actions of the crew, the ship more than once came to the aid of ships in trouble. It was also used for long trips to the shores of other countries. The ship made its last voyage to Japan - I. Goncharov described it in his essays. In 1855, the Pallada (the frigate suffered two powerful typhoons and was quite worn out) went to rest in Postovaya Bay on the territory of the Imperial (Soviet) harbor in the Khabarovsk Territory.
Trip around the world
The goal of the effort, undertaken in 1852, was to establish trade relations with Japan and conduct an inspection of Alaska, which belonged to Russia. An experienced crew was selected and provisions were prepared for a long time. The group of diplomats was headed by Vice Admiral E. Putyatin, and the secretary was the writer I. Goncharov, who was serving in the foreign trade department at that time. The frigate Pallada sailed past England, Indonesia, South Africa, China, the Philippines and many small islands in the Atlantic, Indian and Pacific oceans. The entire journey lasted almost 3 years.
The history of writing the book "Frigate "Pallada""
I. Goncharov took the news about the trip positively, noting that it would significantly enrich his life experience. From the first days, he began to write down everything he saw in a travel journal, although later, in the introduction to the essays, he noted that he only wanted to capture the most important moments of the trip in artistic form. To the impressions from overseas countries were added observations of the life of Russian Siberia: Goncharov traveled to St. Petersburg by land from the shores where the Pallada landed. The frigate needed repairs and could not endure further voyage.
Two months after returning to the capital (in April 1855), the first essay about the trip appeared in Otechestvennye zapiski. Then, for three years, Goncharov was published in the Marine Collection. The magazine was published in full in 1858 and immediately attracted the attention of the entire reading public. Subsequently, the book - which was not originally planned by the author - "Frigate "Pallada"" was supplemented with two more essays. The first told about the final stage of the journey through Siberia, the second - about the further fate of the ship.
The main advantages of travel records were the abundance and variety of recorded factual material, reports of phenomena that were previously little known to Russian people, artistic skill writer.
"Frigate "Pallada"": summary of the book
The essays represent detailed description life in different countries. Moreover, the author’s view is often critical and accompanied by ironic remarks about foreigners, no matter who they are. For example, English civilization, according to Goncharov, destroys all living things. Here everything goes according to plan and there is no soulfulness. This way of life is contrasted with the broad Russian soul. For example, I remember the story about the sailor Sorokin, who decided to grow bread in Siberia. His idea was a success, but he does not stop there and develops new territories, giving the fruits of his labor to the Tungus and the church.
The memoirs of the author, bored on the ship “Pallada” - the frigate the writer often called his home in a foreign land - about the life of a Russian nobleman deserve special attention. This is a leisurely tea party, quiet lying on the sofa, endless holidays. For Goncharov, they could not be compared with the constant bustle of the British.
The blacks and Chinese did not like their smell, partly because they rubbed themselves with special oils. The writer considered the Japanese to be cunning (the older they were, the more stupid faces they made) and slow. He believed that it was absolutely necessary to destroy their system of isolation from the outside world and humanize them. But the advantage of wild peoples was their closeness to nature, which was completely lost by the British. In this regard, the writer’s conclusions about the results of colonization, which he observed almost along the entire route of the Pallas, are interesting. According to the writer, the “wild” Chinese, with their shortcomings, could teach the civilized British and Americans both manners and general attitude towards the gifts of nature.
The book also told (for the first time!) about life, which was facilitated by the writer’s personal acquaintance with some of their representatives. The unshakable way of life itself (despite the inhuman conditions, the best representatives of the nobility tried to maintain the necessary level of spirituality in their huts-salons) aroused the writer’s admiration.
Some interesting points from I. Goncharov’s essays
The book is interesting to the modern reader for its description of what seems absurd today. For example, Goncharov’s habit of greeting the British caused laughter and irony. “First they will try to tear each other’s hands off,” he wrote. How could the writer know that the method of greeting adopted by English men would soon appear in Russia.
Another funny episode concerns the Japanese. The sailor gave one of the local residents an empty bottle. Following this, the Japanese translator asked to take the gift back. And to the words: “Yes, throw it (the bottle) into the sea,” he seriously replied that it was impossible. “We’ll bring it, and you leave it... yourself.” It turned out that this was the way local authorities fought smuggling.
This is how I. Goncharov describes his unusual journey, for whom the frigate “Pallada” became not only a home and a reminder of his homeland for two and a half years, but also allowed him to create a highly artistic work.
These are essays that describe the three-year journey of Goncharov himself from 1852 to 1855. In the introduction, the writer says that he did not intend to publish his diary entries as a tourist or a sailor. This is simply a travel report in artistic form.
The journey took place on a frigate called “Pallada”. The author sailed through England to numerous colonies located in the Pacific Ocean. Civilized man had to encounter other worlds and cultures. While the British conquered nature and moved rapidly towards industrialization, the colonies lived with a love of nature, a part of that nature. Therefore, Goncharov is happy to part with the hustle and bustle of England and sails to the tropics, to the poles.
The author travels to foreign countries and Russia. Siberia is described as a colony with its struggle against savagery. Describes meetings with the Decembrists. Goncharov enjoys comparing life in England and Russia. The bustle of the industrial world is compared with the measured, calm life of Russian landowners, sleeping on feather beds and not wanting to wake up. Only a rooster can wake up such a master. Without his servant Yegorka, who took a moment and hurried to go fishing, the barchuk is unable to find his things to get dressed. After drinking tea, the master searches the calendar for a holiday or someone’s birthday to celebrate.
Goncharov perceives exoticism realistically, in search of similarities. In the black African woman he found the features of a tanned Russian old woman. They see parrots as our sparrows, only more dressed up, and they dig into all sorts of rubbish the same way.
In describing the habits and habits of sailors from the people, the writer shows his objectivity, irony and generosity. The writer considers the ship to be a piece of his homeland, similar to a steppe village. Goncharov was promised that naval officers were bitter drunkards, but everything turned out to be wrong. The world of wondrous animals and birds is described by the author through the prism of Krylov’s fables.
The culmination of the trip is a visit to Japan. The traditions and cultural features of this country stand out like a miracle. Goncharov foresees the arrival of European civilization and very soon. Summing up the entire journey, Goncharov comes to the conclusion that there should be mutual convenience of peoples, and not the prosperity of one at the expense of the exploitation of the other.
Essay on literature on the topic: Summary of Frigate Pallada Goncharov
Other writings:
- The result of Goncharov’s circumnavigation of the world was a book of essays, “The Frigate “Pallada,” in which the clash of the bourgeois and patriarchal world order received further, deeper understanding. The writer's path lay through England to its many colonies in the Pacific Ocean. From a mature, industrialized modern civilization to Read More......
- The travelogues “Frigate “Pallada”” have great educational and artistic significance. The originality of the style of the essays was very correctly defined by N. A. Nekrasov, noting “the beauty of the presentation, the freshness of the content and that artistic moderation of colors, which is a feature of the description of Mr. Goncharov, without exposing anything too sharply, Read More ......
- The end of the St. Petersburg day is approaching evening, and everyone who usually gathers at the card table begins to put themselves in appropriate shape by this hour. Two friends - Boris Pavlovich Raisky and Ivan Ivanovich Ayanov - are also going to spend this evening again Read More ......
- An ordinary story This summer morning in the village of Grachi began unusually: at dawn, all the inhabitants of the house of the poor landowner Anna Pavlovna Adueva were already on their feet. Only the culprit of this fuss, Adueva’s son, Alexander, slept, “as a twenty-year-old youth should sleep, in a heroic sleep.” Turmoil Read More ......
- Thoughts about Russian writers. I. A. Goncharov May 1901 “Oblomov”, “Domestic] notes[notes]”. The idea of the novel (351, 353). Olga’s words (354) apply only to the best nobles. – Olga’s aunt – something from Catherine II (208). Olga was overtone and came out stilted, unclear Read More......
- Goncharov studied at a private boarding school, where he began reading books by Western European and Russian authors and learned French and German well. In 1822 he entered the Moscow Commercial School. Without finishing it, Goncharov entered the philological department in 1831 Read More ......
- The life of the author of “Ordinary History” and “Oblomov” did not know any strong shocks. But it was precisely this serene evenness, which was felt in the appearance of the famous writer, that created in the public the belief that of all the types he created, Goncharov most resembled Oblomov. The reason for this assumption Read More......
- Goncharov, like any other writer, tries to be loyal to what he describes, and as a result, we cannot find specific words expressing his author’s position. But it can be learned through the opinions of the characters, through the situations in which they find themselves. In Read More......
This story tells how Goncharov traveled for three long years from 1852 to 1855. First, the author describes how he wants to publish his diary entries, either as a traveler or as a navigator. This will be a regular travelogue in an artistic style.
The journey takes place on the frigate Pallada. The writer sailed across England to multiple colonies that were located on the vast Pacific Ocean. He was destined to experience another culture and world. At a time when the Englishman conquered nature and marched by leaps and bounds towards industry, the colonies lived with concern for nature. Therefore, the author easily says goodbye to noisy England and heads to the tropics.
Goncharov wanders through unfamiliar lands and throughout Russia. Siberia is a colony where there is eternal struggle and savagery. It tells about meetings with the Decembrists. The writer with great desire compares how they live in England and in Rus'. The noise of a developed country is compared with the quiet peaceful life of Russian landowners who sleep on soft beds and do not want to wake up. Only a rooster can disturb the nobility. Without his servant, Yegor, who in his free moment decided to run off to go fishing, the landowner cannot find his things in order to change clothes. After drinking tea, the man looks at the calendar, looking for some holiday, birthday, so he can have a good walk.
The writer was told that sailors are alcoholics, but in reality it turned out to be completely wrong.
The most vivid description is a trip to Japan. The customs and main features of the cultural life of this country are very fabulously described here. The author feels an imminent visit of European civilization and it will be soon enough. Summing up the entire journey, the writer concludes that there should be mutual convenience between nations, and not the development of one through the exploitation of others.
Picture or drawing of Frigate Pallas
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Goncharov I. A. Frigate "Pallada"// Goncharov I. A. Complete works and letters: In 20 volumes - St. Petersburg: Nauka, 1997-...
T. 2. Frigate “Pallada”: Essays on the journey in two volumes. - 1997 . - P. 5-740.
Volume one
FROM KRONSTADT TO CAPE LIZARD
Packing, farewell and departure to Kronstadt. - Frigate "Pallada". - The sea and sailors. - Wardroom. - The Gulf of Finland. - Fresh breeze. - Seasickness. - Gotland. - Cholera on the frigate. - Fall of a man into the sea. - Sound. - Kattegat and Skagerrak. - German Sea. - Dogger Bank and Galloper Lighthouse. - Abandoned ship. - Fishermen. - British Channel and Spitged Road. - London. - Wellington's funeral. - Notes about Englishmen and Englishwomen. - Return to Portsmouth. - Living at Camperdown. - Walk around Portsmouth, Southsea, Portsea and Gosport. - Waiting for a fair wind on the Spitged roadstead. - The evening before Christmas. - Silhouette of an Englishman and a Russian. - Departure.
It surprises me how you could not have received my first letter from England, dated November 2/14, 1852, and the second from Hong Kong, precisely from places where the fate of a letter is cared for as the fate of a newborn baby. In England and its colonies, a letter is a treasured object that passes through thousands of hands, along railroads and other roads, across oceans, from hemisphere to hemisphere, and inevitably finds the one to whom it was sent, if only he is alive, and just as inevitably returns, where it was sent from, if he died or returned there himself. Were the letters lost on the mainland, in Danish or Prussian possessions? But now it’s too late to investigate such trifles: it’s better to write again, if only necessary...
Are you asking for details of my acquaintance with the sea, with sailors, with the shores of Denmark and Sweden, with England? You want to know how I suddenly moved from my quiet room, which I left only in cases of extreme need and always with regret, to the unstable bosom of the seas, how, the most spoiled of all of you with city life, the usual bustle of the day and the peaceful tranquility of the night, I suddenly, in one day, in one hour, was he to overthrow this order and rush into the disorder of a sailor's life? It used to be that you wouldn’t be able to sleep if a large fly burst into the room and rushed around with a violent buzz, pushing against the ceiling and windows, or if a mouse scratched in the corner; you run away from the window if it blows, you scold the road when there are potholes in it, you refuse to go to the end of town for the evening under the pretext of “it’s a long drive,” you’re afraid of missing your appointed time to go to bed; you complain if the soup smells of smoke, or the roast is burnt, or the water doesn’t shine like crystal... And suddenly - at sea! “How will you walk there - is it rocking?” - asked people who find that if you order a carriage from someone other than such and such a carriage maker, it will rock. “How will you go to bed, what will you eat? How do you get along with new people? - questions poured in, and they looked at me with morbid curiosity, as if I were a victim doomed to torture. From this it is clear that everyone who had not been to the sea still had in their memory Cooper’s old novels or Mariette’s stories about the sea and sailors, about captains who almost put passengers on chains, could burn and hang subordinates, about shipwrecks, earthquakes . “There the captain will put you on the very top,” my friends and acquaintances told me (partly you too, remember?), “He won’t tell you to give me anything to eat, he’ll drop you off on an empty shore.” - "For what?" - I asked. “You sit the wrong way, walk the wrong way, light a cigar where you’re not told to.” “I will do everything as they do there,” I answered meekly. “You’re used to sitting at night, and then, as the sun goes down, all the lights go out,” others said, “and there’s a noise, a clattering sound, a smell, a scream!” - “You’ll get drunk there all around!” - some people frightened, “fresh water is rare there, they drink more and more rum.” “With ladles, I saw it myself, I was on a ship,” someone added. One old woman kept shaking her head sadly, looking at me, and begged me to go “better by the dry route around the world.” Another lady, smart and sweet, began to cry when I came to say goodbye to her. I was amazed: I saw her only three times a year and could not have seen her for three years, exactly as long as it took to circumnavigate the world, she would not have noticed. “What are you crying about?” - I asked. “I feel sorry for you,” she said, wiping away tears. “It’s a pity because an extra person is still entertainment?” - I noticed. “Have you done much to entertain me?” - she said. I was stumped: what was she crying about? “I’m just sorry you’re going to God knows where.” Evil has taken over me. This is how we look at the enviable fate of the traveler! “I would understand your tears if they were tears of envy,” I said, “if you were sorry that it falls to my lot, and not yours, to be where almost none of us go, to see miracles, oh which it’s hard to even dream of here, that the whole great book is revealed to me, from which barely some people manage to read the first page...” I told her in a good style. “Come on,” she said sadly, “I know everything; but at what cost will you get to read this book? Think about what awaits you, what you will suffer, how many chances there are not to return!.. I feel sorry for you, for your fate, that’s why I’m crying. However, you don’t believe in tears,” she added, “but I’m not crying for you: I’m just crying.”
The thought of driving like drunkenness clouded my head, and I carelessly and playfully responded to all the predictions and warnings while the event was still far away. I kept dreaming - and had been dreaming for a long time - about this voyage, perhaps from the moment when the teacher told me that if you drive from some point non-stop, you will return to it from the other side: I wanted to go from the right bank of the Volga, to where I was born, and return from the left; I wanted to go there myself, where the teacher points his finger to be the equator, the poles, the tropics. But when I later moved from the map and from the teacher’s pointer to the exploits and adventures of the Cooks and Vancouvers, I was saddened: what are Homeric heroes, Ajaxes, Achilles and Hercules himself compared to their exploits? Children! The timid mind of a boy who was born on the mainland and had never seen the sea became numb before the horrors and misfortunes that filled the swimmers’ path. But over the years, the horrors were erased from memory, and only pictures of tropical forests, blue seas, golden, rainbow skies lived in the imagination and survived youth.
“No, I don’t want to go to Paris,” remember, I told you, “not to London, not even to Italy, no matter how sonorously you sang about it, poet 1, - I want to go to Brazil, to India, I want to go where the sun is from a stone evokes life and immediately nearby turns into stone everything it touches with its fire; where man, like our forefather, plucks the unsown fruit, where the lion prowls, the serpent creeps, where eternal summer reigns - there, in the bright palaces of God's world, where nature, like a bayadère, breathes voluptuousness, where it is stuffy, scary and charming to live, where the exhausted imagination goes numb in front of the finished creation, where the eyes never tire of looking and the heart never tires of beating.”
Everything was mysterious and fantastically beautiful in the magical distance: the lucky ones went and returned with a tempting but dull tale of miracles, with a childish interpretation of the mysteries of the world. But then a man appeared, a sage and a poet, and illuminated the mysterious corners. He went there with a compass, a spade, a compass and a brush, with a heart full of faith in the Creator and love for His universe. He brought life, reason and experience into stony deserts, into the depths of forests, and with the power of bright understanding he showed the way to thousands behind him. "Space!" Even more painfully than before, I wanted to look at living space with living eyes. “I would,” I thought, “give a trusting hand to the sage, like a child to an adult, I would listen attentively, and if I understood as much as a child understands the interpretation of an uncle, I would be rich in this meager understanding.” But this dream also subsided in the imagination after many others. The days flashed by, life threatened with emptiness, twilight, eternal everyday life: the days, although individually varied, merged into one tediously monotonous mass of years. Yawning while doing something, while reading a book, yawning in a play, and the same yawning in a noisy meeting and in a friendly conversation!
And suddenly, unexpectedly, it was destined to revive my dreams, stir up my memories, and remember my long-forgotten heroes around the world. Suddenly I follow them around the world! I shuddered joyfully at the thought: I will be in China, in India, cross the oceans, set foot on those islands where the savage walks in primitive simplicity, look at these miracles - and my life will not be an idle reflection of small, boring phenomena. I've updated myself; all the dreams and hopes of youth, youth itself returned to me. Hurry, hurry, get on the road!
A strange feeling, however, overcame me when it was decided that I was going: then only the consciousness of the enormity of the enterprise began to speak fully and clearly. Rainbow dreams faded for a long time; the feat suppressed the imagination, strength weakened, nerves sank as the hour of departure approached. I began to envy the fate of those remaining, I rejoiced when an obstacle appeared, and I myself inflated difficulties, looking for excuses to stay. But fate, which for the most part interferes with our intentions, here seems to have set itself the task of helping. And people too, even strangers, inaccessible at other times, worse than fate, as if they had conspired to settle the matter. I was a victim of internal struggle, unrest, almost exhausted. “Where is this? What am I up to?" And I was scared to read these questions on the faces of others. Participation scared me. I watched with longing as my apartment was empty, as furniture, a desk, a comfortable chair, and a sofa were taken out of it. Leave it all, exchange it for what?
My life somehow split into two, or as if I was suddenly given two lives, given an apartment in two worlds. In one, I am a modest official, in a uniform tailcoat, timid in front of the boss’s gaze, afraid of a cold, confined within four walls with several dozen similar faces, uniforms. In another, I am a new Argonaut, in a straw hat, in a white linen jacket, maybe with tobacco chewing gum in my mouth, striving across the abyss for the Golden Fleece to the inaccessible Colchis, changing monthly climates, skies, seas, states. There I am the editor of reports, relations and regulations; here is a singer, although ex officio, 2 trips. How to survive this other life, become a citizen of another world? How to replace the timidity of an official and the apathy of a Russian writer with the energy of a sailor, the delicacy of a city dweller with the coarseness of a sailor? I was not given any other bones or new nerves. And then suddenly from walks to Peterhof and Pargolovo to step to the equator, from there to the limits South Pole, from the South to the North, to cross four oceans, to surround five continents and dream of returning... Reality, like a cloud, was approaching more and more menacingly; My soul was also visited by petty fear when I delved into a detailed analysis of the upcoming voyage. Seasickness, climate change, tropical heat, malignant fevers, animals, savages, storms - everything came to mind, especially storms. Although I blithely responded to all the warnings of my friends, some touching, some funny, fear often drew phantoms of troubles to me day and night. Then I imagined a rock, at the foot of which our broken ship lay, and the drowning people in vain clutched at the smooth stones with tired hands; then I dreamed that I was on an empty island, thrown out with a wreck of a ship, dying of hunger... I woke up with trepidation, with drops of sweat on my forehead. After all, a ship, no matter how durable it is, no matter how adapted to the sea, what is it? - a sliver, a basket, an epigram on human strength. I was afraid whether the unusual organism would withstand a lot of harsh circumstances, this sharp turn from peaceful life to constant battle with new and sharp phenomena of a wandering life? Yes, finally, is there enough soul to accommodate the suddenly, unexpectedly developing picture of the world? After all, this audacity is almost titanic! Where can I get the strength to absorb a lot of great impressions? And when these magnificent guests burst into the soul, will the host himself not be embarrassed in the midst of his feast?
I dealt with my doubts as best I could: some were overcome, others remained unresolved until their turn came, and little by little I became emboldened. I remembered that this path is no longer Magellan’s path, that people have coped with mysteries and fears. The not majestic image of Columbus and Vasco de Gama looks speculatively from the deck into the distance, into the unknown future: an English pilot, in a blue jacket, leather trousers, with a red face, and a Russian navigator, with the insignia of impeccable service, point with their finger the way of the ship and unmistakably assign the day and hour of his arrival. Among the sailors, yawning apathetically, a writer lazily looks “into the boundless distance” of the ocean, thinking about whether hotels in Brazil are good, are there laundresses on the Sandwich Islands, what do they drive in Australia? “The hotels are excellent,” they answer him, “on the Sandwich Islands you will find everything: a German colony, French hotels, English porter - everything except - wild ones.” In Australia there are carriages and carriages; the Chinese began to wear Irish linen; in the East Indies everyone speaks English; American savages from the forest are rushing to Paris and London, asking to go to university; In Africa, blacks begin to be ashamed of their complexion and gradually get used to wearing white gloves. Only with great difficulty and expense can one fall into the rings of a boa constrictor or into the claws of a tiger and a lion. China took a long time to secure itself, but this chest with old junk was opened - the lid flew off its hinges, undermined by gunpowder. The European rummages through rags, pulls out what he needs, renews it, manages it... A little more time will pass, and there will not be a single miracle, not a single secret, not a single danger, not a single inconvenience. And now there is no sea water, it is made fresh, five thousand miles from the shore a dish of fresh herbs and game appears; under the equator you can eat Russian cabbage and cabbage soup. Parts of the world are quickly approaching each other: from Europe to America - just a stone's throw away; they say that they will go there in forty-eight hours - poof, a joke of course, but a modern poof, hinting at future gigantic successes in navigation.
Hurry, hurry, get on the road! The poetry of distant travels is disappearing by leaps and bounds. We may be the last travelers, in the sense of the Argonauts: upon our return, they will look at us with sympathy and envy.
It seemed that all fears, like dreams, had subsided: space and a number of unexperienced pleasures beckoned forward. The chest breathed freely, the south was already blowing towards us, the blue skies and waters beckoned. But suddenly, behind this prospect, a menacing ghost appeared again and grew larger as I set out on my journey. This ghost was a thought: what responsibility does a competent traveler have before his compatriots, before the society that watches over the swimmers? An expedition to Japan is not a needle: you can’t hide it or lose it. It is now difficult for anyone who has once put pen to paper to travel to Italy without the knowledge of the public. And here you have to travel around the whole world and tell about it in such a way that they listen to the story without boredom, without impatience. But how and what to tell and describe? This is the same thing as asking what kind of physiognomy to appear in society with?
There is no science of travel: authorities, from Aristotle to Lomonosov inclusive, are silent; travel has not fallen under the spell of rhetoric, and the writer is free to wade into the depths of the mountains, or descend into the depths of the oceans, with learned inquisitiveness, or, perhaps, on the wings of inspiration, glide over them quickly and catch their images in passing on paper; to describe countries and peoples historically, statistically, or just to see what taverns are like - in a word, no one is allotted so much space and this makes it so difficult for anyone to write as much as a traveler. Whether to talk about the theory of winds, about the direction and courses of a ship, about latitudes and longitudes, or to report that such and such a country was once under water, but this bottom was outside; this island came from fire, and that from dampness; the beginning of this country dates back to such a time, the people originated from there, and at the same time carefully write down from learned authorities where, what and how? But you are asking for something more interesting. Everything I say is very important; the traveler is ashamed to engage in everyday activities: he must devote himself mainly to what has long been gone, or to what, perhaps, was, and perhaps not. “Send this to a learned society, to an academy,” you say, “but when talking with people of any education, write differently. Give us miracles, poetry, fire, life and colors!”
Miracles, poetry! I said that they don’t exist, these miracles: travel has lost its wonderful character. I have not fought lions and tigers, nor tasted human flesh. Everything fits on some prosaic level. Colonists do not torture slaves, buyers and sellers of blacks are no longer called merchants, but robbers; stations and hotels are established in deserts; Bridges are hung across bottomless abysses. I passed through a number of Portuguese and English in comfort and safety - in Madera and the Cape Verde Islands; Dutch, blacks, Hottentots and again the English - at the Cape of Good Hope; Malays, Indians and... the British - in the Malay Archipelago and China, and finally, through the Japanese and Americans - in Japan. What a miracle it is to now see a palm tree and a banana not in a picture, but in reality, on their native soil, there are guavas, mangoes and pineapples straight from the tree, not from greenhouses, skinny and dry, but juicy, the size of a Roman cucumber? What’s so surprising about getting lost in the immeasurable coconut forests, getting your feet tangled in creeping vines, between tall trees like towers, meeting these strange colored brothers of ours? And the sea? And it is usually in all its forms, stormy or motionless, and the sky too, midday, evening, night, with stars scattered like sand. It’s all so ordinary, it’s all how it should be. On the contrary, I left miracles: there are none in the tropics. Everything is the same, everything is simple. There are two seasons, and that’s what they say, but in reality there are none: it’s hot in winter, and sultry in summer; and you there, in the “far north,” have four seasons, and that’s according to the calendar, but in fact there are seven or eight of them. In excess of what is expected, there comes an unexpected summer in April, it is stuffy, and in June the uninvited winter sometimes sprinkles with snow, then suddenly there will be a heat that the tropics would envy, and then everything blooms and smells fragrant for five minutes under these terrible rays. Three times a year, the Gulf of Finland and the gray sky that covers it will dress up in blue and melt, admiring each other, and the northern man, traveling from St. Petersburg to Peterhof, will not see enough of a rare “miracle”, rejoices in the unusual heat, and everything will rejoice: the tree , flower and animal. In the tropics, on the contrary, there is a country of eternal zephyr, eternal heat, peace and blue of skies and sea. Everything is monotonous!
And poetry changed its sacred beauty. Your muses, dear poets 3, legitimate daughters of the Parnassian stones, would not have given you an obliging lyre, would not have pointed out that poetic image that catches the eye of the newest traveler. And what an image this is! Not shining with beauty, not with attributes of strength, not with a spark of demonic fire in his eyes, not with a sword, not in a crown, but simply in a black tailcoat, in a round hat, in a white vest, with an umbrella in his hands. But this image rules the world over minds and passions. He is everywhere: I saw him in England - on the street, behind the store counter, in the legislative chamber, on the stock exchange. All the grace of this image, with blue eyes, shines in the thinnest and whitest shirt, in a smoothly shaved chin and beautifully combed blond or red sideburns. I wrote to you how we, driven by a stormy wind, shivering from the northern cold, ran past the shores of Europe, how for the first time a gentle ray of sun fell on us at the foot of the Madera mountains and, after a gloomy, leaden-gray sky and the same sea, we splashed blue waves, blue skies shone, how we greedily rushed to the shore to bask in the hot breath of the earth, how we reveled in the fragrance of flowers wafting from the shore a mile away. We joyfully jumped onto the flowering shore, under the oleanders. I took a step and stopped in bewilderment, in chagrin: how, and under this sky, among the brightly shining colors of a sea of greenery... stood three familiar images in a black dress, in round hats! They, leaning on umbrellas, commandingly looked with their blue eyes at the sea, at the ships and at the mountain overgrown with vineyards rising above their heads. I walked along the mountain; under the porticoes, between the festoons of vine greenery, the same image flashed; With a cold and stern gaze, he watched as crowds of dark-skinned residents of the south extracted, dripping with sweat, the precious juice of their soil, as they rolled barrels to the shore and sent them off into the distance, receiving from their rulers the right to eat the bread of their land. On the ocean, in momentary encounters, the same image was seen on the decks of ships, whistling through his teeth: “Rule, Britannia, upon the sea.” 4 I saw him on the sands of Africa, watching the work of blacks, on the plantations of India and China, among bales of tea, with his eyes and words, in his native language, commanding peoples, ships, guns, moving the immense natural forces of nature... Everywhere and everywhere this image of an English merchant floats over the elements, over human labor, triumphs over nature!
But enough of pas de géants 5: let us travel moderately, step by step. I have already managed to visit with you the palm forests, the expanse of the oceans, without leaving Kronstadt. It’s not easy either: if, when going somewhere on a pilgrimage, to Kyiv or from a village to Moscow, the traveler does not end up in turmoil, rushes into the arms of family and friends ten times, has a snack, sits down, etc., then make a parcel, how many It will take time for four hundred people to move to Japan. I went to Kronstadt three times, and nothing was ready yet. Departure was postponed for a day, and I returned to spend another day where I had spent seventeen years and where I was bored with living. “Will I see these heads and crosses again?” - I said goodbye mentally, leaving for the fourth and last time from the Promenade des Anglais.
Finally, on October 7, the frigate Pallada weighed anchor. With this began a life for me in which every movement, every step, every impression was unlike any before.
Soon everything began to bustle harmoniously on the frigate, which had been motionless until then. All four hundred crew members crowded on the deck, command words were heard, many sailors crawled up the shrouds, like flies stuck to the yards, and the ship was covered with sails. But the wind was not entirely favorable, and therefore we were dragged along the bay by a strong steamer and returned at dawn, and we began to fight the rising stormy or, as the sailors say, “fresh” wind. Strong rolling began. But this first storm had little effect on me: having never been at sea, I thought that this must be so, that it could not happen otherwise, that is, that the ship always rocks on both sides, the deck is torn out from under my feet and the sea seems to capsize on the head.
I sat in the wardroom, listening in bewilderment to the whistle of the wind between the rigging and to the blows of the waves on the sides of the ship. It was cold at the top; slanting, frozen rain lashed my face. The officers talked carefree among themselves, as if in a room on the shore; others read it. Suddenly a piercing whistle was heard, not of the wind, but of boatswain’s whistles, and after that the cry of ten voices echoed across all decks: “Let’s all go up!” Instantly the entire population of the frigate rushed up from below; the backward sailors were encouraged by the boatswain. The officers abandoned their books, maps (geographical: there are no others there), conversations and quickly ran in the same direction. To an unaccustomed person, it will seem like some kind of disaster has happened, as if something has broken, torn off and the ship is about to go to the bottom. “Why are they calling everyone upstairs?” - I asked the midshipman running past me. “They whistle everyone upstairs when there is emergency work,” he said in a hurry and disappeared. Clinging to the ladders and ropes, I climbed onto the deck and stood in a corner. Everything was fussing. “What is emergency work?” - I asked another officer. “This is when they whistle everyone up,” he answered and got busy with emergency work. I tried to get an idea of what kind of work this was, looking at what they were doing, but I didn’t understand anything: they did everything they did yesterday, what they will probably do tomorrow: pulling the tackle, turning the yards, trimming the sails. The officers explained to me the real truth, I should have understood it simply as it was said - and the whole secret was there. Emergency work means shared work, when one watch is not enough, all hands are needed, which is why everyone is called to the top! In English, if I’m not mistaken, and they command “All hands up!” (“All hands up!”). Five minutes later, having done what was necessary, everyone went to their places. Baron Krüdner, three steps away from me, was whistling a tune from an opera to the sound of the storm. In vain I tried to approach him: my legs did not obey, and he laughed at my efforts. “You don’t have sea legs yet,” he said. “Will they be soon?” - I asked. “In about two months, probably.” I sighed: this was all I could do, given the thought that I would walk around like a child for another two months, holding on to my nanny’s skirt. Soon, seasickness was discovered in young sailors who were prone to it or had not been on a voyage for a long time. I was waiting for me to start paying this boring tribute to the sea, but I certainly waited. Meanwhile, he watched the others: here is a young man, a midshipman, turning pale and sinking into a chair; his eyes dim, his head tilts to the side. So they changed the guard, and he, giving up the gun, ran headlong to the forecastle. The officer wanted to shout something to the sailors, but suddenly turned his face to the sea and leaned on the side... “What is this, it seems you poisons? - the other one tells him. ( To poison, to poison- means letting go of the rope little by little.) You barely have time to bounce from one to the other... “Drink some vodka,” some people tell me. “No, lemon juice is better,” others advise; still others offer onions or radishes. I didn’t know what to do to prevent the disease, so I lit a cigar. The disease still did not come, and I anxiously paced among the patients, waiting for it to begin. “You smoke a cigar while you’re pumping and then expect to feel seasick: in vain!” - one of the companions told me. And indeed it was in vain: during the entire voyage I never felt the slightest faintness and aroused envy even among the sailors.
From the first step onto the ship I began to look around. And now, at the end of the voyage, I remember that heavy impression from which my heart sank when I peered into the ship’s accessories for the first time, looked into the hold, into the dark nooks and crannies, like mouse holes, where a pale ray of light barely reached through the thick palm glass. From the first time, everything that later seems convenient to the accustomed eye has an unfavorable effect on the imagination: lack of light, space, hatches where people seem to fall through, chests of drawers and sofas nailed to the walls, tables and chairs tied to the floor, heavy guns, cannonballs and grapeshots, in regular piles on the fenders, like on trays, placed near the guns; piles of gear, hanging, lying, moving and motionless, bunks instead of beds, the absence of everything superfluous; order and harmony instead of beautiful disorder and ugly licentiousness, both in the people and in the decoration of this floating dwelling. A man walks timidly for the first time on a ship: the cabin seems like a coffin to him, and yet he is hardly safer in a crowded city, on a noisy street, than on a strong sailing ship in the ocean. But I did not come to this truth soon.
We Russians are accused of laziness, and not without reason. We admit ourselves, without the help of foreigners, that we are slow to rise. Can you believe that there are many people in St. Petersburg, natives there, who have never been to Kronstadt because they have to go there by sea, precisely because why would it be worth traveling a thousand miles just to experience this method of travel? The sailors especially complained to me about the lack of curiosity in our public about everything that concerns the sea and the fleet, and cited the example of the English who come in droves, with their wives and children, to every ship that comes into port. The first part of the reproach is completely founded, that is, lack of curiosity; As for the second, the British are not an example for us. The English have the sea as their soil: they have nothing else to walk on. That is why in English society there are many women who have been to all five parts of the world. Some live permanently in India and come to see their relatives in London, like ours from Tambov to Moscow. Should we therefore blame our women for not visiting China, the Cape of Good Hope, or Australia, or English women for not visiting Kamchatka, the Caucasus, or the depths of the Asian steppes?
But not knowing for a St. Petersburg resident what a deck, mast, yards, hold, gangway, where the stern is, where the bow is, the main parts and accessories of a ship is is not entirely permissible when there is a fleet nearby. Many make the excuse that they do not know any sailors and therefore find it difficult to make a visit to the ship, not knowing how “the sailors will receive them.” And they will receive you very well, like good friends; Even their pride will be pleased to take part in their business, and they will introduce you to it with cordiality and the most refined courtesy. Go to the Kronstadt roadstead in the summer, to any warship, contact the commander, or the senior, or, finally, the watch (guard) officer with a request to inspect the ship, and if there is no “emergency” work on the ship, then I can guarantee you the most pleasant reception
Arriving on the frigate, still with luggage, I did not know where to step, and in an unfamiliar crowd I was left a complete orphan. I looked around me and at my piled-up things in bewilderment. Less than a minute later, three officers approached me: Baron Schliepenbach, midshipmen Boltin and Kolokoltsev - my future companions and excellent friends. A bunch of sailors came up with them. They immediately grabbed everything that was with me, almost myself, and carried me to the cabin assigned to me. While Baron Schliepenbach installed me in it, Boltin brought in a young, stocky, smooth-haired sailor. “This sailor has been assigned to you as a messenger,” he said. It was Faddeev, whom I introduced you to a long time ago. “I have the honor to appear,” he said, stretching out and turning to me not with his face, but with his chest: his face was always turned somewhat towards the object at which he was looking. Brown hair, white eyes, white face, thin lips - all this reminded him more of Finland than of Kostroma, his homeland. From that moment we were inseparable to this day. I studied it completely in about three weeks, that is, while we were walking to England; he got me, I think, in three days. Sharpness and “being on his own” were not the least of his virtues, which were hidden behind the outward clumsiness of a Kostroma citizen and the subordination of a sailor. “Help my man set things up in the cabin,” I gave him my first order. And what my servant would have had to do for two mornings of work, Faddeev did in three steps - don’t ask how. The kind of dexterity and tenacity that sailors in general, and Faddeev in particular, possess, can only be found in a cat. Half an hour later everything was in its place, among other things, the books, which he placed on the chest of drawers in the corner in a semicircle and tied, in case of rocking, with ropes so that it was impossible to take out a single one without his own monstrous strength and dexterity, and I used it all the way to England books from other people's libraries.
“You probably haven’t had lunch,” said Boltin, “and we’ve already finished our lunch: would you like to have a snack?” He led me into the wardroom, a spacious room below, on the forecastle, without windows, but with a hatch at the top through which abundant light falls. There were small officers' cabins all around, and in the middle there was a mizzen mast, camouflaged by a round sofa. In the wardroom there was a long table, the kind you find in classrooms, with benches. It is where officers dine and study. There was also a couch, and nothing else. No matter how massive this table is, when there was strong rocking, it was thrown from side to side, and once almost crushed our miniature, kind, helpful manager of the officer’s table, P. A. Tikhmenev. In the officer's cabins there was only space for a bed and a chest of drawers, which at the same time served as both a table and a chair. But everything is fitted to the premises of all sorts of things in the best possible way. The dress hung on the partition, the linen lay in drawers arranged in the bed, books stood on the shelves.
There were no officers in the wardroom: everyone was upstairs, probably “at emergency work.” A cold appetizer was served. A. A. Boltin treated me. “Sorry, we don’t have anything hot,” he said, “all the lights are out. We accept gunpowder." - “Gunpowder? Is there a lot of it here?” - I inquired with great sympathy. “They accepted five hundred poods: there are still three hundred poods left to accept.” - “Where does it lie?” - I asked with even greater sympathy. “Yes, here,” he said, pointing to the floor, “below you.” I stopped chewing a little at the thought that five hundred pounds of gunpowder already lay beneath me and that at that moment all the “emergency work” was focused on adding another three hundred pounds. “It’s good that the fires are out,” I praised for their foresight. “For mercy’s sake, what a good thing: you can’t smoke,” said another, entering the cabin. “That’s what a difference there is in views on the same subject!” - I thought at that moment, and a month later, when, during the repair of the frigate in Portsmouth, the gunpowder was handed over to the English Admiralty for savings, I grumbled terribly that there was no fire and that I couldn’t smoke.
By evening everyone had gathered: the galley (stove) was on fire; tea and dinner were served - and the cigars began to smoke. I got to know everyone, and from then until now it’s been like home. I thought, judging by previous rumors, that the word “tea” among sailors was only an allegory, by which one must mean punch, and I expected that when the officers gathered at the table, emergency work would begin over the punch, a lively conversation would break out, and with it noses, then the matter will end with explanations of friendship, even hugs - in a word, the entire program of the orgy will be fulfilled. I have already figured out how to get rid of participation in it. But, to my surprise and pleasure, there was only one decanter of sherry on the long table, from which two people drank a glass, the others did not even notice it. Later, when it was proposed not to serve wine at all at dinner, everyone unanimously agreed. We decided to apply the surplus in savings from wine to the amount determined for the library. There was a long conversation about her at dinner, “but not a word about vodka!”
Otherwise, one old sailor told me about the old days! “It used to be that when you come off duty, you’re cold and wet, and you can’t get enough of six glasses of punch!..” - he said. Faddeev arranged a bed for me, and despite the October, the rain, the eight hundred pounds of gunpowder lying under my feet, I fell asleep as I rarely slept on the shore, tired from the hassle of moving, lulled by the freshness of the air and new, not unpleasant impressions. In the morning I had just woken up when I saw in the cabin my city servant, who had not had time to go ashore in the evening and was spending the night with the sailors. “Master! - he said in an alarmed and pleading voice, “don’t travel, for Christ’s sake, by sea!” - "Where?" - “Where are you going: to the ends of the world.” - “How to go?” - “The sailors said that it was possible by land.” - “Why not by sea?” - “Oh, Lord! what passions they tell. They say it’s from that log that’s hanging across the top...” “From the yardarm,” I corrected. “What happened?” - “In a storm, fifteen people were blown into the sea by the wind; They pulled him out by force, and one drowned. Don’t go, for Christ’s sake!” Having listened to our conversation, Faddeev noticed that the rolling was okay, but that there are places on the sea where it “spins”, and when the ship gets into such a “spin”, it will now turn upside down with its keel. “What can we do,” I asked, “and where are such places?” - “Where are such places? - he repeated, “they know the navigator, they don’t go there.”
So we weighed anchor. The sea is stormy and yellow, the clouds are gray and impenetrable; rain and snow fell alternately - that's what saw us off from our fatherland. The shrouds and rigging froze. Sailors in flannel coats huddled together. The frigate, creaking and groaning, rolled from wave to wave; the shore in sight of which we were walking was buried in fog. The officer on duty, in a leather coat and oilskin cap, looked around vigilantly, trying not to show anything outside except his mustache, which was given complete freedom to get cold and wet. The biggest concern was grandfather. In previous letters I introduced you to him and almost all my companions. I will not return to their characteristics, but I will mention each by the way when the turn comes. Grandfather, as the senior navigational captain, had to monitor the course of the ship. The Gulf of Finland is all dotted with shoals, but it is excellently furnished with lighthouses, and in clear weather it is as safe as on Nevsky Prospekt. And now, in the fog, grandfather, no matter how hard he strained his eyesight, could not see the Nervinsky lighthouse. There was no end to his worry. All he had to talk about was the lighthouse. “How can it be,” he said to everyone who didn’t care about the lighthouse, including me, among other things, “according to calculations, we should see it in half an hour. “He’s here, definitely here, right next to this shroud,” he grumbled, pointing his short finger into the fog, “but the convict fog is in the way.” - “Oh, Lord! come and see, won’t you see?” - he said to one of the sailors. “And what is that there, like an arrow?” I said. "Where? Where?" - he asked quickly. “Yes, it seems...” I said, pointing into the distance. “Oh, really - there, there, yes, yes! Visible, visible! - he solemnly said to the captain, and the senior officer, and the watchman, and ran first to the map in the cabin, then again upstairs. “It’s visible, there it is, there it is, all visible!” - he repeated, rejoicing, as if he had seen his own father. And he went to measure and calculate the knots.
We passed Gotland. Then I heard a maritime legend that, when approaching this island, ships used to throw a copper coin to the spirit guarding the island so that it would pass by without storms. Gotland is a stone with steep, even sides, which cannot be approached by ships. More than once they became prey to a stormy spirit, and the fierce sea tossed their fragments high, and sometimes their corpses, onto the steep sides of the inhospitable island. We also passed Bornholm - remember “dear Bornholm” and the mysterious, untold legend of Karamzin? Everything was cold and gloomy. Cholera broke out on the frigate, and we, having only reached Denmark, buried three people, and one brave sailor fell into the sea in stormy weather and drowned. Such was our betrothal to the sea, and my servant’s prediction partly came true. It was impossible to give help to the fallen man without sacrificing other people due to strong excitement.
But the days went on as usual and so did life on the ship. They celebrated the service, had lunch, had dinner - everything was done on the whistle, and even had fun on the whistle. Lunch is also a kind of emergency work. Large cups called “tanks” are hung on the battery deck, into which food is poured from one common, or “fraternal” cauldron. They give you one dish: cabbage soup with corned beef, fish, beef, or gruel; For dinner the same thing, sometimes porridge. I came over one day to try. “Bread and salt,” I said. One of the sailors, out of courtesy, licked his wooden spoon clean and handed it to me. The cabbage soup is delicious, with strong onion seasoning. Of course, you need to have a sailor's stomach, that is, you need a sailor's exercise to digest these pieces of corned beef and onions with boiled cabbage - a dish beloved by sailors and healthy at sea. “But one dish at dinner is not enough,” I thought, “the sailors will probably be hungry.” - “Do you eat a lot?” - I asked. “To hell with you, your honor,” the diners answered in five voices. In fact, first from one, then from the other group, a sailor with an empty cup ran headlong to the brotherly cauldron and returned carefully, carrying a cup full to the brim.
Have fun at the whistle, I said; yes, where four hundred people are gathered in a tight group, and the fun itself is subordinated to the general order. After lunch, at the end of work, especially on Sunday, the command is usually heard: “Whistle the songwriters upstairs!” And the fun begins. I especially remember how strangely this struck me one Sunday. A cold fog covered the sky and sea, and a light rain fell. In such weather you want to withdraw into yourself, concentrate, and the sailors sang and danced. But they danced strangely: the intensified movements were clearly at odds with this concentration. The dancers were silent, their facial expressions were grave, even sullen, but it seemed that they were working harder with their feet. The spectators around, with the same gloomy importance, looked at them intently. The dance had the appearance of intense labor. They danced, it seems, only out of the knowledge that today was a holiday, therefore, we should have fun. But if the pleasure were cancelled, they would be unhappy.
The voyage became monotonous and, I admit, a little boring: all the gray sky, the yellow sea, rain and snow or snow and rain - anyone would get tired of it. My teeth and temple started to hurt. Rheumatism reminded me of itself more vividly than ever. I fell ill and lay there for several days, wrapped in warm blankets, with my cheek tied up.
Only off the coast of Denmark did the warmth blow over us, and we came to life. Cholera disappeared with all its symptoms, my rheumatism subsided, and I began to go out street- that’s what I nicknamed the deck. But the storms did not leave us: this is the custom on the Baltic Sea in the fall. A day or two will pass - quietly, as if the wind is gathering strength, and then it will thunder so loudly that the poor ship groans like a living creature. Day and night the ship is vigilantly monitoring the weather conditions. The barometer becomes a general oracle. The sailor and officer do not dare hope to sleep through their shift in peace. “Let’s all go upstairs!” - is heard even in the silence of the night. I, lying in my bed, hear every knock, cry, every movement of the sails, command words and begin to understand the meaning of the latter. When you hear the order: “Put up the topsails, the fox,” you calmly wrap yourself in a blanket and fall asleep carefree: that means it’s quiet and peaceful. But how you prick up your ears when they tell you to “take two or three reefs,” that is, reduce the sail. It’s better not to fall asleep then: anyway, you’ll wake up involuntarily.
Speaking of sails, by the way, I’ll tell you what impression the sailing system made on me. Many enjoy this system, seeing in it proof of the power of man over the stormy elements. I see the opposite, that is, proof of his powerlessness to overcome water. Look at the setting and cleaning of the sails close up, at the complexity of the mechanism, at this network of gear, ropes, ropes, ends and strings, each of which serves its own special purpose and is a necessary link in the overall chain; look at the number of hands that move them. And yet what an incomplete result all these tricks lead to! It is impossible to determine the timing of the arrival of a sailing ship, it is impossible to fight against a contrary wind, it is impossible to move back when running aground, it is impossible to immediately turn in the opposite direction, it is impossible to stop in an instant. When there is a calm, the ship dozes; when the wind is contrary, it tacks, that is, it wobbles, deceives the wind and gains only a third of the straight path. But several thousand years have been wasted in order to invent a sail and a rope per century. In every rope, in every hook, nail, and plank you read the story of how, through torture, humanity acquired the right to sail the sea with a favorable wind. There are up to thirty sails: for every breath of wind there is a sail. It is, perhaps, beautiful to look at from the outside, when a ship floats on the endless surface of the waters, covered with white sails, like a swan, and when you find yourself in this web of gear from which there is no passage, you will see in this not a proof of strength, but rather hopelessness for perfect victory. A sailing ship is like an old coquette who rouges herself, whitens herself, puts on ten skirts and puts on a corset to influence her lover, and sometimes has time for a minute; but as soon as youth and freshness of strength appear, all her troubles will crumble to dust. And the sailing ship, wrapped in ropes, hung with sails, digs waves there, groaning and groaning; and if it blows a little on your forehead, your wings will hang. Until the end of the day, perhaps, we could not only be proud, but amused by the knowledge that we have finally reached the point where we are sailing on the sea with a fair wind. Some people find that there is less poetry in the ship, that it is not so neat and ugly. This is out of habit: if steamships had existed for several thousand years, and sailing ships only recently, the human eye, of course, would find more poetry in this fast, visible aspiration of a ship, on which an exhausted crowd of people does not rush from corner to corner, trying to please the wind, and a man stands in inaction, arms crossed over his chest, with the calm consciousness that under his feet there is a compressed force equal to the force of the sea, forcing both storm and calm to serve him. In vain they took me to show how beautifully the sails billow on the leeward side, how a frigate, lying sideways on the water, cuts the waves and rushes at twelve knots an hour. “Even the steamer won’t work!” - they tell me. “But the ship will always go.” Woe to the sailor of the old school, whose whole mind, all his science, his art, and behind them his pride and ambition were scattered among his rigging. The matter is settled. The sails were left to the share of small ships and poor industrialists; everything else took on steam. No naval shipyard builds large sailing ships; even old ones are converted to steam ones. During our time at the Portsmouth Admiralty, they tore apart a completely finished ship in half and inserted a steam engine.
Footnotes
1 A. N. Maikov ( note Goncharova).
2 ex officio ( lat.)
3 V. G. Benediktov and A. N. Maikov ( note Goncharova).
4 "Rule, O Britannia, the Seas" ( English)
5 giant steps (fr.).
