Roquette, Paris. The first was that of a young medical student, who with
the help of one of his friends had killed an old woman who sold
newspapers. It was a stupid, odious crime, but the man was more mad than
criminal. He was more than ordinarily intelligent, and had passed his
examinations at an earlier age than is usual. He had worked too hard,
and it had affected his brain. He ought to have been allowed to rest, to
have been treated as an invalid, cured in mind and body, and then
returned to his scientific pursuits. He was a young man quite above the
average as regards intellect. I can see him now, pale and haggard, with
a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, an expression of infinite sadness.
I know, of course, that he had killed a poor, defenceless old woman.
That was certainly odious, but he was only twenty-three years old, and
his mind was disordered through study and overwork, too much ambition,
and the habit of cutting off arms and legs and dissecting the dead
bodies of women and children. All this does not excuse the man’s
abominable deed, but it had all contributed to unhinge his moral sense,
which was perhaps already in a wavering state, thanks to study, poverty,
or atavism. I consider that a crime of high treason against humanity was
committed in taking the life of a man of intellect, who, when once he
had recovered his reason, might have rendered great service to science
and to humanity.
The last execution at which I was present was that of Vaillant, the
anarchist. He was an energetic man, and at the same time mild and
gentle, with very advanced ideas, but not much more advanced than those
of men who have since risen to power.
My theatre at that time was the Renaissance, and he often applied to me
for free seats, as he was too poor to pay for the luxuries of art. Ah,
poverty, what a sorry counsellor art thou, and how tolerant we ought to
be to those who have to endure misery!
One day Vaillant came to see me in my dressing-room at the theatre. I
was playing Lorenzaccio, and he said to me: “Ah, that Florentine was an
anarchist just as I am, but he killed the tyrant and not tyranny. That
is not the way I shall go to work.”
A few days later he threw a bomb in a public building, the Chamber of
Deputies. The poor fellow was not as successful as the Florentine, whom
he seemed to despise, for he did not kill any one, and did no real harm
except to his own cause.
I said I should like to know when he was to be executed, and the night
before, a friend of mine came to the theatre and told me that the
execution was to take place the following day, Monday, at seven in the
morning.
I started after the performance, and went to the Rue Merlin, at the
corner of the Rue de la Roquette. The streets were still very animated,
as that Sunday was Dimanche Gras (Shrove Sunday). People were singing,
laughing, and dancing everywhere. I waited all night, and as I was not
allowed to enter the prison, I sat on the balcony of a first floor flat
which I had engaged. The cold darkness of the night in its immensity
seemed to enwrap me in sadness. I did not feel the cold, for my blood
was flowing rapidly through my veins. The hours passed slowly, the hours
which rang out in the distance, _L’heure est morte. Vive l’heure!_ I
heard a vague, muffled sound of footsteps, whispering, and of wood which
creaked heavily, but I did not know what these strange, mysterious
sounds were until day began to break. I saw that the scaffold was there.
A man came to extinguish the lamps on the Place de la Roquette, and an
anæmic-looking sky spread its pale light over us. The crowd began to
collect gradually, but remained in compact groups, and circulation in
the streets was interrupted. Every now and then a man, looking quite
indifferent, but evidently in a hurry, pushed aside the crowd, presented
a card to a policeman, and then disappeared under the porch of the
prison. I counted more than ten of these men: they were journalists.
Presently the military guard appeared suddenly on the spot, and took up
its position around the melancholy-looking pedestal. The usual number of
the guard had been doubled for this occasion, as some anarchist plot was
feared. On a given signal swords were drawn and the prison door opened.
Vaillant appeared, looking very pale, but energetic and brave. He cried
out in a manly voice, with perfect assurance, “_Vive l’anarchie!_” There
was not a single cry in response to his. He was seized and thrown back
over the slab. The knife fell with a muffled sound. The body tottered,
and in a second the scaffold was taken away, the place swept; the crowds
were allowed to move. They rushed forward to the place of execution,
gazing down on the ground for a spot of blood which was not to be seen,
sniffing in the air for any odour of the drama which had just been
enacted.
There were women, children, old men, all joking there on the very spot
where a man had just expired in the most supreme agony. And that man had
made himself the apostle of this populace; that man had claimed for this
teeming crowd all kinds of liberties, all kinds of privileges and
rights.
I was thickly veiled so that I could not be recognised, and accompanied
by a friend as escort.
I mingled with the crowd, and it made me sick at heart and desperate.
There was not a word of gratitude to this man, not a murmur of vengeance
nor of revolt.
I felt inclined to cry out: “Brutes that you are! Kneel down and kiss
the stones that the blood of this poor madman has stained for your
sakes, for you, because he believed in you.”
But before I had time for this a street urchin was calling out, “Buy the
last moments of Vaillant! Buy, buy!”
Oh, poor Vaillant! His headless body was then being taken to Clamart,
and the crowds for whom he had wept, worked, and died were now going
quietly away, indifferent and bored. Poor Vaillant! His ideas were
exaggerated ones, but they were generous.
XXXVII
NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES—A VISIT TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA
We arrived at Cincinnati safe and sound. We gave three performances
there, and set off once more for New Orleans.
Now, I thought, we shall have some sunshine and we shall be able to warm
our poor limbs, which were stiffened with three months of mortal cold.
We shall be able to open our windows and breathe fresh air instead of
the suffocating and anæmia-giving steam heat. I fell asleep, and dreams
of warmth and sweet scents lulled me in my slumber. A knock roused me
suddenly, and my dog with ears erect sniffed at the door, but as he did
not growl, I knew it was some one of our party. I opened the door, and
Jarrett, followed by Abbey, made signs to me not to speak. Jarrett came
in on tip-toe, and closed the door again.
“Well, what is it now?” I asked.
“Why,” replied Jarrett, “the incessant rain during the last twelve days
has swollen the water to such a height that the bridge of boats across
the bay here is liable to give way under the terrible pressure of the
water. Do you hear the awful storm of wind that is now blowing? If we go
back by the other route it will require three or four days.”
I was furious. Three or four days, and to go back to the snow again! Ah
no! I felt I must have sunshine.
“Why can we not pass? Oh, Heavens! what shall we do?” I exclaimed.
“Well, the engine-driver is here. He thinks that he might get across;
but he has only just married, and he will try the crossing on condition
that you give him two thousand five hundred dollars, which he will at
once send to Mobile, where his father and wife live. If we get safely to
the other side he will give you back this money, but if not it will
belong to his family.”
I must confess that I was stupefied with admiration for this plucky man.
His daring excited me, and I exclaimed:
“Yes, certainly. Give him the money, and let us cross.”
As I have said, I generally travelled by special train. This one was
made up of only three carriages and the engine. I never doubted for a
moment as to the success of this foolish and criminal attempt, and I did
not tell any one about it except my sister, my beloved Guérard, and my
faithful Félicie and her husband Claude. The comedian Angelo, who was
sleeping in Jarrett’s berth on this journey, knew of it, but he was
courageous, and had faith in his star. The money was handed over to the
engine-driver, who sent it off to Mobile. It was only just as we were
actually starting that I had the vision of the responsibility I had
taken upon myself, for it was risking without their consent the lives of
thirty-two persons. It was too late then to do anything: the train had
started, and at a terrific speed it touched the bridge of boats. I had
taken my seat on the platform, and the bridge bent and swayed like a
hammock under the dizzy speed of our wild course. When we were half way
across it gave way so much that my sister grasped my arm and whispered,
“Ah, we are drowning!” She closed her eyes and clutched me nervously,
but was quite brave. I certainly imagined as she did that the supreme
moment had arrived; and abominable as it was, I never for a second
thought of all those who were full of confidence and life, whom I was
sacrificing, whom I was killing. My only thought was of a dear little
face which would soon be in mourning for me. And to think that we take
about within us our most terrible enemy, thought, and that it is
continually at variance with our deeds. It rises up at times, terrible,
perfidious, and we try to drive it away without success. We do not,
thanks to God, invariably obey it; but it pursues us, torments us, makes
us suffer. How often the most evil thoughts assail us, and what battles
we have to fight in order to drive away these children of our brain!
Anger, ambition, revenge give birth to the most detestable thoughts,
which make us blush with shame as we should at some horrible blemish.
And yet they are not ours, for we have not evoked them; but they defile
us nevertheless, and leave us in despair at not being masters of our own
heart, mind, and body.
My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in the book of
destiny. The train pulled itself together, and, half leaping and half
rolling along, we arrived on the other side of the water. Behind us we
heard a terrible noise, a column of water falling back like a huge
sheaf. The bridge had given way! For more than a week the trains from
the east and the north could not run over this route.
I left the money to our brave engine-driver, but my conscience was by no
means tranquil, and for a long time my sleep was disturbed by the most
frightful nightmares; and when any of the artistes spoke to me of their
child, their mother, or their husband, whom they longed to see once
more, I felt myself turn pale; a thrill of deep emotion went through me,
and I had the deepest pity for my own self.
When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive from
retrospective emotion. I had to submit to receiving a most friendly
though fatiguing deputation of my compatriots. Then, loaded with
flowers, I climbed into the carriage that was to take me to the hotel.
The roads were rivers, and we were on an elevated spot. The lower part
of the city, the coachman explained to us in French, with a strong
Marseilles accent, was inundated up to the tops of the houses. Hundreds
of negroes had been drowned. “Ah, _bagasse_!” he cried, as he whipped up
his horses.
At that period the hotels in New Orleans were squalid—dirty,
uncomfortable, black with cockroaches, and as soon as the candles were
lighted the bedrooms became filled with large mosquitoes that buzzed
round and fell on one’s shoulder, sticking in one’s hair. Oh, I shudder
still when I think of it!
At the same time as our company, there was at New Orleans an opera
company, the “star” of which was a charming woman, Emilie Ambre, who at
one time came very near being Queen of Holland. The country was poor,
like all the other American districts where the French were to be found
preponderating.
The opera did very poor business, and we did not do excellently either.
Six performances would have been ample in that city: we gave eight.
Nevertheless, my sojourn pleased me immensely.
An infinite charm was evolved from it. All these people, so different,
black and white, had smiling faces. All the women were graceful. The
shops were attractive from the cheerfulness of their windows. The open-
air traders under the arcades challenged one another with joyful flashes
of wit. The sun, however, did not show itself once. But these people had
the sun within themselves.
I could not understand why boats were not used. The horses had water up
to their hams, and it would have been impossible even to get into a
carriage if the pavements had not been a metre high and occasionally
more.
Floods being as frequent as the years, it would be of no use to think of
banking up the river or arm of the sea. But circulation was made easy by
the high pavements and small movable bridges. The dark children amused
themselves catching cray-fish in the streams. (Where did they come
from?) And they sold them to passers-by.
Now and again we would see a whole family of water serpents speed by.
They swept along, with raised head and undulating body, like long starry
sapphires.
I went down towards the lower part of the town. The sight was
heartrending. All the cabins of the coloured inhabitants had fallen into
the muddy waters. They were there in hundreds, squatting upon these
moving wrecks, with eyes burning from fever. Their white teeth chattered
with hunger. Right and left, everywhere, were dead bodies with swollen
stomachs floating about, knocking up against the wooden piles. Many
ladies were distributing food, endeavouring to lead away these
unfortunate creatures. No. They would stay where they were. With a
blissful smile they would reply, “The water go away. House be found. Me
begin again.” And the women would slowly nod their heads in token of
assent. Several alligators had shown themselves, brought up by the tide.
Two children had disappeared.
One child of fourteen years of age had just been carried off to the
hospital with his foot cut clean off at the ankle by one of these marine
monsters. His family were howling with fury. They wished to keep the
youngster with them. The negro quack doctor pretended that he could have
cured him in two days, and that the white “quacks” would leave him for a
month in bed.
I left this city with regret, for it resembled no other city I had
visited up to then. We were really surprised to find that none of our
party were missing—they had gone through, so they said, various dangers.
The hairdresser alone, a man called Ibé, could not recover his
equilibrium, having become half mad from fear the second day of our
arrival. At the theatre he generally slept in the trunk in which he
stored his wigs. However strange it may seem, the fact is quite true.
The first night everything passed off as usual, but during the second
night he woke up the whole neighbourhood by his shrieks. The unfortunate
fellow had got off soundly to sleep, when he woke up with a feeling that
his mattress, which lay suspended over his collection of wigs, was being
raised by some inconceivable movements. He thought that some cat or dog
had got into the trunk, and he lifted up the feeble rampart. Two
serpents were either quarrelling or making love to each other—he could
not say which; two serpents of a size sufficient to terrify the people
whom the shouts of the poor Figaro had caused to gather round.
He was still very pale when I saw him embark on board the boat that was
to take us to our train. I called him, and begged he would relate to me
the Odyssey of his terrible night. As he told me the story he pointed to
his big leg: “They were as thick as that, Madame. Yes, like that——” And
he quaked with fear as he recalled the dreadful girth of the reptiles. I
thought that they were about one quarter as thick as his leg, and that
would have been enough to justify his fright, for the serpents in
question were not inoffensive water-snakes that bite out of pure
viciousness, but have no venom fangs.
We reached Mobile somewhat late in the day.
We had stopped at that city on our way to New Orleans, and I had had a
real attack of nerves caused by the “cheek” of the inhabitants, who, in
spite of the lateness of the hour, had got up a deputation to wait upon
me. I was dead with fatigue, and was dropping off to sleep in my bed in
the car. I therefore energetically declined to see anybody. But these
people knocked at my windows, sang round about my carriage, and finally
exasperated me. I quickly threw up one of the windows and emptied a jug
of water on their heads. Women and men, amongst whom were several
journalists, were inundated. Their fury was great.
I was returning to that city, preceded by the above story, embellished
in their favour by the drenched reporters. But on the other hand, there
were others who had been more courteous, and had refused to go and
disturb a lady at such an unearthly hour of the night. These latter were
in the majority, and took up my defence.
It was therefore in this warlike atmosphere that I appeared before the
public of Mobile. I wanted, however, to justify the good opinion of my
defenders and confound my detractors.
Yes, but a sprite who had decided otherwise was there.
Mobile was a city that was generally quite disdained by _impresarii_.
There was only one theatre. It had been let to the tragedian Barrett,
who was to appear six days after me. All that remained was a miserable
place, so small that I know of nothing that can be compared to it. We
were playing _La Dame aux Camélias_. When Marguerite Gautier orders
supper to be served, the servants who were to bring in the table ready
laid tried to get it in through the door. But this was impossible.
Nothing could be more comical than to see those unfortunate servants
adopt every expedient.
The public laughed. Among the laughter of the spectators was one that
became contagious. A negro of twelve or fifteen, who had got in somehow,
was standing on a chair, and with his two hands holding on to his knees,
his body bent, head forward, mouth open, he was laughing with such a
shrill and piercing tone, and with such even continuity, that I caught
it too. I had to go out while a portion of the back scenery was being
removed to allow the table to be brought in.
I returned somewhat composed, but still under the domination of
suppressed laughter. We were sitting round the table, and the supper was
drawing to a close as usual. But just as the servants were entering to
remove the table, one of them caught the scenery, which had been badly
adjusted by the scene-shifters in their haste, and the whole back scene
fell on our heads. As the scenery was nearly all made of paper in those
days, it did not fall on our heads and remain there, but round our
necks, and we had to remain in that position without being able to move.
Our heads having gone through the paper, our appearance was most comical
and ridiculous. The young nigger’s laughter started again more piercing
than ever, and this time my suppressed laughter ended in a crisis that
left me without any strength.
The money paid for admission was returned to the public. It exceeded
fifteen thousand francs.
This city was an unlucky one for me, and came very near proving fatal
during the third visit I paid to it, as I will narrate in the second
volume of these Memoirs.
That very night we left Mobile for Atlanta, where, after playing _La
Dame aux Camélias_, we left again the same evening for Nashville.
We stayed an entire day at Memphis, and gave two performances there.
At one in the morning we left for Louisville. During the journey from
Memphis to Louisville we were awakened by the sound of a fight, by oaths
and cries. I opened the door of my railway carriage, and recognised the
voices. Jarrett came out at the same time. We went towards the spot
whence the noise came—to the small platform, where the two combatants,
Captain Hayné and Marcus Mayer, were fighting with revolvers in their
hands. Marcus Mayer’s eye was out of its orbit, and blood covered the
face of Captain Hayné. I threw myself without a moment’s reflection
between the two madmen, who, with that brutal but delightful courtesy of
North Americans, stopped their fight.
We were beginning the dizzy round of the smaller towns, arriving at
three, four, and sometimes six o’clock in the evening, and leaving
immediately after the play. I only left my car to go to the theatre, and
returned as soon as the play was over to retire to my elegant but
diminutive bedroom. I sleep well on the railway. I felt an immense
pleasure travelling in that way at high speed, sitting outside on the
small platform, or rather reclining in a rocking-chair, gazing on the
ever-changing spectacle of American plains and forests that passed
before me. Without stopping we went through Louisville, Cincinnati for
the second time, Columbus, Dayton, Indianapolis, St. Joseph, where one
gets the best beer in the world, and where, when I was obliged to go to
an hotel on account of repairs to one of the wheels of the car, a
drunken dancer at a big ball given in the hotel seized me in the
corridor leading to my room. This brutal fellow caught hold of me just
as I was getting out of the elevator, and dragged me off with cries like
those of a wild animal finding its prey after five days of enforced
hunger. My dog, mad with excitement on hearing me scream, bit his legs
severely, and that aroused the drunken man to the point of fury. It was
with the greatest difficulty that I was delivered from the clutches of
this demoniac. Supper was served. What a supper! Fortunately the beer
was light both in colour and consistency, and enabled me to swallow the
dreadful things that were served up.
The ball lasted all night, accompanied by revolver shots.
We left for Leavenworth, Quincy, Springfield, but not the Springfield in
Massachusetts—the one in Illinois.
During the journey from Springfield to Chicago we were stopped by the
snow in the middle of the night.
The sharp and deep groanings of the locomotive had already awakened me.
I summoned my faithful Claude, and learned that we were to stop and wait
for help.
Aided by my Félicie, I dressed in haste and tried to descend, but it was
impossible. The snow was as high as the platform of the car. I remained
wrapped up in furs, contemplating the magnificent night. The sky was
hard, implacable, without a star, but all the same translucid. Lights
extended as far as the eye could see along the rails before me, for I
had taken refuge on the rear platform. These lights were to warn the
trains that followed. Four of these came up, and stopped when the first
fog-signals went off beneath their wheels, then crept slowly forward to
the first light, where a man who was stationed there explained the
incident. The same lights were lit immediately for the following train,
as far off as possible, and a man, proceeding beyond the lights, placed
detonators on the metals. Each train that arrived followed that course.
We were blocked by the snow. The idea came to me of lighting the kitchen
fire, and I thus got sufficient boiling water to melt the top coating of
snow on the side where I wanted to alight. Having done this, Claude and
our coloured servants got down and cleared away a small portion as well
as they could.
I was at last able to descend myself, and I tried to remove the snow to
one side. My sister and I finished by throwing snowballs at each other,
and the _melée_ became general. Abbey, Jarrett, the secretary, and
several of the artistes joined in, and we were warmed by this small
battle with white cannon-balls.
When dawn appeared we were to be seen firing a revolver and Colt rifle
at a target made from a champagne case. A distant sound, deadened by the
cotton-wool of the snow, at length made us realise that help was
approaching. As a matter of fact, two engines, with men who had shovels,
hooks, and spades, were coming at full speed from the opposite
direction. They were obliged to slow down on getting to within one
kilometre of where we were, and the men began clearing the way before
them. They finally succeeded in reaching us, but we were obliged to go
back and take the western route. The unfortunate artistes, who had
counted on getting breakfast in Chicago, which we ought to have reached
at eleven o’clock, were lamenting, for with the new itinerary that we
were forced to follow we could not reach Milwaukee before half-past one.
There we were to give a _matinée_ at two o’clock—_La Dame aux Camélias_.
I therefore had the best lunch I could get prepared, and my servants
carried it to my company, the members of which showed themselves very
grateful.
The performance only began at three, and finished at half-past six
o’clock; we started again at eight with _Froufrou_.