to the highest bidders, and considerable prices were obtained for them.
We gave fifteen performances at Boston at an average of 19,000 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 and softness of their gestures. 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 will 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 theater, literature,
painting, and poetry. They know everything and understand everything,
are chaste and reserved, and neither laugh nor talk very loudly.
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.
[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AS _DOÑA SOL_ IN “HERNANI.”]
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 at New Haven, I
found Henry Smith there, the famous whale man. “Oh, heavens!” I
exclaimed, flinging myself into an armchair, “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, colored 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 cetacea which Sarah Bernhardt killed
by tearing out its whalebone for her corsets. These are made by Mme.
Lily Noé who lives, etc.” Still 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 was 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 toward 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 on the way from
the hotel to the theater. 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.
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, etc. ... and that country had seemed to my imagination the
far-off promised land.
Awakened some considerable time previous by the strident whistle of the
engine, I asked what time it was. Eleven o’clock, 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 in my notes (what commendation for
my writing!)—a deputy advanced toward 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
frozen by the cold.
However, I began 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. Joseph Doutre, who handed me a bouquet of
rare flowers and gave me a kiss. It 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
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 covered with ice.
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
toward me holding a wide unrolled piece of paper, and in a loud voice
exclaimed: “To Sarah Bernhardt....” And these are the lines he read:
A SARAH BERNHARDT
Salut, Sarah! salut, charmante Doña Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Notre sol tout couvert de givre,
Est-ce un 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’est pas, ô 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 poésie!
Que sous ta main la toile anime son réseau;
Que le paron brillant 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 te sourire toujours prêtée!
Soit qu’aux mille vivate 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, ô Sarah! salut, ô Doña 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!
He read very well, it is true, but those lines, read with 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 fervor, were more than my
strength could bear, made me feel dizzy, and caused my head to reel.
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 French-Canadian, became her escort and
brought her several minutes after, 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 overwrought 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 arms’ 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 Mr. 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 his other
poems, 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 touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as the finest of
his work. He thanked me for doing so. 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 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 huge, immense drawing-room of my apartment, for a
bicycle would have been necessary to traverse my rooms, drawing-rooms
and dining-room, for the whole length without fatigue. On opening the
door I was struck with 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 tone: “If ever
you hear who I am, swear that you will only think of the slight service
I have rendered you.” At that moment Jarrett entered with white face. He
went up to the stranger and spoke to him in English. I could, however,
catch the words: “detective ... door ... assassination ...
impossibility ... New Orleans....”
His sunburnt complexion became chalky, his nostrils quivered as he
looked toward 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 toward the door. My hands, which had opened under the stupor, let
fall his bouquet which he picked up, 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 humor. That prelate, after holding forth in
the pulpit against the immorality of French literature, forbade his
flock to go to the theater. His charge was violent and spiteful against
modern France. As to Scribe’s play, “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” he tore it
into shreds, as it were, disclaiming against the immoral love of the
_comedienne_ and of the hero and against the adulterous love of the
_Princess of Bouillon_. But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and
he cried out with fury intensified by outrage—“In this infamous
lucubration there are French authors, 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
presentations, “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “La Dame aux Camélias”
(afternoon performance), and “Hernani,” had a colossal success and
brought in fabulous receipts.
[Illustration: CORNER IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S PARIS HOME, SHOWING PORTRAIT
BY CHARTRAN.]
I was invited by the poet Fréchette and a banker whose name I do not
remember to make a visit to Ottawa. 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 that artist,
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 on the river by two rows of branches
fixed in the ice. We had four carriages; the distance between Ottawa and
Montreal is one hundred and twenty-five kilometers.
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, etc. 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 civilization.
I visited Ottawa, 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 civilization 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 theater 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. Then they prepared by
means of a strong string worked by a pulley the aërial 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 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 and more dignified gesture than that of the
governor when he motioned to the leader of the band. 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 English, he was incontestably right
in doing so.
I gave for the last performance, on the 25th December, 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 realize the
crushing effect caused by such a triumphant return to my hotel.
The day following, Sunday, I left the hotel at seven o’clock in the
morning 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 the 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 bark was already floating free
in the narrow channel of the river that remained always open through 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
endeavored 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 toward them cast our raft so
suddenly against the icy 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 bad followed our
very rapid ride with real courage, climbed on to the blocks. A harpoon
was thrown with marvelous 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, and 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, madam, 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-by.
CHAPTER XXVIII
MY TOUR OF THE WESTERN STATES
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, that the public rushed to see in
crowds, shocked the overstrained Puritanism of the small American
states. 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 gunsmiths to
purchase a Colt gun. The salesman showed me into a long and very narrow
courtyard where I tried several guns. 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, madam, 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 were there already who had been hastily invited.
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 at any cost. The three enormous carriages that made up my special
train went off under full steam. Having two engines we bounded over the
rails but stayed on, thanks to some miracle.
We finally succeeded in catching up with the express that (having been
warned by telegram) knew we were on its track; it made a short stop—just
long enough to couple us to it—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
theater, and the loveliness of the women. I felt a profound sadness at
Baltimore for it was the first time I had spent the first 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.
The 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 20,000 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 most 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,
Madam Lily ——. 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 all, and after having returned
heartfelt thanks, I was preparing to leave the station, when I remained
stupefied—and it seems that my features assumed such an intense
expression of suffering that everybody ran toward me to offer
assistance. For a sudden anger electrified all my being, and I walked
straight toward the horrible vision that had just appeared before me—the
whale man! He was alive, that horrible Smith—enveloped in furs, with
diamonds on all of his fingers. He was there with a bouquet in his hand,
the horrible brute! I refused the flowers and repulsed him with all my
strength increased tenfold by anger, and a flood of confused words
escaped my pallid lips. But this scene charmed him, for it was repeated
and spread about, magnified, and the whale had more visitors than ever.
I went to the Palmer House, one of the most magnificent hotels of that
day, whose proprietor, Mr. 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 me served
in the French style, a rare thing at that time.
We were to remain a fortnight in Chicago. Our success exceeded all
expectations. This fortnight at Chicago 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
was 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 daytime 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 pig-slaughtering 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, file off along a
small, narrow, raised bridge.
Our carriage passed under this bridge and stopped before a group of men
who were waiting for us. The manager of the stockyards received us and
led the way to the special slaughterhouses. On entering into the immense
shed, which was dimly lighted by windows with greasy and ruddy panes, an
abominable smell gets into one’s 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 one’s brain; the almost human cries
of the pigs being slaughtered, the violent strokes of the hatchets,
lopping off the limbs, the successive “Han!” of the “ripper” who, with a
superbly 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 by which escapes the 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, etc. ... all that sustained by the sounds of the bells of the
engines warning of the danger of their approach, and which in this spot
of terrible massacre seem 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 a little while ago. I threw myself heart
and brain 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, but its stockyards.
I did not even bear any ill-will toward 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:
HIS GRACE: Whenever I visit your city I am accustomed to spend $400 in
advertising. But as you have done the advertising for me, I send you
$200 for your poor.
HENRY ABBEY.
We left Chicago to go to St. Louis, where we arrived after having
covered two hundred and eighty-three 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 departure;
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, who had lost everything in his previous tour with
an admirable _troupe_ of Opera _artistes_, and greater pleasure still on
my own account, for I was to receive a good share of the receipts.
We stayed at St. Louis all the week from the 24th to the 31st of
January. 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 colonizing,
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 the indemnity to the manager, but
Jarrett, the upright man, the stern man of duty, the ferocious man, said
to me, holding the 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
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 hiccoughed 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 as he walked along 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 to his
ineffable surprise.
[Illustration: LIBRARY IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S HOUSE, PARIS.]
We returned to the hotel, and I was informed that a jeweler had been
waiting for me more than two hours. “A jeweler!” I exclaimed; “but I
have no intention of buying any jewelry; 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 jeweler and my two
_impresarii_. I was told that my ornaments needed cleaning, that the
jeweler 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 jewelry 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
jeweler’s showcases under a blaze of light. Poor Mme. Guérard, who also
wanted to see them, came back horrified:
“They have added to your things,” she said, “sixteen pairs of earrings,
two necklaces, and thirty rings; a lorgnette all 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 toothpick studded with sapphires, and 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 anyone 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 jeweler’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 jeweler 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 jewelry will be returned to-night, and we
leave here the day after to-morrow.” That evening the jeweler 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 my life. Tempted by
the thought of this huge quantity of jewelry, 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 handbag
which my steward always carried.
On Sunday, the 30th of January, 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 my 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 anxious 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 everyone’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 jeweler’s exhibition had excited
the envy of all the tribes of thieves, and this man had been despatched
by an organized hand at St. Louis to relieve me of my jewelry. 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 my carriage was the last, the thing was
comparatively easy, as it was only a question of lifting the enormous
hook and drawing it out of the link. The man was a veritable giant and
he was fastened on to my carriage. We examined his apparatus and found
that it consisted of merely very thick, wide straps of leather, about
half a yard wide. By means of these, he was fastened firmly to the under
part 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 jewelry, and the money which the secretary carried,
$2,300. Oh! he knew everything, he knew everyone’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 band 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 $2,300, 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 to St. Louis—we had
started away only a quarter of an hour before. The police were informed
and they sent us five detectives. A goods train, which should have gone
on half an hour after us, was sent on ahead. Eight detectives traveled
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 learned 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 daytime I was allowed to have my carriage at
the end on condition that I would agree to have an armed detective on my
bridge, whom I was to pay, by the way, for his services. We started
about twenty-five minutes after the goods train. All the men were
requested to have their revolvers in readiness and some white sticks
like pastry rollers were given to the women and to the men who had not
any revolvers. Our dinner was very gay and everyone 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 petards 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
petard. Abbey suggested going at full speed, because these petards 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 petards were the signals placed there by the
railway company, and that he could not risk everyone’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 anyone’s life if the train went off the lines, 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 come 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 toward us. It makes me shudder now when I
think how nearly these poor fellows were to 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, anyone 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 of 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 no 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 little ridiculously
useless 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 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 all
the others 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 600,000 francs’ worth of jewelry to mine, this man, this
wretched youth, would not perhaps have had the stupid idea of robbing
me.
[Illustration: CORNER IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S LIBRARY, SHOWING MADAME
BERNHARDT’S WRITING TABLE ON THE LEFT.]
Who can say what schemes had floated through the minds 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 jeweler’s
window, he said to himself: “There is jewelry there worth 1,000,000
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 jewelry 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.
CHAPTER XXIX
FROM THE GULF TO CANADA AGAIN
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,
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 at my door 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
tiptoes 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 river to such a height that the bridge across the bay of
St. Louis threatens to give way. If we go back we shall 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 $2,500, 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.”
“Yes, certainly, give him the money and let us cross.”
As I have said, I generally traveled 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 anyone 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
twenty-seven persons. It was too late then to do anything, the train had
started and at a terrific speed it touched the bridge. 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!” I certainly thought as she did that the supreme moment had
arrived.
My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in the Book of
Destiny. The train pulled itself together and we arrived on the other
side of the water. Behind us we heard a terrible noise. The bridge had
given way. For more than a week the trains from the East and the North
could not enter the city.
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.
When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive. I had to
submit to receiving the friendly but 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 Marseilles French, was inundated up to the tops of the houses. The
negroes had been drowned by hundreds. “Ah, hussy!” 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 around and fell on one’s shoulders, sticking in one’s hair.
Oh, I shudder still when I think of it!
At the same time there was an opera company in the city, 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. Ah,
we are hardly good colonists!
The opera did a 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 meter or more high.
Floods being as frequent as the years, it would be of no use thinking of
banking up the river or arm of the sea. But walking was made easy by the
high pavements and small, movable bridges. The dark children amused
themselves catching crayfish in the streams. Where did they come from?
And they sold them to passersby. 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 toward the lower part of the town. The sight was
heartrending. All the cabins of the colored 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
chattering. Right and left, everywhere, were dead bodies floating about,
knocking up against the wooden piles. Many ladies were distributing
food, endeavoring to lead away the unfortunate negroes, but they refused
to go. And the women would slowly shake their heads. 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 an alligator. 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 surprised to find that none of our party was
missing though we had gone through—so they all 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
theater 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 neighborhood by his shrieks. The unfortunate fellow had got
off soundly to sleep, when he woke up with a feeling that his mattress,
which hung over his collection of wigs, was being raised up 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 within,
actively moving about, of a size sufficient to terrify the people that
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 him to relate to me the
odyssey of his terrible night. As he told me the story he showed me his
heavy 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, but the serpents in
question were 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 on the car. I therefore
energetically declined to see anybody. But these people knocked at my
windows, sang 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, among whom were several journalists, were splashed. Their
fury was great.
I was returning to that city, preceded by the above story embellished in
their favor 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 defense.
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 the Gnome who had decided
otherwise was there.
Mobile was a city that was generally quite disdained by _impresarii_.
There was only one theater. 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 that 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 negro’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
15,000 francs.
This city had a fatality for me and came very near proving so during the
third visit I paid to it.
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 for an entire day at Memphis and gave two performances. At one
in the morning we left for Louisville.
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 left my car only to go to the theater 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 in traveling that way at high speed, sitting outside on the
small platform or rather reclining in a rocking-chair, gazing on the
ever-changing spectacle, that passed before me, of American plains and
forests. Without stopping, we went through Louisville, Cincinnati, for
the second time, Columbus, Dayton, Indianapolis, St. Joseph that has the
best beer in the world, and where, we were obliged to go to an hotel on
account of repairs to one of the wheels of the car. Supper was served.
What a supper! Fortunately, the beer was light in both color and
consistency and enabled me to swallow the dreadful things that were
served up.
We left for Leavenworth, Quincy, Springfield—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 translucent. 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 them 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 rails.
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 enough boiling water to melt the top coating of snow
on the side where I wanted to get down. Having done this, Claude and the
negroes got down and cleared away a small portion as well as they could.
I was at last able to get down myself and tried to remove the snow to
one side. My sister and I finished by throwing snowballs at each other
and the _mêlée_ became general. Abbey, Jarrett, the secretary, and
several of the _artistes_ joined in and we were warmed up through 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 realize 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 one kilometer of
where we were, and the men got down, 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, it would be half past one before we could get to Milwaukee,
where we were to give a matinée at two o’clock—“La Dame aux Camélias.” I
therefore had the best lunch I could prepared and my negroes carried it
to my company, the members of which showed themselves very grateful.
The performance did not begin till three and finished at half past six
o’clock; we started again at eight with “Froufrou.”
Immediately after the play was over we left for Grand Rapids, Detroit,
Cleveland, and Pittsburg, in which latter city I was to meet an American
friend of mine who was to help me to realize one of my dreams—at least I
fancied so. In partnership with his brother, my friend was the owner of
a large steel works and several petroleum wells. I had known him in
Paris, and had met him again at New York, where he offered to conduct me
to Buffalo so that I could visit, or rather where he could show me, the
Falls of Niagara, for which he entertained a lover’s passion.
Frequently, he would start off quite unexpectedly, like a madman, and
take a rest at a place just near the Niagara Falls. The deafening sound
of the cataracts seemed like music after the hard, hammering, strident
noise of the forges at work on the iron, and the limpidity of the
silvery cascades rested his eyes and refreshed his lungs, saturated as
they were with petroleum and smoke.
My friend’s buggy, drawn by two magnificent horses, took us along in a
bewildering whirlwind of mud splashing over us and snow blinding us. It
had been raining for a week and Pittsburg in 1881 was not what it is at
present, although it was a city which impressed one on account of its
commercial genius. The black mud ran along the streets and everywhere in
the sky rose huge patches of thick, black, opaque smoke; but there was a
certain grandeur about it all, for work was king there. Trains ran
through the streets laden with barrels of petroleum or piled as high as
possible with charcoal and coal. That fine river, the Ohio, carried
along with it steamers, barges, and loads of timber fastened together
and forming enormous rafts which floated down the river alone to be
stopped on the way by the owner for whom they were destined. The timber
is marked and no one else thinks of taking it. I am told that the wood
is not conveyed in this way now and it is a pity.
The carriage took us along through streets and squares in the midst of
railways, under the enervating vibration of the electric wires which ran
like furrows across the sky. We crossed a bridge which shook under the
light weight of the buggy. It was a suspension bridge. Finally, we drew
up at my friend’s home. He introduced his brother to me, a charming man
but very cold and correct, and so quiet that I was astonished.
[Illustration: THÉÂTRE SARAH BERNHARDT, PARIS.]
“My poor brother is deaf,” said my companion, after I had been exerting
myself for five minutes to talk to him in my gentlest voice. I looked at
this poor millionaire who was living in the most extraordinary noise and
who could not even hear the faintest echo of the outrageous uproar. He
could not hear anything at all, and I wondered whether he was to be
envied or pitied. I was then taken to visit his incandescent ovens and
his vats in a state of ebullition. I went into a room where some steel
disks were cooling, which looked like so many setting suns. The heat
from them seemed to scorch my lungs, and I felt as though my hair would
take fire. We then went down a long, narrow street through which small
trains were running to and fro. Some of those trains were laden with
incandescent metals which irised the air as they passed. We walked in
single file along the narrow passage reserved for foot passengers
between the rails. I did not feel at all safe and my heart began to beat
fast. Blown each way by the wind from the two trains coming in opposite
directions and passing each other, I drew my skirts closely round me so
that they should not be caught. Perched on my high heels, at every step
I took I was afraid of slipping on this narrow, greasy, coal-strewn
pavement. To sum up briefly, it was a very unpleasant moment, and very
delighted I was to come to the end of that interminable street which led
to an enormous field stretching away as far as the eye could see. There
were rails lying all about here which men were polishing and filing,
etc. I had had quite enough, though, and I asked to be allowed to go
back and rest. So we all three returned to the house.
On arriving there, valets arrayed in livery opened the doors, took our
furs, walking on tiptoes as they moved about. There was silence
everywhere and I wondered why, as it seemed to me incomprehensible. My
friend’s brother scarcely spoke at all and when he did his voice was so
low that I had great difficulty in understanding him. When we asked him
any question by gesticulating, and we had to listen most attentively to
catch his reply, I noticed that an almost imperceptible smile lighted up
for an instant his stony face. I understood very soon that this man
hated humanity and that he avenged himself in his own way for his
infirmity.
Lunch had been prepared for us in the winter conservatory, a nook of
magnificent verdure and flowers. We had not taken our seats at the table
when the songs of a thousand birds burst forth like a veritable fanfare.
Underneath some large leaves whole families of canaries were imprisoned
by invisible nets. They were everywhere, up in the air, down below,
under my chair, on the table behind me, all over the place. I tried to
quiet this shrill uproar by shaking my napkin and speaking in a loud
voice, but the little feathered tribe began to sing in a maddening way.
The deaf man was leaning back in a rocking-chair and I noticed that his
face had lighted up. He laughed aloud in an evil, spiteful manner. Just
as my own temper was getting the better of me, a feeling of pity and
indulgence came into my heart for this man whose vengeance seemed to me
as pathetic as it was puerile. Promptly deciding to make the best of my
host’s spitefulness, and assisted by his brother, I took my tea into the
hall at the other end of the conservatory. I was nearly dead with
fatigue and when my friend proposed that I should go with him to see his
petroleum wells, a few miles out of the city, I gazed at him with such a
scared, hopeless expression that he begged me in the most friendly and
polite way to forgive him.
It was five o’clock and quite dusk, and I wanted to go back to my hotel.
Mr. Th—— asked if I would allow him to take me back by the hills. The
road was rather longer, but I should be able to have a bird’s-eye view
of Pittsburg, and he assured me that it was quite worth while. We
started off in the buggy with two fresh horses and a few minutes later I
had the wildest dream. It seemed to me that he was Pluto, the god of the
infernal regions, and I was Proserpine. We were traveling through our
empire at a quick trot, drawn by our winged horses. All around us we
could see fire and flames. The blood-red sky was burning with long,
black trails that looked like widows’ veils. The ground was covered with
long arms of iron stretched heavenward in a supreme imprecation. These
arms threw forth smoke, flames, or sparks which fell again in a shower
of stars. The carriage carried us on up the hills, and the cold froze
our limbs, while the fires excited our brain. It was then that my friend
told me of his love for the Niagara Falls. He spoke of them more like a
lover than an admirer, and told me he liked to go to them alone. He
said, though, that for me he would make an exception. He spoke of the
rapids with such intense passion that I felt rather uneasy and began to
wonder whether the man was not mad. I grew alarmed, for he was driving
along over the very tops of the hills, jumping the stone heaps. I
glanced at him sideways; his face was calm, but his underlip twitched
slightly, and I had noticed this peculiarity with his deaf brother, too.
By this time I was quite nervous. The cold and the fires, this
demoniacal drive, the sound of the anvil ringing out mournful chimes
which seemed to come from under the earth, and then the deep forge
whistle sounding like a desperate cry rending the silence of the night;
the chimney stacks, too, with their worn-out lungs spitting forth their
smoke with a perpetual death rattle, and the wind which had just risen
twisting the streaks of smoke into spirals which it sent up toward the
sky or beat down all at once on to us—altogether this wild dance, of the
natural and the combined elements, affected my whole nervous system so
that it was quite time for me to get back to the hotel. I sprang out of
the carriage quickly on arriving and arranged to see my friend at
Buffalo, but, alas! I was never to see him again. He took cold that very
day and could not meet me there, and the following year I heard that he
had been dashed against the rocks when trying to boat in the rapids. He
died of his passion, for his passion.
At the hotel all the _artistes_ were awaiting me, as I had forgotten we
were to have a rehearsal of “La Princesse Georges” at half past four. I
noticed a face that was unknown to me among the members of the company,
and on making inquiries about this person found that he was an
illustrator who had brought an introduction from Jarrett. He asked to be
allowed to make a few sketches of me, and after giving orders that he
should be taken to a seat, I did not trouble any more about him. We had
to hurry through the rehearsal in order to be at the theater in time for
the performance of “Froufrou,” which we were giving that night. The
rehearsal was accordingly rushed and gabbled through so that it was soon
over, and the stranger took his departure, refusing to let me look at
his sketches on the plea that he wanted to do them up before showing
them. My joy was great the following day when Jarrett arrived at my
hotel perfectly furious, holding in his hand the principal newspaper of
Pittsburg in which our illustrator, who turned out to be a journalist,
had written an article giving at full length an account of the dress
rehearsal of “Froufrou.” “In the play of ‘Froufrou,’” wrote this
delightful imbecile, “there is only one scene of any importance and that
is the one between the two sisters. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt did not impress
me greatly and, as to the _artistes_ of the Comédie Française, I
considered they were mediocre. The costumes were not very fine, and in
the ball scene the men did not wear dress suits.”
Jarrett was wild with rage, and I was wild with joy. He knew my horror
of reporters and he had introduced this one in an underhand way, hoping
to get a good advertisement out of it. The journalist imagined that we
were having a dress rehearsal of “Froufrou,” and we were merely
rehearsing Alexandre Dumas’ “Princesse Georges” for the sake of
refreshing our memories. He had mistaken the scene between the
_Princesse Georges_ and the _Comtesse de Terremonde_ for the scene in
the third act between the two sisters in “Froufrou.” We were all of us
wearing our traveling costumes and he was surprised at not seeing the
men in dress coats and the women in evening dress. What fun this was for
our company, and for all the town, and I may add, what a subject it
furnished for the jokes of all the rival newspapers!
CHAPTER XXX
END OF MY AMERICAN TOUR
I had to play two days at Pittsburg, and then go on to Bradford, Erie,
Toronto, and arrive at Buffalo on Sunday. It was my intention to give
all the members of my company a day’s entertainment at the Falls, but
Abbey, too, wanted to invite them. We had a discussion on the subject
which was extremely animated. He was very dictatorial and so was I, and
we both preferred giving the whole thing up rather than yield to each
other. Jarrett, however, pointed out the fact to us that our autocracy
would deprive the _artistes_ of a little festivity about which they had
heard a great deal and to which they were looking forward. We therefore
gave in finally, and in order to settle the matter we agreed to share
this fête between us. The _artistes_ accepted our invitations with the
most charming good grace, and we took the train for Buffalo, where we
arrived at ten minutes past six in the morning. We had telegraphed
beforehand for carriages and coffee to be in readiness and to have food
provided for us, as it is simply madness for thirty-two persons to
arrive on Sunday in an American town without giving notice of such an
event. We had a special train going at full speed over the lines that
were entirely free on Sundays, and it was decorated with festoons of
flowers. The younger _artistes_ were as delighted as children, those who
had already seen everything before, told about it; then there was the
eloquence of those who had heard of it, etc., etc., and all this
together with the little bouquets of flowers distributed among the women
and the cigars and cigarettes presented to the men, made everyone
good-humored, so that all appeared to be happy. The carriages met our
train and took us to the Hotel d’Angleterre which had been kept open for
us. There were flowers everywhere and any number of small tables upon
which were coffee, chocolate, or tea. Every table was soon surrounded
with guests. I had my sister, Abbey, Jarrett, and the principal
_artistes_ at my table. The meal was of short duration and very gay and
animated. We then went to the Falls, and I remained more than an hour on
the balcony hollowed out of the rock. My eyes filled with tears as I
stood there for I was deeply moved by the splendor of the sight. A
radiant sun made the air around us iridescent. There were rainbows
everywhere lighting up the atmosphere with their soft silvery colors.
The _coulées_ of hard ice hanging down along the rocks on each side
looked like enormous jewels. I was sorry to leave this balcony, and we
went down in narrow cages which glided gently into a tube arranged in
the cleft of the enormous rock. We arrived in this way under the
American Falls. They were there almost over our heads, sprinkling us
with their blue, pink, and mauve drops. In front of us, protecting us
from the Falls, were a heap of icicles forming quite a little mountain.
We climbed over this to the best of our ability. My heavy fur mantle
tired me and about half way down I took it off and let it slip over the
side of the ice mountain to take it again when I reached the bottom. I
was wearing a dress of white cloth with a satin blouse and everyone
screamed with surprise on seeing me. Abbey took off his overcoat and
threw it over my shoulders. I shook this off quickly and Abbey’s coat
went to join my fur cloak below. The poor _impresario’s_ face looked
very blank. As he had taken a fair quantity of cocktails he staggered,
fell down on the ice, got up and immediately fell again to the amusement
of everyone. I was not at all cold as I never am when out of doors. I
only feel the cold inside houses or in any place where I am inactive.
Finally, we arrived at the highest point of the ice and the cataract was
really most threatening. We were covered by the impalpable mist which
rises in the midst of the tumultuous noise. I gazed at it all,
bewildered and fascinated by the rapid movement of the water which
looked like a wide curtain of silver, unfolding itself to be dashed
violently into a rebounding, splashing heap with a noise unlike any
sound I had ever heard. I very easily turn dizzy and I know very well
that if I had been alone I should have remained there forever with my
eye fixed on the sheet of water hurrying along at full speed, my mind
lulled by the fascinating sound, and my limbs numbed by the treacherous
cold which encircled us. I had to be dragged away, but I am soon myself
again when confronted by an obstacle.
[Illustration: FOYER IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S THEATER, PARIS.]
We had to go down again and this was not as easy as it had been to climb
up. I took the walking stick belonging to one of my friends and then sat
down on the ice. By putting the stick under my legs I was able to slide
down to the bottom. All the others imitated me and it was a comical
sight to see forty people descending this ice hill in this way. There
were several somersaults and collisions and plenty of laughter. A
quarter of an hour later we were all at the hotel where luncheon had
been ordered.
We were all cold and hungry; it was warm inside the hotel and the meal
smelled good. When luncheon was over, the landlord of the hotel asked me
to go into a small drawing-room, where a surprise awaited me. On
entering, I saw on a table protected under a long glass box, the Niagara
Falls in miniature with the rocks looking like pebbles. A large glass
represented the sheet of water and glass threads represented the Falls.
Here and there was some foliage of a hard, crude green. Standing up on a
little hillock of ice was a figure intended for me. It was enough to
make anyone howl with horror, it was all so hideous. I managed to raise
a broad smile for the benefit of the hotel keeper by way of
congratulating him on his good taste, but I was petrified on recognizing
the man servant of the Th—— brothers of Pittsburg. They had sent this
monstrous caricature of the most beautiful thing in the world. I read
the letter which their domestic handed me and all my disdain melted
away; they had gone to so much trouble in order to explain what they
wanted me to understand and they were so delighted at the idea of giving
me any pleasure. I dismissed the valet after giving him a letter for his
masters, and I asked the hotel keeper to send the work of art to Paris
packed carefully. I hoped that it might arrive in fragments. The thought
of it haunted me, though, and I wondered how my friend’s passion for the
Falls could be reconciled with the idea of such a gift. While admitting
that his imaginative mind might have hoped to be able to carry out his
idea, how was it that he was not indignant at the sight of this
grotesque imitation? How had he dared to send it to me? How was it that
my friend loved the Falls, and what had he understood of their marvelous
grandeur? Since his death I have questioned my own memory of him a
hundred times, but all in vain. He died for them, rolling about in their
waters, killed by their caresses, and I cannot think that he could ever
have seen how beautiful they really were. Fortunately, I was called
away, as the carriage was there and everyone waiting for me. The horses
started off with us, trotting in that weary way peculiar to tourists’
horses.
When we arrived on the Canadian shore we had to go underground and array
ourselves in black or yellow mackintoshes. We looked like so many heavy,
dumpy sailors who were wearing these garments for the first time. There
were two large cells to shelter us, one for the women and the other for
the men. Everyone undressed more or less in the midst of wild confusion,
and making a little package of our clothes we gave this into the keeping
of the woman in charge. With the mackintosh hood drawn tightly under the
chin hiding the hair entirely, an enormous blouse much too wide covering
the whole body, fur boots with rough soles to prevent broken legs and
heads, and immense mackintosh breeches in Zouave style, the prettiest
and slenderest woman was at once transformed into a huge, cumbersome,
awkward bear. An iron-tipped cudgel to carry in the hand completed this
becoming costume. I looked more ridiculous than the others for I would
not cover my hair, and in the most pretentious way I had fastened some
roses into my mackintosh blouse. The women went into raptures on seeing
me. “How pretty she looks like that!” they exclaimed. “She always finds
a way to be chic, _quand-même_!” The men kissed my bear’s paw in the
most gallant way, bowing low and saying in low tones: “Always and
_quand-même_ the queen, the fairy, the goddess, the divinity,” etc.,
etc.... And I went along purring with content and quite satisfied with
myself until, as I passed by the counter where the girl who gives the
tickets was sitting, I caught sight of myself in the glass. I looked
enormous and ridiculous with my roses pinned in and the curly locks of
hair forming a kind of peak to my clumsy hood. I appeared to be stouter
than all the others because of the silver belt I was wearing round my
waist, as this drew up the hard folds of the mackintosh round my hips.
My thin face was nearly covered by my hair which was flattened down by
my hood. My eyes could not be seen and only my mouth, which is rather
large, served to show that this barrel was a human being. Furious with
myself for my pretentious coquetry and ashamed of my own weakness for
having been so content with the pitiful, insincere flattery of people
who were making fun of me, I decided to remain as I was as a punishment
for my stupid vanity. There were a number of strangers among us who
nudged each other, pointing to me and laughing slyly at my absurd
get-up, and this was only what I deserved.
We went down the flight of steps cut in the block of ice in order to get
underneath the Canadian Falls. The sight there was most strange and
extraordinary. Above me I saw an immense cupola of ice hanging over in
space, attached only on one side to the rock. From this cupola thousands
of icicles of the most varied shapes were hanging. There were dragons,
arrows, crosses, laughing faces, sorrowful faces, hands with six
fingers, deformed feet, incomplete human bodies, and women’s long locks
of hair. In fact, with the help of the imagination, and by fixing the
gaze when looking with half-shut eyes, the illusion is complete, and in
less time than it takes to describe all this, one can evoke all the
pictures of nature and of our dreams, all the wild conceptions of a
diseased mind or the realities of a reflective brain.
In front of us were small steeples of ice, some of them proud and erect,
standing out against the sky, others ravaged by the wind which gnaws the
ice, looking like minarets ready for the muezzin. On the right a cascade
was rushing down as noisily as on the other side, but the sun had
commenced its evolution toward the west and everything was tinged with a
rosy hue. The water splashed over us and we were suddenly covered with
small silvery waves that fell over us, and which when shaken slightly
stiffened against our mackintoshes. It was a shoal of very small fish
which had had the misfortune to be driven into the current and which had
come to die in the dazzling brilliancy of the setting sun. On the other
side there was a small block which looked like a rhinoceros entering the
water.
“I should love to mount on that,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, but it is impossible,” replied one of my friends.
“Oh, as to that, nothing is impossible!” I said. “There is only the
risk, the crevasse to be covered is not a yard long.”
“No, but it is deep,” remarked an _artiste_ who was with us.
“Well,” I said, “my dog is just dead. We will bet a dog of my choice
that I go.”
Abbey was fetched immediately, but he arrived only in time to see me
there. I came very near falling into the crevasse, and when I was on the
back of the rhinoceros I could not stand up. It was as smooth and
transparent as artificial ice. I sat down on its back holding on to the
little hump, and I declared that if no one came to fetch me I should
stay where I was, as I had not the courage to move a step on this
slippery back and then, too, it seemed to me as though it moved
slightly. I began to lose my self-possession. I felt dizzy, but I had
won my dog. My excitement was over and I was seized with fright.
Everyone gazed at me in a bewildered way and that increased my terror.
My sister went into hysterics, and my dear Guérard groaned in a
heartrending way: “O God, my dear Sarah! O God!” The artist was making
sketches and fortunately the company had gone on up in order to get to
the rapids in time. Abbey besought me to return; poor Jarrett besought
me. But I felt dizzy and I could not and would not cross again. Angelo
then sprang across the crevasse and remaining there called for a plank
of wood and a hatchet.
“Bravo! Bravo!” I exclaimed from the back of my rhinoceros.
The plank was brought. It was an old, black-looking piece of wood and I
glanced at it suspiciously. The hatchet cut into the tail of my
rhinoceros and the plank was fixed firmly by Angelo on my side and held
by Abbey, Jarrett, and Claude, on the other. I let myself slide over the
crupper of my rhinoceros and I then started, not without terror, along
the rotten plank of wood which was so narrow that I was obliged to put
one foot in front of the other, the heel over the toe. I returned in a
very feverish state to the hotel, and the artist brought me the droll
sketches he had made.
After a light luncheon I was to start again by the train which had been
waiting for us twenty minutes. All the others had taken their places
some time before. I was leaving without having seen the rapids in which
my poor Pittsburg friend met his death.
Our great voyage was drawing toward its close. I say great voyage for it
was my first one. It lasted for eight months. The voyages I have since
undertaken were always from eleven to sixteen months.
From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy,
Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an
admirable city, but which at that time had a sadness about it that
affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited.
After two admirable performances and a supper at the Embassy we left for
Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to come to a
close. In that city I gave a grand matinée at the general demand of the
_artistes_ of New York. The piece chosen was the “Princesse Georges.”
Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was
applauded by the _artistes_. Nothing escaped the particular state of
mind of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and
sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair comb was handed to me on
which was engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From
Salvini, I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at
that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal
bearing a forget-me-not in turquoise. In my dressing-room I counted one
hundred and thirty bouquets.
That evening we gave our last performance with “La Dame aux Camélias.” I
had to return and bow to the public fourteen times.
Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and
bravos, I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths and which I
did not in the least understand. After each recall I asked in the wings
what the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful
sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and
enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him
abashed.... “Yes, they want you to make them a little speech.” “Ah, no!”
I exclaimed, as I again went on to the stage to make a bow. “No.” And in
making my bow to the public I murmured: “I cannot speak. But I can tell
you, thank you, with all my heart!” It was in the midst of a thunder of
applause, underscored with “Hip! hip! hurrah! Vive la France!” that I
left the theater.
On Wednesday, the 4th of May, I embarked on the same transatlantic
steamer, _L’Amérique_, the phantom vessel to which my journey had
brought good luck. But it had no longer the same commander. The new
one’s name was Santelli. He was as little and fair complexioned as the
other was big and dark. But he was as charming and a nice
conversationalist.
My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the woodwork had been
covered in sky-blue material. On going on the steamer I turned toward
the friendly crowd and threw them a last adieu. “_Au revoir_,” they
shouted back.
I then went toward my cabin. Standing at the door in an elegant
iron-gray suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest style, and
wearing dogskin gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman of whales. I gave
a cry like that of a wild beast. He kept his joyful smile and held out a
jewel casket which I took with the object of throwing it into the sea
through the open porthole. But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took
possession of the casket which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he
exclaimed, but I had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out
to the man: “Go away! you knave! you brute! go away. I hope you will die
under atrocious suffering! Go away!”
I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to talk to me about
the present. I would not hear anything about it.
“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since this jewel is so
fine, give it to your daughter and do not speak to me about it any
more.” And this was done.
The evening before my departure from America I had received a long
cablegram signed Grosos, President of the Life Saving Society at Hâvre,
asking me to give a performance for the benefit of the families of the
society upon my arrival. I accepted with unspeakable joy. On regaining
my native land I should assist in drying tears.
After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship oscillated
slightly, and we left New York on Thursday, the 5th of May.
Detesting as I usually do sea traveling I set out this time with a light
heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible discomfort caused by
the voyage.
We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the boat stopped. I
sprang out of my berth and was soon on deck fearing some accident to our
boat, _Phantom_, as we had nicknamed it. In front of us a French boat
had raised, lowered, and again raised its small flags. The captain, who
had given the replies to these signals, sent for me and explained to me
the working and the orthography of the signals. I could not remember
anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A small boat was
lowered from the ship opposite us and two sailors and a young man, very
poorly dressed and with a pale face, embarked. Our captain had the steps
lowered, the small boat accosted, and the young man escorted by two
sailors came on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer who was
waiting at the top of the steps. He read it and, looking at the young
man, he said quietly, “Follow me.” The small boat and the sailors
returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the engine shrieked, and
after the usual salute the two ships continued their way. The
unfortunate young man was brought before the captain. I went away after
asking the captain to tell me afterwards what was the meaning of it all
unless it should prove to be something which had to be kept secret.
The captain came himself and told me some time after. The young man was
a poor artist, a wood engraver who had managed to slip aboard a steamer
bound for New York. He had not a cent of money for his passage, as he
had not even been able to pay for an immigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to
get through without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various
kinds. He had, however, been taken ill and it was this illness which had
betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish he had talked aloud in
his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words. He was taken into the
infirmary and when there he had confessed everything. The captain
undertook to make him accept what I sent him for his journey to America.
The story soon spread and other passengers made a collection so that the
young engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune of
£48. Three days later he brought me a little wooden box, manufactured,
carved, and engraved by him. This little box is now nearly full of
petals of flowers for every year on the 7th of May I receive a small
bouquet of flowers with these words, always the same ones, year after
year: “Gratitude and Devotion.” I always put the petals of the flowers
into the little box, but for the last seven years I have not received
any. Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist to
discontinue this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea, but
the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness as
forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions of the human
being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode in our mind, in our heart, while
Death is always here laying traps for us, watching all we do, and
jeering gayly when sleep closes our eyes, for we give him then the
illusion of what he knows will some day be a reality.
[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN “L’AIGLON”—PAINTING BY G. CLAIRIN.]
Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened during the
voyage. I spent every night on deck, gazing at the horizon, hoping to
draw toward me that land on which were the loved ones. I turned in
toward morning and slept all day to kill the time.
The boats in those days did not perform the crossing with the speed of
to-day. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly long. I was so impatient
to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to send me to sleep
for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours’ sleep with a strong dose of
chloral and I felt stronger and calmer for confronting the shock of
happiness.
Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th.
I was ready and had pawed the ground distractedly for an hour when an
officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with the
commander who was waiting for me.
With my sister I went in haste on to the bridge, and soon understood
from the embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we
were too far off to hope to make the harbor that night.
I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined that the
Gnome was going to triumph and I wept those tears that were like a brook
that runs on and on without ceasing.
The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational state of mind.
I descended from the bridge with both body and soul like limpid rags.
I lay down on a straw deck chair and when dawn came was benumbed and
sleepy. It was five in the morning. We were still twenty miles off land.
The sun, however, began joyously to brighten up the small white clouds,
light as snowflakes. The look of the loved one gave me courage again. I
ran toward my cabin. I spent a long while over my toilet in order to
kill time. At seven o’clock I made inquiries from the captain. “We are
twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours we shall land.” “You swear to
it?” “Yes, I swear.” I returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark,
I scanned the distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw
it without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear the cry “Over
there! Over there!” All at once I noticed masses of small white flags
being waved on the small steamer. I got hold of my glass ... and let it
fall with a joyous cry that left me without any strength, without
breath. I wanted to speak. I could not. My face, it appears, became so
pale that it frightened the people who were about. My sister Jeanne wept
as she waved her arms toward the distance. They wanted to make me sit
down. I would not. Hanging on to the bulwarks, I smell the salts that
are thrust under my nose. I allow friendly hands to wipe my temples, but
I am gazing over there whence the vessel is coming. Over there lies my
happiness! my joy! my life! my everything! dearer than everything!
The _Diamond_ (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge of love is formed
between the small and large ship, a bridge placed under the beatings of
our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for
how many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears
when the young being that one worships is pressed to one’s bosom under
the spell of an undefinable emotion.
The big ship is invaded. Everyone is there, my dear and faithful
friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice. Ah, what a
delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions. Laughter is mingled with
tears. Hands are pressed, lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One
is never tired of this repetition of tender affection. During this time,
our boat is moving. The _Diamond_ has disappeared carrying away the
mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats are met with, decked
with flags, plowing the sea. There are a hundred at least. Here are
others.
“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of
the _Figaro_, who with friends had come to meet me.
“Oh, yes, madame, a great fête day to-day at Hâvre, for they are
expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months ago!”
“Is it really in my honor that all these pretty boats have spread their
wings and beflagged their masts. Ah, how happy I am!” At this moment we
go alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there
who cry out: “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”
I am dumfounded. I do not expect any triumphant return. I am well aware
that the performance given for the Life Saving Society has won the
hearts of the people of Hâvre, but I learn that trains have come from
Paris, packed with people, to welcome my return.
I feel my pulse.... It is I.... I am not dreaming....
The boat stops opposite a red velvet tent and an invisible orchestra
strikes up an air from the _Châlet_: “Arrêtons-nous ici.”
I smile at this quite French childishness. I get off ... and walk
through the midst of a hedge of smiling, kind faces of sailors who offer
me flowers.
Within the tent all the life savers are waiting for me, wearing on their
broad chests the medals they have so well deserved.
Mr. Grosos, the president, reads to me the following address:
“Madame, as president, I have the honor to present to you a delegation
from the Life Saving Society of Hâvre, who have come to welcome you
and express their gratitude for the sympathy you have so warmly worded
in your transatlantic dispatch.
“We have also come to congratulate you on the immense success that you
have met with at every place you have visited during your adventurous
journey. You have now conquered in two worlds an incontestable
popularity and artistic celebrity, and your marvelous talent, added to
your personal charms, has affirmed abroad that France is always the
land of art and the birthplace of elegance and beauty.
“A yet distant echo of the words you spoke in Denmark, evoking a deep
and sad souvenir, still strikes on our ears. It repeats that your
heart is as French as your talent, for in the midst of the feverish
and burning successes of the theater you have never forgotten to unite
your patriotism to your artistic triumphs.
“Our life savers have charged me with expressing to you their
admiration for the charming benefactor whose generous hand has
spontaneously stretched itself out toward their poor but noble
society. They wish to offer you these flowers, gathered from the soil
of the mother country, on the land of France, where you will find them
everywhere under your feet. They are worthy that you should accept
them with favor, for they are presented to you by the bravest and most
loyal of our life savers.”
It is said that my reply was very eloquent, but I cannot affirm that
that reply was really made by me. I had lived for several hours in a
state of overexcitement from successive emotions. I had taken no food,
had no sleep. My heart had not ceased beating a moving and joyous
charge. My brain had been filled with a thousand facts that had been
piled up for seven months and narrated in two hours. This triumphant
reception, that I was far from expecting after what had happened just
before my departure, after having been so badly treated by the Paris
press, after the incidents of my journey that had been always badly
interpreted by several French papers—all these coincidences were of such
different proportions that they seemed hardly credible. I preferred to
remain in the latter dream that was so flattering to me.
The performance furnished a fruitful harvest for the life savers. As for
me, I played “La Dame aux Camélias” for the first time in France. God
had come. I affirm that those who were present at that performance
experienced the quintessence of what my personal art can give.
I spent the night at my place at Ste. Addresse. The day following I left
for Paris. A most flattering ovation was awaiting me on my arrival.
Then, three days afterwards, installed in my hotel in the Avenue de
Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou in order to hear the reading of
his magnificent piece “Fédora.”
Ah, what a great artist! What an admirable actor! What a marvelous
author! He read that play to me right off, playing every rôle, giving me
in one second the vision of what I should do.
“Ah!” I exclaimed after the reading was over. “Ah, dear master, thanks
for this beautiful part! Thanks for the fine lesson you have just given
me!”
That night left me without sleep, for I wished to catch a glimpse in the
darkness of the small star in which I had faith. I saw it as dawn was
breaking, and fell asleep thinking over the new era that it was going to
lighten up.
My artistic journey lasted seven months. I visited fifty cities and gave
156 representations as follows:
“La Dame aux Camélias” 65 performances
“Adrienne Lecouvreur” 17 „
“Froufrou” 41 „
“La Princesse Georges” 3 „
“Hernani” 14 „
“L’Etrangère” 3 „
“Phèdre” 6 „
“Le Sphinx” 7 „
Total receipts 2,667,600 francs
Average receipts 17,100 „
I conclude these memories of mine here, for this is really the first
halting place in my life; the real evolution of my physical and moral
being.
I had run away from the Comédie Française, from Paris, from France, from
my family, and from my friends.
I had thought of having a wild ride across mountains, seas, and space,
and I came back in love with the vast horizon, but calmed down by the
feeling of responsibility which for seven months had been weighing on my
shoulders.
The terrible Jarrett, with his implacable and cruel wisdom, had tamed my
wild nature by a constant appeal to my probity.
In those few months my mind had matured and the brusqueness of my will
was softened.
My life, which I thought at first was to be so short, seemed now likely
to be very, very long, and that gave me a great mischievous delight
whenever I thought of the infernal displeasure of my enemies.
I resolved to live. I resolved to be the great _artiste_ that I longed
to be.
And from the time of this return I gave myself entirely up to my life.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“THE MOST UNFORTUNATE WOMAN IN MODERN HISTORY.”
Lucretia Borgia: According to Original Documents and Correspondence of
Her Day.
By FERDINAND GREGOROVIUS, Author of “A History of the City of Rome in
the Middle Ages.” Translated from the Third German Edition by John
Leslie Garner. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, $2.25 net; postage, 17 cents
additional.
Lucretia Borgia is the most unfortunate woman in modern history. Is
this because she was guilty of the most hideous crimes, or is it
simply because she has been unjustly condemned by the world to bear
its curse? The question has never been answered. Mankind is ever ready
to discover the personification of human virtues and human vices in
certain typical characters found in history and fable. The Borgias
will never cease to fascinate the historian and the psychologist. They
are a satire on a great form or phase of religion, debasing and
destroying it. They stand on high pedestals, and from their presence
radiates the light of the Christian ideal. In this form we behold and
recognize them. We view their acts through a medium which is permeated
with religious ideas. Without this, and placed on a purely secular
stage, the Borgias would have fallen into a position much less
conspicuous than that of many other men, and would soon have ceased to
be anything more than representatives of a large species. This is the
first translation from the German of this important work of
Gregorovius, in which a vast supply of information is furnished about
the family of this famous and interesting woman and about herself. The
book is illustrated with portraits and views, and offers valuable
knowledge upon the times and character of a woman about whose nature a
conflict of opinions has raged for centuries. About her beauty and
talents there are no two voices; on the question of her vices the
world has become divided. A patron of art and letters, as to her
private life the most hideous stories gained circulation, making her
name the most notorious of her renowned house, not excepting that of
her brother, the infamous Cesare Borgia.
In this translation English readers are offered the best known account
of this celebrated woman, written by the author of that monumental and
illuminating work, “The History of Rome in the Middle Ages.”
“The story is far more exciting than most romances, and treats of
Italian history and life about which comparatively little that is
authoritative can be found in English.”—_The Sun, New York._
REMINISCENCES OF A SCIENTIST
The Autobiography of Joseph Le Conte.
With portrait. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25 net.
Professor Le Conte was widely known as a man of science, and notably as
a geologist. His later years were spent at the University of California.
But his early life was passed in the South; there he was born and spent
his youth; there he was living when the civil war brought ruin to his
home and his inherited estate. His reminiscences deal with phases of
life in the South that have unfailing interest to all students of
American history. His account of the war as he saw it has permanent
value. He was in Georgia when Sherman marched across it. Professor Le
Conte knew Agassiz, and writes charmingly of his associations with him.
“Attractive because of its unaffected simplicity and
directness.”—_Chicago Chronicle._
“Attractive by virtue of its frank simplicity.”—_New York Evening
Post._
“Well worth reading even if the reader be not particularly interested
in geology.”—_New York American._
“This story of a beautiful, untiring life is worthy of consideration
by every lover of truth.”—_St. Paul Despatch._
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO. LONDON.
“Destined to take rank as one of the two or three most remarkable
self-portrayals of a human life ever committed to posterity.”
—_Franklin H. Giddings, LL.D., in the Independent._
An Autobiography by Herbert Spencer.
With Illustrations. Many of them from the Author’s Own Drawings. Cloth,
8vo. Gilt Top. Two vols. in a box, $5.50 net. Postage, 40 cents
additional.
“It is rare, indeed, that a man who has so profoundly influenced the
intellectual development of his age and generation has found time to
record the history of his own life. And this Mr. Spencer has done so
simply, so frankly, and with such obvious truth, that it is not
surprising that Huxley is reported as having said, after reading it in
manuscript, that it reminded him of the ‘Confessions’ of Rousseau,
freed from every objectionable taint.”—_New York Globe._
“As interesting as fiction? There never was a novel so interesting as
Herbert Spencer’s ‘An Autobiography’.”—_New York Herald._
“It is rich in suggestion and observation, of wide significance and
appeal in the sincerity, the frankness, the lovableness of its human
note.”—_New York Mail and Express._
“The book, as a whole, makes Spencer’s personality a reality for us,
where heretofore it has been vaguer than his philosophical
abstractions.”—_John White Chadwick in Current Literature._
“In all the literature of its class there is nothing like it. It bears
the same relationship to autobiographical productions as Boswell’s
‘Life of Johnson’ bears to biographies.”—_Philadelphia Press._
“This book will always be of importance, for Herbert Spencer was a
great and original thinker, and his system of philosophy has bent the
thought of a generation, and will keep a position of commanding
interest.”—_Joseph O’Connor in the New York Times._
“Planned and wrought for the purpose of tracing the events of his life
and the growth of his opinions, his autobiography does more than that.
It furnished us, half unconsciously, no doubt, a more vivid
portraiture of his peculiarities than any outsider could possibly
provide. We pity his official biographer! Little can be left for him.
Here we have Spencer in habit as he was.”—_New York Evening Post._
VIVID, MOVING, SYMPATHETIC, HUMOROUS.
A Diary from Dixie.
By MARY BOYKIN CHESNUT. Being her Diary from November, 1861, to August,
1865. Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary. Illustrated.
8vo. Ornamental Cloth, $2.50 net; postage additional.
Mrs. Chesnut was the most brilliant woman that the South has ever
produced, and the charm of her writing is such as to make all
Southerners proud and all Northerners envious. She was the wife of
James Chesnut, Jr., who was United States Senator from South Carolina
from 1859 to 1861, and acted as an aid to President Jefferson Davis,
and was subsequently a Brigadier-General in the Confederate Army. Thus
it was that she was intimately acquainted with all the foremost men in
the Southern cause.
“In this diary is preserved the most moving and vivid record of the
Southern Confederacy of which we have any knowledge. It is a piece of
social history of inestimable value. It interprets to posterity the
spirit in which the Southerners entered upon and struggled through the
war that ruined them. It paints poignantly but with simplicity the
wreck of that old world which had so much about it that was beautiful
and noble as well as evil. Students of American life have often
smiled, and with reason, at the stilted and extravagant fashion in
which the Southern woman had been described south of Mason and Dixon’s
line—the unconscious self-revelations of Mary Chesnut explain, if they
do not justify, such extravagance. For here, we cannot but believe, is
a creature of a fine type, a ‘very woman,’ a very Beatrice, frank,
impetuous, loving, full of sympathy, full of humor. Like her
prototype, she had prejudices, and she knew little of the Northern
people she criticised so severely; but there is less bitterness in
these pages than we might have expected. Perhaps the editors have seen
to that. However this may be they have done nothing to injure the
writer’s own nervous, unconventional style—a style breathing character
and temperament as the flower breathes fragrance.”—_New York Tribune._
“It is written straight from the heart, and with a natural grace of
style that no amount of polishing could have imparted.”—_Chicago
Record-Herald._
“The editors are to be congratulated; it is not every day that one
comes on such material as this long-hidden diary.”—_Louisville Evening
Post._
“It is a book that would have delighted Charles Lamb.”—_Houston
Chronicle._
BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY.
The Journal of Latrobe.
Being the Notes and Sketches of an Architect, Naturalist, and Traveller
in the United States from 1796 to 1820. By BENJAMIN HENRY LATROBE,
Architect of the Capitol at Washington. Copiously illustrated with
reproductions from the original drawings by the author. 8vo. Ornamental
cloth, $3.50 net.
These are the memoirs of a personal friend of the first President of
the United States. He was a man of refinement and great intellectual
attainments, a soldier, civil engineer, philosopher, artist, humorist,
poet, and naturalist. The book is bright with story and anecdote,
criticism and comment.
“Benjamin Latrobe was a man of the world and a clever commentator on
what he saw going on around him. One of the best pen pictures of
Washington is Latrobe’s account of a visit to the Father of his
Country at Mt. Vernon in 1796.”—_Review of Reviews._
“Mr. Latrobe was a keen observer, and his notes of travel in the South
are valuable in an attempt to picture the life of a century
ago.”—_Chicago Tribune._
“Benjamin Latrobe visited Washington at Mt. Vernon and recorded what
he saw very fully. Then, late in life, he went to New Orleans by sea
and wrote full notes of his voyage and his impressions. Both diaries
are full of interest. Between them are placed in this volume papers
relating to the building of the Capitol. Prefixed to the volume is a
biographical introduction written by his son thirty years ago. The
illustrations are curious and interesting.”—_New York Sun._
“With what has been said of the volume it should be evident that it is
curious, interesting, and instructive to an unusual degree. To speak
of ‘The Journal of Latrobe’ without mention of its illustrations would
be an unpardonable oversight.”—_San Francisco Chronicle._
AN AMERICAN ADMIRAL.
Forty-five Years Under the Flag.
By WINFIELD SCOTT SCHLEY, Rear-Admiral, U. S. N. Illustrated. 8vo.
Cloth, uncut edges, and gilt top, $3.00 net.
About one-third of Admiral Schley’s volume is devoted to the Spanish
War, in which he became so great a figure. He tells his own story in
simple and effective words. His recollections are constantly
reinforced by references to dispatches and other documents.
Readers will be surprised at the extent of Admiral Schley’s
experiences. He left the Naval Academy just before the outbreak of the
Civil War and saw service with Farragut in the Gulf. Three chapters
are devoted to Civil War events. His next important service was
rendered during the opening of Corea to the commerce of the world, and
the chapter in which he describes the storming of the forts is one of
thrilling interest. Another important expedition in his life was the
rescue of Greely, to which three chapters are devoted. Two other
chapters pertain to the Revolution in Chili, and the troubles growing
out of the attack upon some of Admiral Schley’s men in the streets of
Valparaiso.
Altogether the book contains thirty-eight chapters. It has been
illustrated from material furnished by Admiral Schley and through his
suggestions, and makes an octavo volume of large size. It will appeal
to every true-hearted American.
The author says in his preface: “In times of danger and duty the
writer endeavored to do the work set before him without fear of
consequences. With this thought in mind, he has felt moved, as a duty
to his wife, his children, and his name, to leave a record of his long
professional life, which has not been without some prestige, at least
for the flag he has loved and under which he has served the best years
of his life.”
“Rear-Admiral W. S. Schley’s ‘Forty-five Years Under the Flag’ is the
most valuable contribution to the history of the American Navy that
has been written in many a year.”—_New York Times._
“The author’s career is well worthy of a book, and he has every reason
for pride in telling of his forty-five active years in all parts of
the world.”
—_Edwin L. Shuman in the Chicago Record-Herald._
“It is a stirring story, told with the simple directness of a sailor.
Its reading carries the conviction of its truthfulness. The Admiral
could not have hoped to accomplish more.”—_Chicago Evening Post._
“He has told his own story, in his own way, from his own viewpoint,
and goes after his detractors, open and above board, with his big
guns.”
—_Washington Post._
“It is a work that will interest everyone, from the sixteen-year-old
schoolboy who is studying history and loves tales of stirring
adventure to the grandsire whose blood still pulses hotly with
patriotic pride at the recounting of valiant deeds of arms under our
starry flag.”—_Boston American._
“The Admiral tells the story well. His is a manly and straightforward
style. He leaves nothing to doubt, nothing open to controversy.”
—_Baltimore Sun._
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. P. 244, changed “leave on the bench” to “leave on the beach”.
2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.