by John Jakes
In the metal heating pipes that snaked through the house, he heard rattling; a distant ghostly voice. Though it was still dark, Louise would already be in the kitchen. Aunt Ilsa too. Aunt Ilsa had announced Frühstück for half past six. Manfred didn’t like the change in routine and had let it be known in the kitchen, behind Aunt Ilsa’s back. Manfred disliked anything that he hadn’t planned and endorsed personally.
Someone knocked. He leaped out of bed, stumbled through the darkness to whisper, “Who is it?”
“Fritzi. Are you awake?”
“No, still asleep, can’t you tell?” Fritzi giggled. “What do you want?”
“Open the door. Please.” Sighing, he turned the knob.
A strong scent reminiscent of fruit overpowered him. He couldn’t see Fritzi’s face, only the silhouette of her long curls and ankle-length nightdress against the glow of a dim light down the hall.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Paul.” He grumbled something noncommittal. “I’m so excited, I can’t sleep.”
“I woke up too,” he admitted.
“What do you want to see most at the fair?”
“Everything.”
“I want to see the painting of Ellen Terry.”
“Who is that?”
“Paul, where have you been? Ellen Terry is one of the greatest actresses in the whole world.”
“Ah.”
A long silence ensued. Fritzi rubbed her bare toe on the fine hall carpet. “Well, I guess I’d better go comb my hair or something.”
“Yes, probably.”
“I’ll see you at breakfast then.” He was quite unprepared for her sudden lunge forward, or the kiss planted on his cheek. She whirled around and sped to her room, curls flying.
Stunned, he closed the door and leaned against the wall in the dark. He touched his face where Fritzi’s lips had pressed. His fingers came away sticky. He sniffed them. That was the scent; some sweet night cream she was using for her complexion.
Things were going too far with Cousin Fritzi. She was a nice person, lively and clever, though she did tend to wear you out with her chatter and her imitations. Obviously she considered him more than a relative. She had romantic designs. He’d suspected it for quite a while but hadn’t wanted to admit it.
The kiss changed everything. He mustn’t lead her on, even slightly. Cousins couldn’t become attached and, besides, he had someone else in mind. Someone older, whose ravishing eyes and hair and figure he’d dreamed about more than once. He needed to discourage Fritzi in a way that would be conclusive but wouldn’t hurt her. He must think about that.
Not today, though. Today was a celebration. The only person in the house who didn’t share the feeling was Joe Junior. He always spoke sourly about the Exposition. How would he behave at the opening ceremonies?
Paul switched on the electrics and began to wash and dress as the first light was breaking over Lake Michigan. It was May 1, 1893.
Everyone came to breakfast except Cousin Joe. Uncle Joe was in his regular place, though he had to leave shortly for a second, more important breakfast with dignitaries at his club. He only had a small plate of herring and a cup of black coffee in front of him.
Uncle Joe looked grand in a frock coat with satin-faced lapels, an ascot scarf of dark red and black stripes, striped gray and black trousers. When Aunt Ilsa came in with a platter of sausages, he said, “Where is Joe Junior, may I ask?”
“He has a terrible stomachache. He asked to be excused today, and I agreed.”
“Very well, let him stay home. We don’t need the company of a spoilsport. If he wants to go to the fair later, he can pay for it himself.”
Thunder boomed. Uncle Joe frowned at the threatening sky visible from the window nearest him. “I hope we won’t have a storm to ruin the outdoor program. At least President Cleveland is already in town. We have a new President, Paul, elected last November.”
“I remember seeing his picture as I traveled here. Many—ah—Plakate?
“Posters,” said Aunt Ilsa.
“Yes, thank you.”
Aunt Ilsa and Louise bustled about, serving mountainous platters of food. “Eat, children, it will be a long day for all of us.” Manfred glided through the dining room twice, his stern eyes registering his disapproval. In the middle of the meal Carl excused himself for the toilet. He came hurtling back and collided with Manfred.
“If you please, Master Carl! Watch where you’re going.”
Uncle Joe coughed, a gentle but clear statement that Manfred’s tone was too harsh. Manfred flushed. Paul said, “It wasn’t his fault, Mr. Blenkers, he couldn’t see you from around the corner.”
“Oh, I see, thank you for enlightening me, Master Paul.” Manfred stared at Paul, then marched out haughtily.
Paul didn’t need this latest incident to tell him that Manfred had an intense dislike of him. Perhaps just by arriving, existing, he’d disrupted the household order that Manfred had established. The steward would never be a friend but Paul didn’t much care; he put Manfred in the same category as Mrs. Petigru.
A violent storm broke as Uncle Joe, wearing a tall silk hat, departed for his breakfast reception. Rain beat on the roof and sluiced down the windowpanes in torrents; for a while it was impossible to see Michigan Avenue. Fritzi broke into tears, exclaiming that everything was spoiled.
Soon after breakfast, while the storm was raging, Paul knocked softly on Joe Junior’s door. “Come in.” He was startled to find Cousin Joe sitting up in bed in his nightshirt, with a book. He looked perfectly healthy.
“Joe, I am sorry you’re sick.”
“Just a bellyache.”
“You really can’t go?”
“I don’t want to go. Mama understands. You go on, I know you want to see it. I just don’t like the whole idea—crammed in among a lot of nabobs. You can give me a report tomorrow.”
“Yes, I will,” Paul exclaimed, reprieved.
“Shut the door behind you. Thanks.” Joe Junior’s eyes were already on his open book.
Almost miraculously, the rain abated, the storm clouds blew over, sun broke through to bring steam from the drenched streets. By the time Nicky Speers drove the family to the Exposition at half past nine, the weather looked fine.
All the way to the grounds, Fritzi complained that her corset hurt. When she and Aunt Ilsa walked, they tilted forward slightly because of their stiff binding garments. Just the night before, Fritzi had done an exact and hilarious imitation of that walk, which she called “the kangaroo bend.”
Streets leading to Jackson Park were choked with carriages, buggies, horse-drawn cabs, people on foot. Uncle Joe met the family at the main gate, anxiously motioning for them to hurry. Buffeted on every side, they followed him. Paul could hardly keep from gaping at the buildings, blinding white in the sunshine, and magnificent.
Their seats were special but not comfortable. They sat on hard bleachers erected at the foot of a great wide stair on the east side of the Administration Building. On the stair itself, a heavily decorated platform held a full orchestra, a large choir, and all the dignitaries whom Uncle Joe pointed out. The President of the United States, Grover Cleveland. Vice President Adlai Stevenson, who was from Illinois. Mayor Harrison. Governor Altgeld. Three special guests from Spain—the Duke of Veragua, a lineal descendant of Columbus, his wife, and a woman identified as the Infanta Eulalia, the king’s daughter.
The opening ceremonies began at fifteen past eleven. The orchestra played a Wagner overture. This was followed by prayers, choral anthems, and several speakers whose verbosity made Paul and Carl and Fritzi fidget and squirm. Eastward, toward the lake, thousands packed the esplanades on both sides of the shimmering Grand Basin. Uncle Joe said between three hundred and five hundred thousand people were expected today.
Everyone rose to applaud the President after he was introduced. Mr. Cleveland was a burly, strong-jawed man with a forceful voice, but Paul didn’t listen to much of what he had to say. The English words were long, t
he sentences complicated; and his eye was constantly distracted by the incredible sights all around him. White buildings of great beauty and symmetry; broad avenues; lagoons and reflecting pools; statuary of every description.
About twelve-thirty, the President concluded his remarks. Wild applause broke out—perhaps out of gratitude. On either side of the Grand Basin and in the intersecting avenues, the crowd quickly grew quiet again. Uncle Joe leaned forward intently. “Watch, everyone. He’s ready.”
President Cleveland stretched his hand toward a gilded telegraph key in front of him. His voice boomed and echoed. “As by a touch the machinery that gives life to this vast exposition is now set in motion, so in the same instant let our hopes and aspirations awaken forces which in time to come shall favorably influence the welfare, dignity, and freedom of mankind.”
He pressed the key.
The orchestra leader’s baton struck the downbeat. As the first notes resounded and the massed choir sang, fountains throughout the grounds erupted with foaming columns of water, flagstaffs miraculously unfurled the banners of America, Spain, and other nations, streamers dropped from every rooftop, drapes fell away from a giant gilded statue of the Republic rising from a pedestal at the east end of the Basin.
Chimes began to ring, steam whistles to sound from a fleet of electric lagoon launches built to ferry visitors through the waterways of the fair. Guns boomed from a naval vessel anchored offshore. From a white peristyle behind the statue of the Republic, two hundred white doves burst from their cages and flew upward. Aunt Ilsa said, “Do you know this piece, Pauli? The ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’ The composer, Mr. Handel, was a German. From Saxony. Isn’t it thrilling?” He had to agree that it was.
As flags, fountains, and streamers declared the fair officially open, the roar of the crowd drowned out Handel’s music. Fritzi grabbed Paul’s sleeve, jumping up and down and sobbing emotionally. Uncle Joe slipped his arm around his wife while trying to remove something from his eye with a large hanky. Aunt Ilsa looked quite handsome in a smart little hat, black felt with blue and black ostrich plumes. She carried a tightly rolled parasol—Fritzi had a smaller one—and had lightly touched up her face with rice powder and rouge. Her dress was cinched at the waist, with a short train and dust ruffle. Her petticoats rustled in a pleasing way.
Carl gaped, as awestruck as Paul. The boys wore smaller versions of Uncle Joe’s fine suit, bought specially for the occasion. Paul had never been dressed so splendidly, though he didn’t like the confining starched shirt collar. Much as he hated it, he supposed it wasn’t half as bad as the torture inflicted by female garments.
The Handel chorus ended. The orchestra struck up “America.” Consulting his program, Uncle Joe said, “This is the end. Paul, what do you think? Quite impressive, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Try to convey that feeling to your cousin sometime.”
“Papa, can we go?” Fritzi asked, bouncing up and down on the riser.
Aunt Ilsa grabbed her. “Be careful, you’ll fall.”
“Oh, Mama, I can’t stand still, I’m too excited. I want to see the picture of Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth, where is it?”
“I must look in on the brewery exhibit,” Uncle Joe said. “Twenty-four of my competitors are displaying their products. I want to be sure Crown’s compares favorably. I’ll go now and meet you in half an hour. Perhaps then we should visit the German exhibit. I saw the wrought-iron gates when they were installed last week. They’re spectacular.”
“No, let’s go to the Krupp gun,” Carl said.
Aunt Ilsa said, “There’s also a German village on the Midway.”
“Yay, the Midway,” Carl said, hopping up and down like his sister. “I want to ride the wheel, can we ride the wheel, Papa?” At school everyone had been talking about the giant revolving wheel with gondolas spaced around it. Paul couldn’t imagine what it would be like to ride such a device into the sky.
“Paul, do you have something you want to see most?” Uncle Joe asked as they worked their way down to the foot of the bleachers. “Perhaps Sandow the strongman? He’s another good German.”
“Well, sir, what I would like best really is the Buffalo Bill show.” Cody’s encampment was set up just outside the grounds; the show would play until the Exposition closed in the autumn.
“Capital idea. Carl said you wanted to see it in Berlin and could not. I’ll buy tickets for later in the summer. Here’s a thought. We could celebrate when you finish the school year successfully.”
“Thank you,” Paul said with a stricken expression.
“Come, everyone. We must decide on a place to meet.”
The avenues were packed; progress was slow. The Crowns paused to admire the huge statue of Christopher Columbus, his sword upraised, his flag unfurled behind him. A well-dressed but sickly-looking woman approached. Aunt Ilsa smiled and said, “Nell, good day to you.”
The woman looked away and passed by.
Fritzi tugged her mother’s sleeve. “Mama, who was that?”
“Mrs. Vanderhoff.”
“Why wouldn’t she speak?”
“I don’t know, but it isn’t the first time. Don’t worry about it.”
Vanderhoff? A relative of the girl from Prairie Avenue? Was she here? Perhaps he’d see her. Why on earth would anyone snub Aunt Ilsa, the kindest of women?
Aunt Ilsa stopped at a building of unusual design, with a dramatic entrance of concentric arches finished in gold leaf. Quite breathtaking, Paul thought.
“That is the Transportation Building, children,” Ilsa said, her guidebook open. “Mr. Sullivan designed it.”
“Who’s he?” Carl said, bored.
“Louis Sullivan is a Chicago architect. He and his partner, Mr. Adler, are quite advanced. Some call Mr. Sullivan a genius.”
Uncle Joe joined them after he’d seen the brewery exhibit. “Our presentation is fine. Fred’s diagrams of the brewing process are simple but effective. I’m pleased.” That seemed to be his mood as they continued to stroll. “Isn’t this fair a marvelous accomplishment? Before Congress chose Chicago over those other cities, all the skeptics said we couldn’t do it. Couldn’t deliver an exposition of this magnitude, and on time. But we showed them!”
They turned into another avenue. In the distance, Paul saw the huge iron wheel revolving. The Ferris wheel, named after its inventor. Tiny figures rode inside the wooden gondolas around the rim of the wheel.
Uncle Joe said, “You’ve been very quiet about your wishes, Ilsa. What would you most like to see?”
“The Women’s Pavilion.”
“Sorry, that’s the one place you’ll have to visit by yourself. I have never seen the need for a special monument to the female gender, and I don’t now.”
“Of course you don’t. But I must tell you, Joe, I plan to attend the Women’s Congress when it convenes at the Art Institute. I shall go to as many of the sessions as time allows.”
“All right, but please stay off the barricades. They’re already too crowded with reds and freethinkers and these so-called new women. Now, shall we all take a vote? Where to first?” He patted his coat. “I have some special passes that will speed us into most of the exhibits.”
“The Ferris wheel?” Carl cried.
“Not that one, I’m afraid. They say it’s going to be the very biggest attraction.”
They settled on the Krupp gun, exhibited in a special Krupp pavilion on the lakefront. Krupp’s of Essen was a fine old German firm, even Paul knew of it. The pavilion was a miniature Prussian fortress, complete with turrets and battlements. The gun was eighty-seven feet long. One of its projectiles weighed twenty-three hundred pounds. It could be fired a distance of sixteen miles, said the Krupp engineer in attendance.
Carl was thrilled and impressed and couldn’t stop asking questions. Uncle Joe seemed disturbed by the exhibit. As they were leaving he said, “Is that Germany’s chief boast these days, war weapons? Is the fatherland showing off its strength like
some street bully? If so, what does that say? Nothing that I like to hear.”
Next they went to the Fine Arts Building, to find the portrait of the actress Ellen Terry, painted by a Mr. Sargent. Fritzi stood enraptured for five minutes, clasping and unclasping her hands and sighing, until Uncle Joe snapped his gold watch shut and said, “Time to go.”
They trooped to the Midway Plaisance, a broad east-west avenue stretching for one mile across the north side of the grounds between Fifty-ninth and Sixtieth streets. Here all the lighter diversions had been segregated.
They admired the Blarney Castle from Ireland, then walked through the narrow passageways and keyhole gates of the Streets of Cairo, which was populated by women in veils and swarthy men in robes and red fezzes. It was an exotic, faintly wicked exhibition, and its general raffishness failed to charm Aunt Ilsa. Nor did she smile when Uncle Joe said, “Perhaps when you’re visiting the Women’s Pavilion, I’ll attend a performance of that dancer, Little Egypt. The men at the brewery are all talking about her danse du ventre.”
Carl whispered to Paul, “It means she dances with her belly, I heard it in school.”
They ate an early supper at the German Village, in preparation for standing in line for the Ferris wheel. They sat under gay lanterns at an outdoor table, in the looming shadow of the Wasserburg, a replica of a moated fifteenth-century castle. A German band played familiar songs while the family ate Nudelsuppe and Kücken mit Spargel.
They waited nearly an hour for their ride on the wheel; actually two wheels, with thirty-six gondola cars mounted between. In the darkness of the spring night, the colored lights of the Midway Plaisance and the Exposition lit the sky with a great glow.
Finally their turn came. With others, they climbed into a forty-passenger car with big glass windows and comfortable swivel seats. Fritzi shrieked when the wheel jerked and the car rose, swaying, then stopped again while the car below was loaded.
“The wheel is two hundred fifty feet across, I read that,” Carl said.
“With another fifteen feet of base,” his father said.
“Fifty cents is awfully expensive for a short ride,” Fritzi said.