It was a large one, and was hung with light red repp embroidered with my
initials. What a profusion of the letters S. B.! Then there was a large
brass bedstead brightly polished, and flowers were everywhere. Adjoining
mine was a very comfortable cabin for _mon petit Dame_, and leading out
of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other persons in my
service were at the other end of the ship.
The sky was misty, the sea grey, with no horizon. I was on my way over
there, beyond that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a
mysterious rampart.
The clearing of the deck for the departure upset every one and
everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain’s call, the
bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the
shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in
time to catch the boat, the “Halloa!” “Look out!” of the men who were
pitching the packages from the quay into the hold, the sound of the
laughing waves breaking on the side of the boat, all this mingled
together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its
own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who up
to the last moment enjoyed the good-byes, the hand-shakings, the plans
about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over
flung themselves sobbing on their beds.
For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping bitter tears,
tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to get calm again; my will
power triumphed over my grief. On the fourth day I dressed at seven
o’clock and went on deck to have some fresh air. It was icy cold, and as
I walked up and down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad resigned
face. The sea looked gloomy and colourless, and there were no waves.
Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against the ship that we were
both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold of the leg of one of the
benches, but the unfortunate lady was flung forward. Springing to my
feet with a bound, I was just in time to seize hold of the skirt of her
dress, and with the help of my maid and a sailor managed to prevent the
poor woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much hurt
though she was, and a trifle confused, she thanked me in such a gentle
dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with emotion.
“You might have been killed, Madame,” I said, “down that horrible
staircase.”
“Yes,” she answered, with a sigh of regret; “but it was not God’s will.”
“Are you not Madame Hessler?” she continued, looking earnestly at me.
“No, Madame,” I answered; “my name is Sarah Bernhardt.”
She stepped back and drawing herself up, her face very pale and her
brows knitted, she said in a mournful voice, a voice that was scarcely
audible, “I am the widow of President Lincoln.”
I too stepped back, and a thrill of anguish ran through me, for I had
just done this unhappy woman the only service that I ought not to have
done her—I had saved her from death. Her husband had been assassinated
by an actor, Booth, and it was an actress who had now prevented her from
joining her beloved husband.
I went back again to my cabin and stayed there two days, for I had not
the courage to meet the woman for whom I felt such sympathy and to whom
I should never dare to speak again.
On the 22nd we were surprised by an abominable snowstorm. I was called
up hurriedly by Captain Jouclas. I threw on a long ermine cloak and went
on to the bridge. It was perfectly stupefying and at the same time
fairy-like. The heavy flakes met each other with a thud in their mad
waltzing provoked by the wind. The sky was suddenly veiled from us by
all this whiteness which fell round us in avalanches, completely hiding
the horizon. I was facing the sea, and as Captain Jouclas pointed out to
me, we could not see a hundred yards in front of us. I then turned round
and saw that the ship was as white as a sea-gull: the ropes, the
cordage, the nettings, the port-holes, the shrouds, the boats, the deck,
the sails, the ladders, the funnels, the ventilators, everything was
white. The sea was black and the sky black. The ship alone was white,
floating along in this immensity. There was a contest between the high
funnel, spluttering forth with difficulty its smoke through the wind
which was rushing wildly into its great mouth, and the prolonged shrieks
of the siren. The contrast was so extraordinary between the virgin
whiteness of this ship and the infernal uproar it made that it seemed to
me as if I had before me an angel in a fit of hysterics.
On the evening of that strange day the doctor came to tell me of the
birth of a child among the emigrants, in whom I was deeply interested. I
went at once to the mother, and did all I could for the poor little
creature who had just come into this world. Oh, the dismal moans in that
dismal night in the midst of all that misery! Oh, that first strident
cry of the child affirming its will to live in the midst of all these
sufferings, of all these hardships, and of all these hopes! Everything
was there mingled together in this human medley—men, women, children,
rags and preserves, oranges and basins, heads of hair and bald pates,
half open lips of young girls and tightly closed mouths of shrewish
women, white caps and red handkerchiefs, hands stretched out in hope and
fists clenched against adversity. I saw revolvers half concealed under
the rags, knives in the men’s belts. A sudden roll of the boat showed us
the contents of a parcel that had fallen from the hands of a rascally-
looking fellow with a very determined expression on his face, and a
hatchet and a tomahawk fell to the ground. One of the sailors
immediately seized the two weapons to take them to the purser. I shall
never forget the scrutinising glance of the man; he had evidently made a
mental note of the features of the sailor, and I breathed a fervent
prayer that the two might never meet in a solitary place.
I remember now with remorse the horrible disgust that took possession of
me when the doctor handed the child over to me to wash. That dirty
little red, moving, sticky object was a human being. It had a soul, and
would have thoughts! I felt quite sick, and I could never again look at
that child, although I was afterwards its godmother, without living over
again that first impression. When the young mother had fallen asleep I
wanted to go back to my cabin. The doctor helped me, but the sea was so
rough that we could scarcely walk at all among the packages and
emigrants. Some of them who were crouching on the floor watched us
silently as we tottered and stumbled along like drunkards. I was annoyed
at being watched by those malevolent, mocking eyes. “I say, doctor,” one
of the men called out, “the sea water gets in the head like wine. You
and your lady look as though you were coming back from a spree!” An old
woman clung to me as we passed: “Oh, Madame,” she said, “shall we be
shipwrecked with the boat rolling like this? Oh God! Oh God!” A tall
fellow with red hair and beard came forward and laid the poor old woman
down again gently. “You can sleep in peace, mother,” he said. “If we are
shipwrecked I swear there shall be more saved down here than up above.”
He then came closer to me and continued in a defiant tone: “The rich
folks—first-class—into the sea! The emigrants and the second-class in
the boats!” As he uttered these words I heard a sly, stifled laugh from
everywhere, in front of me, behind, at the side, and even from under my
feet. It seemed to echo in the distance like the laughing behind the
scenes on the stage. I drew nearer to the doctor, and he saw that I was
uneasy.
“Nonsense,” he said, laughing; “we should defend ourselves.”
“But how many _could_ be saved,” I asked, “in case we were really in
danger?”
“Two hundred—two hundred and fifty at the most, with all the boats out,
if all arrived safely.”
“But the purser told me that there were seven hundred and sixty
emigrants,” I insisted, “and there are only a hundred and twenty
passengers. How many do you reckon with the officers, the crew, and the
servants?”
“A hundred and seventy,” the doctor answered.
“Then there are a thousand and fifty on board, and you can only save two
hundred and fifty?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, I can understand the hatred of these emigrants, whom you
take on board like cattle and treat like negroes. They are absolutely
certain that in case of danger they would be sacrificed!”
“But we should save them when their turn came.”
I glanced with horror at the man who was talking to me. He looked honest
and straightforward and he evidently meant what he said. And so all
these poor creatures who had been disappointed in life and badly treated
by society would have no right to life until after _we_ were saved—we,
the more favoured ones! Oh, how I understood now the rascally-looking
fellow, with his hatchet and tomahawk! How thoroughly I approved at that
moment of the revolvers and the knives hidden in the belts. Yes, he was
quite right, the tall, red-haired fellow. We want the first places,
always the first places. And so we should have the first places in the
water.
“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the captain, who was just coming out of
his cabin. “Has it gone off all right?”
“Yes, captain,” I answered; “but I am horrified.”
Jouclas stepped back in surprise.
“Good Heavens, what has horrified you?” he asked.
“The way in which you treat your passengers——”
He tried to put in a word, but I continued:
“Why—you expose us in case of a shipwreck——”
“We never have a shipwreck.”
“Good. In case of a fire, then——”
“We never have a fire——”
“Good! In case of sinking——”
“I give in,” he said, laughing. “To what do we expose you, though,
Madame?”
“To the very worst of deaths: to a blow on the head with an axe, to a
dagger thrust in our back, or merely to be flung into the water——”
He attempted to speak, but again I continued:
“There are seven hundred and fifty emigrants below, and there are
scarcely three hundred of us, counting first-class passengers and the
crew. You have boats which might save two hundred persons, and even that
is doubtful——”
“Well?”
“Well, what about the emigrants?”
“We should save them before the crew.”
“But after us?”
“Yes, after you.”
“And you fancy that they would let you do it?”
“We have guns with which to keep them in order.”
“Guns—guns for women and children?”
“No; the women and children would take their turn first.”
“But that is idiotic!” I exclaimed; “it is perfectly absurd! Why save
women and children if you are going to make widows and orphans of them?
And do you believe that all those young men would resign themselves to
their fate because of your guns? There are more of them than there are
of you, and they are armed. Life owes them their revenge, and they have
the same right that we have to defend themselves in such moments. They
have the courage of those who have nothing to lose and everything to
gain in the struggle. In my opinion it is iniquitous and infamous that
you should expose us to certain death and them to an obligatory and
perfectly justified crime.”
The captain tried to speak, but again I persisted:
“Without going as far as a shipwreck, only fancy if we were to be tossed
about for months on a raging sea. This has happened, and might happen
again. You cannot possibly have food enough on board for a thousand
people during two or three months.”
“No, certainly not,” put in the purser dryly. He was a very amiable man,
but very touchy.
“Well then, what should you do?” I asked.
“What would _you_ do?” asked the captain, highly amused at the annoyed
expression on the purser’s face.
“I—oh, I should have a ship for emigrants and a ship for passengers, and
I think that would be only just.”
“Yes, but it would be ruinous.”
“No; the one for wealthy people would be a steamer like this, and the
one for emigrants a sailing vessel.”
“But that too would be unjust, Madame, for the steamer would go more
quickly than the sailing boat.”
“That would not matter at all,” I argued. “Wealthy people are always in
a hurry, and the poor never are. And then, considering what is awaiting
them in the land to which they are going——”
“It is the Promised Land.”
“Oh, poor things! poor things! with their Promised Land! Dakota or
Colorado.... In the day-time they have the sun which makes their brains
boil, scorches the ground, dries up the springs, and brings forth
endless numbers of mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their
patience. The Promised Land!... At night they have the terrible cold to
make their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints and ruin their lungs. The
Promised Land! It is just death in some out-of-the-world place after
fruitless appeals to the justice of their fellow countrymen. They will
breathe their life out in a sob or in a terrible curse of hatred. God
will have mercy on them though, for it is piteous to think that all
these poor creatures are delivered over, with their feet bound by
suffering and their hands bound by hope, to the slave-drivers who trade
in white slaves. And when I think that the money is in the purser’s
cash-box which the slave-driver has paid for the transport of all these
poor creatures! Money that has been collected by rough hands or
trembling fingers. Poor money economised, copper by copper, tear by
tear. When I think of all this it makes me wish that we could be
shipwrecked, that _we_ could be all killed and all of them saved.”
With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a good cry, for I
was seized with a great love for humanity and intense grief that I could
do nothing, absolutely nothing!
The following morning I woke late, as I had not fallen asleep until very
late. My cabin was full of visitors, and they were all holding small
parcels half concealed. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and could not quite
understand the meaning of this invasion.
“My dear Sarah,” said Madame Guérard, coming to me and kissing me,
“don’t imagine that this day, your _fête_ day, could be forgotten by
those who love you.”
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “is it the 23rd?”
“Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the absent ones.”
My eyes filled with tears, and it was through a mist that I saw the
portrait of that young being more precious to me than anything else in
the world, with a few words in his own handwriting. Then there were some
presents from friends—pieces of work from humble admirers. My little
godson of the previous evening was brought to me in a basket, with
oranges, apples, and tangerines all round him. He had a golden star on
his forehead, a star cut out of some gold paper in which chocolate had
been wrapped. My maid Félicie, and Claude her husband, who were most
devoted to me, had prepared some very ingenious little surprises.
Presently there was a knock at my door, and on my calling out “Come in!”
I saw, to my surprise, three sailors carrying a superb bouquet, which
they presented to me in the name of the whole crew.
I was wild with admiration, and wanted to know how they had managed to
keep the flowers in such good condition.
It was an enormous bouquet, but when I took it in my hands I let it fall
to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The flowers were all
cut out of vegetables, but so perfectly done that the illusion was
complete at a little distance. Magnificent roses were cut out of
carrots, camellias out of turnips, small radishes had furnished sprays
of rose-buds stuck on to long leeks dyed green, and all these relieved
by carrot leaves artistically arranged to imitate the grassy plants used
for elegant bouquets. The stalks were tied together with a bow of tri-
coloured ribbon. One of the sailors made a very touching little speech
on behalf of his comrades, who wished to thank me for a trifling service
rendered. I shook hands cordially and thanked them heartily, and this
was the signal for a little concert that had been organised in the cabin
of _mon petit Dame_. There had been a private rehearsal with two violins
and a flute, so that for the next hour I was lulled by the most
delightful music, which transported me to my own dear ones, to my home,
which seemed so distant from me at that moment.
This little _fête_, which was almost a domestic one, together with the
music, had evoked the tender and restful side of my life, and the tears
that all this called forth fell without grief, bitterness, or regret. I
wept simply because I was deeply moved, and I was tired, nervous, and
weary, and had a longing for rest and peace. I fell asleep in the midst
of my tears, sighs, and sobs.
XXXIII
ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK—AMERICAN REPORTERS—THE CUSTOM-HOUSE—PERFORMANCES IN
NEW YORK—A VISIT TO EDISON AT MENLO PARK
Finally the ship arrived on October 27, at half-past six in the morning.
I was asleep, worn out by three days and nights of wild storms. My maid
had some difficulty in rousing me. I could not believe that we had
arrived, and I wanted to go on sleeping until the last minute. I had to
give in to the evidence, however, as the screw had stopped, and I heard
a sound of dull thuds echoing in the distance. I put my head out of my
port-hole, and saw some men endeavouring to make a passage for us
through the river. The Hudson was frozen hard, and the heavy vessel
could only advance with the aid of pick-axes cutting away the blocks of
ice.
This sudden arrival delighted me, and everything seemed to be
transformed in a minute. I forgot all my discomforts and the weariness
of the twelve days’ crossing. The sun was rising, pale but rose-tinted,
dispersing the mists and shining over the ice, which, thanks to the
efforts of our pioneers, was splintered into a thousand luminous pieces.
I had entered the New World in the midst of a display of ice-fireworks.
It was fairy-like and somewhat crazy, but it seemed to me that it must
be a good omen.
I am so superstitious that if I had arrived when there was no sunshine I
should have been wretched and most anxious until after my first
performance. It is a perfect torture to be superstitious to this degree,
and, unfortunately for me, I am ten times more so now than I was in
those days, for besides the superstitions of my own country, I have,
thanks to my travels, added to my stock all the superstitions of the
other countries. I know them all now, and in any critical moment of my
life they all rise up in armed legions, for or against me. I cannot walk
a single step or make any movement or gesture, sit down, go out, look at
the sky or the ground, without finding some reason for hope or for
despair, until at last, exasperated by the trammels put upon my actions
by my thought, I defy all my superstitions and just act as I want to
act. Delighted, then, with what seemed to me to be a good omen, I began
to dress gleefully.
Mr. Jarrett had just knocked at my door.
“Do please be ready as soon as possible, Madame,” he said, “for there
are several boats, with the French colours flying, that have come out to
meet you.”
I glanced in the direction of my port-hole, and saw a steamer, the deck
of which was black with people, and then two other small boats no less
laden than the first one.
The sun lighted up all these French flags, and my heart began to beat
more quickly.
I had been without any news for twelve days, as, in spite of all the
efforts of our good captain, _L’Amérique_ had taken twelve days for the
journey.
A man had just come on deck, and I rushed towards him with outstretched
hands, unable to utter a single word.
He gave me a packet of telegrams. I did not see any one present, and I
heard no sound. I wanted to know something. And among all the telegrams
I was searching first for one, just one name. At last I had it, the
telegram I had waited for, feared and hoped to receive, signed Maurice.
Here it was at last. I closed my eyes for a second, and during that time
I saw all that was dear to me and felt the infinite sweetness of it all.
When I opened my eyes again I was slightly embarrassed, for I was
surrounded by a crowd of unknown people, all of them silent and
indulgent, but evidently very curious. Wishing to go away, I took Mr.
Jarrett’s arm and went to the saloon. As soon as I entered the first
notes of the Marseillaise rang out, and our Consul spoke a few words of
welcome and handed me some flowers. A group representing the French
colony presented me with a friendly address. Then M. Mercier, the editor
of the _Courrier des Etats Unis_, made a speech, as witty as it was
kindly. It was a thoroughly French speech. Then came the terrible moment
of introductions. Oh, what a tiring time that was! My mind was kept at a
tension to catch the names. Mr. Pemb——, Madame Harth——, with the _h_
aspirated. With great difficulty I grasped the first syllable, and the
second finished in a confusion of muffled vowels and hissing consonants.
By the time the twentieth name was pronounced I had given up listening;
I simply kept on with my little _risorius de Santorini_, half closed my
eyes, held out mechanically the arm at the end of which was the hand
that had to shake and be shaken. I replied all the time: “_Combien je
suis charmée, Madame.... Oh! Certainement.... Oh oui!... Oh non!...
Ah!... Oh!... Oh!..._” I was getting dazed, idiotic—worn out with
standing. I had only one idea, and that was to get my rings off the
fingers that were swelling with the repeated grips they were enduring.
My eyes were getting larger and larger with terror as they gazed at the
door through which the crowd continued to stream in my direction. There
were still the names of all these people to hear and all these hands to
shake. My _risorius de Santorini_ must still go on working more than
fifty times. I could feel the beads of perspiration standing out under
my hair, and I began to get terribly nervous. My teeth chattered and I
commenced stammering: “_Oh, Madame!... Oh!... Je suis cha——cha——_” I
really could not go on any longer. I felt that I should get angry or
burst out crying—in fact, that I was about to make myself ridiculous. I
decided therefore to faint. I made a movement with my hand as though it
wanted to continue but could not. I opened my mouth, closed my eyes, and
fell gently into Jarrett’s arms. “Quick! Air!... A doctor!... Poor
thing.... How pale she is! Take her hat off!... Loosen her corset!...
She doesn’t wear one. Unfasten her dress!...” I was terrified, but
Félicie was called up in haste, and _mon petit Dame_ would not allow any
_deshabillage_. The doctor came back with a bottle of ether. Félicie
seized the bottle.
“Oh no, doctor—not ether! When Madame is quite well the odour of ether
will make her faint.”
This was quite true, and I thought it was time to come to my senses
again. The reporters were arriving, and there were more than twenty of
them; but Jarrett, who was very much affected, asked them to go to the
Albemarle Hotel, where I was to put up. I saw each of the reporters take
Jarrett aside, and when I asked him what the secret was of all these
“asides,” he answered phlegmatically, “I have made an appointment with
them for one o’clock. There will be a fresh one every ten minutes.” I
looked at him, petrified with astonishment. He met my anxious gaze and
said:
“_Ah oui; il était nécessaire._”
On arriving at the Albemarle Hotel I felt tired and nervous, and wanted
to be left quite alone. I hurried away at once to my room in the suite
that had been engaged for me, and fastened the doors. There was neither
lock nor bolt on one of them, but I pushed a piece of furniture against
it, and then refused emphatically to open it. There were about fifty
people waiting in the drawing-room, but I had that feeling of awful
weariness which makes one ready to go to the most violent extremes for
the sake of an hour’s repose. I wanted to lie down on the rug, cross my
arms, throw my head back, and close my eyes. I did not want to talk any
more, and I did not want to have to smile or look at any one. I threw
myself down on the floor, and was deaf to the knocks on my door and to
Jarrett’s supplications. I did not want to argue the matter, so I did
not utter a word. I heard the murmur of grumbling voices, and Jarrett’s
words tactfully persuading the visitors to stay. I heard the rustle of
paper being pushed under the door, and Madame Guérard whispering to
Jarrett, who was furious.
“You don’t know her, Monsieur Jarrett,” I heard her say. “If she thought
you were forcing the door open, against which she has pushed the
furniture, she would jump out of the window!”