day, whose proprietor, Mr. Potter-Palmer, was a perfect gentleman,
courteous, kind, and generous, for he filled the immense apartment I
occupied with the rarest flowers, and taxed his ingenuity in order to
have my meals cooked and served in the French style, a difficult matter
in those days.
We were to remain a fortnight in Chicago. Our success exceeded all
expectations. These two weeks seemed to me the most agreeable days I had
had since my arrival in America. First of all, there was the vitality of
the city in which men pass each other without ever stopping, with
knitted brows, with one thought in mind, “the end to attain.” They move
on and on, never turning for a cry or prudent warning. What takes place
behind them matters little. They do not wish to know why a cry is
raised, and they have no time to be prudent: “the end to attain” awaits
them.
Women here, as everywhere else in America, do not work, but they do not
stroll about the streets, as in other cities: they walk quickly; they
also are in a hurry to seek amusement. During the day-time I went some
distance into the surrounding country in order not to meet the sandwich-
men advertising the whale.
One day I went to the pigs’ slaughter-house. Ah, what a dreadful and
magnificent sight! There were three of us, my sister, myself, and an
Englishman, a friend of mine.
On arrival we saw hundreds of pigs hurrying, bunched together, grunting
and snorting, along a small narrow raised bridge.
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT AND MEMBERS OF HER
COMPANY OUT SHOOTING
]
Our carriage passed under this bridge, and stopped before a group of men
who were waiting for us. The manager of the stock-yards received us and
led the way to the special slaughterhouses. On entering into the immense
shed, which is dimly lighted by windows with greasy and ruddy panes, an
abominable smell gets into your throat, a smell that only leaves one
several days afterwards. A sanguinary mist rises everywhere, like a
light cloud floating on the side of a mountain and lit up by the setting
sun. An infernal hubbub drums itself into your brain: the almost human
cries of the pigs being slaughtered, the violent strokes of the hatchets
lopping off the limbs, the repeated shouts of the “ripper,” who with a
superb and sweeping gesture lifts the heavy hatchet, and with one stroke
opens from top to bottom the unfortunate, quivering animal hung on a
hook. During the terror of the moment one hears the continuous grating
of the revolving razor which in one second removes the bristles from the
trunk thrown to it by the machine that has cut off the four legs; the
whistle of the escaping steam from the hot water in which the head of
the animal is scalded; the rippling of the water that is constantly
renewed; the cascade of the waste water; the rumbling of the small
trains carrying under wide arches trucks loaded with hams, sausages,
&c., and the whistling of the engines warning one of the danger of their
approach, which in this spot of terrible massacre seems to be the
perpetual knell of wretched agonies.
Nothing was more Hoffmanesque than this slaughter of pigs at the period
I am speaking about, for since then a sentiment of humanity has crept,
although still somewhat timidly, into this temple of porcine hecatombs.
I returned from this visit quite ill. That evening I played in _Phèdre_.
I went on to the stage quite unnerved, and trying to do everything to
get rid of the horrible vision of the stock-yard. I threw myself heart
and soul into my _rôle_, so much so that at the end of the fourth act I
absolutely fainted on the stage.
On the day of my last performance a magnificent collar of camellias in
diamonds was handed me on behalf of the ladies of Chicago. I left that
city fond of everything in it: its people; its lake, as big as a small
inland sea; its audiences, who were so enthusiastic; everything,
everything—except its stock-yards.
I did not even bear any ill-will towards the Bishop, who also, as had
happened in other cities, had denounced my art and French literature. By
the violence of his sermons he had, as a matter of fact, advertised us
so well that Mr. Abbey, the manager, wrote the following letter to him:
“Your Grace ——, Whenever I visit your city, I am accustomed to spend
four hundred dollars in advertising. But as you have done the
advertising for me, I send you two hundred dollars for your poor.
“HENRY ABBEY.”
We left Chicago to go to St. Louis, where we arrived after having
covered 283 miles in fourteen hours.
In the drawing-room of my car, Abbey and Jarrett showed me the statement
of the sixty-two performances that had been given since our arrival. The
gross receipts were $227,459, that is to say, 1,137,295 francs, an
average of 18,343 francs per performance. This gave me great pleasure on
Henry Abbey’s account, for he had lost all he had in his previous tour
with an admirable troop of opera artistes, and greater pleasure still on
my own account, as I was to receive a good share of the takings.
We stayed at St. Louis all the week, from January 24 to 31. I must admit
that this city, which was specially French, was less to my liking than
the other American cities, as it was dirty and the hotels were not very
comfortable. Since then St. Louis has made great strides, but it was the
Germans who planted there the bulb of progress. At the time of which I
speak, the year 1881, the city was repulsively dirty. In those days,
alas! we were not great at colonising, and all the cities where French
influence preponderated were poor and behind the times. I was bored to
death at St. Louis, and I wanted to leave the place at once, after
paying an indemnity to the manager, but Jarrett, the upright man, the
stern man of duty, the ferocious man, said to me, holding my contract in
his hand:
“No, Madame; you must stay. You can die of _ennui_ here if you like, but
stay you must.”
By way of entertaining me he took me to a celebrated grotto where we
were to see some millions of fish without eyes. The light had never
penetrated into this grotto, and as the first fish who lived there had
no use for their eyes, their descendants had no eyes at all. We went to
see this grotto. It was a long way off. We went down and groped our way
to the grotto very cautiously, on all fours like cats. The road seemed
to me interminable, but at last the guide told us that we had arrived at
our destination. We were able to stand upright again, as the grotto
itself was higher. I could see nothing, but I heard a match being
struck, and the guide then lighted a small lantern. Just in front of me,
nearly at my feet, was a rather deep natural basin. “You see,” remarked
our guide phlegmatically, “that is the pond, but just at present there
is no water in it; neither are there any fish. You must come again in
three months’ time.”
Jarrett made such a fearful grimace that I was seized with an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, of that kind of laughter which borders
on madness. I was suffocated with it, and I choked and laughed till the
tears came. I then went down into the basin of the pond in search of a
relic of some kind, a little skeleton of a dead fish, or anything, no
matter what. There was nothing to be found, though—absolutely nothing.
We had to return on all fours, as we came. I made Jarrett go first, and
the sight of his big back in his fur coat and of him walking on hands
and feet, grumbling and swearing as he went, gave me such delight that I
no longer regretted anything, and I gave ten dollars to the guide for
his ineffable surprise.
We returned to the hotel, and I was informed that a jeweller had been
waiting for me more than two hours. “A jeweller!” I exclaimed; “but I
have no intention of buying any jewellery. I have too much as it is.”
Jarrett, however, winked at Abbey, who was there as we entered. I saw at
once that there was some understanding between the jeweller and my two
_impresarii_. I was told that my ornaments needed cleaning, that the
jeweller would undertake to make them look like new, repair them if they
required it, and in a word exhibit them. I rebelled, but it was of no
use. Jarrett assured me that the ladies of St. Louis were particularly
fond of shows of this kind. He said it would be an excellent
advertisement; that my jewellery was very much tarnished, that several
stones were missing, and that this man would replace them for nothing.
“What a saving!” he added. “Just think of it!”
I gave up, for discussions of that kind bore me to death, and two days
later the ladies of St. Louis went to admire my ornaments in this
jeweller’s show-cases under a blaze of light. Poor Madame Guérard, who
also went to see them, came back horrified.
“They have added to your things,” she said, “sixteen pairs of ear-rings,
two necklaces, and thirty rings; a lorgnette studded with diamonds and
rubies, a gold cigarette-holder set with turquoises; a small pipe, the
amber mouthpiece of which is encircled with diamond stars; sixteen
bracelets, a tooth-pick studded with sapphires, a pair of spectacles
with gold mounts ending with small acorns of pearls.
“They must have been made specially,” said poor Guérard, “for there
can’t be any one who would wear such glasses, and, on them were written
the words, ‘Spectacles which Madame Sarah Bernhardt wears when she is at
home.’”
I certainly thought that this was exceeding all the limits allowed to
advertisement. To make me smoke pipes and wear spectacles was going
rather too far, and I got into my carriage and drove at once to the
jeweller’s. I arrived just in time to find the place closed. It was five
o’clock on Saturday afternoon; the lights were out, and everything was
dark and silent. I returned to the hotel, and spoke to Jarrett of my
annoyance. “What does it all matter, Madame?” he said tranquilly. “So
many girls wear spectacles; and as to the pipe, the jeweller tells me he
has received five orders from it, and that it is going to be quite the
fashion. Anyhow, it is of no use worrying about the matter, as the
exhibition is now over. Your jewellery will be returned to-night, and we
leave here the day after to-morrow.”
That evening the jeweller returned all the objects I had lent him, and
they had been polished and repaired so that they looked quite new. He
had included with them a gold cigarette-holder set with turquoises, the
very one that had been on view. I simply could not make that man
understand anything, and my anger cooled down when confronted by his
pleasant manner and his joy.
This advertisement, though, came very near costing me my life. Tempted
by this huge quantity of jewellery, the greater part of which did not
belong to me, a little band of sharpers planned to rob me, believing
that they would find all these valuables in the large hand-bag which my
steward always carried.
On Sunday, January 30, we left St. Louis at eight o’clock in the morning
for Cincinnati. I was in my magnificently appointed Pullman car, and I
had requested that the car should be put at the end of our special
train, so that from the platform I might enjoy the beauty of the
landscape, which passes before one like a continually changing living
panorama.
We had scarcely been more than ten minutes _en route_ when the guard
suddenly stooped down and looked over the little balcony. He then drew
back quickly, and his face turned pale. Seizing my hand, he said in a
very excited tone in English, “Please go inside, Madame!” I understood
that we were in danger of some kind. He pulled the alarm signal, made a
sign to another guard, and before the train had quite come to a
standstill the two men sprang down and disappeared under the train.
The guard had fired a revolver in order to attract every one’s
attention, and Jarrett, Abbey, and the artistes hurried out into the
narrow corridor. I found myself in the midst of them, and to our
stupefaction we saw the two guards dragging out from underneath my
compartment a man armed to the teeth. With a revolver held to his temple
on either side, he decided to confess the truth of the matter.
The jeweller’s exhibition had excited the envy of all the gangs of
thieves, and this man had been despatched by an organised band at St.
Louis to relieve me of my jewellery.
He was to unhook my carriage from the rest of the train between St.
Louis and Cincinnati, at a certain spot known as the “Little Incline.”
As this was to be done during the night, and as my carriage was the
last, the thing was comparatively easy, since it was only a question of
lifting the enormous hook and drawing it out of the link.
The man, a veritable giant, was fastened on to my carriage. We examined
his apparatus, and found that it merely consisted of very thick wide
straps of leather about half a yard wide. By means of these he was
secured firmly to the underpart of the train, with his hands perfectly
free. The courage and the _sang-froid_ of that man were admirable. He
told us that seven armed men were waiting for us at the Little Incline,
and that they certainly would not have injured us if we had not
attempted to resist, for all they wanted was my jewellery and the money
which the secretary carried (two thousand three hundred dollars). Oh, he
knew everything; he knew every one’s name, and he gabbled on in bad
French, “Oh, as for you, Madame, we should not have done you any harm,
in spite of your pretty little revolver. We should even have let you
keep it.”
And so this man and his gang knew that the secretary slept at my end of
the train, and that he was not to be dreaded much (poor Chatterton!);
that he had with him two thousand three hundred dollars, and that I had
a very prettily chased revolver, ornamented with cats-eyes. The man was
firmly bound and taken in charge by the two guards, and the train was
then backed into St. Louis; we had only started a quarter of an hour
before. The police were informed, and they sent us five detectives. A
goods train which should have departed half an hour before us was sent
on ahead of us. Eight detectives travelled on this goods train, and
received orders to get out at the Little Incline. Our giant was handed
over to the police authorities, but I was promised that he should be
dealt with mercifully on account of the confession he had made. Later on
I learnt that this promise had been kept, as the man was sent back to
his native country, Ireland.
From this time forth my compartment was always placed between two others
every night. In the day-time I was allowed to have my carriage at the
end on condition that I would agree to have on the platform an armed
detective whom I was to pay, by the way, for his services. Our dinner
was very gay, and every one was rather excited. As to the guard who had
discovered the giant hidden under the train, Abbey and I had rewarded
him so lavishly that he was intoxicated, and kept coming on every
occasion to kiss my hand and weep his drunkard’s tears, repeating all
the time, “I saved the French lady; I’m a gentleman.”
When finally we approached the Little Incline, it was dark. The engine-
driver wanted to rush along at full speed, but we had not gone five
miles when crackers exploded under the wheels and we were obliged to
slacken our pace. We wondered what new danger there was awaiting us, and
we began to feel anxious. The women were nervous, and some of them were
in tears. We went along slowly, peering into the darkness, trying to
make out the form of a man or of several men by the light of each
cracker. Abbey suggested going at full speed, because these crackers had
been placed along the line by the bandits, who had probably thought of
some way of stopping the train in case their giant did not succeed in
unhooking the carriage. The engine-driver refused to go more quickly,
declaring that these crackers were signals placed there by the railway
company, and that he could not risk every one’s life on a mere
supposition. The man was quite right, and he was certainly very brave.
“We can certainly settle a handful of ruffians,” he said, “but I could
not answer for any one’s life if the train went off the lines, clashed
into or collided with something, or went over a precipice.”
We continued therefore to go slowly. The lights had been turned off in
the car, so that we might see as much as possible without being seen
ourselves. We had tried to keep the truth from the artistes, except from
three men whom I had sent for to my carriage. The artistes really had
nothing to fear from the robbers, as I was the only person at whom they
were aiming. To avoid all unnecessary questions and evasive answers, we
sent the secretary to tell them that as there was some obstruction on
the line, the train had to go slowly. They were also told that one of
the gas-pipes had to be repaired before we could have the light again.
The communication was then cut between my car and the rest of the train.
We had been going along like this for ten minutes perhaps when
everything was suddenly lighted up by a fire, and we saw a gang of
railway-men hastening towards us. It makes me shudder now when I think
how nearly these poor fellows escaped being killed. Our nerves had been
in such a state of tension for several hours that we imagined at first
that these men were the wretched friends of the giant. Some one fired at
them, and if it had not been for our plucky engine-driver calling out to
them to stop, with the addition of a terrible oath, two or three of
these poor men would have been wounded. I too had seized my revolver,
but before I could have drawn out the ramrod which serves as a cog to
prevent it from going off, any one would have had time to seize me, bind
me, and kill me a hundred times over.
And still any time I go to a place where I think there is danger, I
invariably take my pistol with me, for it is a pistol, and not a
revolver. I always call it a revolver, but in reality it is a pistol,
and a very old-fashioned make too, with this ramrod and the trigger so
hard to pull that I have to use my other hand as well. I am not a bad
shot, for a woman, provided that I may take my time, but this is not
very easy when one wants to fire at a robber. And yet I always have my
pistol with me; it is here on my table, and I can see it as I write. It
is in its case, which is rather too narrow, so that it requires a
certain amount of strength and patience to pull it out. If an assassin
should arrive at this particular moment I should first have to unfasten
the case, which is not an easy matter, then to get the pistol out, pull
out the ramrod, which is rather too firm, and press the trigger with
both hands. And yet, in spite of all this, the human animal is so
strange that this ridiculously useless little object here before me
seems to me an admirable protection. And nervous and timid as I am,
alas! I feel quite safe when I am near to this little friend of mine,
who must roar with laughter inside the little case out of which I can
scarcely drag it.
Well, everything was now explained to us. The goods train which had
started before us ran off the line, but no great damage was done, and no
one was killed. The St. Louis band of robbers had arranged everything,
and had prepared to have this little accident two miles from the Little
Incline, in case their comrade crouching under my car had not been able
to unhook it. The train had left the rails, but when the wretches rushed
forward, believing that it was mine, they found themselves surrounded by
the band of detectives. It seems that they fought like demons. One of
them was killed on the spot, two more wounded, and the remainder taken
prisoners. A few days later the chief of this little band was hanged. He
was a Belgian, named Albert Wirbyn, twenty-five years of age.
I did all in my power to save him, for it seemed to me that
unintentionally I had been the instigator of his evil plan.
If Abbey and Jarrett had not been so rabid for advertisement, if they
had not added more than six hundred thousand francs’ worth of jewellery
to mine, this man, this wretched youth, would not perhaps have had the
stupid idea of robbing me. Who can say what schemes had floated through
the mind of the poor fellow, who was perhaps half-starved, or perhaps
excited by a clever, inventive brain? Perhaps when he stopped and looked
at the jeweller’s window he said to himself: “There is jewellery there
worth a million francs. If it were all mine I would sell it and go back
to Belgium. What joy I could give to my poor mother, who is blinding
herself with work by gaslight, and I could help my sister to get
married.” Or perhaps he was an inventor, and he thought to himself: “Ah,
if only I had the money which that jewellery represents I could bring
out my invention myself, instead of selling my patent to some highly
esteemed rascal, who will buy it from me for a crust of bread. What
would it matter to the artiste. Ah, if only I had the money!” Ah, if I
had the money!—perhaps the poor fellow cried with rage to think of all
this wealth belonging to one person. Perhaps the idea of crime
germinated in this way in a mind which had hitherto been pure. Ah, who
can tell to what hope may give birth in a young mind? At first it may be
only a beautiful dream, but this may end in a mad desire to realise the
dream. To steal the goods of another person is certainly not right, but
this should not be punished by death—it certainly should not. To kill a
man of twenty-five years of age is a much greater crime than to steal
jewellery even by force, and a society which bands together in order to
wield the sword of Justice is much more cowardly when it kills than the
man who robs and kills quite alone, at his own risk and peril. Oh, what
tears I wept for that man, whom I did not know at all—who was a rascal
or perhaps a hero! He was perhaps a man of weak intellect who had turned
thief, but he was only twenty-five years of age, and he had a right to
live.
How I hate capital punishment! It is a relic of cowardly barbarism, and
it is a disgrace for civilised countries still to have their guillotines
and scaffolds. Every human being has a moment when his heart is easily
touched, when the tears of grief will flow; and those tears may
fecundate a generous thought which might lead to repentance.
I would not for the whole world be one of those who condemn a man to
death. And yet many of them are good, upright men, who when they return
to their families are affectionate to their wives, and reprove their
children for breaking a doll’s head.
I have seen four executions, one in London, one in Spain, and two in
Paris.
In London the method is hanging, and this seems to me more hideous, more
repugnant, more weird than any other death. The victim was a young man
of about thirty, with a strong, self-willed looking face. I only saw him
a second, and he shrugged his shoulders as he glanced at me, his eyes
expressing his contempt for my curiosity. At that moment I felt that
individual’s ideas were very much superior to mine, and the condemned
man seemed to me greater than all who were there. It was, perhaps,
because he was nearer than we all were to the great mystery. I can see
him now smile as they covered his face with the hood, while, as for me,
I rushed away completely upset.
In Madrid I saw a man garrotted, and the barbarity of this torture
terrified me for weeks after. He was accused of having killed his
mother, but no real proof seemed to have been brought forward against
the wretched man. And he cried out, when they were holding him down on
his seat before putting the garrotte on him, “Mother, I shall soon be
with you, and you will tell them all, in my presence, that they have
lied.”
These words were uttered in Spanish, in a voice that vibrated with
earnestness. They were translated for me by an _attaché_ to the British
Embassy, with whom I had gone to see the hideous sight. The wretched man
cried out in such a sincere, heartrending tone of voice that it was
impossible for him not to have been innocent, and this was the opinion
of all those who were with me.