by Ernesto Ferreri, Bishop Freeze & the Sozo Soljaz (Editor) Ernesto Ferreri
BarbaraHaimbergerThiem is a performing cellist and teaches at Colorado State University. She spends the summers in Austria and Germany keeping up the tradition of gathering at Traunsee in the old family place, surrounded by immediate and more distant family members.
Gertrud Graubart Champe, PhD, is a professional translator with an interest in European cultural history.
CHAPTER 1
The Letters
Hurray for the Old Country!
On Board the Scotia
Saturday June 5, 1869
Dearest parents!
I can't wait to chat with you from dry land, so I am beginning this letter if not on swaying feet, at least on the swaying seats of our Atlantic vessel and will finish it in New York.
Let me start this first sign of life from the New World with heartfelt greetings.
As I write, it has been six days since I left solid ground and I am likely three days away from stepping on it again. Directly to the north of us is the pole, to the south the equator; the closest distance to land is 900 miles. It is a strange idea for this landlubber to write a letter under such circumstances, though not stranger than my being in a situation like this to start with. The long companionship with the ocean as well as with the ship, the life on board, and the fellow travelers are all new and unusual indeed. Everything is as strange, unique, and interesting as I pictured it when you and I, dear mother, were looking at an American steamer in Hamburg a year ago and trying to imagine the cabins, reception rooms, and life on board as I am experiencing it now. When I earnestly wished that I could take a trip on such a ship, you answered, almost laughing, "Why don't you?" At that time, we both believed this was impossible. Whenever I consider in how short a time this impossibility was realized I am tempted to jump for joy!
Now for the facts and statistics — those you have more right to expect from me than old memories. Let me describe our trip so far.
We (my cousin and traveling companion Ernst Westphal and I. We left from Queenstown at Ireland's southern coast) left the coast, as I reported in my last letter, at 11 a.m. last Sunday in a tender, crossing the imposing harbor for about 30 minutes (it is supposedly the second most important for England's navy), till we reached the Scotia anchored at the mouth of the harbor. The passengers who had been on board since Liverpool inspected us newcomers climbing the stairs from the deck with as much curiosity as is natural after a trip of 18 hours on the open ocean with nothing but water in sight. Having passed through this crossfire from above we caught sight of the all-powerful captain who had planted himself with his first officers precisely across from the spot where we alighted. His snow white hair, fat belly, and important mien were all specially adopted to impress his shy future subjects. This old sea hero is not the most pleasant of men; he would rather show his sense of absolute power. His officers naturally imitate him and are distant and inaccessible.
I might as well mention our fellow travelers in the same context: precious few of them deserve a different opinion, though for different reasons. Most of them are Americans, native Yankees, with bad manners and little education; a few German-Americans, i.e. more recent immigrants, are especially bad; only one person deserves our interest: the old philanthropist Peabody, famous for his charity, having only recently given a million pounds sterling to the poor. But even he disturbs us if through no fault of his own; he suffers from a terrible cough which reminds us of his presence all too often since his cabin is right next to ours. Among the ladies there are a few adorable girls whom I tried to approach in the beginning; however, they soon almost all came down with seasickness and are now invisible. There is a rather pleasant Spaniard with whom I chat frequently. At the risk of being unjust to some of the other passengers I can't change my general opinion: I have found so many of the previously mentioned type that I can't be reproached for having stopped trying to make new discoveries. Ernst and I are reserved, answer when approached, but otherwise do not exert ourselves.
One engaging thing is the language of those German-Americans, mostly from Pennsylvania, whose dialect is proverbial and infamous even in America. One of them addresses everyone informally and, for example, tells me the following nonsense: "Siescht Du, dasch noisechen of die Niagara-Falls ist something ganz enormous." Isn't that too much? Had Ernst and I not both heard this sentence we would not have believed it. Noisechen is supposed to be "small noise" and no doubt a joke!
However, I have skipped some of my history, have not even mentioned that after we passed the captain the steward led us to our cabin, where we installed ourselves comfortably. As expected, its location is excellent and fulfills all our wishes with the possible exception of a screaming infant (who was moved by the second night on the strength of my repeated complaints to the purser, who himself is no husband and whose nerves, like mine, are not inured to such musical sounds) and "Uncle" Peabody as we call him. As for the furnishings of the small private cabins called "staterooms," you have seen them. For the rest I refer to the first chapter of Dickens' American Notes where they are aptly described. Just like his, our disappointment was almost comical as we took in the reality of our tight staterooms as contrasted with the almost fairy tale image put forth by the travel agent in London.
The mail was not expected before 4 o'clock so we had time to arrange our things without staggering and to get the lay of the ship, which is no small matter on this enormous vessel. On this trip it is not completely full. The number of passengers does not top 180 in first class and about 20 in second. There are no between-deck passengers; the Scotia as well as other ships of the Cunard Line does not have this custom. No doubt that is the reason why this company is preferred to the lines from Bremen or Hamburg, which all sell between-deck places. Ships with emigrants, especially when full, are better avoided because of infectious diseases and epidemics, quite apart from the danger of chaos in an emergency when there are more passengers.
All the rooms on the Scotia are elegant. The ladies have a large drawing room to themselves; two others, one in front and the other in the rear of the ship, are for "all the world" (which does not mean that I would call the first mentioned half the world). The navigator cabin only projects from the deck far enough so that the heads of the navigators are visible; they receive their orders through a pneumatic tube system from the bridge between the paddle boxes and from other points of the ship where officers are stationed. During the day, the captain tends to stay in a small house which he had built on deck and which looks like a miniature summer villa. It is supported by strong iron stakes and will not easily be swept away by a storm. This enclosure is erected at a point where the ship sways least, which makes me believe the rumor among the passengers that our captain tends to get sick at the beginning of each trip.
Around 4 o'clock, we gradually started moving. We watched the little mail steamer leave the coast and follow us out onto the ocean, catching up so we would not lose more time. It reached us in about 45 minutes. An endless number of mail bags with European correspondence were heaved over. As soon as that was done, the pilot guide jumped onto the little steamer. By his leaving us, the last connection with Europe was severed. The next land we would see would be America — or nothing. Just as I was thinking about that and watching the steamer increase its distance, the steward brought me a telegram. My first thought was: Could I still return? My second thought and a look at the boat that was close but not close enough showed me the impossibility of such a course of action. You can imagine with what great anxiety I now opened the telegram. And then it turned out to be a last greeting from a friend in London! The first telegram I ever opened with a beating heart; my pleasure at his attentiveness was slightly spoilt. But since this had turned out not to be a problem, our anxiety, Ernst's and mine, passed soon enough; it was swallowed up with lunch, which had been served in the dining hall by now.
Since we had reserved last, we unfortunately had our seats assigned close to the end of the hall where the movement of the vessel is the strongest. So far, there was no disadvantage because the ship moved calmly till late evening, when we went to bed. The entire time the Irish coast still accompanied us. We passed several lighthouses and communicated with another ship by rocket. Only when it turned completely dark did I go down to the cabin. It had been getting rather cold on deck so a group of men and I found a place near the smokestack, which was tolerably comfortable. The captain did us the honor of joining us there and proceeded to explain the difference between screw and paddle steamers and their relative advantages.
I slept quite well, but when I got up the next morning everything had changed as if by magic. The ship danced merrily on the long waves of the ocean, which by now was unbounded by a coastline in any direction: the sky was overcast and it was so cold that a winter suit, overcoat, and thick blanket did not protect sufficiently. Breakfast is scheduled for 8:30, lunch at 12:00, dinner at 4:00, and tea at 8:00. I proceeded to the first but was not comfortable in the closed room, thought the portions and teacups far too big (that's a good sign, don't you think?), and hurried back to the deck, where I took up station near the paddle boxes as the calmest place, right next to the "summer villa," and like a good soldier on duty did not leave the place all day. It felt strange: as long as I sat there I had no sign of discomfort except from the cold and wind. But as soon as I walked up and down or wanted to enter a drawing room, my stomach counseled me decidedly against it. And so I sat, not a corpse but quite immobile. My steward brought me lunch, dinner, and tea on deck. I ate it all with good appetite and felt decidedly good. When evening came I ran down to the cabin, ripped my clothes off as fast as I could, jumped into bed, felt completely safe again, and slept well. The next morning the movement of the boat had, if anything, increased. I got dressed like lightning (getting dressed or undressed were the most dangerous moments), ran to my old place on deck, ate, drank, and sat there again till evening, when I went to bed quickly as on the day before. This worked as a kind of radical cure against seasickness; the rough air and cold beat upon my face so harshly that the skin was already peeling on the first day and I still look incredibly ugly today. It is no small thing to sit outside in those temperatures for 13 hours without interruption, in the kind of wind that sprays the soup off your spoon as you try to eat it, something I experienced to my disadvantage when I tried a cup of strong beef tea for the first time. But my stubbornness was rewarded: I have not been seasick and would guess that it won't happen anymore now.
The dining hall looked quite different on the second day from the first, when everyone was merry and boisterous and none left their seats unoccupied. Anyone who has been to sea for a time must have had such experiences. Ernst, who has been a regular in the dining hall and has been completely immune to seasickness as well as any discomfort, reports that there were more benches than people. Many, even most of the passengers, have not surfaced again. Last Wednesday, the sun came out even though the cold did not diminish. The sea became calmer and some of the corpses came up on deck with pitiful faces. I had by then become quite lively and used to the motion, and walked around like someone who had never sat still, looking at the miserable ones with deep contempt — the most telling sign of how close I had been to the same state. This day of calm was advantageous because the next Thursday brought more hardship to many. When I looked at my barometer around noon I found it changed by half an inch. At a temperature of 5 degrees, strong rain started, together with gusty winds that roiled up the ocean in no time. It lasted all night till this morning, when the sun is trying to appear again, none too soon for our ailing comrades.
Monday June 7
The weather has been splendid since the day before yesterday, though the ocean is hardly smooth as a mirror and the ship keeps rocking. But any suspicion of seasickness is past and I enjoy seeing the wind fill our sails, which we use as often as practical. We witnessed a spectacle which can be viewed more calmly on big ships than on smaller ones: fog enveloped us so that we could not see thirty steps ahead. This lasted from Friday evening till Sunday noon with brief interruptions, a tense situation for passengers and crew alike. Two sailors and an officer stood rigidly at the bow, staring into the fog, ready to give the alarm as soon as they sighted another ship; on the bridge three men kept a lookout and the big steam whistle sounded at short intervals to warn any ships close by. This sound was especially eerie during the night. All of us heaved a sigh of relief yesterday after lunch when we realized that the fog was gone. The apprehensive mood of the passengers disappeared magically. We appreciated the expanse of the ocean, the blue of the sky, and the glow of the sun twice as much as before. Even the animals seemed to like the change: masses of little whales called grampus played around the ship, their water fountains spewing all around. I should mention also that we had a solemn church service in the drawing room yesterday morning. Sitting behind a pulpitlike desk, the captain read the liturgy according to the Anglican Church and after that, a sermon; any sailors and officers who were not on duty listened in their Sunday best; they had Bibles and hymn books, which were also shared with the passengers. We sang in a rather festive atmosphere. Such a mood seems natural on the ocean where people are so completely cut off.
Yesterday for the first time we saw another ship on the horizon. Just imagine: for the first time in seven days! We are advancing fast. To the joy of our crew, we have just passed a second ship, which turned out to be full of emigrants. We are in hourly expectation of the pilot. The captain predicts we may reach the coast and New York this evening still.
Monday evening
Punctually at 1:00, a pilot came on board. We were still 300 miles away from the mainland. He came in a schooner, having been on his way since June 1. So news and newspapers were not of recent date, but were received eagerly nevertheless. We will reach the harbor tonight. I regret that because we will not get to see the approach into New York harbor, supposedly one of the most beautiful in the world. We will stay on board till tomorrow morning. You may imagine how curious I am about what will happen next. I am too restless to continue writing and will proceed downstairs to pack my belongings, far too early, of course.
5th Avenue Hotel New York, Tuesday June 8
It is the evening of our arrival day. Even though I left the ship at 7:00 this morning, I have only just now had a chance to sit down. The day was restlessly busy, maybe especially when compared to the previous seven days of complete idleness.
It is a refreshing thought that we have managed our entry onto solid ground. This entry was quite unpleasant. In the customs house where we were sent directly from the ship, we were tortured unreasonably, thanks to our friends who had sent with us a number of presents for relatives over here. We should take this to heart and not send things with traveling friends in order to save postal or customs expenses. The fact that you received the telegram of our happy landing half a day later than intended is thanks to a pretty silk dress. I can't deny that this makes me quite angry and has spoilt the joy of arrival considerably. We had to wait for two hours at customs till the agent arrived and collected the customs payment ($4). I was waiting on tenterhooks because I had planned to pass by the telegraph office to send you a confirmation before proceeding to the hotel. Now this silly situation arose. But that was not all: other passengers had taken all the carts so that we lost a lot of time trying to find another one. In short I only managed to send a telegram at 4:00, something that could easily have been done 8 hours earlier without this annoying circumstance. I will purchase a scalping knife and use it on the sinners when I get back.
So now I have cursed enough and can enjoy with you, as my telegram implies, that our trip here has turned out so well. I am sitting in the biggest and most beautiful of New York's hotels and have just shared a bottle of California wine with Ernst, toasting your health. I had bananas for dessert.
I am writing this letter in a big open hall which is terribly drafty and noisy: more than 100 people are chattering. Others are sitting in easy chairs and reading newspapers from Louisiana and San Francisco, while their hats are in the strangest positions and their legs are pushed against the wall at some height, "Black Brothers" are standing around, etc., etc. In this foreign-seeming place there is a definite southern flavor, which is natural since New York is on the same latitude as Rome and Naples.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "From New York to San Francisco"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Indiana University Press.
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Translator’s Note
Introduction
The Letters
Notes
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Welcome to an America you’ve never seen. Where anyone can drop by the White House and visit the President between 10 a.m. and noon; where cowcatchers are bloodied daily on train tracks between New York and Boston; where spent bullets are strewn across Civil War battlefields, and Indians still roam Yosemite Valley; where pigs rut in the sand-and-clay streets of Washington, DC., and the weather-bleached skeletons of oxen and horses line the old mail roads across the West.
For three hot summer months in 1869, Ernst Mendelssohn-Barthody, the nephew of famed composer Felix Mendelssohn, traveled by train across the United States accompanied by his older cousin. His letters back home to Prussia offer fascinating glimpses of a young, rapidly growing America. Unceasingly annoyed at the Americans’ tendency to spit all the time, the Prussian aristocrats seemingly visited everyone and everywhere: meeting President Grant and Brigham Young; touring Niagara Falls, Mammoth Cave, the Redwoods, and Yosemite; taking in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Omaha, San Francisco, and the still war-ravaged city of Richmond; and crossing the continent by rail just two months after the Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroads had been joined at Promontory, Utah.
Full of marvelous tales and insightful observations, Ernst Mendelssohn-Barthody’s letters are a revealing window to a long-ago America.
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