use of the English language had grown strong. During the second month I
grew bold enough to join in lengthy conversations. The superintendent’s
wife invited me often to spend the evening with the family. My tales
of Idvor, Panchevo, Budapest, Prague, Hamburg, and the immigrant ship
interested them much, they said. My pronunciation and grammar amused
them even more than they were willing to show. They were too polite to
indulge in unrestrained laughter over my Serbian idioms. During these
conversations the Vila sat still and seemed to be all attention. She
was all eyes and ears, and I knew that she was making mental notes of
every mistake in my grammar and pronunciation. At the next lesson she
would correct every one of these mistakes, and then she watched at the
next family gathering to see whether I should repeat them. But I did
not; my highest ambition was to show myself worthy of the title “smart”
which she had given me.
One evening I was relating to the superintendent’s family how I had
refused the first offer of a job at Castle Garden, because I did not
care to accept the daily duty of milking a cow, which, according to my
Serbian notions, was a purely feminine job. I admitted that Serbian and
American notions were entirely different in this particular respect,
because, although over a hundred cows were milked daily on the farm,
I never saw a woman in any one of the many barns, nor in the huge
creamery. I confessed also that both the Vila and her mother would
be entirely out of place not only in the cow-barns but even in the
scrupulously clean creamery, adding that if the Vila had been obliged
to attend to the cows and to the creamery, she would not have found
the time to teach me English, and, therefore, I preferred the American
custom. Vila’s mother was highly pleased with this remark and said:
“Michael, my boy, you are beginning to understand our American ways,
and the sooner you drop your Serbian notions the sooner you will become
an American.”
She explained to me the position of the American woman as that of the
educator and spiritual guide of the coming generation, emphasizing the
fact that the vast majority of teachers in American primary schools
were women. This information astonished and pleased me, because I knew
that my mother was a better teacher than my schoolmaster, an old man
with a funny nasal twang. Her suggestion, however, that I should drop
my Serbian notions and become an American as soon as possible disturbed
me. But I said nothing; I was a greenhorn only and did not desire to
express an opinion which might clash with hers. I thought it strange,
however, that she took it for granted that I wished to become an
American.
The next day was Sunday, and I walked to church, which was in Delaware
City. The singing of hymns did not impress me much, and the sermon
impressed me even less. Delaware City was much bigger than my native
Idvor, and yet the religious service in Idvor was more elaborate. There
was no choral singing in the church of Delaware City, and there were
no ceremonies with a lot of burning candles and the sweet perfume of
burning incense, and there was no ringing of harmonious church-bells.
I was disappointed, and wondered why Vila’s mother expected me to drop
my Serbian notions and embrace America’s ways, which, so far as public
worship was concerned, appeared to me as less attractive than the
Serbian ways. Vila’s family met me in front of the church and asked me
to ride home with them. A farm-hand riding in a fine carriage with his
employer struck me as extraordinary, and I wished to be excused, but
they insisted. No rich peasant in Idvor would have done that. In this
respect Delaware farmers with their American ways appealed to me more.
Another surprise was in store for me: Vila’s mother insisted that I
share with the family their Sunday dinner, just as I had shared with
them the divine service. I saw in it an effort on her part to show an
appreciation of my religious habit and to encourage it, thus proving
in practice what she preached to me about the spiritual influence of
the American woman. During the dinner I described the Sundays of Idvor,
dwelling particularly upon the custom among the Serbian boys and girls
of kolo dancing on the village green in front of the church on Sunday
afternoons. Vila approved of the custom enthusiastically, but her
mother thought that a walk through the peach-orchards, which were then
in full bloom, was at least as good. Vila and I walked together that
Sunday afternoon. My attendance at church gained for me this favor also.
He who has never seen the Delaware peach-orchards of those days in
full bloom, when in the month of May the ground is a deep velvety
green, and when the Southern sky seen through the golden atmosphere
of a sunny May day reminds one of those mysterious landscapes which
form the background in some of Raphael’s Madonna pictures--he who has
never seen that glorious sight does not know the heavenly beauty of
this little earth. No painter would dare attempt to put on canvas the
cloth of flaming gold which on that balmy Sunday afternoon covered the
ripples of the sun-kissed Delaware River. Vila asked me whether I had
ever seen anything more beautiful in Idvor, and I said no, but added
that nothing is as lovely and as sweet as one’s native village. When I
informed her that some day I expected to return to it, enriched by my
experiences in America, she looked surprised and said:
“Then you do not intend to become an American?”
“No,” said I; and after some hesitation I added: “I ran away from the
military frontier because the rulers of the land wanted to transform me
into a Hungarian; I ran away from Prague because I objected to Austrian
Teutonism; I shall run away from Delaware City also if, as your good
mother suggested, I am expected to drop my Serbian notions and become
an American. My mother, my native village, my Serbian orthodox faith,
and my Serbian language and the people who speak it are my Serbian
notions, and one might as well expect me to give up the breath of my
life as to give up my Serbian notions.”
“You misunderstood my mother, Michael,” said the Vila; “she only
referred to your notions about woman’s work, and you know that European
women are expected to do the hard work for which only men are strong
enough.”
“Very true,” said I; “the strongest and ablest men in Europe spend
the best part of their lives on battle-fields, or training for the
battle-fields; this is particularly true of the Serbian people. This
forces our Serbian women to do some of the hard work which men should
do.” This gave me a fitting opportunity to say a few things in favor of
the spiritual influence of the Serbian women by describing the position
of the Serbian woman as she is represented in the Serbian ballads--of
Chuchuk Stana, the wife of Hayduk Velyko, who urged her hero husband
to sacrifice his life rather than surrender the eastern frontier of
Serbia, which, during the Serbian revolution, he was defending against
vastly superior Turkish forces; of the maid of Kossovo, who at the
risk of her life and liberty visited the battle-field of Kossovo in
order to administer the last spiritual aid to the fallen and dying
heroes; of Yevrosima, mother of Prince Marko, the national hero of the
Serbian race, whose counsel and advice were the only guiding star to
Marko throughout his stormy life. I told her also that I should not
be a witness to that heavenly scene on the banks of the Delaware that
Sunday afternoon if it had not been for my mother, who had urged me to
go into the world and learn new things, which I could not learn in my
native peasant village. Young Vila was much impressed by my Serbian
tales, and by my pleading in behalf of the Serbian women, and then she
asked me whether I had ever heard of Martha Washington, the wife of
George Washington, the national hero of America. I confessed complete
ignorance. Pointing to the golden ripples of the sun-kissed Delaware
River, she said that it did not always look as bright and peaceful, and
then described its appearance when in the middle of winter its surface
is covered with broken ice, which, tossed by the waves of the angry
river, makes a passage across it next to impossible. But in January,
1777, George Washington, the commander of the retreating American
armies, crossed it, and on the other side of the river, near Trenton,
surprised the advancing victorious British armies and defeated them,
turning American defeat into American victory. “Washington,” she
said, “just like Hayduk Velyko, was ready to sacrifice his life while
crossing the treacherous ice-fields of the angry Delaware in order
to strike a timely blow for the safety of his country.” And she was
inclined to believe, she said, that Martha Washington acted at that
critical moment just as Chuchuk Stana did. From that day on, Washington
was to me the Hayduk Velyko of America, and the name of the Delaware
River inspired me always with thoughts of deep veneration. Vila showed
me that America, like Serbia, was also a land of heroes. The rest
of that glorious Sunday afternoon was spent in Vila’s answering my
numerous questions concerning George Washington and the war of the
American Revolution. It was the most inspiring afternoon which I had
experienced in America, and I felt that, after all, there might be many
things in America which were just as great as those great things of
which the Serbian guslar sings in the national ballads of Serbia. Vila
had succeeded in welding the first link between my Serbian traditions
and the traditions of America. I apologized to her for misunderstanding
her mother’s suggestion that I become an American as soon as possible,
and confessed that I was much less anxious than I had thought I was a
few moments before to run away from the shores of the historic Delaware.
After Vila discovered my lively interest in American history, she
continued her English lessons to me by telling me stories relating
to early American history, which I repeated to her. Jamestown, South
St. Mary, in southern Maryland, and Virginia figured big in these
tales. When I first heard of the _Mayflower_, a year or so later, and
of its landing at Plymouth Rock, I wondered why Vila never mentioned
that great historical event. She never mentioned Lincoln, and changed
conversation when I once called him the American Prince Marko. America
north of the Delaware River was very little in her mind, and even
Philadelphia was mentioned only on account of the Liberty Bell and the
Declaration of Independence.
One evening, Vila’s mother asked me about my mother and her hopes for
my future. Remembering her remarks concerning the spiritual influence
of the American women upon the coming generation, I gave her a glowing
account of my mother, and wound up by saying that she did not expect
me to become an American farmer, and that I came to America to learn
what I could not learn in a peasant country like that of my native
village. She was much touched, and then in simple and solemn language
she revealed to me a new truth which I never forgot and which I found
confirmed by all my experiences in this great land, the truth, namely,
that this is a country of opportunities which are open equally to all;
that each individual must seek these opportunities and must be prepared
to make good use of them when he finds them. She commended me warmly
for making good use of all the opportunities which I had found on the
farm, and advised me strongly to go in search of new opportunities.
Vila agreed with her, and I prepared to leave the hospitable shores of
Delaware.
I made my return trip to Philadelphia on the same boat which had
brought me to Delaware City. Things looked different from what they
had on my first trip. The farmers of Delaware, my fellow passengers on
the boat, did not look like wooden images, and their speech was not
inarticulate. I understood their language, and its meaning found a
sympathetic response in me. The trip reminded me much of the trip on
the Danube some eighteen months prior to that time. One of my fellow
passengers, a youngster of about my age, pointed out a place to me
which he called Trenton, and assured me that the boat was passing over
the spot where Washington crossed the Delaware. His geography was
faulty as I found out much later. But it was swallowed by a greenhorn
like me and it thrilled me, and I remembered then the first view of the
Cathedral of Karlovci, the seat of the Serbian Patriarch, which was
pointed out to me from the Danube boat by the theological students. I
felt the same thrill in each case, and I knew that America was getting
a hold upon my Serbian heart-strings. My appearance attracted no
attention, either on the boat or at Philadelphia after we landed. My
hat and clothes were American, but my heavy top-boots, so useful on the
farm, were somewhat too heavy for the warm June days in Philadelphia.
The Swiss foreman had directed me to a Swiss acquaintance of his who
had a small hotel in Philadelphia. He was very eager to have me take
all my meals at the hotel, but my total capital of ten dollars made
me cautious; besides, my days from early morning till late at night
were spent in the heart of the city. No other human being ever saw so
much of Philadelphia during a stay of five days as I did, hunting for
a job, searching new opportunities, as Vila’s mother expressed it.
But I searched in vain. I gained new information about William Penn
and Benjamin Franklin and saw many buildings the history of which is
attached to these two great names, and I wondered why Benjamin Franklin
ever deserted Boston to search new opportunities in a place like
Philadelphia. But he did it, and succeeded. I was sure that neither
he nor any other human being could walk more or chase after a job
more diligently than I did, but then he was an American boy and he
had a trade, and I was a Serbian greenhorn who did not know anything
in particular, except how to drive a pair of mules. Besides, thought
I, Philadelphia might have lost its wealth of opportunities since
Franklin’s days. Such was my consolation while resting on a bench in
Fairmount Park, near the grounds which were being prepared for the
Centennial Exposition of 1876. I was lunching on a chunk of bread and
thinking what would happen when the last three dollars, the remnant of
my ten dollars which I brought from the Delaware farm, disappeared. A
husky farmer approached me and addressed me in English, asking whether
I wanted a job. “I do,” said I; “I have been chasing after one nearly
a week, and I can’t chase much longer, because I see that my weary
farm-boots are showing many signs of distress in their long daily
struggles against these hot Philadelphia pavements.”
A day later found me in South St. Mary, in southern Maryland. I
expected great things here, having heard so much of its early history
from Vila. I was engaged to drive a pair of mules, dragging cultivators
through corn and tobacco fields. As far as skill and physical exertion
were concerned, the job was easy. But the climate was deadly, and
social life was even more so. The only interesting people whom I found
there were those buried in the old cemetery, some two hundred years
prior to that time, when South St. Mary was quite an important place,
and when the original settlers brought many fine things from England,
and even bricks with which they built their houses. The only diversion
I found was to read the legends on the tombstones in the old cemetery
near the village church. Chesapeake Bay and the Potomac River and
the many inlets of the bay bordered by luxuriant vegetation gave the
country a most picturesque appearance. The flourishing corn and tobacco
fields suggested prosperity, but the only people who stirred and showed
any activity were darkies, whose language I could not understand. I
felt that as far as human speech was concerned, I was in a valley of
silence, although the air was full of incessant sounds from all kinds
of insects and water-animals. Mosquitoes, gnats, and flies, and the
most oppressive, almost tropical, heat of the sun made work in the
fields unbearable. Many a time while driving the phlegmatic mules
through the broiling atmosphere of the tobacco-fields I thought of
the icy blasts of the North Atlantic which I had experienced on the
immigrant ship less than three months before, and I prayed that one
of those icy breaths of the polar regions might wander astray and
reach the flatlands of Chesapeake Bay. My prayer was not heard, and
I was happy to be still alive at the end of the month, and then I
took my wages of fifteen dollars and made a bee-line for the north.
I hoped that in New York I might be able to catch some of the cold
North Atlantic breezes and, after cooling off, pick up one of the many
opportunities in the metropolis, which on the day when the immigrant
ship landed me at Hoboken seemed to be seething with life and activity
and brimful of all kinds of opportunities.
The Chesapeake boat landed me at Baltimore in the early hours of a
Sunday morning, and the sound of beautifully tuned church-bells greeted
me. I was told that Baltimore was a Catholic city and that the bells
belonged to a Catholic cathedral. They almost persuaded me to stay in
Baltimore and become a Roman Catholic, so sweet and soothing was their
effect upon my soul. It recalled to my memory the lovely harmony of the
church-bells of my native Idvor, and with that memory there appeared
in my imagination the vision of my strongly orthodox mother and of St.
Sava. This vision reminded me that I must say good-by to Roman Catholic
Baltimore.
Forty-two years later I met Cardinal Gibbons in Baltimore during a
visit to that city, when Johns Hopkins University conferred upon me
the honorary LL.D. degree. I told him of the incident just referred
to; he was in a jocular mood and said: “Too bad that you did not
yield to the first effect of the Baltimore church-bells; you might be
to-day the archbishop of this diocese, and perhaps even a cardinal.”
“But, in that case, I should not have to-day the honorary LL.D. degree
of Johns Hopkins; I would not exchange that for any other honor,”
said I, returning jest for jest and watching the merry twinkle in
the cardinal’s fluorescent eyes. Some months later President Butler,
of Columbia University, and I happened to be descending in the same
lift at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington. Presently Cardinal Gibbons
entered, and President Butler introduced me to his Eminence, who,
recalling our former meeting in Baltimore, said, “I know Professor
Pupin, and it is a great honor, indeed, to ride in the same lift with
two eminent men who carry so many distinguished academic honors,” and,
as he looked at me with a genial smile which was brimful of Irish
humor, I knew that he wished to remind me in a good-natured way of my
high rating of an honorary Johns Hopkins degree in comparison with the
honors attached to the titles of archbishop and cardinal.
The Pennsylvania train from Baltimore to New York delivered me to a
ferry-boat, which landed me on West Street, where I found a small hotel
kept by a German, a native of Friesland. He was a rugged old fellow who
loved his low-German dialect, which I did not understand. He spoke in
English to me, which, according to his son Christian, was much worse
than mine, although he had been in America some twenty years. Christian
was a yellow-haired and freckle-faced lad, of about my age, and we hit
it off very well, forming a cross-matched team. He would have given
anything, he said, to have my black hair and dark-red complexion. His
almost white eyebrows and eyelashes and mischievous gray eyes and
yellow freckles fascinated me. He was born in Hoboken and understood
his father’s low-German dialect, but whenever addressed in it, by his
father or by the Friesland sailors who frequented his father’s inn, he
always answered in English, or, as he called it, “United States.”
Christian managed somehow to get away every now and then from the
little hotel and to accompany me on my many long errands in search
of a job. His familiarity with the town helped me much to master the
geography of New York, and to find out what’s what and who’s who in
the great metropolis. He seemed to be the only opportunity which New
York offered to me, and it was a great one. Every other opportunity
which appeared in newspaper advertisements had hundreds of applicants,
and they were lined up at the place of the promised opportunity, no
matter how early Christian and I reached the place. I was quite sure
that those opportunity-chasers lined up soon after the first issue of
the morning papers. I was told that the year before (in 1873) occurred
the Black Friday panic, and that New York had not yet recovered from
it. There were thousands of unemployed, although it was summer. One
morning Christian told me that he had found a fine job for me, and he
took me to a tug anchored quite near his father’s hotel. There were
quite a number of husky laborers on the tug, which took us to the
German docks in Hoboken. We were to stay there and help in the loading
of ships, replacing the longshoremen who were on strike. The job
assigned to me was to assist the sailors who were painting the ship and
things on the ship. We never left the docks until the strike was over,
which lasted about three weeks. At its termination I was paid and the
tug delivered me to the little hotel on West Street, where Christian
received me with open arms. I had thirty dollars in my pocket, and
Christian told me that I looked as rich as Commodore Vanderbilt, whom
Christian considered to be the richest man in New York. Christian took
me to Chatham Square to buy a new suit of clothes and other wearing
apparel, and I thought that the Jewish clothing dealers would cause
a riot fighting for my patronage. The next day when I appeared at
the breakfast-table in my new togs, Christian’s father could hardly
recognize me, but when he did he slapped me on the back and exclaimed:
“Who would ever think that you are a Serbian greenhorn?” “Nobody,”
said Christian, resenting his father’s remark, and then he added with
some hesitation: “But who would ever think that you are not a German
greenhorn?” Christian’s father rebuked him and assured me that he meant
no offense when he jokingly called me a Serbian greenhorn.