The Story of Ida Pfeiffer and Her Travels in Many Lands by Anonymous - CHAPTER I.--HER BIOGRAPHY.

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The Story of Ida Pfeiffer and Her Travels in Many Lands

CHAPTER I.--HER BIOGRAPHY.

Ida Pfeif­fer, the cel­ebrat­ed trav­eller, was born in Vi­en­na on the 14th of Oc­to­ber 1797. She was the third child of a well-​to-​do mer­chant, named Rey­er; and at an ear­ly age gave in­di­ca­tions of an orig­inal and self-​pos­sessed char­ac­ter. The on­ly girl in a fam­ily of six chil­dren, her predilec­tions were favoured by the cir­cum­stances which sur­round­ed her. She was bold, en­ter­pris­ing, fond of sport and ex­er­cise; loved to dress like her broth­ers, and to share in their es­capades. Dolls she con­temp­tu­ous­ly put aside, pre­fer­ring drums; and a sword or a gun was val­ued at much more than a doll's house. In some re­spects her fa­ther brought her up strict­ly; she was fed, like her broth­ers, on a sim­ple and even mea­gre di­et, and trained to habits of prompt obe­di­ence; but he did noth­ing to dis­cour­age her taste for more vi­olent ex­er­cis­es than are com­mon­ly per­mit­ted to young girls.

She was on­ly in her tenth year, how­ev­er, when he died; and she then passed nat­ural­ly enough un­der the ma­ter­nal con­trol. Be­tween her own in­cli­na­tions and her moth­er's ideas of maid­en­ly cul­ture a great con­test im­me­di­ate­ly arose. Her moth­er could not un­der­stand why her daugh­ter should pre­fer the vi­olin to the pi­ano, and the mas­cu­line trousers to the fem­inine pet­ti­coat. In fact, she did not un­der­stand Ida, and it may be as­sumed that Ida did not un­der­stand her.

In 1809 Vi­en­na was cap­tured by the French army un­der Napoleon; a dis­grace which the brave and spir­it­ed Ida felt most keen­ly. Some of the vic­to­ri­ous troops were quar­tered in the house of her moth­er, who thought it politic to treat them with cour­tesy; but her daugh­ter nei­ther could nor would re­press her dis­like. When com­pelled to be present at a grand re­view which Napoleon held in Schon­brunn, she turned her back as the em­per­or rode past. For this haz­ardous ma­noeu­vre she was sum­mar­ily pun­ished; and to pre­vent her from re­peat­ing it when the em­per­or re­turned, her moth­er held her by the shoul­ders. This was of lit­tle avail, how­ev­er, as Ida per­se­ver­ing­ly per­sist­ed in keep­ing her eyes shut.

At the age of thir­teen she was in­duced to re­sume the garb of her sex, though it was some time be­fore she could ac­cus­tom her wild free move­ments to it. She was then placed in charge of a tu­tor, who seems to have be­haved to her with equal skill and del­ica­cy. “He showed,” she says, “great pa­tience and per­se­ver­ance in com­bat­ing my over­strained and mis­di­rect­ed no­tions. As I had learned to fear my par­ents rather than love them, and this gen­tle­man was, so to speak, the first hu­man be­ing who had dis­played any sym­pa­thy and af­fec­tion for me, I clung to him in re­turn with en­thu­si­as­tic at­tach­ment, de­sirous of ful­fill­ing his ev­ery wish, and nev­er so hap­py as when he ap­peared sat­is­fied with my ex­er­tions. He took the en­tire charge of my ed­uca­tion, and though it cost me some tears to aban­don my youth­ful vi­sions, and en­gage in pur­suits I had hith­er­to re­gard­ed with con­tempt, to all this I sub­mit­ted out of my af­fec­tion for him. I even learned many fem­inine av­oca­tions, such as sewing, knit­ting, and cook­ery. To him I owed the in­sight I ob­tained in­to the du­ties and true po­si­tion of my sex; and it was he who trans­formed me from a romp and a hoy­den in­to a mod­est qui­et girl.”

Al­ready a great long­ing for trav­el had en­tered in­to her mind. She longed to see new scenes, new peo­ples, new man­ners and cus­toms. She read ea­ger­ly ev­ery book of trav­el that fell in­to her hands; fol­lowed with pro­found in­ter­est the ca­reer of ev­ery ad­ven­tur­ous ex­plor­er, and blamed her sex that pre­vent­ed her from fol­low­ing their hero­ic ex­am­ples. For a while a change was ef­fect­ed in the cur­rent of her thoughts by a strong at­tach­ment which sprung up be­tween her and her teach­er, who by this time had giv­en up his for­mer pro­fes­sion, and had ob­tained an hon­ourable po­si­tion in the civ­il ser­vice. It was nat­ural enough that in the close in­ti­ma­cy which ex­ist­ed be­tween them such an af­fec­tion should be de­vel­oped. Ida's moth­er, how­ev­er, re­gard­ed it with grave dis­ap­proval, and ex­act­ed from the un­for­tu­nate girl a promise that she would nei­ther see nor write to her hum­ble suit­or again. The re­sult was a dan­ger­ous ill­ness: on her re­cov­ery from which her moth­er in­sist­ed on her ac­cept­ing for a hus­band Dr. Pfeif­fer, a wid­ow­er, with a grown-​up son, but an op­ulent and dis­tin­guished ad­vo­cate in Lem­berg, who was then on a vis­it to Vi­en­na. Though twen­ty-​four years old­er than Ida, he was at­tract­ed by her grace and sim­plic­ity, and of­fered his hand. Weary of home per­se­cu­tions, Ida ac­cept­ed it, and the mar­riage took place on May 1st, 1820.

If she did not love her hus­band, she re­spect­ed him, and their mar­ried life was not un­hap­py. In a few months, how­ev­er, her hus­band's in­tegri­ty led to a sad change of for­tune. He had ful­ly and fear­less­ly ex­posed the cor­rup­tion of the Aus­tri­an of­fi­cials in Gali­cia, and had thus made many en­emies. He was com­pelled to give up his of­fice as coun­cil­lor, and, de­prived of his lu­cra­tive prac­tice, to re­move to Vi­en­na in search of em­ploy­ment. Through the treach­ery of a friend, Ida's for­tune was lost, and the ill-​fat­ed cou­ple found them­selves re­duced to the most painful ex­igen­cies. Vi­en­na, Lem­berg, Vi­en­na again, Switzer­land, ev­ery­where Dr. Pfeif­fer sought work, and ev­ery­where found him­self baf­fled by some ma­lig­nant in­flu­ence. “Heav­en on­ly knows,” says Madame Pfeif­fer in her au­to­bi­og­ra­phy, “what I suf­fered dur­ing eigh­teen years of my mar­ried life; not, in­deed, from any ill-​treat­ment on my hus­band's part, but from pover­ty and want. I came of a wealthy fam­ily, and had been ac­cus­tomed from my ear­li­est youth to or­der and com­fort; and now I fre­quent­ly knew not where I should lay my head, or find a lit­tle mon­ey to buy the com­mon­est nec­es­saries. I per­formed house­hold drudgery, and en­dured cold and hunger; I worked se­cret­ly for mon­ey, and gave lessons in draw­ing and mu­sic; and yet, in spite of all my ex­er­tions, there were many days when I could hard­ly put any­thing but dry bread be­fore my poor chil­dren for their din­ner.” These chil­dren were two sons, whose ed­uca­tion their moth­er en­tire­ly un­der­took, un­til, af­ter old Madame Rey­er's death in 1837, she suc­ceed­ed to an in­her­itance, which lift­ed the lit­tle fam­ily out of the slough of pover­ty, and en­abled her to pro­vide her sons with good teach­ers.

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As they grew up and en­gaged suc­cess­ful­ly in pro­fes­sion­al pur­suits, Madame Pfeif­fer, who had lost her hus­band in 1838, found her­self once more un­der the spell of her old pas­sion for trav­el, and in a po­si­tion to grat­ify her ad­ven­tur­ous in­cli­na­tions. Her means were some­what lim­it­ed, it is true, for she had done much for her hus­band and her chil­dren; but econ­omy was nat­ural to her, and she re­tained the sim­ple habits she had ac­quired in her child­hood. She was strong, healthy, coura­geous, and ac­com­plished; and at length, af­ter ma­tur­ing her plans with anx­ious con­sid­er­ation, she took up her pil­grim's staff, and sal­lied forth alone.

Her first ob­ject was to vis­it the Holy Land, and tread in the hal­lowed foot­steps of our Lord. For this pur­pose she left Vi­en­na on the 22nd of March 1842, and em­barked on board the steam­er that was to con­vey her down the Danube to the Black Sea and the city of Con­stantino­ple. Thence she re­paired to Brous­sa, Beirut, Jaf­fa, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, Nazareth, Dam­as­cus, Baal­bek, the Lebanon, Alexan­dria, and Cairo; and trav­elled across the sandy Desert to the Isth­mus of Suez and the Red Sea. From Egypt the ad­ven­tur­ous la­dy re­turned home by way of Sici­ly and Italy, vis­it­ing Naples, Rome, and Flo­rence, and ar­riv­ing in Vi­en­na in De­cem­ber 1842. In the fol­low­ing year she pub­lished the record of her ex­pe­ri­ences un­der the ti­tle of a “Jour­ney of a Vi­en­nese La­dy to the Holy Land.” It met with a very favourable re­cep­tion, to which the sim­plic­ity of its style and the faith­ful­ness of its de­scrip­tions ful­ly en­ti­tled it.

With the prof­its of this book to swell her funds, Madame Pfeif­fer felt em­bold­ened to un­der­take a new ex­pe­di­tion; and this time she re­solved on a north­ern pil­grim­age, ex­pect­ing in _Ul­ti­ma Thule_ to see na­ture man­ifest­ed on a nov­el and sur­pris­ing scale. She be­gan her jour­ney to Ice­land on the 10th of April 1845, and re­turned to Vi­en­na on the 4th of Oc­to­ber. Her nar­ra­tive of this sec­ond voy­age will be found, nec­es­sar­ily much abridged and con­densed, in the fol­low­ing pages.

What should she do next? Suc­cess had in­creased her courage and strength­ened her res­olu­tion, and she could think of noth­ing fit for her en­er­gies and suf­fi­cient for her cu­rios­ity but a voy­age round the world! She ar­gued that greater pri­va­tions and fa­tigue than she had en­dured in Syr­ia and Ice­land she could scarce­ly be called up­on to en­counter. The out­lay did not fright­en her; for she had learned by ex­pe­ri­ence how lit­tle is re­quired, if the trav­eller will but prac­tise the strictest econ­omy and res­olute­ly forego many com­forts and all su­per­fluities. Her sav­ings amount­ed to a sum in­suf­fi­cient, per­haps, for such trav­ellers as Prince Puck­ler-​Muskau, Chateaubriand, or Lamar­tine for a fort­night's ex­cur­sion; but for a wom­an who want­ed to see much, but cared for no per­son­al in­dul­gence, it seemed enough to last dur­ing a jour­ney of two or three years. And so it proved.

The hero­ic wom­an set out alone on the 1st of May 1846, and pro­ceed­ed first to Rio Janeiro. On the 3rd of Febru­ary 1847, she sailed round Cape Horn, and on the 2nd of March land­ed at Val­paraiso. Thence she tra­versed the broad Pa­cif­ic to Tahi­ti, where she was pre­sent­ed to Queen Po­mare. In the be­gin­ning of Ju­ly we find her at Macao; af­ter­wards she vis­it­ed Hong Kong and Can­ton, where the ap­pear­ance of a white wom­an pro­duced a re­mark­able and rather dis­agree­able sen­sa­tion. By way of Sin­ga­pore she pro­ceed­ed to Cey­lon, which she care­ful­ly ex­plored, mak­ing ex­cur­sions to Colom­bo, Can­dy, and the fa­mous tem­ple of Dago­ba. To­wards the end of Oc­to­ber she land­ed at Madras, and thence went on to Cal­cut­ta, as­cend­ing the Ganges to the holy city of Benares, and strik­ing across the coun­try to Bom­bay. Late in the month of April 1848 she sailed for Per­sia, and from Bushire tra­versed the in­te­ri­or as far as leg­end-​haunt­ed Bag­dad. Af­ter a pil­grim­age to the ru­ins of Cte­siphon and Baby­lon, this bold la­dy ac­com­pa­nied a car­avan through the drea­ry desert to Mo­sul and the vast ru­ins of Nin­eveh, and af­ter­wards to the salt lake of Uru­miyeh and the city of Tabreez. It is cer­tain that no wom­an ev­er ac­com­plished a more dar­ing ex­ploit! The men­tal as well as phys­ical en­er­gy re­quired was enor­mous; and on­ly a strong mind and a strong frame could have en­dured the many hard­ships con­se­quent on her un­der­tak­ing--the burn­ing heat by day, the in­con­ve­niences of ev­ery kind at night, the per­ils in­ci­den­tal to her sex, mea­gre fare, a filthy couch, and con­stant ap­pre­hen­sion of at­tack by rob­ber bands. The En­glish con­sul at Tabreez, when she in­tro­duced her­self to him, found it hard to be­lieve that a wom­an could have ac­com­plished such an en­ter­prise.

At Tabreez, Madame Pfeif­fer was pre­sent­ed to the Viceroy, and ob­tained per­mis­sion to vis­it his harem. On Au­gust 11th, 1848, she re­sumed her jour­ney, cross­ing Ar­me­nia, Geor­gia, and Min­gre­lia; she touched af­ter­wards at Ana­pa, Kertch, and Se­bastopol, land­ed at Odessa, and re­turned home by way of Con­stantino­ple, Greece, the Io­ni­an Is­lands, and Tri­este, ar­riv­ing in Vi­en­na on the 4th of Novem­ber 1848, just af­ter the city had been re­cap­tured from the rebels by the troops of Prince Windis­chgratz.

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Ida Pfeif­fer was now a wom­an of note. Her name was known in ev­ery civ­ilized coun­try; and it was not un­nat­ural that great celebri­ty should at­tach to a fe­male who, alone, and with­out the pro­tec­tion of rank or of­fi­cial rec­om­men­da­tion, had trav­elled 2800 miles by land, and 35,000 miles by sea. Hence, her next work, “A Wom­an's Jour­ney Round the World,” was most favourably re­ceived, and trans­lat­ed both in­to French and En­glish. A sum­ma­ry of it is in­clud­ed in our lit­tle vol­ume.

The brave ad­ven­tur­er at first, on her re­turn home, spoke of her trav­el­ling days as over, and, at the age of fifty-​four, as de­sirous of peace and rest. But this tran­quil frame of mind was of very brief du­ra­tion. Her love of ac­tion and thirst of nov­el­ty could not long be re­pressed; and as she felt her­self still strong and healthy, with en­er­gies as quick and live­ly as ev­er, she re­solved on a sec­ond cir­cuit of the globe. Her funds hav­ing been in­creased by a grant of 1500 florins from the Aus­tri­an Gov­ern­ment, she left Vi­en­na on the 18th of March 1851, pro­ceed­ed to Lon­don, and thence to Cape Town, where she ar­rived on the 11th of Au­gust. For a while she hes­itat­ed be­tween a vis­it to the in­te­ri­or of Africa and a voy­age to Aus­tralia; but at last she sailed to Sin­ga­pore, and de­ter­mined to ex­plore the East In­di­an Archipela­go. At Sarawak, the British set­tle­ment in Bor­neo, she was warm­ly wel­comed by Sir James Brooke, a man of hero­ic tem­per and un­usu­al ca­pac­ities for com­mand and or­ga­ni­za­tion. She ad­ven­tured among the Dyaks, and jour­neyed west­ward to Pon­tianak, and the di­amond mines of Lan­dak. We next meet with her in Ja­va, and af­ter­wards in Suma­tra, where she bold­ly trust­ed her­self among the can­ni­bal Bat­tas, who had hith­er­to re­sent­ed the in­tru­sion of any Eu­ro­pean. Re­turn­ing to Ja­va, she saw al­most all that it had of nat­ural won­ders or nat­ural beau­ties; and then de­part­ed on a tour through the Sun­da Is­lands and the Moluc­cas, vis­it­ing Ban­da, Am­boy­na, Ce­ram, Ter­nate, and Celebes.

For a sec­ond time she tra­versed the Pa­cif­ic, but on this oc­ca­sion in an op­po­site di­rec­tion. For two months she saw no land; but on the 27th Septem­ber 1853 she ar­rived at San Fran­cis­co. At the close of the year she sailed for Callao. Thence she re­paired to Li­ma, with the in­ten­tion of cross­ing the An­des, and push­ing east­ward, through the in­te­ri­or of South Amer­ica, to the Brazil­ian coast. A rev­olu­tion in Pe­ru, how­ev­er, com­pelled her to change her course, and she re­turned to Ecuador, which served as a start­ing-​point for her as­cent of the Cordilleras. Af­ter hav­ing the good for­tune to wit­ness an erup­tion of Co­topaxi, she re­traced her steps to the west. In the neigh­bour­hood of Guayaquil she had two very nar­row es­capes: one, by a fall from her mule; and next, by an im­mer­sion in the Riv­er Guaya, which teems with al­li­ga­tors. Meet­ing with nei­ther cour­tesy nor help from the Span­ish Amer­icans--a su­per­sti­tious, ig­no­rant, and de­grad­ed race--she glad­ly set sail for Pana­ma.

At the end of May she crossed the Isth­mus, and sailed to New Or­leans. Thence she as­cend­ed the Mis­sis­sip­pi to Napoleon, and the Arkansas to Fort Smith. Af­ter suf­fer­ing from a se­vere at­tack of fever, she made her way to St. Louis, and then di­rect­ed her steps north­ward to St. Paul, the Falls of St. Antony, Chica­go, and thence to the great Lakes and “mighty Ni­agara.” Af­ter an ex­cur­sion in­to Cana­da, she vis­it­ed New York, Boston, and oth­er great cities, crossed the At­lantic, and ar­rived in Eng­land on the 21st of Novem­ber 1854. Two years lat­er she pub­lished a nar­ra­tive of her ad­ven­tures, en­ti­tled “My Sec­ond Jour­ney Round the World.”

Madame Pfeif­fer's last voy­age was to Mada­gas­car, and will be found de­scribed in the clos­ing chap­ter of this lit­tle vol­ume. In Mada­gas­car she con­tract­ed a dan­ger­ous ill­ness, from which she tem­porar­ily re­cov­ered; but on her re­turn to Eu­rope it was ev­ident that her con­sti­tu­tion had re­ceived a se­vere blow. She grad­ual­ly grew weak­er. Her dis­ease proved to be can­cer of the liv­er, and the physi­cians pro­nounced it in­cur­able. Af­ter lin­ger­ing a few weeks in much pain, she passed away on the night of the 27th of Oc­to­ber 1858, in the six­ty-​third year of her age.

* * * * *

This re­mark­able wom­an is de­scribed as of short stature, thin, and slight­ly bent. Her move­ments were de­lib­er­ate and mea­sured. She was well- knit and of con­sid­er­able phys­ical en­er­gy, and her ca­reer proves her to have been pos­sessed of no or­di­nary pow­ers of en­durance. The read­er might prob­ably sup­pose that she was what is com­mon­ly known as a strong-​mind­ed wom­an. The ep­ithet would suit her if se­ri­ous­ly ap­plied, for she had un­doubt­ed­ly a clear, strong in­tel­lect, a cool judg­ment, and a res­olute pur­pose; but it would be thor­ough­ly in­ap­pli­ca­ble in the satir­ical sense in which it is com­mon­ly used. There was noth­ing mas­cu­line about her. On the con­trary, she was so re­served and so unas­sum­ing that it re­quired an in­ti­mate knowl­edge of her to fath­om the depths of her ac­quire­ments and ex­pe­ri­ence. “In her whole ap­pear­ance and man­ner,” we are told, “was a staid­ness that seemed to in­di­cate the prac­ti­cal house­wife, with no thought soar­ing be­yond her do­mes­tic con­cerns.”

This qui­et, silent wom­an, trav­elled near­ly 20,000 miles by land and 150,000 miles by sea; vis­it­ing re­gions which no Eu­ro­pean had pre­vi­ous­ly pen­etrat­ed, or where the bravest men had found it dif­fi­cult to make their way; un­der­go­ing a va­ri­ety of se­vere ex­pe­ri­ences; open­ing up nu­mer­ous nov­el and sur­pris­ing scenes; and do­ing all this with the scant­iest means, and unas­sist­ed by pow­er­ful pro­tec­tion or roy­al pa­tron­age. We doubt whether the en­tire round of hu­man en­ter­prise presents any­thing more re­mark­able or more ad­mirable. And it would be un­fair to sup­pose that she was ac­tu­at­ed on­ly by a fem­inine cu­rios­ity. Her lead­ing mo­tive was a thirst for knowl­edge. At all events, if she had a pas­sion for trav­el­ling, it must be ad­mit­ted that her qual­ifi­ca­tions as a trav­eller were un­usu­al. Her ob­ser­va­tion was quick and ac­cu­rate; her per­se­ver­ance was in­de­fati­ga­ble; her courage nev­er fal­tered; while she pos­sessed a pe­cu­liar tal­ent for first awak­en­ing, and then prof­it­ing by, the in­ter­est and sym­pa­thy of those with whom she came in con­tact.

To as­sert that her trav­els were whol­ly with­out sci­en­tif­ic val­ue would be un­just; Hum­boldt and Carl Rit­ter were of a dif­fer­ent opin­ion. She made her way in­to re­gions which had nev­er be­fore been trod­den by Eu­ro­pean foot; and the very fact of her sex was a fre­quent pro­tec­tion in her most dan­ger­ous un­der­tak­ings. She was al­lowed to en­ter many places which would have been rig­or­ous­ly barred against male trav­ellers. Con­se­quent­ly, her com­mu­ni­ca­tions have the mer­it of em­body­ing many new facts in ge­og­ra­phy and eth­nol­ogy, and of cor­rect­ing nu­mer­ous pop­ular er­rors. Sci­ence de­rived much ben­efit al­so from her valu­able col­lec­tions of plants, an­imals, and min­er­als.

We con­clude with the eu­logium pro­nounced by an anony­mous bi­og­ra­pher:--“Straight­for­ward in char­ac­ter, and en­dued with high prin­ci­ple, she pos­sessed, more­over, a wis­dom and a promp­ti­tude in ac­tion sel­dom equalled among her sex. Ida Pfeif­fer may, in­deed, just­ly be classed among those wom­en who rich­ly com­pen­sate for the ab­sence of out­ward charms by their re­mark­able en­er­gy and the rare qual­ities of their minds.”

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