I don’t feel like living

‘A living person always has hope (sometimes unconsciously). Although life is difficult, it is also beautiful. Life has its strange charm. (I will tell you the truth: I don’t feel like living, it’s too much for me, I will go to sleep soon and I don’t want to get up).’ This is from the diary of Rywka Lipszyc, born 90 years ago today. She was a teenager confined to the Łódź Ghetto during the Holocaust in Poland and barely survived the war, dying not long after being liberated from a concentration camp. But astonishingly, a diary, a heart-rending diary she kept for six months in 1943-1944 was preserved in Russia for many years, and only recently, found its way to the US and into publication.

Rywka was born on 15 September 1929 into a Polish-Jewish family, the eldest of four children. The family was imprisoned in the Nazi ghetto at Łódź following the German invasion of Poland. Her mother and father both died in 1941-1942; Rywka, one sister and three cousins were deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp in mid-1944. Her sister was gassed to death on arrival, while Rywka went to work for the women’s commando. Further moves followed, to Christianstadt in Krzystkowice, and to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp from where she was eventually liberated along with her surviving two sisters. She was, however, very ill, and was transported to a hospital in Niendorf, Germany, where, it is believed, she died, aged 16. Further information is available at the official Rwyka website and Wikipedia,

Extraordinarily, a diary kept by Rywka was found amid the ruins of the crematoria at Auschwitz-Birkenau in June 1945 by a Red Army doctor, Zinaida Berezovskaya. She took it back with her to the Soviet Union, and when she died it passed to her son along with other war memorabilia. When, the son died in 1992, Zinaida’s granddaughter, on a family visit to Russia, discovered the manuscript and took it back with her to the US. A decade later, in 2008, she brought it to the Jewish Family and Children’s Services (JFCS) Holocaust Center in San Francisco. A team of researchers and historians then began working to authenticate, preserve, transcribe, and translate the diary into English. Finally, it was edited by Anita Friedman, and published in 2014 as Rwyka’s Diary: The Writings of a Jewish Girl from the Lodz Ghetto by the JFCS Holocaust Centre and Lehrhaus Judaica (a Jewish educational institution now known as Hamaqom | The Place). For more on the diary and its provenance see the JFCS Holocaust Centre, the Rwyka website, the Koret Foundation, or Yad Vashem. There is further information on the website about the film Diary from the Ashes.

The Rwyka website also has a generous selection of extracts from the diary, organised by topic (disease and hunger, work, siblings, etc.). Here are a few of them.

11 December 1943
‘Sometimes I think that life is a dark road. On this road among the thorns there are other, more delicate flowers. These flowers have no life, they suffer because of the thorns. Sometimes the thorns are jealous of the flowers’ beauty and hurt them more. The flowers either become thorns themselves or suffer in silence and walk through the thorns.

They don’t always succeed but if they persevere, something good will come of it. I think it happens quite rarely but in my opinion every true Jew who is pursuing a goal suffers and keeps silent. Besides, I think life is beautiful and difficult, and I think one has to know how to live. I envy people who have suffered a lot and have lived a difficult life, and yet have won the battle with life. You know, Surcia, such people (when I read or hear about them) cheer me up. I then realize that I am not the only one or the first one, that I can have hope. But I’m not writing about myself.

You know, when I’m very upset I admire life. Then I wonder. Why at the same time are some people crying, while others are laughing or suffering? At the same time some are being born, others die or get sick. Those who are born grow up. They mature in order to live and suffer. And yet all of them want to live, desperately want to live. A living person always has hope (sometimes unconsciously). Although life is difficult, it is also beautiful. Life has its strange charm. (I will tell you the truth: I don’t feel like living, it’s too much for me, I will go to sleep soon and I don’t want to get up). Oh, Surcia, if I really couldn’t get up!’

14 February 1944
‘Mr. Zemel came and delivered a speech, or rather he repeated what the Chairman had said before. And: those who are to be deported but are hiding are being aided by other people. This is forbidden … Apparently, this is going to be some kind of easy labor.

But who knows? What’s more, during the working hours between 7 a.m. and 5 p.m. nobody will be allowed to walk in the streets. The ghetto is turning into a Arbeits Lager [Labor Camp}.. The apartments will have to be locked. Only the bed-ridden with medical certificates will be able to stay inside. Nobody else. Now I don’t know what’s going to happen to Saturdays … after all, an apartment can be locked with a padlock. What’s going to happen with attendance at the workshops? God! What’s going to happen? Only You know.’

16 February 1944
‘And … one secret … my cousins are almost out of marmalade and brown sugar, but Cipka and I still have quite a lot. This morning we were going to work (Cipka and I) and she told me that on Sunday when we went to get our rations, Chanusia said to Estusia that we’d finish our marmalade and sugar very quickly and they’d have to share theirs with us. Estusia replied, “I surely wouldn’t think otherwise.”

Stupid cousins, you were so wrong! I have my own satisfaction. I haven’t thought of being as “generous” as you! I don’t even think about it. Ha, ha, ha, at the bottom of my heart I’m sneering at them. Anyway, it’s not worth pondering over! Times are terrible … many people have left … there is hunger … but I’ve already written about it. I feel something, but I can’t express it, though I’d like to. I’d like to help everybody … I’d like to be helpful … I’d like to be useful! I’m full of these inexpressible emotions. I don’t know … it’s connected with my longing and I’m so sad. But I can’t be overwhelmed by sadness, because I know that nothing good will come out of it. I’m against evil … I want kindness! I do want it! There is a saying, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” but it doesn’t apply in my case … because I want to do so much … so much, but what can I do? Little, very little, almost nothing…’

28 February 1944
‘I couldn’t write in the workshop, because I was busy with Cipka’s dress. I had a small problem with the soup, so my break was rather sad (because of the soup). But to the point! Sewing something gives me a lot of pleasure and when I finish it I’ll know that I’m stronger … I’ll know that regardless of the conditions I’ll be able to move forward. I’ll have a profession. I won’t depend on my fate, but my fate will depend on me. I feel stronger.

A few years ago, in my dreams, when I was imagining my future, I could see sometimes: an evening, a studio, a desk, there is a woman sitting at the desk (an older woman), she’s writing … and writing, and writing … all the time … she forgets about her surroundings, she’s writing. I can see myself as this woman. Another time I could see a modest apartment which I share with my sister - earlier I thought it was Tamarcia, but today it’s more probable that it’s Cipka. Some other time I can see: an evening, a modest room with lights, all my family sitting at the table. It’s so nice … so warm, cozy … Oh, it’s so good! Later, when they all go to bed, I sit at the sewing machine and I’m sewing … sewing … it’s so sweet, so good … so delightful! Because everything I make with my own hands is our livelihood. It pays for bread, education, clothes … almost everything. The work I do with my own hands … I’m very grateful to Mrs. Kaufman for this … and then (obviously only when I think about it, because it’s not a reality yet), then I feel that, that I can be useful, and not only can, I have to, I have to! (I have to stop now and bring some water.)

Will I be able to write now as I was writing before? I have to try. (Oh, damn it! Cipka took my pencil case and a pen. I had to try four nibs. None of them is good and I can hardly write.) I know, because I’ve said it to myself many times that work is essential in human life, at least in mine. I’d like to dream up work for myself, difficult but rewarding so I’d know that I’m doing it for somebody, that there is somebody. This is most important: I’d like to give but also to take. It doesn’t come easy.’

5 April 1944
‘Because of the holidays there is a lot of commotion. But not everything is positive, unfortunately. Yesterday those who registered for matzos didn’t get any bread. They can starve for a few days or eat matzos. Well, it’s not so easy to be a Jew. At every step there are difficulties. And the weather is capricious, too, although no doubt it is much better, but … children who were adopted receive coupons, so Cipka and I do, too. What we’ll get, I don’t know, that will become clear today. Some kitchens were registering people for the holiday soup. A few girls from our group are leaving at 10 a.m. Today, we’ll find out. Anyway! I wish it were a holiday right now! During the holidays I won’t know where to go first, to Dorka Zand, to Mrs. Lebensztajn, to Dorka Borensztajn and … and I don’t know myself, and now … I’ve planned to write tomorrow, but I don’t know whether I’ll be able to or whether I’ll have an opportunity.

Three years ago the holidays fell on the same days. It was the last holiday, the last Seder with my Daddy. Oh, time goes by so quickly! Daddy was supposed to be released from the hospital for the holidays. Ereve Peysech [the Eve of Passover] like this year, fell on Friday, so Daddy came back on Thursday (like tomorrow). We, the children, were very impatient all day and every few minutes we would approach the window or the balcony to see if an ambulance was coming. […] I couldn’t stay still in one spot but I remember how happy I was that Daddy was coming back. We, the children, weren’t allowed in the hospital, so we would write letters and Mom would take them to Daddy. I discovered so much love for us in Daddy’s letters. God! Perhaps because of this separation, because of these letters, I loved him even more.

In the winter I saw Daddy in the hospital window. He was cheerful, he could easily pour his own reassurance into me, he said he was better, and soon we’d see each other. Didn’t I see for myself that he was doing better? Yes, that’s why I still believed his words. I was full of hope and reassurance myself. Later, Daddy took a turn for the worse, the hospital itself was getting worse, but nevertheless Daddy was supposed to come home for the holidays.

On that Thursday I didn’t remember or I didn’t want to remember that Daddy was feeling much worse than in the winter. However, I was very happy that finally he’d be at home. At that time I remembered only the good things, like Daddy holding my hand on Yom Kippur, the letters and the visits. […] In the evening, at last the ambulance stopped in front of the gate. I was on the balcony and my heart totally stopped for a second. And then it started to pound so violently that I thought my chest would explode. I had no idea what to do: stay in place or run to the door. I don’t exactly remember what I did. I only know that it seemed forever when my Daddy was climbing the stairs. Finally, finally, Daddy was in the room and … how disappointed I was … it wasn’t the same Daddy as the one in the hospital window. He didn’t even smile, didn’t respond to our greetings. He was upset and visibly tired. He wanted to go to bed as soon as possible. We had to leave the room.

God! This feeling! It was in the evening, but the light wasn’t on yet. In that darkness everything was black in front of my eyes. I simply didn’t see anything or anyone. Like a drunk I stumbled into the other room. I felt like sobbing, but I didn’t. I remained silent. Various thoughts were running through my head: what’s wrong with Daddy? Why is he so different? I didn’t expect this. […] I was telling myself that he was only tired, but I was overcome by a strange anxiety. I was bothered by the thought that Daddy wasn’t thinking about us. […] It is true, later I calmed down about the change in Daddy. We even talked to him, although I was very shy, but in my heart … there was a pain, a sorrow in my heart. I don’t know, I don’t know what to call it. Such feelings always wear me out, reduce my energy. I’m unable to do anything. When Daddy wanted a cup of tea, I brought it for him with great difficulty. I had to bring it, because it would look bad that here he is from the hospital and I’m disobedient. The next day I tried to do everything right, although Daddy was very upset. I tried to make every good moment last and not irritate him. Oh, nobody will ever know how hard it was for me and how “cold” I was feeling. And yet nobody knew. […] I withdrew into myself. Nobody could get anything out of me. After all nobody even supposed that I was worried. Oh, how much I needed a kind word, how much I wanted to be alone with Daddy. I wanted him to be like he was in the past. I missed all that and I felt so helpless, so helpless.

After a few days Daddy regained his cheerfulness and good spirits, but I didn’t have any more opportunities to fulfill my dreams. We were all very happy to be in one room with Daddy. We didn’t talk much, but we exchanged looks. Oh, those looks! I couldn’t say anything at all, not even that I wished him to get better, nothing … simply nothing. I was very awkward. But I wanted to, I wanted to. Only God knows this, because I didn’t tell anybody.

Oh, now I’m remembering it all. I can’t even look at Daddy anymore, only at his picture. But I’ll never see Daddy alive, never see him alive again, never again. God! How terrible it is! It’s going to be the third Seder without Daddy, and the second one without any man at all. Last year Aunt Chaiska was here, and today … today there is Estusia. Oh, it’s so tragic! If only Abramek were here! Oh, God, precisely on Pesach, at the Seder, Daddy will be missed most. Oh, he’ll be missed so much …’

Diary briefs

Italy’s ‘City of Diaries’ - Atlas Obscura (see also Italy’s Town of the Diary)

Taylor Swift’s diaries - USA Today, Mail Online

Kafka’s diaries unveiled in Israel - Haaretz, The Times of Israel

Abbey Road diary entry - NME

Epstein’s secret diaries! - The Sun, The Mirror

Brigitte Reimann diaries - Seagull Books, Lipstick Socialist

Writing Japan’s War in New Guinea - Amsterdam University Press, AJRP

A bear bayed by dogs

Happy birthday Jack Ward Thomas - 85 today. A wildlife research biologist, conservationist and professor, Thomas rose to the giddy political heights of being chief of the US Forest Service during the Bill Clinton administration. He was particularly embroiled in political disputes over the demise of the northern spotted owl, the Endangered Species Act, and the preservation of old-growth forests in the Pacific Northwest. For about a dozen years, including those when he was serving as chief of the forest service, he kept detailed, if sporadic, diary entries - later published in several volumes. In one diary entry he confesses that he feels ‘terribly out of place’, and writes, ‘A remark came back to me that one of the industry lawyers made. He said I reminded him of a grizzly bear bayed by dogs: angry, puzzled, and frightened.’

Thomas was born in Fort Worth, Texas, on 7 September 1934. He studied wildlife management at Texas A&M University, with higher degrees in wildlife ecology from West Virginia University (1969) and forestry (natural resources planning) from the University of Massachusetts (1972). He began his working life with the Texas Game and Fish Commission in the late 1950s, moving, in 1966, to join the Forest Service in Morgantown as a research wildlife biologist; then in 1969 he joined the Urban Forestry and Wildlife Research Unit at Amhurst. In 1974, he became the chief research wildlife biologist and project leader at the Blue Mountains Research Lab in La Grande, Oregon.

During the 1980s and 1990s, Thomas became increasingly involved in both research and politics related to the northern spotted owl, the Endangered Species Act, and old-growth forests in the Pacific Northwest. In the spring of 1993, in the wake of the President Clinton Forest Conference in Portland, Thomas was named to head the Forest Ecosystem Management Assessment Team (FEMAT) with the aim of resolving the spotted owl crises. In December that year, he was appointed Chief of the U.S. Forest Service despite opposition from some environmental groups, the timber industry, and many of the old-guard agency personnel. The following year, he responded to the death of 34 fire fighters by significantly improving woodland fire safety procedures. 

Thomas stepped down from the political position in 1996, accepting a position at the University of Montana as professor of wildlife conservation, only retiring in 2005. He has been responsible for many hundreds of publications: whole books, chapters in books, essays etc on elk, deer, and turkey biology; wildlife habitat; songbird ecology; northern spotted owl management; forestry and land-use planning. Further (limited) biographical information can be found at Wikipedia, Jack Ward Thomas website, or the Forest History Society (and its blog).

Off and on between 1986 and 1999 Thomas kept a diary. A selection of entries written while he was chief of the forest service - 1993-1996 - was published in 2004 by the Forest History Society in association with The University of Washington Press as Jack Ward Thomas: The Journals of a Forest Service Chief. Some pages of this can be previewed at Googlebooks. Further selections of his diary entries were published more recently, in 2015, by the Boone & Crockett Club. Excerpts from Wilderness Journals: Wandering the High Lonesome can be previewed at Boone & Crockett and at Amazon.

Here are three of Thomas’s diary entries from The Journals of a Forest Service Chief.

30 August 1990, [in camp. Eagle Cap Wilderness Area, Oregon]
‘On the eve of my departure for the Eagle Caps, I was working late in my office clearing my desk and leaving instructions for work to be done in my absence. At 7:00 p.m. Pacific time (10:00 p.m. Eastern time), Undersecretary Jim Moseley called. I could tell from his voice, which was tired and dispirited, that the call was not good news. Moseley wanted me to hear the news from him and not from some newshound with the freshly leaked story.

The working group has recommended to Secretary of Agriculture Clayton Yeutter to go with the ISC report with an allowable cut of 3.0 billion board feet [bbf] for Forest Service lands in 1991, scaling down to 2.7 to 2.6 in subsequent years. Secretary Yeutter was in agreement. However, when they took it to the White House, something (Moseley doesn’t know what) went wrong. The president’s chief of staff, John Sununu, was in the Soviet Union giving advice on how to organize the Soviet premier’s office. So Sununu (who has been perceived as the big, bad “booger” who will eat everybody alive if they go with the ISC report) was not present. Interior Secretary Lujan was evidently the stumbling block, saying things like “no bunch of biologists are going to determine policy for the United States government.” That is understandable - he will look very bad if the ISC report is adopted now, after he let Jamison convince him that there was “new or better science” or “other experts” who had devised a “better way.” To adopt the ISC report now is to have to eat those words, and he simply doesn’t have the stomach for it.

It now looks as if the train wreck proponents have carried the day. The timber cut level being proposed is an annual cut of 3.7 to 4.2 bbf and you sacrifice the number of habitat conservation areas necessary to hold the cut level. They will ask Congress for “sufficiency language” to preclude the environmentalists from challenging the decision in the courts. That will, if Congress approves, have the effect of declaring that whatever is prescribed will, de facto, provide adequate protection to the spotted owl and that is that - problem solved.

I had listened quietly to this point and now I began to speak quietly and calmly though my chest was tight. I said that we would expect to see our committee in front of Congress within ten days and there was no way we could support that decision. At that point, we would have to follow the dictates of our profession, which would lead us into direct conflict with the administration. Truly, we must say in the manner of Martin Luther, “Heir stehe Ich. Ich kannicht auder.” ’

13 August 1993
‘In keeping with Friday the 13th, my mail contained the paperwork from the timber industry lawyers: the secretaries of Agriculture and Interior and I and the entire FEMAT are being sued. The basis of the suit is that FEMAT operations were conducted in a manner not in compliance with the Federal Advisory Committee Act. The brief was filled with page after page demanding documents and affidavits, and question after question concerning how FEMAT operated.

Well, I will deal with that when the time comes. The White House team set the rules and FEMAT did the technical work. I have learned to simply tell the truth in the briefest possible manner and then let the lawyers fight it out and the judges rule.

There are moments, however, when I sit at my desk answering interrogatories and sit hour after hour being deposed by lawyers and sit on the witness stand in court trying to tell the truth while not being discredited by the legal attack dogs - at such times it is sometimes difficult to remember that somewhere there are biologists in denim pants and work boots doing fieldwork far from the world of lawyers in their three-piece suits, shiny black shoes, crisply ironed white shirts, and fresh haircuts. I feel terribly out of place in this world - and the worst part is, they know it. A remark came back to me that one of the industry lawyers made. He said I reminded him of a grizzly bear bayed by dogs: angry, puzzled, and frightened.

Now when I am at the mercy of the lawyers, I keep the image of the cornered grizz’ in mind, knowing that the smooth Harvard lawyer has never seen a bear swat the life out of a dog with one sweep of a paw. The thing about bear baiting is that sometimes you get the bear, but sometimes the bear gets you!’

8 October 1993, La Grande
‘Assistant Secretary Jim Lyons called from his mother’s home in New Jersey at 12:30 a. m. Eastern Standard Time. His message was simple: President Clinton had signed off on my appointment as the next chief of the Forest Service earlier in the day. The next step is a call from White House attorneys to make certain there is nothing in my background that would preclude my appointment or that might prove an embarrassment to the president of the United States.

The waiting and uncertainty have come to an end. Mr. Lyons was still uncertain as to the exact mechanism of making the appointment public knowledge. I told him that whatever his intention, I was not available for the next ten days because of a long-standing speaking engagement and an elk season that begins next week. He asked if elk season was mandatory so far as my participation was concerned. I told him that I had not missed an elk-hunting season in twenty years and didn’t intend to start now.

What was not relayed to him was how badly I needed this hunting season in the high Wallowas, particularly just now. I have a real need to draw strength from the wilderness and the isolation and the majesty and the solitude. What lies just ahead - and now with certainty - is the awesome responsibility of rebuilding the Forest Service and the loss of my life’s partner and the light of my life. If I had my sweetheart with me, there is little doubt that the journey would be exciting and joyful. She would make certain of that, as she always has when I was shy and withdrawn and a little afraid. Just now, the contemplation of that journey without her fills me with trepidation.’

A life too bustling

‘I have taken a resolution to write down in this book, as in times of leisure I may have opportunity, things past, or things that may occur hereafter, for the perusal and consideration of my [. . .] beloved children.’ This is Sir Richard Steele, a British political and literary figure from the late 17th and early 18th centuries, who died 290 years ago today. He tried once to keep a diary, starting with the above resolution, and left behind but a handful of entries. The editor of his memoirs regrets that his subject never kept more of a diary - ‘his life was too bustling’. Nevertheless, he had plenty of Steele’s letters to choose from, as well as snippets from a letter-journal kept by Steele’s friend Jonathan Swift.

Steele was born in Dublin in 1672 to an attorney and his wife; however he was largely brought up by an uncle and aunt. He was educated at Charterhouse School where he met Joseph Addison, and at Oxford (first Christ Church and then Merton college). He joined the Life Guards of the Household Cavalry in order to support King William’s wars against France, and was commissioned in 1697. In 1700, he gravely wounded a fellow officer in a duel. He rose to the rank of captain before leaving the army in 1705 (probably because he had neither the money or connections necessary for advancement). The following year, he was appointed to a position in the household of Prince George of Denmark, consort of Anne, Queen of Great Britain. By this time, he was already advancing a parallel career as a writer, with essays and plays. The Christian Hero was a moralistic tract, published in 1701, which led to him being branded a hypocrite for not following the ways of his own writings; and The Funeral and The Tender Husband were two theatrical comedies which brought him some success.

In 1705, Steele married the widow Margaret Stretch, but she died the following year. At the funeral, he met Mary Scurlock who he married two years later. They had one daughter (though Steele also had one illegitimate daughter as well). In 1709, he co-founded (with his friend Addison) The Tatler, featuring cultivated essays - many written by Steele - on contemporary matters. Although it would only last two years, the name has lived on, being re-used several times for later journals. The same is also true for Steele’s next short-lived ventures, The Spectator (1711) and The Guardian (1713). That year, 1713, Steele became a Member of Parliament for Stockbridge but was soon expelled for issuing a pamphlet in favour of The Hanoverian Succession. But when George I (born in Hanover) came to the throne the following year, Steele was knighted and given responsibility for the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane; and he returned to Parliament in 1715 representing Boroughbridge. In 1719, Steele fell out with Addison, who died that same year.

In 1722, Steel wrote his last and most successful comedy, The Conscious Lovers. Two years later - and still notoriously improvident, impulsive, ostentatious, and generous (the Encyclopedia of World Biography says) - he was forced to retire from London because of his mounting debts and his worsening health. He went to live on his wife’s estate in Wales, where he suffered a paralysing stroke in 1726, eventually dying on 1 September 1729. Further information is also available at Wikipedia, Encyclopaedia Britannica, and The Twickenham Museum.

Steele was not a diarist, and Henry R. Montgomery, editor of Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Sir Richard Steele, soldier, dramatist, essayist, and patriot (William P. Nimmo, 1865 - see Internet Archive, volume one and volume two), laments this fact more than once. In his preface, however, he does commend Steele for his letters: ‘These letters are wholly unlike those of Pope and many other literary men, written for display. They are artless, unpremeditated effusions of the moment, and serve in some degree to supply the absence of anything in the shape of a diary or journal. It is indeed to be regretted that he did not leave us something of that kind. But his life was too bustling for that. Swift’s Journal to Stella is one of the most interesting things he has left behind him. What would we not give for a Boswell of those men and those times!’ Subsequently, Montgomery says of Steele’s many letters to his (second) wife, ‘while regretting the absence of a diary, which would have taken in a wider range of topics, this correspondence, which is almost as regular as a journal, supplies its place in a more limited circle, it is true, but, so far as it goes, in a more interesting form.’

In his book, Montgomery also employs Jonathan Swift’s famous Journal to Stella which was in fact composed from letters (as opposed to journal entries). Swift was a contemporary of Steele’s, and a friend. Montgomery says: ‘The intimacy of Steele with Swift has been previously noticed. He now made a memorable visit, arriving in London in the beginning of September 1710, with a commission to solicit from the Queen the remission of the first fruits and twentieth parts, payable to the Crown by the clergy of Ireland. There is reason to believe that he procured that commission with the view of pushing his own affairs at the present important crisis when the ministry was tottering. At all events he got so deeply involved in politics on his arrival that his stay was prolonged during the next two or three years. During that time he maintained a regular correspondence with Miss Esther Johnson, better known under the poetical name of Stella, in which he has celebrated her. [. . .] The correspondence was maintained in the form of a journal or diary, and is very valuable as preserving a minute record of the events of those few eventful years. By bringing into one view the scattered notices of Steele that occur in it, we obtain glimpses of him and his affairs at this time more minute and interesting than are to be obtained from any other source.’ (See also Live ten times happier for more on Journal to Stella.)

Steele may not have been a diarist, but at least once in his life he did try to become one. In 1721, just two days after his friend Robert Walpole became prime minister, Montgomery says, ‘we find [Steele] stating distinctly his impression of the secret cause of the deprivation of his rights, in a way to exonerate the Duke of Newcastle, at least of the exclusive blame.’ Unfortunately, his patience with the diary form lasted but a few days. Here is Montgomery again: ‘These entries, with another small fragment at a later date, constitute the whole of the diary; and comparatively trifling as they are, these few items but make us regret the more what we might have had if the plan which he thus late and fitfully took up had been sooner adopted, and he had given us the spirit of those Attic nights which he enjoyed in the company of Addison, Congreve, and the other wits, as well as notices and anecdotes of the leading men and events of the time.’ What follows is most of the diary material left behind by Steele.

April 4, 1721.
‘I have lately had a fit of sickness, which has awakened in me, among other things, a sense of the little care I have taken of my own family. And as it is natural for men to be more affected with the actions and sufferings and observations upon the rest of the world, set down by their predecessors, than by what they receive from other men; I have taken a resolution to write down in this book, as in times of leisure I may have opportunity, things past, or things that may occur hereafter, for the perusal and consideration of my son, Eugene Steele, and his sisters Elizabeth Steele and Mary Steele, my beloved children.’

9 April 1721
‘Easter Sunday. After the repeated perusal of Dr Tillotsou’s seventh sermon, in the third volume of the small edition of his admirable and comfortable writings, and after having done certain acts of benevolence and charity to some needy persons of merit, I went this day to the holy sacrament. In addition to the proper prayers of the Church, I framed for my private use on this occasion the following prayer: [. . .]’

9 [10?] April 1721
‘I have this morning resolved to pursue very warmly my being restored to my government of the Theatre Royal, which is my right, under the title of the Governor of the Royal Company of Comedians, and from which I have been violently dispossessed by the Duke of Newcastle, Lord Chamberlain of his Majesty’s Household, upon a frivolous pretence of jurisdiction in his office, which he has been persuaded to assert against the force of the King’s patent to me. This violation of property I take to have been instigated by the late Secretaries Stanhope and Craggs, for my opposition to the Peerage Bill, by speeches in the House and printed pamphlets.

The Duke of Newcastle brought me into this present Parliament for the town of Burroughbridge, upon which consideration I attempt all manner of fair methods to bring his grace to reason without a public trial in a court of justice: and, therefore, after applying to my Lord Sunderland and Walpole for their good offices, I writ the following letter to his grace’s brother, Mr Henry Pelham, lately appointed one of the Lords of the Treasury [. . .]’

29 April 1721
‘I purchased this day fifteen assignments in the Fish-pool undertaking, with a promissory note to deliver to Mr Robert Wilks (who sold them to me) a bond of five hundred pounds upon demand; the said bound to be payable within two years after this day.’

The talented Mrs Mahler

Alma Mahler-Werfel, the Austrian musician and wife/lover of several celebrated artistic figures, was born 140 years ago today. She was a significant musician in her own right, but on marrying Gustav Mahler, her talent was suppressed. Marriages to the architect Walter Gropius and the writer Franz Werfel followed, and, after emigrating to the US, she became a culture figure herself in New York. More than 30 years after her death, her diaries - kept as a young woman - were published in English.

Alma was born in Vienna on 31 August 1879 into a privileged and cultured family, her father being a landscape painter. She was tutored at home, and raised as a Roman Catholic. Her father died when she was a young teenager, and thereafter she focused her studies on the piano. She contracted measles which left her with a hearing defective. When her mother married again, to Carl Moll, the painter Gustav Klimt and the composer Alexander Zemlinsky became regular visitors. Zemlinsky, in fact, taught Alma, and became her first lover. In 1902, though, she married Gustav Mahler, then the director of the Royal Opera, and nearly 20 years older. It seems, he showed no interest in her music, and even wished for her to stop composing. They had two daughters, one of whom died young. In the wake of her daughter’s death, Alma became depressed and began an affair with the young architect Walter Gropius.

Shortly thereafter, in 1911, Mahler died. Alma distanced herself from Gropius, but had an affair with the young painter Oskar Kokoschka. Both Gropius and Kokoschka enlisted in the army at the start of the war in 1914, but it was Gropius who Alma married, during one of his military leaves, in mid-1915. They had one daughter who died of polio aged 18. She then began a relationship with the Jewish poet Franz Werfel, and gave birth to another child, who died aged only 18 months. Alma and Gropius divorced, but it was not until 1929 that she married Werfel, taking the name Mahler-Werfel. In the 1930s, the couple fled Germany, first to France, and then to the US, where they lived in Hollywood. After Werfel’s death, Alma moved to New York where she became a cultural figure, and lived until 1964. Further information is available from Wikipedia, the Alma play website, or All Music.

In 1998, extracts from Alma’s diaries were published, covering the years from 1898 until her marriage to Mahler. The original manuscripts consist of 22 exercise books, and are full of her text in diversely coloured inks, pencil and crayon, with ornately written headlines, as well as many black ink line drawings. The extracts were translated into English and edited by Antony Beaumont and Susanne Rode-Breymann for publication in the UK by Faber and Faber as Alma Mahler-Werfel, Diaries 1898-1902. A few extracts can be read online at The New York Times book pages or at Amazon.

27 January 1898
‘This morning: practised. This evening: Dr Pollack and Narziss Prasch. Yesterday I played ‘Die Walküre’ until late at night. I like the first act best, particularly the close, ‘Blühe, Wälsungen Blut’. And the passage where Siegfried draws Sieglinde passionately towards him is wonderful - such fire, genuine erotic ardour. Is there anything to equal it?

My throat is very sore today.’

4 February 1898
‘This morning: a wealthy collector by the name of Schreiber. I sat at the piano, shivering. ‘I hope to God he buys something,’ I thought to myself. But no - the silly ass didn’t. He promised to come again. But that was it. If someone doesn’t take the plunge straight away, they’ll think twice before doing so later.’

13 February 1898
‘Spent the morning with the Lichtenheld girls. Mizzi gave me a delightful picture of herself.

This afternoon Gretl Hellmann called and, since today marks the Death of Richard Wagner, I played ‘Tristan’, ‘Walküre’ and ‘Götterdammerung’ to her all afternoon. The latter was supposed to be performed at the Opera but was cancelled due to the indisposition of Winkelmann. They gave ‘Norma’ instead. How mean not to play W. on the anniversary of his death.’

10 March 1898
‘This evening: tarot party with the Zierers, Frau Duschnitz, Spitzer, Lehmann, Hellmer, Epstein & Klimt. After dinner we took black coffee in the studio, danced and sang. Lehmann sang Rubinstein’s duet ‘Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh’ with Mama. Klimt is such a dear man. I’m writing this because they went back to playing cards and roped Klimt in too. At 2:00 the Zierers and Frau Duschnitz went home. Then the fun really began. Mama and Marie Lehmann danced a pas de deux, then we all sang glees and had a whale of a time. After we’d danced our fill, the party ended at 3:30. Mama said: The Zierers are bound to make remarks, because Klimt sat with you (Alma) all evening and spoke to you so much.

But he was delightful, talked about his painting etc., then we talked about ‘Faust’, a work which he loves as much as I do. No, he’s a really delightful fellow. So natural, so modest - a true artist!’

23 March 1898
‘Frau Radnitzky came to give Gretl her lesson. I avoided her, like a dog that’s committed some misdemeanour. She vented her fury on the innocent Gretl. Well, on Saturday I’ll probably hear all about it. I’m looking forward to it already. Mama and I went to Taubenrauch to order our spring oufit - frightfully expensive - 90 fl! Mama said: You know, Alma, I still have 100 fl in a savings account that nobody knows about, I shall use it to foot the bill.

My eyes filled with tears, and I resolved to withdraw the 20 fl in Gretl’s and my post office book and give them to Mama. Gretl agreed.

This evening: Mama was at Dr Herz’s. We went to the Zierers’. Something funny happened: Flora wasn’t quite certain whether we’d be coming, and had invited Amelie Engel. All of a sudden she came along, kicked up a hell of a fuss and said: Do you think I came here to hobnob with the Schindlers?

But she stayed all the same, and we - Lilli, Gretl and I - treated her with utter contempt. Lilli was even rude to her, just for our sake. After dinner I was asked to play. I didn’t. Then Amelie came to me and said: Fräulein, you must have heard what I said. I’m really sorry, you must surely have misunderstood me.

And she made her apologies as prettily as you could imagine - far better than I ever could. So then I played, and so did she. She played waltzes beautifully, and I played quite well for the first time in days.’

The Diary Junction

The war at the end of the world

Died one hundred and ten years ago this day, did Euclides da Cunha, a Brazilian engineer and political writer - shot dead by his wife’s lover. In 1897, he was commissioned by a São Paulo newspaper to report on the war being fought by the government against a large group of rebellious peasants which had established a settlement, called Canudos, in the remote northeast. His dispatches were in the form of a daily diary, and these are available online (in the original Portuguese). Da Cunha went on to write a book about the conflict, which became a bestseller; to this day it remains a cornerstone of Brazilian political literature. In 1981, the world famous Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa based his novel, The War of the End of the World, on the events surrounding Canudos, and included da Cunha as a prominent character.

Euclides da Cunha was born in Cantaglo, some 140km northeast of Rio de Janeiro city, in early 1866. His mother died when he was three years old, and he went to live with relatives in Teresopolis and then Rio. In 1883, he started at Aquino College, where he first encountered Benjamin Constant, an influential military and political thinker, and in 1885, he joined the Polytechnic School. The following year, he signed up for the Military School of Praia Vermelha, where he again found himself being taught by Constant. He was expelled in 1888, for protesting during a visit of the Brazilian war minister, and took up journalism, working for the prestigious A Província de São Paulo. However, he was readmitted to the military school in 1889, and then entered the Brazilian war school (Escola de Guerra) in 1891. He graduated the following year with a degree in civil engineering. Around 1890, he married Ana Emília, daughter of Major Solon Ribeiro, and their first child (of three) was born in 1893.

That same year, in 1893, da Cunha moved to São Paulo to work in the administration for the railway organisation, but then, during the so-called Naval Revolts, he was called to serve for the Directorate of Military Works, and was sent to Minas Gerais to build barracks. Subsequently, he was appointed Superintendent of Public Works of São Paulo. In 1894, da Cunha published two influential articles in the Gazeta de Notícias, suggesting a comparison between the French Revolution and the ongoing revolts in Brazil. When a new conflict arose, with the government trying to crush a large communal settlement, named Canudos, in the northeastern state of Bahia, da Cunha was commissioned, in 1897, as a war correspondent, to personally witness events as they unfolded. Returning from Canudos, later the same year, he went to São José do Rio Pardo, in São Paulo, to manage the construction of a bridge. Around this time, he started writing Os Sertões, a work he would finish in 1900, and publish in 1902 (later translated into English as Rebellion in the Backlands). In the book, da Cunha, influenced by theories of positivism and social Darwinism, used the story of the Canudos conflict to argue for political change. Eighty years later, Vargas Llosa fictionalised the events that Da Cunha had witnessed and written about for his novel The War of the End of the World - which he dedicated to da Cunha.

Os Sertões was enthusiastically received by critics and became a best-seller in Brazil. Its success guaranteed Cunha membership of the Brazilian Academy of Letters, which he joined in 1903, and also opened up opportunities to work with the government. In 1906, after returning from an official trip to the Amazon, where he chaired a committee to survey the borders of northwestern Brazil, Cunha began to write a report that became his next most important book, Contrastes e confrontos (Contrasts and Comparisons), published in 1907. He spent the last two years of his life working on his third book, À margem da história (On the Margin of History), which was published posthumously. In 1909, he was named chair of logic at Colegio Pedro II. However, at this time, difficulties in his personal life came to a climax. His wife had been having an affair for years with a much younger man, and had even born him two children (one had been accepted by da Cunha as his own, the other had died). On 15 August, he went to his wife’s lovers house intent on murder, but instead was shot dead himself. Further information can be found online at Wikipedia (though the Portuguese entry is more detailed) or Encyclopedia.com

During the time that da Cunha spent observing the situation in Canudos, he wrote a daily diary which was published in the newspaper O Estado de S. Paulo. Some forty years later, the diary was edited by Gilberto Freyre and published as Canudos: diário de uma expedição (José Olympio, 1939). The diary can be found online at Literatura Brasileira (though only in Portuguese).

I have used Google Translate (with a handful of edits) for this (crude and fault-full) English translation of one entry.

20 August 1897
‘Still awaiting, awkwardly, the next departure for the backcountry, I walk - unknown and lonely - like an ancient Greek in the streets of Byzantium the old streets of this great capital, in a persistent inquiry about its beautiful traditions and retaining its interesting old-town features coming almost intact from the past to these hectic days.

And I regret that the capital and exclusive purpose of this trip prevents me from studying it better and transmitting the impressions received.

Because this cross current of strange and diverse sensations is really inevitable, irresistibly invading the subject and pre-established programs.

In one hour sometimes the most mismatched impressions assail me.

Visiting the São Bento Monastery recently, for example, where the arriving wounded now accumulate, after traversing through extensive rows of constricted beds, I descended to the lower floor.

I crossed the long aisles cautiously, with calculated steps, my eyes fixed on the ground, trying not to tread on the grave limbs on which all devotees tread indifferently and where they still read, half-erased by the persistent friction of boots, names among them - oldest in our history. And stripping me of all the purpose that led me there - bending over the slabs that appear as the undiscovered palimpsest of marble in the remotest days, I remained long, absorbed.

What a huge transition in just five minutes, in this insensitive and quick passing, as I descended a staircase, from a busy, noisy present to the silent gloom of the indefinite past.

Fortunately, as I went on, I senselessly struck the wide doorway and as I passed through it, I suddenly turned back to the present.

Assomava, forced uphill and into Castro Alves Square, in a beam of glittering bayonets, the 4th infantry battalion. It comes from far, from the south - it's the last one we wait for.

With it are twenty-five battalions of line, to which are added the police corps here, of Sao Paulo, Pará, Amazonas and contingents of Artillery and Cavalry.

I calculate with a reasonable approximation of at least 10,000 men the troop that will fight the rebellion in the backlands.

And in the face of this armed multitude, it haunts me more than the natural dangers of war, the incalculable sum of efforts to feed it through regions almost impractical by the sharp unevenness of the roads that straighten into the mountains and narrow into long gorges.

A quick calculation shows us that this 10,000-necked minotaur will be sick, fasting almost one hundred and fifty sacks of flour and two tons of meat a day.

And this excludes elementary foodstuffs that constitute a luxury under the strict conditions of war.

This fact expresses one of the most serious and difficult conditions of the campaign: it is the tenacious, inglorious and frightening combat to an enemy who dies and revives every day, involving in the same trances friends and adversaries - hunger.

The natural conditions of the terrain, making it difficult to transport quickly, creating all sorts of stumbling, have already determined, as is well known, the appearance of that in our army - living forces at the mercy of chance, from imbu roots, or damp stalks of mandacarus sap, or hunting the scapegoats of the plateaus, in bold mounts in the caatingas.

Now this unfortunate situation is only attenuated today and every train that arrives deceives it for only one day.

Imagine now the series of difficulties that will come with the greatest accumulation of men.

In addition to slow marches, the lack of freighters makes the ammunition carried very small. Because, we must say frankly, what lies beyond Monte Santo, and even beyond Queimadas, is the desert in the meaning of the term - arid, harsh, unpopulated.

The scattered surrounding populations were lost far away, hiding in the woods, populating the most remote camps, abandoning houses and possessions, terrified by the terrifying scarecrow of war. Yes, you're right.

The narrative of the journey of those who have come, however free from the primitive ambushes, striking across the roads that radiate from Monte Santo, unfold through the absolutely empty and monotonous backcountry.

Only at one point and another as a sinister variant: for a refinement of satanic wickedness the jagunços arranged serially on the two sides of the road the bones of the dead from previous expeditions.

Uniforms, caps, gallons, talines, glittering red trousers, broad cloaks, ragged shirts, saddles, and blankets, hanging from the tree limbs, sway gloomily over the head of the grounded traveler passing through two rows of arranged skulls, lined at the sides.

It is a dreadful picture, capable of disturbing the most robust soul.

The unsuccessful Colonel Tamarindo - an old jovial soldier as there were few - was recognised by his uniform in this fantastic setting; without a head, stuck in a dry branch of Angico and having on his bare shoulders, hung like a hanger, and down the skeleton, down the skeleton.

The whole first column passed in amazement at the formidable spectre of the old commander.

All of these causes justify the indescribable panic that is currently raging in the backcountry and the disorderly ebb of entire populations to the remotest points.

The army is now raging in a desert of thirty lightning bolts, and it is absolutely necessary that the action of this expedition - which will be the last - be swift and fulminating in spite of all necessary sacrifices.

I believe we leave after all these days. I will then judge, in situ, what I have known so far through narratives that do not always fit the same conclusions.

And may that wild but interesting nature, that barbaric nook of our land, under the persistent attraction of its still unknown aspect, make light and quick these hours of longing that I cannot define.’

First circumnavigation of the globe

Half a millennium ago this very day, the Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan launched a Spanish expedition that would complete the first ever circumnavigation of the world - it is, thus, one of the most famous exploration voyages in history. Magellan himself, however, was killed in a battle with native Philippines, and four of the expeditions five ships, along with most of their crews, were lost. Antonio Pigafetta, an Italian scholar and explorer, kept a journal of the entire journey. Although the original was lost, four manuscript copies - one in Italian and three in French - survived. Of these, one held by Yale University is considered the most complete and handsomely produced. Digital images of this are freely available online, as are texts of the journal in English.

On 10 August 1519, Magellan set sail with 270 men and five ships - the Armada de Molucca - from Seville, descending the Guadalquivir River to Sanlúcar de Barrameda, at the mouth of the river, where they remained more than five weeks before finally setting sail on 20 September. The main goal of the expedition - largely financed by King Charles I of Spain - was to find a western route to the Moluccas or Spice Islands (as the eastern route was controlled by Portugal under the terms of a treaty). The expedition crossed the Atlantic and discovered the strait that bears Magellan’s name, allowing it to pass South America into the Pacific Ocean (which Magellan named).

The fleet reached the Philippines, where it remained for some while, engaging frequently with the local indigenous people, some of whom were friendly and some not. Magellan was murdered in a battle on 27 April 1521, as were many others. Within a few weeks, the fleet was reduced to two ships, with Juan Sebastián Elcano eventually captaining the Victoria. By November, the expedition had reached the Moluccas - completing its mission. The following month, Elcano sailed for Europe, but the other ship - Trinidad - remained behind for repairs, and was eventually captured by the Portuguese then wrecked in a storm. After numerous other hardships during the three years, not least mutinies, starvation, scurvy, storms, only 18 men and the one ship (the Victoria) completed the return trip to Spain, arriving at Seville on 8 September 1922. Further details are available at Wikipedia.

One of the 18 survivors of the voyage was the Italian Pigafetta (see The Diary Junction) whose detailed journal has become the most important primary source of information about the expedition. He was born into a rich family in Vicenza in northeast Italy, around 1480-1491 (his exact birthdate being unknown). He studied astronomy, geography and cartography before serving the Knights of Rhodes on board their vessels. Until 1519, he accompanied the papal nuncio, Monsignor Francesco Chieregati, to Spain. He was in Seville when he heard of Magellan’s forthcoming expedition and was taken on as a supernumerary with a modest salary. He was wounded in the same skirmish as Magellan was killed, but survived the expedition, and returned to the Republic of Venice where he wrote up his journal, and made handwritten copies for distribution to European monarchs. He died around 1531.

Although the original journal kept by Pigafetta has long since been lost, four hand-written copies of the manuscript have survived into modern times - three in French and one in Italian. At least one of these can be viewed online at the World Digital Library, which says of it: ‘This version, in French, is from the library of Yale University, and is the most complete and handsomely produced of the four surviving manuscripts. It includes 23 beautifully drawn and illuminated maps.’

Published versions of Pigafetta’s journal have appeared over the years in various forms. An English translation (by Lord Stanley of Alderley) was issued by the Hakluyt Society in 1874 - see Internet Archive. But in 1906, a more rigorous edition was published by The Arthur H. Clark Company as Magellan’s Voyage Around the World (also available at Internet Archive). This was translated, edited and extensively annotated by James Alexander Robertson, who says: ‘The present edition first gives the English reader access to a translation of the true text of Pigafetta [. . .] together with the original Italian of Pigafetta [. . .] (the oldest and most complete of the four existing manuscripts).’ For more on the 500th anniversary of the Magellan voyage see The Magellan Project, España Global, VCentenario or The Daily Beast

Meanwhile here is an extract - detailing the death of Magellan - from the 1906 edition in English of Pigafetta’s text.

26-27 April 1521
‘On Friday, April twenty-six, Zula, a chief of the island of Matan [Mactan, and island in the Philippines] sent one of his sons to present two goats to the captain-general, and to say that he would send him all that he had promised, but that he had not been able to send it to him because of the other chief Cilapulapu, who refused to obey the king of Spagnia. He requested the captain to send him only one boatload of men on the next night, so that they might help him and fight against the other chief. The captain-general decided to go thither with three boatloads. We begged him repeatedly not to go, but he, like a good shepherd, refused to abandon his flock. At midnight, sixty men of us set out armed with corselets and helmets, together with the Christian king, the prince, some of the chief men, and twenty or thirty balanguais. We reached Matan three hours before dawn. The captain did not wish to fight then, but sent a message to the natives by the Moro to the effect that if they would obey the king of Spagnia, recognize the Christian king as their sovereign, and pay us our tribute, he would be their friend; but that if they wished otherwise, they should wait to see how our lances wounded. They replied that if we had lances they had lances of bamboo and stakes hardened with fire. [They asked us] not to proceed to attack them at once, but to wait until morning, so that they might have more men. They said that in order to induce us to go in search of them; for they had dug certain pitholes between the houses in order that we might fall into them. When morning came forty-nine of us leaped into the water up to our thighs, and walked through water for more than two crossbow flights before we could reach the shore. The boats could not approach nearer because of certain rocks in the water. The other eleven men remained behind to guard the boats. When we reached land, those men had formed in three divisions to the number of more than one thousand five hundred persons. When they saw us, they charged down upon us with exceeding loud cries, two divisions on our flanks and the other on our front. When the captain saw that, he formed us into two divisions, and thus did we begin to fight. The musketeers and crossbowmen shot from a distance for about a half-hour, but uselessly; for the shots only passed through the shields which were made of thin wood and the arms [of the bearers]. The captain cried to them, “Cease firing! cease firing!” but his order was not at all heeded. When the natives saw that we were shooting our muskets to no purpose, crying out they determined to stand firm, but they redoubled their shouts. When our muskets were discharged, the natives would never stand still, but leaped hither and thither, covering themselves with their shields. They shot so many arrows at us and hurled so many bamboo spears (some of them tipped with iron) at the captain-general, besides pointed stakes hardened with fire, stones, and mud, that we could scarcely defend ourselves. Seeing that, the captain-general sent some men to burn their houses in order to terrify them. When they saw their houses burning, they were roused to greater fury. Two of our men were killed near the houses, while we burned twenty or thirty houses. So many of them charged down upon us that they shot the captain through the right leg with a poisoned arrow. On that account, he ordered us to retire slowly, but the men took to flight, except six or eight of us who remained with the captain. The natives shot only at our legs, for the latter were bare; and so many were the spears and stones that they hurled at us, that we could offer no resistance. The mortars in the boats could not aid us as they were too far away. So we continued to retire for more than a good crossbow flight from the shore always fighting up to our knees in the water. The natives continued to pursue us, and picking up the same spear four or six times, hurled it at us again and again. Recognizing the captain, so many turned upon him that they knocked his helmet off his head twice, but he always stood firmly like a good knight, together with some others. Thus did we fight for more than one hour, refusing to retire farther. An Indian hurled a bamboo spear into the captain’s face, but the latter immediately killed him with his lance, which he left in the Indian’s body. Then, trying to lay hand on sword, he could draw it out but halfway, because he had been wounded in the arm with a bamboo spear. When the natives saw that, they all hurled themselves upon him. One of them wounded him on the left leg with a large cutlass, which resembles a scimitar, only being larger. That caused the captain to fall face downward, when immediately they rushed upon him with iron and bamboo spears and with their cutlasses, until they killed our mirror, our light, our comfort, and our true guide. When they wounded him, he turned back many times to see whether we were all in the boats. Thereupon, beholding him dead, we, wounded, retreated, as best we could, to the boats, which were already pulling off. The Christian king would have aided us, but the captain charged him before we landed, not to leave his balanghai, but to stay to see how we fought. When the king learned that the captain was dead, he wept. Had it not been for that unfortunate captain, not a single one of us would have been saved in the boats, for while he was fighting the others retired to the boats. I hope through [the efforts of] your most illustrious Lordship that the fame of so noble a captain will not become effaced in our times. Among the other virtues which he possessed, he was more constant than ever any one else in the greatest of adversity. He endured hunger better than all the others, and more accurately than any man in the world did he understand sea charts and navigation. And that this was the truth was seen openly, for no other had had so much natural talent nor the boldness to learn how to circumnavigate the world, as he had almost done. That battle was fought on Saturday, April twenty-seven, 1521. The captain desired to fight on Saturday, because it was the day especially holy to him. Eight of our men were killed with him in that battle, and four Indians, who had become Christians and who had come afterward to aid us were killed by the mortars of the boats. Of the enemy, only fifteen were killed, while many of us were wounded.

In the afternoon the Christian king sent a message with our consent to the people of Matan, to the effect that if they would give us the captain and the other men who had been killed, we would give them as much merchandise as they wished. They answered that they would not give up such a man, as we imagined [they would do], and that they would not give him for all the riches in the world, but that they intended to keep him as a memorial.’

Snake chief doesn’t like horse

‘While we were eating, we were visited by a Snake chief, a large and powerful man, of a peculiarly dignified aspect and manner. He was naked, with the exception of a small blanket which covered his shoulders, and descended to the middle of the back, being fastened around the neck with a silver skewer. As it was pudding time with us, our visitor was of course invited to sit and eat; [. . .] He had not eaten long, however, before we perceived a sudden and inexplicable change in his countenance, which was instantly followed by a violent ejectment of a huge mouthful of our luxurious fare. The man rose slowly, and with great dignity, to his feet, and pronouncing the single word “shekum,” (horse,) in a tone of mingled anger and disgust, stalked rapidly out of the camp, not even wishing us a good evening.’ This is from the diaries of John Kirk Townsend, an ornithologist and doctor, written while on an expedition to explore Oregon. During the journey, Townsend, born 210 years ago today, discovered and collected many new bird species which he later gave to John James Audubon who painted them for his famous Birds of America.

Townsend was born on 10 August 1809 into a Quaker family in Philadelphia. He attended the Friends’ Boarding School at Westtown in West Chester, Pennsylvania. The school had a reputation for science, and while there he became interested in ornithology. He trained as a physician and pharmacist. In 1833, he joined the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia and the American Philosophical Society. The following year he took part in Nathaniel Wyeth’s second expedition across the Rocky Mountains to Oregon, and is credited with discovering several new species of birds and mammals. On arriving at Fort Vancouver, he was invited to stay, and for six months served as the fort’s surgeon. While there, he explored the surrounding area, often depending on Native Americans to capture elusive specimens. He later described their cultural practices; however, he also known to have robbed Indian graves of skulls.

Townsend left Oregon in 1836 for Hawaii. From there he traveled back to Philadelphia via Cape Horn. After his return in 1837, he sold almost 100 (preserved) birds to John James Audubon, the famous American ornithologist and painter, who described them in his exquisitely illustrated Birds of America (originals of which are now among the most expensive books ever sold). Townsend was hired as curator of the collections of both the Academy of Natural Sciences and the National Institute for the Promotion of Science in Washington, D.C., but he also tried his hand at dentistry. He died aged only 42 in 1851, a victim of cumulative arsenic poisoning (arsenic powder being commonly used in the preservation of mammal and bird skins). Further biographical information is available at Wikipedia, The Oregon History Project, National Park Service or Linda Hall Library.

In 1939, Townsend published his Narrative of a Journey Across the Rocky Mountains to the Columbia River and a Visit to the Sandwich Islands, Chilli etc. with a Scientific Appendix. This is freely available at Internet Archive. Here are two typical diary entries form the narrative.

20 August 1833
‘At about daylight this morning, having charge of the last guard of the night, I observed a beautiful, sleek little colt, of about four months old, trot into the camp, whinnying with great apparent pleasure, and dancing and curvetting gaily amongst our sober and sedate band. I had no doubt that he had strayed from Indians, who were probably in the neighborhood; but as here, every animal that comes near us is fair game, and as we were hungry, not having eaten any thing of consequence since yesterday morning, I thought the little stranger would make a good breakfast for us. Concluding, however, that it would be best to act advisedly in the matter, I put my head into Captain W.’s tent, and telling him the news, made the proposition which had occurred to me. The captain’s reply was encouraging enough, “Down with him, if you please, Mr. T., it is the Lord’s doing; let us have him for breakfast.” In five minutes afterwards, a bullet sealed the fate of the unfortunate visitor, and my men were set to work making fires, and rummaging out the long-neglected stew-pans, while I engaged myself in flaying the little animal, and cutting up his body in readiness for the pots. 

When the camp was aroused, about an hour after, the savory steam of the cookery was rising and saluting the nostrils of our hungry people with its fragrance, who, rubbing their hands with delight, sat themselves down upon the ground, waiting with what patience they might, for the unexpected repast which was preparing for them.

It was to me almost equal to a good breakfast, to witness the pleasure and satisfaction which I had been the means of diffusing through the camp.

The repast was ready at length, and we did full justice to it; every man ate until he was filled, and all pronounced it one of the most delicious meals they had ever assisted in demolishing. When our breakfast was concluded, but little of the colt remained; that little was, however, carefully packed up, and deposited on one of the horses, to furnish, at least, a portion of another meal.

The route, this morning, lay along Boisée. For an hour, the travelling was toilsome and difficult, the Indian trail, leading along the high bank of the river, steep and rocky, making our progress very slow and laborious. We then came to a wide plain, interrupted only by occasional high banks of earth, some of them of considerable extent, across which ran the path. Towards mid-day, we lost sight of these banks, the whole country appearing level, with the exception of some distant hills in the south-west, which we suppose indicate the vicinity of some part of Snake river.

We have all been disappointed in the distance to this river, and the length of time required to reach it. Not a man in our camp has ever travelled this route before, and all we have known about it has been the general course.
In the afternoon, we observed a number of Indians on the opposite side of the river, engaged in fishing for salmon. Captain W. and two men immediately crossed over to them, carrying with them a few small articles to exchange for fish. We congratulated ourselves upon our good fortune in seeing these Indians, and were anticipating a plentiful meal, when Captain W. and his companions returned, bringing only three small salmon. The Indians had been unsuccessful in fishing, not having caught enough for themselves, and even the offer of exorbitant sums was not sufficient to induce them to part with more.

In the afternoon, a grouse and a beaver were killed, which, added to the remains of the colt, and our three little salmon, made us a tolerable supper. While we were eating, we were visited by a Snake chief, a large and powerful man, of a peculiarly dignified aspect and manner. He was naked, with the exception of a small blanket which covered his shoulders, and descended to the middle of the back, being fastened around the neck with a silver skewer. As it was pudding time with us, our visitor was of course invited to sit and eat; and he, nothing loath, deposited himself at once upon the ground, and made a remarkably vigorous assault upon the mixed contents of the dish. He had not eaten long, however, before we perceived a sudden and inexplicable change in his countenance, which was instantly followed by a violent ejectment of a huge mouthful of our luxurious fare. The man rose slowly, and with great dignity, to his feet, and pronouncing the single word “shekum,” (horse,) in a tone of mingled anger and disgust, stalked rapidly out of the camp, not even wishing us a good evening. It struck me as a singular instance of accuracy and discrimination in the organs of taste. We had been eating of the multifarious compound without being able to recognise, by the taste, a single ingredient which it contained; a stranger came amongst us, who did not know, when he commenced eating, that the dish was formed of more than one item, 
and yet in less than five minutes he discovered one of the very least of its component parts.

It would seem from this circumstance that the Indians, or it may be the particular tribe to which this man belongs, are opposed to the eating of horse flesh, and yet, the natural supposition would be, that in the gameless country inhabited by them they would often be reduced to such shifts, and thus readily conquer any natural reluctance which they might feel to partake of such food. I did not think until after he left us, that if the chief knew how the horse meat he so much detested was procured, and where, he might probably have expressed even more indignation, for it is not at all unlikely that the colt had strayed from his own band.’

9 September 1833
‘The character of the country has changed considerably since we left Walla-walla. The river has become gradually more narrow, until it is now but about two hundred yards in width, and completely hemmed in by enormous rocks on both sides. Many of these extend for considerable distances into the stream in perpendicular columns, and the water dashes and breaks against them until all around is foam. The current is here very swift, probably six or seven miles to the hour; and the Indian canoes in passing down, seem literally to fly along its surface. The road to-day has been rugged to the very last degree. We have passed over continuous masses of sharp rock for hours together, sometimes picking our way along the very edge of the river, several hundred feet above it; again, gaining the back land, by passing through any casual chasm or opening in the rocks, where we were compelled to dismount, and lead our horses.

This evening, we are surrounded by a large company of Chinook Indians, of both sexes, whose temporary wig-wams are on the bank of the river. Many of the squaws have young children sewed up in the usual Indian fashion, wrapped in a skin, and tied firmly to a board, so that nothing but the head of the little individual is seen.

These Indians are very peaceable and friendly. They have no weapons except bows, and these are used more for amusement and exercise, than as a means of procuring them sustenance, their sole dependence being fish and beaver, with perhaps a few hares and grouse, which are taken in traps. We traded with these people for a few fish and beaver skins, and some roots, and before we retired for the night, arranged the men in a circle, and gave them a smoke in token of our friendship.’

Nothing but snow and icy wind

‘Finally reach Camp 3 at 6 a.m., almost totally exhausted. While the others prepare something to eat. I massage Canali’s feet. The pains begin to lessen. Outside the tent there is nothing but snow and icy wind, and so it remains for the entire day. We stay in the tent for just so long and then decide to continue our descent. To remain much longer at this height would be extremely dangerous, especially for Canali. Yet, as we attempt to go a few paces beyond the tent, we are soon driven back, convinced that to descend under such conditions is tantamount to suicide.’ This is from a dramatic diary kept by Riccardo Cassin, one of the most famous mountaineers of the mid-20th century, on the descent from a pioneering a climb - now called Cassin Ridge - on Mount McKinley, the highest mountain in North America. Cassin died 10 years ago today, having reached the ripe old age of 100.

Cassin was born in 1909 in the village of San Vito al Tagliamento, then in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but now part of Italy, 80km northwest of Trieste. When only three, his father emigrated to Canada where he died within a short time. Cassin left school at the age of 12 to work for a blacksmith; aged 17 he moved to Lecco where he took a job at the steel factory. Although he was interested in boxing for a while, he turned to climbing in his early 20s, and by 1935 had made the first ascent of Piccolissima of the Tre Cime di Lavaredo in the Dolomites. He started climbing on the granite of the Western Alps in 1937, and the following year made one of his most celebrated ascents, Walker Spur on the north face of the Grandes Jorasses in the Mont Blanc massif. He became one of the leading mountaineers of the inter-war period, making a total of 2,500 ascents, of which over 100 were first ascents. In 1940, he married Irma with whom he had three sons.

During the war, Cassin fought with the partisans against the German occupiers, being decorated for his actions in the partisan campaign during the years 1943-45. From 1947 or so, he started designing and producing mountaineering equipment, pitons, ice aces, caribiners and harnesses. In 1954, Cassin felt slighted by Ardito Desio, the chief expedition leader for the Italian Alpine Club, who left him out of the Italian expedition that made the first ascent of K2 in 1954; thereafter, he concentrated on organising and leading expeditions himself. In 1961, he planned the expedition that made the first ascent of (what is now known as) Cassin Ridge on Mount McKinley in Alaska, an achievement that earned him a telegram of congratulation from President Kennedy. In 1967, Cassin’s production firm became a limited company, and, in 1997, the Cassin brand was bought by CAMP, one of the world’s leading manufacturers of equipment for climbing and associated activities. Cassin lived to be 100 years old, dying a few months later on 6 August 2009.

The Guardian obituary has this assessment: ‘Tough, warm and good-humoured, Cassin had an obstinate, down-to-earth approach to the practicalities of climbing, underpinned by shrewd intelligence and an artist’s eye for the most beautiful routes up the most difficult peaks. Cassin’s legacy is a series of new climbs completed around the world before and after the second world war, climbs that still dominate the sport's consciousness as immutable landmarks.’ Further biographical information can also be found at Wikipedia, Summit Post, or in obituaries at The Independent and The New York Times.

Cassin kept a diary of the Mount McKinley expedition in 1961, and filled it in with some notes afterward. The diary was published within a few weeks by Life magazine (25 August 1961), and this is freely available at Googlebooks. Here are a few extracts.

17 July 1961
‘The weather is bad from early morning on; the air is thick with snow and the wind threatens to carry away everything at Camp 1. To the right and to the left of us there are almost sheer walls and we remain tied together at all times. Beneath us awaits 6,000 feet of nothing.

Toward 5 p.m. the snow stops and the storm calms down a bit. We don’t lose a minute. All of us leave at once for Camp 2, carrying food and equipment. We climb on two separate ropes for three hours, three men to each rope.’

18 July 1961
‘We leave very early, carrying two tents, food and other supplies. At about 7 p.m. we finally arrive at the site selected for Camp 3. We set up the tents in the face of freezing winds.’

19 July 1961
‘It’s decided that today we'll set out for no less than the summit. Canali and I are tied together. From the spur we pass slightly leftward to the mouth of a couloir [gorge] filled with snow and ice where we are able to climb more swiftly. It is no longer snowing, but strong winds attack us from the west without respite and make every forward step a torture. Icicles bristle from the rocks on either side and cut our faces. By 10 p.m. we have finally reached the base of the rocks that stand between ourselves and the summit.

We are exhausted and numb from the cold. The temperature is down to 30-40 below zero.

Our crampons [spiked boot-attachments] and boots are frozen together into a single mass, and for the first time Canali complains that his feet are cold.

It is Zucchi now who takes the lead; he struggles desperately and nothing can stand in his way. The summit cannot be far away now. Canali does the best he can to reactivate the circulation in his feet which he knows are little by little freezing up.

The summit is close and an unconquerable will takes hold of us and aids us tremendously in our progress. Finally at 11 p.m. and almost in darkness we reach the mighty summit. Filled with emotion, we throw our arms about each other. The icy wind prevents us from opening our mouths to speak, even for a moment; but in our eyes is written anything that our lips might speak.

But we cannot wait, we must descend again directly. Alippi, I, Canali, Perego, Airoldi and Zucchi, in this order, take leave of the summit after spending barely 15 minutes atop it.

Canali is not well. I ask him what’s wrong and he fails to answer. He begins to vomit, although he has had nothing to eat for 17 hours.

Once off the rocks immediately beneath the summit, we descend the steep couloir, all roped together.

Suddenly I hear sounds of scuffling behind me. I turn about and see Canali falling down the couloir. In an instant I plunge my ice ax into the hard snow, whip the rope once quickly around it and rapidly bring Canali to a halt. I begin to wonder whether he can proceed much further. For safety’s sake I change our order on the rope. I remain last with Canali close to me so as to keep a better eye on him. Several times during the descent of this very steep couloir, I must take pains to prevent him from slipping.

We reach the base of the couloir and begin the traverse to Camp 3. I try to give Canali a couple of vitamin tablets but he refuses them and continues to complain of the terrible cold in his feet.

The wind continues to harangue us without respite and the snow begins to fall again. But we keep on descending as the storm becomes more and more violent.’

20 July 1961
‘Finally reach Camp 3 at 6 a.m., almost totally exhausted. While the others prepare something to eat. I massage Canali’s feet. The pains begin to lessen. Outside the tent there is nothing but snow and icy wind, and so it remains for the entire day. We stay in the tent for just so long and then decide to continue our descent. To remain much longer at this height would be extremely dangerous, especially for Canali. Yet, as we attempt to go a few paces beyond the tent, we are soon driven back, convinced that to descend under such conditions is tantamount to suicide.’

21 July 1961
‘Until 11 a.m. the weather continues to be unspeakable, but then calms down a bit and we set out. But though the wind is no longer tormenting us, the snow begins to fall more and more thickly.

Canali can no longer get into his shoes. There is now no alternative for Canali but to change to a pair of boots lined with reindeer fur; but it is impossible to attach crampons to such boots. They are too soft and the toe folds up, rendering the crampons useless.

Both for Canali and for his companions on the same rope, it is extremely difficult to go on in this manner. Yet there is no other way. Canali’s own efforts at this point are superhuman and heroic, and even Zucchi and myself seem to exceed our own capacity in assisting him.

In this way we finally reach the glacier halfway down the wall.

Alippi, who has given his reindeerskin boots to Canali, is now shod in four pairs of woolen socks, and he too, unable to use crampons, must submit to a continuous martyrdom.

At one point I was standing close to Perego in an effort to ease Alippi down a slope when suddenly the latter slipped and all but dragged the three of us down the wall. Fortunately he fell onto a stretch of soft snow.
 
We reach Camp 2. Perego, Alippi and Airoldi prefer to bivouac there. But Canali's condition has me greatly worried. Visibility is still zero and, to make matters worse, all of our tracks upward are now concealed by fresh snow.

At this point the spur is extremely narrow and steep, and on both sides the slope falls off perpendicularly. We are forced to grope for foot and handholds under the snow. Fortunately these suffice. The effort is killing. At long last we arrive at Camp 1, completely done in. We know that Base Camp means salvation, yet Canali’s condition is such that we cannot proceed a step further at the moment.

Yet even here our difficulties are not over. None of the provisions left at this camp can be eaten without being heated first, and our stoves no longer function. After a great while we succeed in melting a liter of snow, but nothing else.

I set to work massaging Canali’s feet. The drugs that I’ve given him begin to work. Zucchi and I are despondent at being unable to do more for him. At Base Camp we have everything, but we are too exhausted to get there. We attempt to sleep, but Canali moans throughout the night and we remain awake.’

Diary briefs

Hangman’s diary sells at auction - BBC, The Sun

The world’s oldest diary? - Daily Express, Wikipedia

War journalist’s diary to be auctioned - Hansons, The Times

Diary of journalist with Custer - State Historical Society of North Dakota, The Jamestown Sun

Diary of the first Israeli astronaut - Israel21c

Diary of C18th Maltese priest - Times of Malta

Diary may shed light on story of Deborah Sampson - The Smithsonian

Elton John diary extract goes viral - The Independent

Great escape prison diary - The Sun, Mail Online

Dr Nigel Rusted’s diaries online - Memorial University of Newfoundland

Historic diary of a student - Seton Hall University

Moshe Sharett’s struggle for peace - Indiana University Press, Googlebooks