Reminiscences: The Story of an Emigrant

CHAPTER XIV.

I am Appointed Consul-General to India—Assassination of Garfield—Departure for India—My Stay in Chicago and Washington—Paris and Versailles—Rome—Naples—Pompeii—From Naples to Alexandria—Interesting Acquaintances on the Voyage—The First Impressions in Egypt.

In the morning papers of July 2, 1881, a telegram from Washington announced that President Garfield had appointed me consul-general to India, in the cabinet meeting of the previous evening. The same telegram also announced that the president had left Washington for New England, where he intended to spend his summer vacation in the country. It was with mingled feelings of satisfaction and misgiving that I faced the opportunity to satisfy my longing to see the wonderful Orient, especially India, in which country the missionary Dr. Fjellstedt had aroused my childish interest, as stated in the beginning of these reminiscences. After consulting wife and children concerning this, to us, important news, I walked down town, receiving congratulations from friends and acquaintances on the way, and, arriving at one of the newspaper offices, I found a large crowd of people eagerly reading on a bulletin-board a dispatch to the effect that President Garfield had been shot by Guiteau. The news caused an excitement and consternation almost as intense as that produced by the assassination of Lincoln. Telegrams were received from Washington continually, and outside the newspaper offices were placed bulletins describing the condition of the wounded president, who was very popular with the American people. The last telegram of that day announced that he was very low, and would probably die before morning. The next morning the dispatches announced that the president was still living, and that on the previous evening, believing that he had only a few more hours to live, he had caused to be made out my own and four other commissions and had signed them with his dying hand. I feel justified in narrating this in detail, inasmuch as I am in possession of the document which contains the last official signature of our second martyred president, and which is a very dear treasure to me. Believing that it will interest the reader to see the last signature of President Garfield, I submit a photographic fac-simile of the same.

GARFIELD’S SIGNATURE.

I had only one month to prepare for the journey, and on account of the long and expensive voyage, it was decided, in family council, that I should go alone, leaving wife and children in Minneapolis. It was also understood that I would only be absent about one year, for it was hardly to be expected that a person of my age could stand the dangerous climate of India much longer.

The 17th of August, 1881, was an important day for our little family, for on that day I left my home for a journey of thirteen thousand miles,—to distant Calcutta, the capital of India. Passing through Chicago on the following day, a number of my Swedish friends at that place had arranged a splendid banquet in my honor. About sixty of us spent a most delightful evening around the bountiful table; but what I prized more highly than anything else were the friendly and cordial feelings which were expressed in speech and song.

In Washington I spent a few days in order to receive the last instructions from the state department. Hon. W. Windom, who was secretary of the treasury under the administration of Garfield, accompanied me to the White house, where the president was yet hovering between life and death. We were not admitted to the inner room, which was separated from the front room only by draperies. I can vividly recall the picture of the president’s noble wife as she stepped out to us, and, with an expression of the deepest suffering, affection and hope in her face, told us that the patient had taken a few spoonfuls of broth, and that he now felt much better, and would soon recover. Thus life and hope often build air-castles which are destined to be torn down again by the cruel hand of fate.

When the steamer touched the coast of Ireland the first news which the eager passengers received was that the president was still living and had been taken to a place on the coast. The voyage across the Atlantic from New York to Liverpool was a pleasure trip in every respect, and was favored by the most delightful weather. On board the White Star Line steamer Celtic,—a veritable palace of its kind,—the passenger had all he could wish, as far as solidity, speed, reliability, order, comfort, and good treatment are concerned. On September 9th I arrived in Paris. It seemed to me as if it had been only a couple of days since I was sitting in the midst of that happy company of friends in Chicago, whose tender and cordial farewell still sounded as an echo in my ears—or maybe in my heart. Nevertheless I was already in the grand and happy capital of the third French republic.

I had time and opportunity to stay a few days in the large cities through which I passed, each one of which left a particular impression on my mind, and, although they are similar in most respects, each of them has its peculiarities, especially with regard to the character, temperament and customs of the people. I cannot refrain from describing a few of them. Washington did not seem to be itself when I passed through it, a cloud of sadness and mourning brooding over it on account of the critical condition of the president. Boston is prim and stiff, and seems like a place of learning. New York is a turmoil of pleasure and business. “Hurry up” seems to be written in every face; “tumble harum-scarum in the ever-changing panorama of the world!” Liverpool is a good deal like New York, but on a smaller scale. London is the stiff colossus of Europe. Amsterdam and Rotterdam bear the stamp of thrift, cleanliness, earnestness, and comfort. Antwerp and Brussels that of joyous abandonment. Paris includes everything which is worth seeing in the others, and shows everything in gayer colors and to greater perfection.

I remained only four days in the city on the Seine, and the impressions of such a short stay are naturally fleeting and probably even unreliable. Paris has its imposing monuments from the days of Louis XIV. and the two Napoleons, which glorify the exploits of war; it has its beautiful churches, palaces and museums like other great cities; but in my eyes the greatness of Paris is to be found in her boulevards and public promenades. I also made a visit to Versailles, the wonderful city of palaces, and spent a day among the great monuments of grandeur and royalty, misery and tyranny. As works of art they are grand and beautiful, but their historical significance produce varied feelings. In the French capital everything seemed to indicate comfort and satisfaction. The workman of Paris is a gentleman in the best sense of the word. He feels free, independent, and proud in the consciousness that he is a part of the state. Soldiers were no longer to be seen in the city; they being garrisoned at Versailles and other neighboring cities; still there has never before been such a feeling of profound peace and security in France. Liberty is a great educator. The style, name, and other indications of the empire are passing away, and the republic has put its stamp on Paris. The commune is no longer feared, for the state is no longer an enemy of the people, but a protector of its rights and liberty. Fortunate Paris! Happy France!

But I must hurry on, in order to reach the end of my long journey. On the 13th of September I saw the majestic Alps with their snow-clad summits, which seemed to touch the very vault of heaven. The same day I passed through the tunnel at Mont Cenis, and arrived the following day at Rome, via Turin and Florence. And is this great and glorious Rome? Yes! These walls, ruins, palaces, and Sabine hills,—aye, the very air I breathe,—all this belongs to the eternal city. From the window of my room in Hotel Malori I can read the signs,—“Via di Capo le Care,” “Via Gregoriana,” etc., and among these an index pointing to the Rome and Tivoli street-car line. Indeed, I have seen the great city of Rome, with its churches, statues, paintings, and ancient ruins and catacombs; the little monument to the Swedish Queen Christina in the St. Peter’s church; the triumphal arch which commemorates the destruction of Jerusalem, and the temple of Vesta where the ancient vestal virgins guarded the sacred fire. Two thousand years thus passed in review before my eyes in a few days.

ROME.

From Rome I proceeded to Naples. This city is built on the most beautiful bay in the world, and has a population of six hundred thousand inhabitants. It is built in the form of an amphitheatre, with a steep decline toward the water. In the south we see the island of Capri, fifteen miles distant, and on the east coast the volcano Vesuvius, which, by its threatening clouds of smoke, seems to obscure the eastern part of beautiful Naples, although it lies fourteen miles distant from the city. Long before the time of Christ the bay looked about the same as it does now. The chief cities around it at that time were Naples, Herculaneum and Pompeii. Mount Vesuvius, however, did not look as it does now, but rose as a green hill, called “La Somma,” and served as a summer resort for many wealthy Roman patricians. The city of Pompeii had about forty thousand inhabitants. On August 23, A.D. 79, terrific rumblings were heard from the interior of La Somma, the summit of which suddenly burst open, and a pillar of ashes, steam, and red-hot rocks shot up through the opening to a great height, and fell, scattering itself over the surrounding country, while streams of melted lava rolled down the hill-sides and buried Herculaneum and everything in it under a layer of ashes and lava to the depth of eighty feet. Toward night the eruptions increased in force, and before morning Pompeii and some smaller towns were also buried under the glowing rivers of volcanic rocks, ashes and mud.

The remarkable history of this place absorbed my mind as I passed through the two thousand years-old streets of Pompeii, which, in the course of this century have again been brought to light by the removal of the petrified ashes and other volcanic matter. The ancient city now looks a good deal as it did eighteen hundred years ago. It is situated on a round knoll, and measures three miles in circumference. The houses are built of stone, and only one story high, with roofs of brick and floors of cut stone, just as the modern houses in that vicinity are built to-day. Every house has an open court in the center, and all aisles and doors lead to this. Glass windows were not used, but the rooms received light from the open court, which could be covered by canvass as a protection against the sun and rain. I measured the streets. They proved to be twelve feet wide, with a four-foot-wide sidewalk on either side. The paving consisted of boulders, with a flat surface about twenty inches in diameter, and contained deep grooves made by the chariot wheels. The houses were standing in their original condition, with fresco paintings on the walls and statues in their proper niches. The temples with their sacrificial altars, the theatres, the court, the council-house, and all other public buildings were adorned with marble pillars and choice works of sculpture. I saw a barber-shop with chairs, niches for the soap and mugs, and the waiting sofa. In a baker’s house I saw the oven, the dough-trough, scales, and petrified loaves of bread. In a butcher shop were a saw, a knife, and other tools. There were also furniture, vessels for cooking, bowls, grain, pieces of rope, and plaster of Paris casts of the human bodies which had been found, generally prostrate, with the face pressed against the ground. There lies a cast of a man with a pleasant smile on his lips; he must have passed unconsciously from sleep to death. But it is fruitless to try and describe this remarkable place which has no parallel on the face of the earth. I heard the Swedish language spoken in this city of the dead, and had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Alderman TÖrnquist and wife, from Wimmerby, and a Doctor Viden and his daughter, from HernÖsand. Thus the living meet among the dead, representatives of the new times stand face to face with the dead of antiquity, children of the cool North in the sunny South. What a wonderful world this is, to be sure!

The 17th of September I embarked on board the steamer La Seyne, destined for Alexandria in Egypt. The warm, Italian noonday sun poured down its dazzling rays; we were surrounded on all sides by ships and steamers carrying the flags of all nations; hundreds of fishing crafts were sailing out of the harbor, and in the distance the mighty volcano Vesuvius towered in imposing majesty above the vine-clad hills. There was a life and a traffic which it is difficult to describe. While La Seyne was lying at anchor for several hours out in the bay, Italian singers in their boats swarmed around the ship and entertained the passengers with music. Other boats contained three or four men each, who begged the passengers to throw coins into the water. As soon as a coin was thrown, down dived one of the men to the bottom, and invariably returned with the coin in his mouth although the water was very deep, perhaps from seventy-five to one hundred feet. The voyage across the Mediterranean was very pleasant, especially in the vicinity of the island of Sicily. The deep blue sky, the orange groves and vineyards on the island, and the neat, white cottages,—all gave an impression of indescribable tranquility and happiness.

On this voyage, which lasted three days, I became acquainted with several interesting persons, among others with a Professor Santamaria, professor in an university in Egypt, and his family, and with a Jesuit priest, Miechen by name. By birth a French nobleman of a very old and rich family, he had been educated for a military life, and had served in the army with distinction, and in the late Franco-German war he had been advanced to the rank of major, although he was only thirty years of age. But suddenly he had been seized with religious enthusiasm, and had given up his illustrious family name, renounced his fortune, his honors, and the brilliant military career which lay open to him, in order to become a priest. After two years of theological studies he was ordained a priest, and admitted into the Jesuit order.

He had now been ordered to supply himself with a full set of certain scientific instruments, and with them to repair to Cairo, Egypt, where he would receive further orders. I talked a great deal with this man. He spoke English fluently, and was equally familiar with nearly all the other European languages. He was no fanatic or religious crank, but a polished, cultured gentleman, who had seen and learned to know the world, reaped its honors and tasted its allurements, and he was evidently as liberal and tolerant as myself. And this man went to a field of action of which he had no knowledge whatsoever. Probably an honorable position as professor in a university was awaiting him, or perhaps he would have to go to some isolated mountain to observe a phenomenon of nature in the interest of science, or penetrate a malarious wilderness as missionary among savages, where he would be debarred from all intercourse with civilized people, and deprived of all the comforts and conveniences to which he had been used during his previous life. Still he went willingly and joyfully to his work, completely indifferent as to his fate, thoroughly convinced that he was on the path of duty—to accomplish what God intended he should do. I was on my way to a great country and a court as the representative of one of the greatest nations on earth, but when I walked the deck arm in arm with this humble priest, I felt my inferiority compared with him, and I actually considered his position enviable. On the same voyage I became acquainted with a Danish traveler,—A. d’Irgens-Bergh,—who afterward met me in India, where we visited many places of interest together, and established a friendship which afforded both of us much pleasure.

On the morning of September 21st the coast of Egypt appeared in sight. There is Alexandria, founded by Alexander the Great, and formerly renowned for its commerce, and as the centre of learning and culture of the then known world. Even now this city is grand and beautiful, although its beauty and style are different from anything else that I have seen. We often form conceptions of things which we have not seen, but which are interesting to us, and when we afterward find that those conceptions are wrong we feel disappointed. Thus I had always thought of Egypt as a country of a dark tone of color, probably on account of the fertility of the soil of the valley of the Nile, since we Northerners find that fertile soil is dark and poor soil of a lighter color. Therefore I could hardly believe my own eyes when everything I saw on the shore looked white. Not only the houses, palaces, and huts, but even the roads and the fields, all had a white color.

As we neared the harbor, and even before the pilot came on board, we noticed that all the flags were at half-mast. As soon as I landed and had shown my passport to the customs officer an elegant equipage was placed at my disposal under the charge of a dragoman, and we drove to the office of the American consulate, where also the flag was at half-mast. The sad occasion for this soon became apparent. President Garfield had died during my voyage across the Mediterranean, and the whole civilized world was in mourning.

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