Authors: Greg King
Bernard appreciated the city’s visual interest, where “towers of burnished brass welded into cliffs of bronze, smoldering above massive shadows descending far below where hordes of electric jewels glittered.”
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He was less enthused by the realities of life. New York, he thought, was not only thoroughly uncultured, but also “in the throes of a spectacular disease” he deemed to be a constant quest for money. Whether “standing, walking, sitting,” or even “eating,” all conversation seemed to turn on “dollars, dollars earned, won, lost, spent, stolen, saved, begged, borrowed or buried in a maelstrom.” He concluded that “to those who refused to profit by any means available, New York was absolutely pitiless.”
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Returning to London, the handsome, diminutive Bernard married a singer, Muriel Lightfoot; joined an opera company as scenic director on its Australian tour; and finally landed a job at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.
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Growing deafness led to his rejection by the British Army; feeling ashamed, Bernard returned to America, taking a position as technical director of the Boston Opera House.
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Bernard fumed at having to design sets for “a deplorable play” written by millionaire William Lindsey. Lindsey had made a fortune developing and selling ammunition belts to the British Army during the Boer War; he was “by occupation a millionaire, by inclination a successor of minstrels in Provence,” and regarded himself as “New England’s Bard.”
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It was all too humiliating for the volatile Bernard. He seized on stories that, by the spring of 1915, the British Army was so desperate for men that it was now accepting recruits previously denied, and decided to return to London. Lindsey asked one final favor: his beautiful young daughter Leslie had just married Stewart Mason of Ipswich, and the couple—off to England on their honeymoon—would sail aboard
Lusitania
with Bernard. Would he act as chaperone? How, Bernard wondered, was he supposed to watch this couple, who “had everything that human beings could wish for: unlimited money, youth, fond parents, and the world?” But he agreed, with Lindsey’s admonition, “Keep an eye on my little girl!” ringing in his head as they all had boarded
Lusitania
the previous day.
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Looking after the romantic Stewarts put Bernard in a foul mood. He thought that his fellow travelers “were less sociable than usual,” which he put down to typical English reserve. Like many others, he had read the German notice in the newspaper on the morning he was to sail, but it did nothing to change his mind. He was “quite sure that this warning was entirely another bluff to embarrass the United States Government and create further consternation in England.” Even so, as he prowled the liner on its first full day at sea, he secretly nursed the thought that “something would happen” during this voyage that would finally allow him to experience the reality of war.
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Monday, May 3, began with dismal weather as
Lusitania
churned her way across the Atlantic. Although the voyage was relatively pleasant, a few passengers suffered from seasickness as the ship rolled and pitched through the ocean;
Lusitania
was known to be a roller in rough seas.
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Lusitania
had her own hospital, doctor, and nursing staff, but there was little that could be done to alleviate this most common of complaints. For much of the crew, being seasick, wrote one historian, “became synonymous with malingering,” and those who suffered were often mocked and belittled for their “weakness.” Sufferers usually took to their cabins; no one could quite agree on the best remedy. A traveler suffering from seasickness should get plenty of rest, or should exercise incessantly, or should read a book, or should stand up, or should eat oysters, or should avoid jam—no two guidebooks seemed to agree on a practical approach.
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One handbook recommended a variety of treatments including drinking champagne or brandy; if the case was severe, it advised, relief could be found in doses of morphine and cocaine.
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Passengers were gradually becoming accustomed to life on the vessel. On boarding the ship, they could consult a booklet issued by Cunard, with information on the liner as well as practical advice on the voyage.
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The curious could scan the printed passenger list, looking for names of friends and acquaintances who might also be on board.
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For those in First Class, life settled into a comforting, familiar routine. Those ensconced in suites could telephone the Steward’s Department with requests. “One may ask for anything,” recalled a traveler, “and in a mysterious way, that ‘anything’ seems to appear.”
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An important part of each morning was selecting one’s attire. A war might be on, but appearances must be maintained, even at sea. The last vestiges of the already vanished Edwardian Era lived on at sea; it was, insisted an author, “probably the last period in history when the fortunate thought they could give pleasure to others by displaying their good fortune.”
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Those fortunate passengers who traveled with their own maids or valets could rely on years of expertise; others sorted through brassbound steamer trunks, leather suitcases and valises, and jumbles of boxes that carried their wardrobes. A lady might begin her morning in a lacy negligee and exotically decorated Japanese kimono if she remained in her cabin. Late morning and early afternoon called for a day dress, or skirt and shirtwaist, with matching jacket and, perhaps, a parasol to shield her from the rays of the sun. Little boxes offered an array of hats bedecked with feathers, fur, and flowers; others held stockings; underclothing; and shoes and boots for daytime, with delicate satin slippers reserved for the evening. Drawers in the trunks protected delicate shawls; a variety of gloves; lacy handkerchiefs wrapped in tissue paper; scarves; and an array of items necessary to complete a toilette. Only actresses or
demimondaines
used cosmetics: at most, a little face powder and rouge might nestle on dressing tables next to tooth powder, creams, and a variety of scents. Many ladies changed clothing again in late afternoon, donning a filmy dress to join fellow passengers in the Lounge for a highly ritualized tea. Evening called for another change of clothing, when dinner demanded more formal attire. Gentlemen needed fewer changes of clothing. A tweed or wool business suit, or even knickerbockers, a matching jacket, and a jaunty hat, were sufficient for most of the day. An overcoat was essential, especially for walks or time spent on deck. It was also important not to overdress aboard ship, to prefer simpler cuts and materials to the more elaborate concoctions that might be worn ashore.
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Passengers relied on the ship’s crew for every request. There were deck stewards; barkeepers; three barbers; two lift attendants; a ship’s typist and a ship’s printer, who each morning published the liner’s newspaper; two telegraph operators; an interpreter; a bugler to summon passengers to meals; nurses attached to the infirmary; and a number of young boys who acted as assistants to the stewards. Each day,
Lusitania
’s linen keeper tracked the hundreds of items that flowed through his office. “Just imagine a washing day,” Cunard informed passengers, “with between 70,000–80,000 articles to be dealt with.” Freshly laundered cloths were placed on the tables in the First and Second Class Dining Saloons before each meal, while those in Third Class were changed several times a week. Napkins had to be laundered, along with sheets, pillowcases, and towels. Clothing from passengers also arrived for cleaning, including gentlemen’s collars and shirtfronts for starching.
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In First Class, nineteen cabin stewards and twenty-one cabin stewardesses—along with several additional helpers—tended to passengers. They ran errands, cleaned staterooms, made beds, and replenished linens and towels, all in an effort to keep passengers comfortable and content. “A more willing man than the average ship’s steward,” a guidebook explained, “does not exist.”
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Passengers whose accommodations did not include private facilities applied to stewards or stewardesses to arrange for baths. “All those having baths are expected to give gratuities,” literature advised, generally $1 if more than one bath was taken during the voyage. Tips to stewards “should not be evaded,” and were regularly paid at the end of the voyage. The amount was determined by the cost of the cabin, but generally somewhere between $2.50 and $4 was advised; stewardesses should only receive two thirds of the tip given to their male counterparts. A passenger occupying a large suite was expected to offer more generous remuneration.
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“No great metropolitan hotel,” a contemporary reported, “offered more in the way of service and facilities for enjoyment and comfort than this palace of the deep.”
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Above all, passengers should “remember that the ship’s servants are human beings,” deserving of considerate treatment.
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Breakfast was normally served in the Dining Saloon from 8
A.M.
to half-past nine, though many preferred to have tea or coffee delivered each morning to their stateroom. They could follow the latest developments by consulting the ship’s newspaper, the
Cunard Daily Bulletin
. Cunard had been the first line to print its own daily for passengers on the ship, relying on news wired from London and New York. Not only did this include helpful advertisements for hotels but it also kept passengers informed of any important events in the war and of the liner’s daily array of activities.
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After taking breakfast, passengers dispersed about the ship. For children—at least those traveling First Class—
Lusitania
offered a number of diversions, designed to ensure that they were separated from adults. A nursery and playroom, walls adorned with scenes from nursery rhymes and fairy tales, offered games and a full staff to look after them. For meals, most children ate in their own Louis XVI–style dining room on C Deck.
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Freed from tending to their children, parents could thus take advantage of life at sea. Ladies might spend their mornings in the Reading and Writing Room, just off the Grand Staircase on Boat Deck. This was a place of sober refinement in the style of Robert Adam, fifty-two feet wide and forty-four feet long, with carved Corinthian pilasters framing panels of cream and gray silk brocade against enameled walls. Above, the large, circular leaded glass dome pierced a ten-foot-high ceiling swept with delicate stucco reliefs; below, mahogany sofas and chairs, upholstered in Rose du Barry silk matching the curtains at the etched glass windows, were arranged atop a rose-colored carpet. On one wall, a black and white marble mantel framed an electric fireplace; opposite stood a twenty-six-foot-long, nine-foot-high Georgian-style mahogany bookcase filled with the latest popular novels and works of nonfiction.
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Here, twenty-six-year-old Harry Grisdale, the library steward, carefully noted the names of passengers taking books with them. “Books can be taken to staterooms,” one guide advised, “but should be returned to the library steward before landing,” as the cost of any replacements would be deducted from his salary.
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Inlaid mahogany writing desks, set with silk-shaded gilt lamps, held supplies of
Lusitania
’s stationery, adorned with a depiction of the ship at the top left corner. There was, commented a historian, “enormous prestige” in sending a letter on an elite liner’s embossed stationery, and “reams of the stuff disappeared, some of it to reappear in the mailbox,” with the rest “unused, into suitcases to serve until something more elegant could be found in a hotel.”
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As such, the supply had to be replenished each morning. Although those on
Lusitania
could receive telegrams while at sea, Marconi Company operators Robert Leith and David McCormick were under orders that “no passengers’ messages must be sent from the ship whatever,” for fear that such transmissions would point German submarines to its route. The Cunard Line itself was not allowed to communicate with the vessel: only messages approved by and passed on from the Admiralty were transmitted to the liner.
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