I got to the theatre to dress it was mid-day, for the _matinée_ was to
commence at half-past one. My carriage stopped, not being able to get
along, for the street was filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they
had borrowed from the neighbouring shops, or on folding seats which they
had brought themselves. The play was _La Dame aux Camélias_. I had to
get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five yards on foot in order
to get to the stage door. It took me twenty-five minutes to do it.
People shook my hands and begged me to come back. One lady took off her
brooch and pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts
surrounded by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch had
its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled out her note-
book and begged me to write my name. The idea took like lightning. Small
boys under the care of their parents wanted me to write my name on their
cuffs. My arms were full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my
hands. I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I
turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in her hand had
tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she only succeeded in cutting
the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett signalled and shouted. I
could not get along. They sent for the police, who delivered me, but
without any ceremony either for my admirers or for myself. Those
policemen were real brutes, and they made me very angry. I played _La
Dame aux Camélias_, and I counted seventeen calls after the third act
and twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of the cheering and
calls the play had lasted an hour longer than usual, and I was half dead
with fatigue. I was just about to go to my carriage to get back to my
hotel, when Jarrett came to tell me that there were more than 50,000
people waiting outside. I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened.
“Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed. I am tired out. I can do
no more.”
But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius.
“Come,” said he to my sister. “Put on Madame’s hat and boa and take my
arm. And take also these bouquets—give me what you cannot carry. And now
we will go to your sister’s carriage and make our bow.”
He said all this in English, and Jarrett translated it to my sister, who
willingly accepted her part in this little comedy. During this time
Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which was stationed in front of
the theatre where no one was waiting. And it was fortunate we took this
course, for my sister only got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour
later, very tired, but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my
hat, my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices of the
little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic public.
We had to set out at nine o’clock for Menlo Park. We had to dress in
travelling costume, for the following day we were to leave for Boston,
and my trunks were leaving the same day with my company, which preceded
me by several hours.
Our meal was, as usual, very bad, for in those days in America the food
was unspeakably awful. At ten o’clock we took the train—a pretty special
train, all decorated with flowers and banners, which they had been kind
enough to prepare for me. But it was a painful journey all the same, for
at every moment we had to pull up to allow another train to pass or an
engine to manœuvre, or to wait to pass over the points. It was two
o’clock in the morning when the train at last reached the station of
Menlo Park, the residence of Thomas Edison.
It was a very dark night, and the snow was falling silently in heavy
flakes. A carriage was waiting, and the one lamp of this carriage served
to light up the whole station, for orders had been given that the
electric lights should be put out. I found my way with the help of
Jarrett and some of my friends who had accompanied us from New York. The
intense cold froze the snow as it fell, and we walked over veritable
blocks of sharp, jagged ice, which crackled under our feet. Behind the
first carriage was another heavier one, with only one horse and no lamp.
There was room for five or six persons to crowd into this. We were ten
in all. Jarrett, Abbey, my sister, and I took our places in the first
one, leaving the others to get into the second. We looked like a band of
conspirators. The dark night, the two mysterious carriages, the silence
caused by the icy coldness, the way in which we were muffled in our
furs, and our anxious expression as we glanced around us—all this made
our visit to the celebrated Edison resemble a scene out of an operetta.
The carriage rolled along, sinking deep into the snow and jolting
terribly; the jolts made us dread every instant some tragi-comic
accident.
I cannot tell how long we had been rolling along, for, lulled by the
movement of the carriage and buried in my warm furs, I was quietly
dozing, when a formidable “Hip, hip, hurrah!” made us all jump, my
travelling companions, the coachman, the horse, and I. As quick as
thought the whole country was suddenly illuminated. Under the trees, on
the trees, among the bushes, along the garden walks, lights flashed
forth triumphantly.
The wheels of the carriage turned a few more times, and then drew up at
the house of the famous Thomas Edison. A group of people awaited us on
the verandah—four men, two ladies, and a young girl. My heart began to
beat quickly as I wondered which of these men was Edison. I had never
seen his photograph, and I had the greatest admiration for his genial
brain. I sprang out of the carriage, and the dazzling electric light
made it seem like day-time to us. I took the bouquet which Mrs. Edison
offered me, and thanked her for it, but all the time I was endeavouring
to discover which of these was the great man.
They all four advanced towards me, but I noticed the flush that came
into the face of one of them, and it was so evident from the expression
of his blue eyes that he was intensely bored that I guessed this was
Edison. I felt confused and embarrassed myself, for I knew very well
that I was causing inconvenience to this man by my visit. He of course
imagined that it was due to the idle curiosity of a foreigner eager to
court publicity. He was no doubt thinking of the interviewing in store
for him the following day, and of the stupidities he would be made to
utter. He was suffering beforehand at the idea of the ignorant questions
I should ask him, of all the explanations he would out of politeness be
obliged to give me, and at that moment Thomas Edison took a dislike to
me. His wonderful blue eyes, more luminous than his incandescent lamps,
enabled me to read his thoughts. I immediately understood that he must
be won over, and my combative instinct had recourse to all my powers of
fascination in order to vanquish this delightful but bashful _savant_. I
made such an effort, and succeeded so well that half an hour later we
were the best of friends.
I followed him about quickly, climbing up staircases as narrow and steep
as ladders, crossing bridges suspended in the air above veritable
furnaces, and he explained everything to me. I understood all, and I
admired him more and more, for he was so simple and charming, this king
of light.
As we were leaning over a slightly unsteady bridge above the terrible
abyss, in which immense wheels encased in wide thongs were turning,
whirling about, and rumbling, he gave various orders in a clear voice,
and light then burst forth on all sides, sometimes in sputtering
greenish jets, sometimes in quick flashes, or in serpentine trails like
streams of fire. I looked at this man of medium size, with rather a
large head and a noble-looking profile, and I thought of Napoleon I.
There is certainly a great physical resemblance between these two men,
and I am sure that one compartment of their brain would be found to be
identical. Of course I do not compare their genius. The one was
destructive and the other creative, but whilst I execrate battles I
adore victories, and in spite of his errors I have raised an altar in my
heart to that god of glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at Edison
thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who was dead. The
deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling rapidity of the changes
of light, all that together made my head whirl, and forgetting where I
was, I leaned for support on the slight balustrade which separated me
from the abyss beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger that before I
had recovered from my surprise Edison had helped me into an adjoining
room and installed me in an arm-chair without my realising how it had
all happened. He told me afterwards that I had turned dizzy.
After having done the honours of his telephonic discovery and of his
astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and took me to the
dining-room, where I found his family assembled. I was very tired, and
did justice to the supper that had been so hospitably prepared for us.
I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning, and this time the
country round, the roads and the station were all lighted up _à giorno_,
by the thousands of lamps of my kind host. What a strange power of
suggestion the darkness has! I thought I had travelled a long way that
night, and it seemed to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved
to be quite a short distance, and the roads were charming, although they
were now covered with snow. Imagination had played a great part during
the journey to Edison’s house, but reality played a much greater one
during the same journey back to the station. I was enthusiastic in my
admiration of the inventions of this man, and I was charmed with his
timid graciousness and perfect courtesy, and with his profound love of
Shakespeare.
XXXIV
AT BOSTON—STORY OF THE WHALE
The next day, or rather that same day, for it was then four in the
morning, I started with my company for Boston. Mr. Abbey, my
_impresario_, had arranged for me to have a delightful “car,” but it was
nothing like the wonderful Pullman car that I was to have from
Philadelphia for continuing my tour. I was very much pleased with this
one, nevertheless. In the middle of it there was a real bed, large and
comfortable, on a brass bedstead. Then there were an arm-chair, a pretty
dressing-table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and flowers
everywhere, but flowers without an overpowering perfume. In the car
adjoining mine were my own servants, who were also very comfortable. I
went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied, and woke up at Boston.
A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters and
curious men and women—a public decidedly more interested than friendly,
not badly intentioned, but by no means enthusiastic. Public opinion in
New York had been greatly occupied with me during the past month. I had
been so much criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid
and disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me. Some
people blamed and others admired the disdain with which I had treated
these turpitudes, but every one knew that I had won in the end and that
I had triumphed over all and everything. Boston knew, too, that
clergymen had preached from their pulpits saying that I had been sent by
the Old World to corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration
from hell, &c. &c. Every one knew all this, but the public wanted to see
for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women. Tradition says that
it was a woman who first set foot in Boston. Women form the majority
there. They are puritanical with intelligence, and independent with a
certain grace. I passed between the two lines formed by this strange,
courteous, and cold crowd, and just as I was about to get into my
carriage a lady advanced towards me and said, “Welcome to Boston,
Madame!”
“Welcome, Madame!” and she held out a soft little hand to me. (American
women generally have charming hands and feet.) Other people now
approached and smiled, and I had to shake hands with many of them.
I took a fancy to this city at once, but all the same I was furious for
a moment when a reporter sprang on the steps of the carriage just as we
were driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious than any
of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the limits, and I
pushed the impolite fellow back angrily. Jarrett was prepared for this,
and saved him by the collar of his coat; otherwise he would have fallen
down on the pavement as he deserved.
“At what time will you come and get on the whale to-morrow?” this
extraordinary personage asked. I gazed at him in bewilderment. He spoke
French perfectly, and repeated his question.
“He’s mad!” I said in a low voice to Jarrett.
“No, Madame; I am not mad, but I should like to know at what time you
will come and get on the whale? It would be better perhaps to come this
evening, for we are afraid it may die in the night, and it would be a
pity for you not to come and pay it a visit while it still has breath.”
He went on talking, and as he talked he half seated himself beside
Jarrett, who was still holding him by the collar lest he should fall out
of the carriage.
“But, Monsieur,” I exclaimed, “what do you mean? What is all this about
a whale?”
“Ah, Madame,” he replied, “it is admirable, enormous. It is in the
harbour basin, and there are men employed day and night to break the ice
all round it.”
He broke off suddenly, and standing on the carriage step he clutched the
driver.
“Stop! Stop!” he called out. “Hi! Hi! Henry, come here! Here’s Madame;
here she is!”
The carriage drew up, and without any further ceremony he jumped down
and pushed into my landau a little man, square all over, who was wearing
a fur cap pulled down over his eyes, and an enormous diamond in his
cravat. He was the strangest type of the old-fashioned Yankee. He did
not speak a word of French, but he took his seat calmly by Jarrett,
whilst the reporter remained half sitting and half hanging on to the
vehicle. There had been three of us when we started from the station,
and we were five when we reached the Hotel Vendome. There were a great
many people awaiting my arrival, and I was quite ashamed of my new
companion. He talked in a loud voice, laughed, coughed, spat, addressed
every one, and gave every one invitations. All the people seemed to be
delighted. A little girl threw her arms round her father’s neck,
exclaiming, “Oh yes, papa; do please let us go!”
“Well, but we must ask Madame,” he replied, and he came up to me in the
most polite and courteous manner. “Will you kindly allow us to join your
party when you go to see the whale to-morrow?” he asked.
“But, Monsieur,” I answered, delighted to have to do with a gentleman
once more, “I have no idea what all this means. For the last quarter of
an hour this reporter and that extraordinary man have been talking about
a whale. They declare authoritatively that I must go and pay it a visit,
and I know absolutely nothing about it all. These two gentlemen took my
carriage by storm; installed themselves in it without my permission,
and, as you see, are giving invitations in my name to people I do not
know, asking them to go with me to a place about which I know nothing,
for the purpose of paying a visit to a whale which is to be introduced
to me, and which is waiting impatiently to die in peace.”
The kindly disposed gentleman signed to his daughter to come with us,
and, accompanied by them, and by Jarrett and Madame Guérard, I went up
in a lift to the door of my suite of rooms. I found my apartments hung
with valuable pictures and full of magnificent statues. I felt rather
disturbed in my mind, for among these objects of art were two or three
very rare and beautiful things, which I knew must have cost an
exorbitant price. I was afraid lest any of them should be stolen, and I
spoke of my fear to the proprietor of the hotel.
“Mr. X., to whom the knick-knacks belong,” he answered, “wished you to
have them to look at as long as you are here, Mademoiselle; and when I
expressed my anxiety about them to him, just as you have done to me, he
merely remarked that ‘it was all the same to him.’ As to the pictures,
they belong to two wealthy Bostonians.” There was among them a superb
Millet, which I should very much have liked to own.
After expressing my gratitude and admiring these treasures, I asked for
an explanation of the story of the whale, and Mr. Max Gordon, the father
of the little girl, translated for me what the little man in the fur cap
had said. It appeared that he owned several fishing-boats, which he sent
out cod-fishing for his own benefit. One of these boats had captured an
enormous whale, which still had two harpoons in it. The poor creature
was thoroughly exhausted with its struggles, and only a few miles
distant along the coast, so it had been easy to capture it and bring it
in triumph to Henry Smith, the owner of the boats. It was difficult to
say by what freak of fancy and by what turn of the imagination this man
had arrived at associating in his mind the idea of the whale and my name
as a source of wealth. I could not understand it, but the fact remained
that he insisted in such a droll way, and so authoritatively and
energetically, that the following morning at seven o’clock fifty of us
assembled, in spite of the icy cold rain, on the quay.
Mr. Gordon had given orders that his mail coach with four beautiful
horses should be in readiness. He drove himself, and his daughter,
Jarrett, my sister, Madame Guérard, and another elderly lady, whose name
I have forgotten, were with us. Seven other carriages followed. It was
all very amusing indeed.
On our arrival at the quay we were received by this comic Henry, shaggy-
looking this time from head to foot, and his hands encased in fingerless
woollen gloves. Only his eyes and his huge diamond shone out from his
furs. I walked along the quay, very much amused and interested. There
were a few idlers looking on also, and alas!—three times over
alas!—there were reporters.
Henry’s shaggy paw then seized my hand, and he drew me along with him
quickly to the steps.
I only just escaped breaking my neck at least a dozen times. He pushed
me along, made me stumble down the ten steps of the basin, and I next
found myself on the back of the whale. They assured me that it still
breathed, but I should not like to affirm that it really did; but the
splashing of the water breaking its eddy against the poor creature
caused it to oscillate slightly. Then, too, it was covered with glazed
frost, and twice I fell down full length on its spine. I laugh about it
now, but I was furious then.
Every one around me insisted, however, on my pulling a piece of
whalebone from the blade of the poor captured creature, one of those
little bones which are used for women’s corsets. I did not like to do
this, as I feared to cause it suffering, and I was sorry for the poor
thing, as three of us—Henry, the little Gordon girl, and I—had been
skating about on its back for the last ten minutes. Finally I decided to
do it. I pulled out the little whale bone, and went up the steps again,
holding my poor trophy in my hand. I felt nervous and flustered, and
every one surrounded me.
I was annoyed with this Henry Smith. I did not want to return to the
coach, as I thought I could hide bad temper better in one of the huge,
gloomy-looking landaus which followed, but the charming Miss Gordon
asked me so sweetly why I would not ride with them that I felt my anger
melt away before the child’s smiling face.
“Would you like to drive?” her father asked me, and I accepted with
pleasure.
Jarrett immediately proceeded to get down from the coach as quickly as
his age and corpulence would allow him.
“If you are going to drive I prefer getting down,” he said, and he took
a seat in another carriage. I changed places boldly with Mr. Gordon in
order to drive, and we had not gone a hundred yards before I had let the
horses make for a chemist’s shop along the quay and got the coach itself
up on to the footpath, so that if it had not been for the quickness and
energy of Mr. Gordon we should all have been killed. On arriving at the
hotel I went to bed, and stayed there until it was time for the theatre
in the evening. We played _Hernani_ that night to a full house.
The seats had been sold to the highest bidders, and considerable prices
were obtained for them. We gave fifteen performances at Boston, at an
average of nineteen thousand francs for each performance. I was sorry to
leave that city, as I had spent two charming weeks there, my mind all
the time on the alert when holding conversations with the Boston women.
They are Puritans from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot,
but they are indulgent, and there is no bitterness about their
Puritanism. What struck me most about the women of Boston was the
harmony of their gestures and the softness of their voices. Brought up
among the severest and harshest of traditions, the Bostonian race seems
to me to be the most refined and the most mysterious of all the American
races.
As the women are in the majority in Boston, many of the young girls
remain unmarried. All their vital forces which they cannot expend in
love and in maternity they employ in fortifying and making supple the
beauty of their body by means of exercise and sports, without losing any
of their grace. All the reserves of heart are expended in
intellectuality. They adore music, the stage, literature, painting, and
poetry. They know everything and understand everything, are chaste and
reserved, and neither laugh nor talk very loud.
They are as far removed from the Latin race as the North Pole is from
the South Pole, but they are interesting, delightful, and captivating.
It was therefore with a rather heavy heart that I left Boston for New
Haven, and to my great surprise, on arriving at the hotel there I found
Henry Smith the famous whale man.
“Oh, Heavens!” I exclaimed, flinging myself into an arm-chair, “what
does this man want now with me?”
I was not left in ignorance very long, for the most infernal noise of
brass instruments, drums, trumpets, and, I should think, saucepans, drew
me to the window. I saw an immense carriage surrounded by an escort of
negroes dressed as minstrels. On this carriage was an abominable,
monstrous coloured advertisement representing me standing on the whale,
tearing away its blade while it struggled to defend itself.
Some sandwich-men followed with posters on which were written the
following words:
“COME AND SEE
THE ENORMOUS CETACEAN
WHICH
SARAH BERNHARDT
KILLED
BY TEARING OUT ITS WHALEBONE FOR HER CORSETS.
THESE ARE MADE BY MADAME LILY NOE,
WHO LIVES,” ETC. ETC.
Some of the other sandwich-men carried posters with these words:
“THE WHALE IS JUST AS FLOURISHING (_sic_) AS
WHEN IT WAS ALIVE!
It has five hundred dollars’ worth of salt in its stomach,
and every day the ice upon which it is resting is
renewed at a cost of one hundred dollars!”
My face turned more livid than that of a corpse, and my teeth chattered
with fury on seeing this.
Henry Smith advanced towards me, and I struck him in my anger, and then
rushed away to my room, where I sobbed with vexation, disgust, and utter
weariness.
I wanted to start back to Europe at once, but Jarrett showed me my
contract. I then wanted to take steps to have this odious exhibition
stopped, and in order to calm me I was promised that this should be
done, but in reality nothing was done at all.
Two days later I was at Hartford, and the same whale was there. It
continued its tour as I continued mine.
They gave it more salt and renewed its ice, and it went on its way, so
that I came across it everywhere. I took proceedings about it, but in
every State I was obliged to begin all over again, as the law varied in
the different States. And every time I arrived at a fresh hotel I found
there an immense bouquet awaiting me, with the horrible card of the
showman of the whale. I threw his flowers on the ground and trampled on
them, and much as I love flowers, I had a horror of these. Jarrett went
to see the man and begged him not to send me any more bouquets, but it
was all of no use, as it was the man’s way of avenging the box on the
ears I had given him. Then too he could not understand my anger. He was
making any amount of money, and had even proposed that I should accept a
percentage of the receipts. Ah, I would willingly have killed that
execrable Smith, for he was poisoning my life. I could see nothing else
in all the different cities I visited, and I used to shut my eyes to go
from the hotel to the theatre. When I heard the minstrels I used to fly
into a rage and turn green with anger. Fortunately I was able to rest
when once I reached Montreal, where I was not followed by this show. I
should certainly have been ill if it had continued, as I saw nothing but
that, I could think of nothing else, and my very dreams were about it.
It haunted me; it was an obsession and a perpetual nightmare. When I
left Hartford, Jarrett swore to me that Smith would not be at Montreal,
as he had been taken suddenly ill. I strongly suspected that Jarrett had
found a way of administering to him some violent kind of medicine which
had stopped his journeying for the time. I felt sure of this, as the
ferocious gentleman laughed so heartily _en route_, but anyhow I was
infinitely grateful to him for ridding me of the man for the present.
XXXV
MONTREAL’S GRAND RECEPTION—THE POET FRÉCHETTE—AN ESCAPADE ON THE ST.
LAWRENCE RIVER