by Susan Sontag
I would dearly have liked to see one of the eminent American actors whose reputations have reached Europe, but none are on view now. We did go to the magnificent theatre owned by one of these actors, Edwin Booth (it was his younger brother who assassinated Mr. Lincoln), which has opened with a tragic drama by Lord Byron, Sardanapalus. It seems petty to note that the acting left little to the imagination—your Mr. Darwin would have approved!—given that the play has been turned into a vast and ingenious spectacle. Loud music, towering décor, a hundred performers milling about an immense stage—that’s what the public here most appreciates. Besides a dozen actors in the principal roles, the “Italian ballet” in Act Two had—I am looking now at the program—“four first-class dancers, eight coryphées, six ballet ladies, ninety-nine supers, twenty-four negro boys, twelve chorus women, eight chorus men, and forty-eight extra ladies”! Imagine all these cavorting about while the stage machinery produces the most astonishing effects: an entire scene may rise from the floor or drop out of sight. The last act ended with a stupendous conflagration, which the audience appreciated mightily, as did we.
Here biggest is best—a prejudice perhaps no more unsound than thinking oldest is best. Booth’s Theatre, which seats almost two thousand people with standing room for hundreds more, is far from the largest. Larger still is Steinway Hall, where, we were solemnly informed, Anton Rubinstein made his American debut. Seeking to impress Bogdan, I refrained from mentioning, ever so casually, that the great pianist was a frequent guest at our Tuesday evenings in Warsaw. It occurs to me that, for all their boasts about having the biggest and the most of everything, Americans, when it comes to art, are surprisingly devoid of patriotic self-confidence. It is false to say that the public craves only plebeian entertainments. But it is assumed that performances of quality come from abroad. Foreign actors make quite a splash here and, if French or Italian, are expected to perform in their own language, which no one understands. Rachel triumphed with Adrienne Lecouvreur at the biggest theatre in the city, the Metropolitan, some twenty years ago; and ten years ago Ristori made a very successful, lucrative tour throughout the country. Thinking about this now, I confess to feeling a twinge of envy. But, no, don’t conclude that I dream of resuming my career here. In what language? No one would want to hear our native tongue, and the other in which I have been trained to act, German, is also considered fit only for the immigrant public.
I shall not grumble about a play called The Mighty Dollar that we saw at Wallack’s Theatre, ending our sampling of what is on at the theatres. At Gilmore’s Garden we heard Madame Pappenheim, Emilie Pappenheim, a soprano, in concert; Bogdan and I found her less interesting than her audience, which was most enthusiastic, applauding at every trill. At a French art gallery, Michel Knoedler’s, we saw a room of dull paintings, and at the New-York Historical Society (there is no museum here worth speaking of) we came upon marble bas-relief sculptures taken from the palace of Sardanapalus—a nice surprise after having seen their fanciful rendering in papier-mâché during our Byronic evening. We take Piotr with us everywhere, and viewing the city through his eyes keeps me from being too fastidious: the child is enchanted by everything. This can’t be said of the other child in my custody—I mean Aniela, our new servant—to whom everything is merely incomprehensible. She was told she was going to America, but Warsaw must have been an America to her (she had never been out of her natal village), after which she found herself on a train (she had never seen a train), in a hotel in a foreign city, in a hotel on water, as she called our steamship, and now here. When we walk I hear the constant refrain, “Oh, Madame! Oh, Madame!” Imagine me with my little boy on one side and this pudgy horse-faced girl on the other, both of them clasping my hands in apprehension and astonishment. You had a glimpse of her at the station and, knowing my appreciation of beauty in all forms, may wonder that I engaged her. I also surprised everyone at the orphanage in Szymanów by choosing her among the six girls reared there who had been selected for me to interview. One of the nuns took me aside to warn me I was making a mistake, that Aniela’s proficiency in sewing and cooking was far inferior to that of the others. Why then did I take her? Well—you’ll smile—it was because of her voice. When I asked her if she knew how to sing, she stared at me, mouth agape, then without first closing her mouth (but closing her eyes tightly) sang two Latin hymns and “God Save Poland,” one after another. I know it sounds comical, but her singing moved me to tears. I could tell she had a sweet disposition, the girl is only sixteen, and Danuta and Wanda will teach her to cook and sew. To tell the truth, I need a few lessons myself! Any female can learn to keep house, but who would think of teaching this child how to sing?
I can see, though, that I shall have to teach her everything else. First of all, not to be afraid of the world. Second, not to be afraid of me. I had asked her before we left Warsaw if she had everything she needed for her new life, which I tried, with little success, to describe to her. As if this were a test she must not fail, she cried, “Oh yes, Madame. Everything!” I discovered after we started the journey that she had only one dress, a scarf, a torn smock, and a quilted fustian jacket to her name. The proprietor of the inn in Hoboken has advised us to buy clothing here before setting out for California, since everything in the big stores is marked down because of the “panic” I mentioned earlier. So you may imagine your Desdemona yesterday going from store to store, engaged in earnest conversation with clerks over a coat, a skirt, a shirtwaist, and some very practical undergarments. The store of stores here, A. T. Stewart, a cast-iron palace occupying a whole city block, is said to be the largest in the world; but I prefer a smaller emporium, Macy’s, which has just opened a boy’s clothing department whose sensible array of goods bitterly disappointed Piotr. He was expecting that I could purchase for him there an Apache feather headdress and loincloth, and for the rest of the day remained quite inconsolable!
15 August
Piotr has forgiven me for disappointing him: yesterday we visited the Centennial Exposition.
The trip was itself a spectacle, inside the train as well as looking out the windows, since it appears that the cars on American trains, even in so-called first class, are not divided into compartments. For some two and a half hours we had an intimate view of a fixed number of perspiring strangers, and they of us, perspiring just as profusely while trying to keep some shred of useless Old World dignity. Most passengers were en famille and carrying hampers of food and drink, the genial offering of which, whether accepted or not, gave them the right to be friendly—which, in America, means asking questions. What country we came from, if we were going to the Centennial, and what we wanted to see. “It’s too big to see everything,” we were told again and again. There were only seven of us, for Barbara and Aleksander, once they learned that Philadelphia lay to the south and was likely to be even hotter, remained in Hoboken; nothing could persuade them to share this keenly anticipated excursion with us. Danuta and Cyprian were able to come because they could leave their little girls with Aniela, but Danuta has sought reassurance that they will not suffer so much when we reach California. Suffer! Even as I remind them that California is famed for its ideal, temperate climate, I worry that they haven’t understood how arduous in other ways our life there, at least for the first months, may be.
Philadelphia, what we saw of it between the station and the Exposition grounds outside the city, is older, handsomer, and cleaner than Manhattan. I missed the hubbub of Manhattan! But enough people for the most avid connoisseur of crowds were awaiting us at the Exposition, which has already received several million visitors since it opened in May.
There was no way we could see everything of interest in one day. Imagine, Henryk, the largest edifice in the world, the Exposition’s Main Building, a colossal structure of wood, iron, and glass five times longer and ten times wider than the Donau! Imagine—but you have undoubtedly read about it in our papers or the German papers. Indeed, you should have been able to read an account by Ryszard; I know he
promised the Gazeta Polska at least one article about the Centennial. But, as we learned from the letter waiting for us at the hotel in Bremen, our carefree young journalist never went to Philadelphia. He wrote that he was too impatient to leave, and would make some articles out of the transcontinental journey instead, such as Chicago rising from the ashes after their Great Fire of five years ago. And once he reached the Western Territories, he would finally see live Indians, if only in mournful procession, fleeing the invincible government troops who protect the pioneers. This made me smile. For Chicago, where Ryszard would have spent only a few hours, must be already completely rebuilt; Henryk, in America five years is a very long time! And the most recent battle with the Indians, early this summer, resulted in ignominious defeat for the cavalry and the death of their leader, General Custer. Since Ryszard has such a great imagination—perhaps even more necessary for a journalist than for an actor—I won’t be surprised if you tell me he did send back an article on the Centennial Exposition!
Since you must already know something about the marvels to be seen there, I shall mention only what is amusing and oddly scaled. (You see, I am already becoming an American!) Imagine a cathedral six meters high made of spun cane sugar surrounded by candy historical figures, a solid-chocolate vase weighing a hundred kilos, and a half-size replica of the tomb of George Washington, who at regular intervals—this particularly enchanted Piotr—rises from the dead and is saluted by the toy soldiers standing guard. My favorite was the Georama: huge, uncannily detailed dioramas of Paris and of Jerusalem—that and a Japanese house, which unfortunately had no furniture.
We’d no time for visits to the Bible Pavilion, the New England Log House, the Turkish Coffee Building, the Burial Casket Building (no, Henryk, I am not making this up!), among the smaller edifices, but we did walk quickly through the Photograph Gallery and the Women’s Pavilion, where we missed the daily breaking of a chair by a lady weighing two hundred and ninety kilograms, but did gaze in wonderment at the huge statue of a sleeping Iolanthe carved in butter by a woman from Arkansas. Butter? In this heat? Yes, and it is fresh butter, for she sculpts it anew every day! Then at least two hours had to be set aside for the Indian exhibits in the Government Building. Besides examples of their pottery, weapons, and tools, there were wigwams and wax figures of celebrated Indian braves, life-size and in full regalia, bringing Piotr his long-awaited sight of peace pipes and tomahawks. Poor child, he kept asking me for assurance that these were real, meaning that they were not costumes and props for actors. I was struck by the modeling of the faces. The small cruel black eyes, coarse unkempt locks, and large animal mouths were clearly designed to inspire hatred for the Indian as a hideous demon. Here you would not find a trace of that reverence for the Indian race we imbibed in the adventure books of our childhood.
You have heard about the astounding new inventions: a porcupine-like machine for stamping inked letters on blank paper, another that can make many copies of a single page produced by the writing machine, and a small box that sends the human voice over an electric wire. About this instrument for hearing at great distances, the telephone, we were told that its inventor hope’s to improve the audibility of what is transmitted: while the occasional sentence comes through with startling distinctness, for the most part only vowels are faithfully reproduced and consonants are unrecognizable. But surely it will be perfected. And what a boon to humanity that will be, when, by means of this device, anyone can have an Italian opera, a play of Shakespeare, a debate in the Congress, a sermon by their favorite preacher laid on like gas in one’s own house. The possibilities for public instruction are unlimited. Think of those who cannot afford theatre tickets being able to hear the performance over their telephone. Still, I worry about the consequences of this invention, human laziness being what it is, for nothing can replace the experience of entering a temple of dramatic art, taking one’s seat among the other spectators, and seeing a great actor perform. Once there is a telephone in every home, will anyone still go to the theatre?
Of the many monuments on the Exposition grounds you would have been especially amused by the Centennial Fountain, which was erected by the Catholic Total Abstinence Union of America. (Consider the prospects of such a league in Poland!) In the middle of a vast basin an immense statue of Moses rises from its rough granite pedestal, and circling the basin are tall marble statues of prominent American Catholics, whose names and deeds are of course unknown to me, with a drinking fountain at the base of each statue. Slake your thirst at this pure source and you will never crave alcohol again? How could I not help thinking of you, dear friend? An attendant told us that, unfortunately, it had proved impossible to complete the fountain before the Exposition opened. It would never have occurred to me that something was lacking. Even more fountains to encourage sobriety?
So ready was I to embrace the American love of eccentric achievement that I failed to identify another monument as obviously unfinished—rather, part of something unfinished. The French government has sent over to the Exposition a gigantic forearm whose invincible hand clasps a torch; it is hollow, and stairs inside lead to a balcony below the torch. I was prepared to envisage this sculpture, made of copper and iron, planted on a pedestal in the center of the city of Philadelphia, and was almost disappointed to learn that there will be a whole figure attached to the heroic arm, Liberty herself, a modern Colossus being fabricated in Paris which one day will be placed (like the one in ancient Rhodes) in the harbor of New York to welcome arriving immigrants. How, I ask myself, does one ever know what is finished in this country, and what is merely under way?
17 August
It is late afternoon and I am continuing this letter in the shade of an elm tree behind our inn in Hoboken, after an exhilarating day in the city. We went directly from the ferry to the main post office and found, as we had hoped, more letters from Julian and Ryszard. After two weeks in the southern part of the state, they have found a parcel of land, complete with house and barns, near a small vineyard colony. Ryszard proposes to stay on for a month in the neighborhood of our new home; he wishes to isolate himself to write some stories and also to enjoy the outdoor life in the company of Indians and Mexicans; he will go north again just before our arrival. Julian prefers to wait for us in San Francisco, where there is a lively Polish community. Bogdan and I spent the rest of the morning making our travel arrangements. Tomorrow he will take Piotr back to Philadelphia; the child has been clamoring for another visit to the Exposition. The day after, we leave on the Colón, bound for Panama. There we will cross the isthmus by train and board another ship, which will take us to San Francisco, where I don’t expect to tarry (unless, as seems possible, Edwin Booth is performing there) but, with all our group reunited, immediately take the train south.
Since these ships are not modern iron steamships but paddle steamers, the trip will take more than a month. Why not take the transcontinental train and arrive in one week, you will ask. Well, I am deferring to the wishes of my dear husband and son. Piotr begged me not to deprive him of the chance to live on a wooden boat, Bogdan has fallen in love with sea travel, as I told you, and I—I rather liked the idea of savoring the contours of the continent. Don’t let what I have told you of my romance with water make you apprehensive, dear friend. Your Rusałka—did I ever tell you Rusałka was my favorite story as a very young child?—is looking forward to having a very long life on land.
Aspinwall, Panama