For a long time, ever since my earliest childhood, I had dreamed about
Canada. I had always heard my godfather regret, with considerable fury,
the surrender of that territory by France to England.
I had heard him enumerate, without very clearly understanding them, the
pecuniary advantages of Canada, the immense fortune that lay in its
lands, &c., and that country had seemed to my imagination the far-off
promised land.
Awakened some considerable time before by the strident whistle of the
engine, I asked what time it was. Eleven o’clock in the evening, I was
informed. We were within fifteen minutes of the station. The sky was
black and smooth, like a steel shield. Lanterns placed at distant
intervals caught the whiteness of the snow heaped up there for how many
days? The train stopped suddenly, and then started again with such a
slow and timid movement that I fancied that there might be a possibility
of its running off the rails. But a deadened sound, growing louder every
second, fell upon my attentive ears. This sound soon resolved itself
into music—and it was in the midst of a formidable “Hurrah! long live
France!” shouted by ten thousand throats, strengthened by an orchestra
playing the “Marseillaise” with a frenzied fury, that we made our entry
into Montreal.
The place where the train stopped in those days was very narrow. A
somewhat high bank served as a rampart for the slight platform of the
station.
Standing on the small step of my carriage, I looked with emotion upon
the strange spectacle I had before me. The bank was packed with bears
holding lanterns. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. In the
narrow space between the bank and the train, which had come to a stop,
there were more bears, large and small, and I wondered with terror how I
should manage to reach my sleigh.
Jarrett and Abbey caused the crowd to make way, and I got out. But a
deputy, whose name I cannot make out on my notes (what commendation for
my writing!)—a deputy advanced towards me and handed me an address
signed by the notabilities of the city. I returned thanks as best I
could, and took the magnificent bouquet of flowers that was tendered in
the name of the signatories to the address. When I lifted the flowers to
my face in order to smell them I hurt myself slightly with their pretty
petals, which were frozen by the cold.
However, I began myself to feel both arms and legs were getting
benumbed. The cold crept over my whole body. That night, it appears, was
one of the coldest that had been experienced for many years past.
The women who had come to be present at the arrival of the French
company had been compelled to withdraw into the interior of the station,
with the exception of Mrs. Jos. Doutre, who handed me a bouquet of rare
flowers and gave me a kiss. The temperature was twenty-two degrees below
zero. I whispered low to Jarrett, “Let us continue our journey; I am
turning into ice. In ten minutes I shall not be able to move a step.”
Jarrett repeated my words to Abbey, who applied to the Chief of Police.
The latter gave orders in English, and another police officer repeated
them in French. And we were able to proceed for a few yards. But the
main station was still some way off. The crowd grew bigger, and at one
time I felt as though I were about to faint. I took courage, however,
holding or rather hanging on to the arms of Jarrett and Abbey. Every
minute I thought I should fall, for the platform was like a mirror.
We were obliged, however, to stay further progress. A hundred lanterns,
held aloft by a hundred students’ hands, suddenly lit up the place.
A tall young man separated himself from the group and came straight
towards me, holding a wide unrolled piece of paper, and in a loud voice
declaimed:
A SARAH BERNHARDT.
Salut, Sarah! salut, charmante dona Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Notre sol tout couvert de givre,
Est-ce frisson d’orgueil ou d’amour? je ne sais;
Mais nous sentons courir dans notre sang français
Quelque chose qui nous enivre!
Femme vaillante au cœur saturé d’idéal,
Puisque tu n’as pas craint notre ciel boréal,
Ni redouté nos froids sévères.
Merci! De l’âpre hiver pour longtemps prisonniers,
Nous rêvons à ta vue aux rayons printaniers
Qui font fleurir les primevères!
Oui, c’est au doux printemps que tu nous fais rêver!
Oiseau des pays bleus, lorsque tu viens braver
L’horreur de nos saisons perfides,
Aux clairs rayonnements d’un chaud soleil de mai,
Nous croyons voir, du fond d’un bosquet parfumé,
Surgir la reine des sylphides.
Mais non: de floréal ni du blond messidor,
Tu n’es pas, O Sarah, la fée aux ailes d’or
Qui vient répandre l’ambroisie;
Nous saluons en toi l’artiste radieux
Qui sut cueillir d’assaut dans le jardin des dieux
Toutes les fleurs de poesie!
Que sous ta main la toile anime son réseau;
Que le paros brilliant vive sous ton ciseau,
Ou l’argile sous ton doigt rose;
Que sur la scène, au bruit délirant des bravos,
En types toujours vrais, quoique toujours nouveaux,
Ton talent se métamorphose;
Soit que, peintre admirable ou sculpteur souverain,
Toi-même oses ravir la muse au front serein,
A ta sourire toujours prête;
Soit qu’aux mille vivats de la foule à genoux,
Des grands maîtres anciens ou modernes, pour nous
Ta voix se fasse l’interprète;
Des bords de la Tamise aux bords du Saint-Laurent,
Qu’il soit enfant du peuple ou brille au premier rang,
Laissant glapir la calomnie,
Tour à tour par ton œuvre et ta grâce enchanté
Chacun courbe le front devant la majesté
De ton universel génie!
Salut donc, O Sarah! salut, O dona Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Te montrer de l’indifférence
Serait à notre sang nous-mêmes faire affront;
Car l’étoile qui luit la plus belle à ton front,
C’est encore celle de la France!
LOUIS FRÉCHETTE.
He read very well, it is true; but those lines, read at a temperature of
twenty-two degrees of cold to a poor woman dumfounded through listening
to a frenzied “Marseillaise,” stunned by the mad hurrahs from ten
thousand throats delirious with patriotic fervour, were more than my
strength could bear.
I made superhuman efforts at resistance, but was overwhelmed with
fatigue. Everything appeared to be turning round in a mad farandole. I
felt myself raised from the ground, and heard a voice which seemed to
come from far away, “Make room for our French lady!” Then I heard
nothing further, and only recovered my senses in my room at the Hotel
Windsor.
My sister Jeanne had become separated from me by the movement of the
crowd. But the poet Fréchette, a Franco-Canadian, acted as escort, and
brought her several minutes later, safe and sound, but trembling on my
account, and this is what she told me. “Just imagine. When the crowd was
pressing against you, seized with terror on seeing your head fall back
with closed eyes on to Abbey’s shoulder,” I shouted out, ‘Help! My
sister is being killed.’ I had become mad. A man of enormous size, who
had followed us for a long time, worked his elbows and hips to make the
enthusiastic but overexcited mob give way, with a quick movement placed
himself before you just in time to prevent you from falling. The man,
whose face I could not see on account of its being hidden beneath a fur
cap, the ear flaps of which covered almost his entire face, raised you
up as though you had been a flower, and held forth to the crowd in
English. I did not understand anything he said, but the Canadians were
struck with it, for the pushing ceased, and the crowd separated into two
compact files in order to let you pass through. I can assure you that it
made me feel quite impressed to see you, so slender, with your head
back, and the whole of your poor frame borne at arm’s length by that
Hercules. I followed as fast as I could, but having caught my foot in
the flounce of my skirt, I had to stop for a second, and that second was
enough to separate us completely. The crowd, having closed up after your
passage, formed an impenetrable barrier. “I can assure you, dear sister,
that I felt anything but at ease, and it was M. Fréchette who saved me.”
I shook the hand of that worthy gentleman, and thanked him this time as
well as I could for his fine poem; then I spoke to him of other poems of
his, a volume of which I had obtained at New York, for alas! to my shame
I must acknowledge it, I knew nothing about Fréchette up to the time of
my departure from France, and yet he was already known a little in
Paris.
He was very much touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as the
finest of his work. He thanked me. We remained friends.
The day following, nine o’clock had hardly struck when a card was sent
up to me on which were written these words, “He who had the joy of
saving you, Madame, begs that your kindness will grant him a moment’s
interview.” I directed that the man should be shown into the drawing-
room, and after notifying Jarrett, went to waken my sister. “Come with
me,” I said. She slipped on a Chinese dressing-gown, and we went in the
direction of the large, the immense drawing-room of my suite, for a
bicycle would have been necessary to traverse without fatigue the entire
length of my rooms, drawing-room, dining-room and bedroom. On opening
the door I was struck by the beauty of the man who was before me. He was
very tall, with wide shoulders, small head, a hard look, hair thick and
curly, tanned complexion. The man was fine-looking, but seemed uneasy.
He blushed slightly on seeing me. I expressed my gratitude, and asked to
be excused for my foolish weakness. I received joyfully the bouquet of
violets he handed me. On taking leave he said in a low voice, “If you
ever hear who I am, swear that you will only think of the slight service
I have rendered you.” At that moment Jarrett entered. His face was pale,
as he walked towards the stranger and spoke to him in English. I could,
however, catch the words, “detective ... door ... assassination ...
impossibility ... New Orleans.” The stranger’s sunburnt complexion
became chalky, his nostrils quivered as he glanced towards the door.
Then, as flight appeared impossible, he looked at Jarrett and in a
peremptory tone, as cold as flint, said, “Well!” as he went towards the
door. My hands, which had opened under the stupor, let fall his bouquet,
which he picked up whilst looking at me with a supplicating and
appealing air. I understood, and said to him in a loud tone of voice, “I
swear to it, Monsieur.” The man disappeared with his flowers. I heard
the uproar of people behind the door and of the crowd in the street. I
did not wish to listen to anything further.
When my sister, of a romantic and foolish turn of mind, wished to tell
me about the horrible thing, I closed my ears.
Four months afterwards, when an attempt was made to read aloud to me an
account of his death by hanging, I refused to hear anything about it.
And now after twenty-six years have passed and I know, I only wish to
remember the service rendered and my pledged word.
This incident left me somewhat sad. The anger of the Bishop of Montreal
was necessary to enable me to regain my good humour. That prelate, after
holding forth in the pulpit against the immorality of French literature,
forbade his flock to go the theatre. He spoke violently and spitefully
against modern France. As to Scribe’s play (_Adrienne Lecouvreur_), he
tore it into shreds, as it were, declaiming against the immoral love of
the _comédienne_ and of the hero and against the adulterous love of the
Princesse de Bouillon. But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and
he cried out, with fury intensified by outrage: “In this infamous
lucubration of French authors there is a court abbé, who, thanks to the
unbounded licentiousness of his expressions, constitutes a direct insult
to the clergy.” Finally he pronounced an anathema against Scribe, who
was already dead, against Legouvé, against me, and against all my
company. The result was that crowds came from everywhere, and the four
performances, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame aux Camélias_
(matinée), and _Hernani_ had a colossal success and brought in fabulous
receipts.
I was invited by the poet Fréchette and a banker whose name I do not
remember to pay a visit to the Iroquois. I accepted with joy, and went
there accompanied by my sister, Jarrett, and Angelo, who was always
ready for a dangerous excursion. I felt in safety in the presence of
this artiste, full of bravery and composure, and gifted with herculean
strength. The only thing he lacked to make him perfect was talent. He
had none then, and never did have any.
The St. Lawrence river was frozen over almost entirely; we crossed it in
a carriage along a route indicated by two rows of branches fixed in the
ice. We had four carriages. The distance between Caughnanwaga and
Montreal was five kilometres.
This visit to the Iroquois was deliciously enchanting. I was introduced
to the chief, father, and mayor of the Iroquois tribes. Alas! this
former chief, son of “Big White Eagle,” surnamed during his childhood
“Sun of the Nights,” now clothed in sorry European rags, was selling
liquor, thread, needles, flax, pork fat, chocolate, &c. All that
remained of his mad rovings through the old wild forests—when he roamed
naked over a land free of all allegiance—was the stupor of the bull held
prisoner by the horns. It is true he also sold brandy, and that he
quenched his thirst, as did all of them, at that source of
forgetfulness.
Sun of the Nights introduced me to his daughter, a girl of eighteen to
twenty years of age, insipid, and devoid of beauty and grace.
She sat down at the piano and played a tune that was popular at the
time—I do not remember what. I was in a hurry to leave the store, the
home of these two victims of civilisation.
I visited Caughnanwaga, but found no pleasure in it. The same
compression of the throat, the same retrospective anguish, caused me to
revolt against man’s cowardice which hid under the name of civilisation
the most unjust and most protected of crimes.
I returned to Montreal somewhat sad and tired. The success of our four
performances was extraordinary, but what gave them a special charm in my
eyes was the infernal and joyous noise made by the students. The doors
of the theatre were opened every day one hour in advance for them. They
then arranged matters to suit themselves. Most of them were gifted with
magnificent voices. They separated into groups according to the
requirements of the songs they wished to sing. They then prepared, by
means of a strong string worked by a pulley, the aerial route that was
to be followed by the flower-bedecked baskets which descended from their
paradise to where I was. They tied ribbons round the necks of doves
bearing sonnets and good wishes.
These flowers and birds were sent off during the “calls,” and by a happy
disposition of the strings the flowers fell at my feet, the doves flew
where their astonishment led them; and every evening these messages of
grace and beauty were repeated. I experienced considerable emotion the
first evening. The Marquis of Lorne, son-in-law of Queen Victoria,
Governor of Canada, was of royal punctuality. The students knew it. The
house was noisy and quivering. Through an opening in the curtain I gazed
on the composition of this assembly. All of a sudden a silence came over
it without any outward reason for it, and the “Marseillaise” was sung by
three hundred warm young male voices. With a courtesy full of grandeur
the Governor stood up at the first notes of our national hymn. The whole
house was on its feet in a second, and the magnificent anthem echoed in
our hearts like a call from the mother-country. I do not believe I ever
heard the “Marseillaise” sung with keener emotion and unanimity. As soon
as it was over, the plaudits of the crowd broke out three times over;
then, upon a sharp gesture from the Governor, the band played “God save
the Queen.”
I never saw a prouder or more dignified gesture than that of the Marquis
of Lorne when he motioned to the conductor of the orchestra. He was
quite willing to allow these sons of submissive Frenchmen to feel a
regret, perhaps even a flickering hope. The first on his feet, he
listened to that fine plaint with respect, but he smothered its last
echo beneath the English National Anthem.
Being an Englishman, he was incontestably right in doing so.
I gave for the last performance, on December 25, Christmas Day,
_Hernani_.
The Bishop of Montreal again thundered against me, against Scribe and
Legouvé, and the poor artistes who had come with me, who could not help
it. I do not know whether he did not even threaten to excommunicate all
of us, living and dead. Lovers of France and French art, in order to
reply to his abusive attack, unyoked my horses, and my sleigh was almost
carried by an immense crowd, among which were the deputies and
notabilities of the city.
One has only to consult the daily papers of that period to realise the
crushing effect caused by such a triumphant return to my hotel.
The day following, Sunday, I went at seven o’clock in the morning, in
company with Jarrett and my sister, for a promenade on the banks of the
St. Lawrence river. At a given moment I ordered the carriage to stop,
with the object of walking a little way.
My sister laughingly said, “What if we climb on to that large piece of
ice that seems ready to crack?”
No sooner thought of than done.
And behold both of us walking on the ice, trying to break it loose! All
of a sudden a loud shout from Jarrett made us understand that we had
succeeded. As a matter of fact, our ice barque was already floating free
in the narrow channel of the river that remained always open on account
of the force of the current. My sister and I sat down, for the piece of
ice rocked about in every direction, making both of us laugh
inordinately. Jarrett’s cries caused people to gather. Men armed with
boat-hooks endeavoured to stop our progress, but it was not easy, for
the edges of the channel were too friable to bear the weight of a man.
Ropes were thrown out to us. We caught hold of one of them with our four
hands, but the sudden pull of the men in drawing us towards them cast
our raft so suddenly against the ice edges that it broke in two, and we
remained, full of fear this time, on one small part of our skiff. I
laughed no longer, for we were beginning to travel somewhat fast, and
the channel was opening out in width. But in one of the turns it made we
were fortunately squeezed in between two immense blocks, and to this
fact we owed being able to escape with our lives.
The men who had followed our very rapid ride with real courage climbed
on to the blocks. A harpoon was thrown with marvellous skill on to our
icy wreck so as to retain us in our position, for the current, rather
strong underneath, might have caused us to move. A ladder was brought
and planted against one of the large blocks; its steps afforded us means
of delivery. My sister was the first to climb up, and I followed,
somewhat ashamed at our ridiculous escapade.
During the length of time required to regain the bank the carriage, with
Jarrett in it, was able to rejoin us. He was pallid, not from fear of
the danger I had undergone, but at the idea that if I died the tour
would come to an end. He said to me quite seriously, “If you had lost
your life, Madame, you would have been dishonest, for you would have
broken your contract of your own free will.”
We had just enough time to get to the station, where the train was ready
to take me to Springfield.
An immense crowd was waiting, and it was with the same cry of love,
underlined with _au revoirs_, that the Canadian public wished us good-
bye.
XXXVI
SPRINGFIELD—BALTIMORE—PHILADELPHIA—CHICAGO—ADVENTURES BETWEEN ST. LOUIS
AND CINCINNATI—CAPITAL PUNISHMENT
After our immense and noisy success at Montreal, we were somewhat
surprised with the icy welcome of the public at Springfield.
We played _La Dame aux Camélias_—in America _Camille_, why, no one was
ever able to tell me. This play, which the public rushed to see in
crowds, shocked the over-strained Puritanism of the small American
towns. The critics of the large cities discussed this modern Magdalene.
But those of the small towns began by throwing stones at her. This
stilted reserve on the part of the public, prejudiced against the
impurity of Marguerite Gautier, we met with from time to time in the
small cities. Springfield at that time had barely thirty thousand
inhabitants.
During the day I passed at Springfield I called at a gunsmith’s to
purchase a rifle. The salesman showed me into a long and very narrow
courtyard, where I tried several shots. On turning round I was surprised
and confused to see two gentlemen taking an interest in my shooting. I
wished to withdraw at once, but one of them came up to me:
“Would you like, Madame, to come and fire off a cannon?” I almost fell
to the ground with surprise, and did not reply for a second. Then I
said, “Yes, I would.”
An appointment was made with my strange questioner, who was the director
of the Colt gun factory. An hour afterwards I went to the rendezvous.
More than thirty people who had been hastily invited were there already.
It got on my nerves a trifle. I fired off the newly invented quick-
firing cannon. It amused me very much without procuring me any emotion,
and that evening, after the icy performance, we left for Baltimore with
a vertiginous rush, the play having finished later than the hour fixed
for the departure of the train. It was necessary to catch it up at any
cost. The three enormous carriages that made up my special train went
off under full steam. With two engines, we bounded over the metals and
dropped again, thanks to some miracle.
We finally succeeded in catching up the express, which knew we were on
its track, having been warned by telegram. It made a short stop, just
long enough to couple us to it anyhow, and in that way we reached
Baltimore, where I stayed four days and gave five performances.
Two things struck me in that city: the deadly cold in the hotels and the
theatre, and the loveliness of the women.
I felt a profound sadness at Baltimore, for I spent the 1st of January
far from everything that was dear to me. I wept all night, and underwent
that moment of discouragement that makes one wish for death.
Our success, however, had been colossal in that charming city, which I
left with regret to go to Philadelphia, where we were to remain a week.
That handsome city I do not care for. I received an enthusiastic welcome
there, in spite of a change of programme the first evening. Two artistes
having missed the train, we could not play _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, and I
had to replace it by _Phèdre_, the only piece in which the absentees
could be replaced. The receipts averaged twenty thousand francs for the
seven performances given in six days. My sojourn was saddened by a
letter announcing the death of my friend Gustave Flaubert, the writer
who had the beauty of our language at heart.
From Philadelphia we proceeded to Chicago.
At the station I was received by a deputation of Chicago ladies, and a
bouquet of rare flowers was handed to me by a delightful young lady,
Madame Lily B.
Jarrett then led me into one of the rooms of the station, where the
French delegates were waiting.
A very short but highly emotional speech from our Consul spread
confidence and friendly feelings among every one, and after having
returned heartfelt thanks, I was preparing to leave the station, when I
stopped stupefied—and it seems that my features assumed such an intense
expression of suffering that everybody ran towards me to offer
assistance.
But a sudden anger electrified all my being, and I walked straight
towards the horrible vision that had just appeared before me—the whale
man! He was alive, that terrible Smith!—enveloped in furs, with diamonds
on all of his fingers. He was there with a bouquet in his hand, the
wretched brute! I refused the flowers and repulsed him with all my
strength, increased tenfold by anger, and a flood of confused words
escaped from my pallid lips. But this scene charmed him, for it was
repeated and spread about, magnified, and the whale had more visitors
than ever.