"Oh yes, many times," I answered, wondering what he would say next.
"Wal, I guess some of them nightingales will have to take a back seat
when she sings."
I actually blushed with pride. I considered this was the greatest
compliment I had ever had.
We arrived safely, without any adventure, at Sacramento, where John
Cadwalader left us, and the rest of the party continued as far as
Chicago together, where we bade each other good-by, each going his
different way.
CAMBRIDGE, _June, 1877_.
My dear Sister,--Sarah Bernhardt is playing in Boston now, much to
Boston's delight. I went to see her at the Tremont House, where she is
staying. She looked enchanting, and was dressed in her most
characteristic manner, in a white dress with a border of fur. Fancy, in
this heat! She talked about Paris, her latest successes, asked after
Nina, and finally--what I wanted most to know--her impressions of
America.
This is her first visit. I found that she seemed to be cautious about
expressing her opinions. She said she was surprised to see how many
people in America understood French. "Really?" I answered. "It did not
strike me so the other evening when I heard you in 'La Dame aux
Camelias.'" "I don't mean the public," she replied. "It apparently
understands very little, and the turning of the leaves of the librettos
distracts me so much that I sometimes forget my rôle. At any rate, I
wait till the leaves have finished rustling. But in society," she
added, "I find that almost every one who is presented to me talks very
good French." "Well," I answered, "if Boston didn't speak French I
should be ashamed of it." She laughed. "Sometimes," she said, "they do
make curious mistakes. I am making note of all I can remember. They
will be amusing in the book I am writing. A lady said to me, 'What I
admire the most in you, madame, _c'est votre température_.'" She meant
"temperament." "What did you answer to that?" I asked. "I said, '_Oui,
madame, il fait très chaud_,' which fell unappreciated."
She is bored with reporters, who besiege her from morning till night.
One--a woman--who sat with note-book in hand for ages ("_une éternité_"
she said) reporting, the next day sent her the newspaper in which a
column was filled with the manner she treated her nails. Not one word
about "_mon art_"! "Some of my _admirateurs_" she said, "pay their
fabulous compliments through an interpreter." She thought this was
ridiculous. When I got up to leave she said, "_Chère_ madame, you know
Mr. Longfellow?" "Yes," I replied, "very well." "Could you not arrange
that I might make his bust? You can tell him that you know my work, and
that I can do it if he will let me."
I told her that I would try. She was profuse in her thanks in
anticipation, but, alas! Mr. Longfellow, when I spoke to him, turned a
cold shoulder on the idea. He begged me to assure Sarah Bernhardt
nothing would have given him more pleasure, but, with a playful wink,
"I am leaving for Portland in a few days, and I am afraid she will have
left Boston when I come back"--thus cutting the Gordian (k)_not_ with a
snap. But, evidently regretting his curtness, he said, "Tell her if she
is at liberty to-morrow I will offer her a cup of tea." Then he added:
"You must come and chaperon me. It would not do to leave me alone with
such a dangerous and captivating visitor." He invited Mr. Howells and
Oliver Wendell Holmes to meet her. I wrote to Sarah Bernhardt what the
result of my interview was and gave the invitation. She sent back a
short "I will come." The next afternoon I met her at Mr. Longfellow's.
When we were drinking our tea she said, "_Cher_ M. Longfellow, I would
like so much to have made your bust, but I am so occupied that I really
have not the time." And he answered her in the most suave manner, "I
would have been delighted to sit for you, but, unfortunately, I am
leaving for the country to-morrow." How clever people are!
Mr. Longfellow speaks French like a native. He said: "I saw you the
other evening in 'Phèdre.' I saw Rachel in it fifty years ago, but you
surpass her. You are magnificent, for you are _plus vivante_. I wish I
could make my praises vocal--_chanter vos louanges_."
"I wish that you could make _me_ vocal," she said. "How much finer my
Phèdre would be if I could sing, and not be obliged to depend upon some
horrible soprano behind the scenes!"
"You don't need any extra attraction," Mr. Longfellow said. "I wish I
could make you feel what I felt."
"You can," she said, "and you do--by your poetry."
"Can you read my poetry?"
"Yes. I read your 'He-a-vatere.'"
"My--Oh yes--'Hiawatha.' But you surely do not understand that?"
"Yes, yes, indeed I do," she said. "_Chaque mot_."
[Illustration:
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW]
[Illustration:
JAMES G. BLAINE
When Speaker of the House of Representatives.]
"You are wonderful," he said, and fearing that she might be tempted to
recite "_chaque mot_" of his "Hiawatha," hastened to present Mr.
Holmes, who was all attention.
At last the tea-party came to an end. We all accompanied her to her
carriage, and as she was about to get in she turned with a sudden
impulse, threw her arms round Mr. Longfellow's neck, and said, "_Vous
étes adorable_," and kissed him on his cheek. He did not, seem
displeased, but as she drove away he turned to me and said, "You see I
did need a chaperon."
Johan has just come home from Boston, bringing incredible stories
about having talked in a machine called telephone. It was nothing but a
wire, one end in Boston and the other end in Cambridge. He said he
could hear quite plainly what the person in Cambridge said. Mr. Graham
Bell, our neighbor, has invented this. How wonderful it must be! He has
put up wires about Boston, but not farther than Cambridge--yet. He was
ambitious enough to suggest Providence. "What!" cried the members of
the committee. "You think you can talk along a wire in the air over
that distance?" "Let me just try it," said Bell. "I will bear half the
expense of putting up the wire if you will bear the other half."
He was ultra-convinced of his success when, on talking to his brother
in Cambridge from Boston in order to invite him to dinner, adding,
"Bring your mother-in-law," he heard, distinctly but feebly, the old
lady's voice: "Good gracious! Again! What a bore!"
There is also another invention, called phonograph, where the human
voice is reproduced, and can go on for ever being reproduced. I sang in
one through a horn, and they transposed this on a platina roll and
wound it off. Then they put it on another disk, and I heard my
voice--for the first time in my life. If that is my voice, I don't want
to hear it again! I could not believe that it could be so awful! A
high, squeaky, nasal sound; I was ashamed of it. And the faster the man
turned the crank the higher and squeakier the voice became. The
intonation--the pronunciation--I could recognize as my own, but the
_voice_!... Dear me!
[_Johan, desiring me to know his family, suggested that we spend the
Christmas holidays in Denmark, and we arrived safely after a slow and
very stormy voyage._]
"BJÖRNEMOSE," _December 20, 1877_.
Dear Mother,--Denmark looks very friendly under its mantle of snow,
glistening with its varnish of ice. It is lovely weather. The sun
shines brightly, but it is as cold as Greenland. They tell me it is a
very mild winter. Compared with Alaska, it may be! The house, which is
heated only by large porcelain stoves, is particularly cold. These
stoves are filled with wood in the early morning, and when the wood is
burned out they shut the door and the porcelain tiles retain the
heat--still, the ladies all wear shawls over their shoulders and
shiver. I go and lean my back up against the huge white monument, but
this is not considered good form.
The Baltic Sea, which is at the foot of the snow-covered lawn, is
filled with floating ice. It must be lovely here in the summer, when
one can see the opposite shores of Thuro across the blue water.
My new family, taken singly and collectively, is delightful. I shall
tell you later about the dear, genial General--my father-in-law--the
kind mother, and the three devoted sisters. _Now_ I shall only
write--as I promised you--my _first_ impressions.
We live in a manner which is, I fancy, called "patriarchal," and which
reminds me continually of Frederika Bremer's book called _Home_. A
great many things in the way of food are new to me. For instance, there
is a soup made of beer, brown bread, and cream, and another made of the
insides of a goose, with its long neck and thin legs, boiled with
prunes, apples, and vinegar. Then rice porridge is served as soup and
mixed with hot beer, cinnamon, butter, and cream. These all seem very
queer, but they taste very good, I asked for oatmeal porridge, but I
was told that oatmeal was used only for cataplasms. Corn is known only
as ornamental shrubbery, and tomatoes, alas! are totally unknown.
Every one I have met so far has been most kind and hospitable. We have
been invited out to dinner several times. I will describe the first
one, which was unique as a _début_.
The distances are enormous between country houses in this land; and, as
the hour named for dinner was six o'clock, we had to begin dressing in
the afternoon at the early hour of three. At four we were packed in the
family landau, with a mountain of rugs and different things to keep our
feet warm. We jogged along the hard, slippery highroad at a monotonous
pace; and, as it is dark at four o'clock, nothing could have been more
conducive to slumber and peaceful dreams. Finally we arrived. Every one
was standing up when we entered the _salon_. There seemed to be a great
number of people. I was presented to all the ladies, and the gentlemen
were brought up one by one and named to me. They bowed, shook my hand,
and retired. I noticed that all the ladies wore long trailing
skirts--lilac or gray--and had real flowers in their hair and on their
bosoms. Dinner was announced. Then there came a pause. The host and the
hostess were looking about for some one to undertake _me_--some one who
could _tale Engelsk_ (talk English). Finally they decided upon a lank,
spectacled gentleman, who offered me his arm and took me in.
My father-in-law, who was the person highest in rank, sat on the left
of the hostess. I thought this peculiar, but such is the custom here.
From the moment we sat down until we rose from the table my
English-speaking friend never stopped talking. He told me he had
learned my language when a boy, but had forgotten a great deal; if he
had said he had forgotten it entirely he would have been nearer the
truth.
He wanted to tell me the family history of a gentleman opposite us, and
began by saying: "Do you see that gentleman? He has been washing you
all the time."
"Washing me?" I exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"Yes, the one with the gray hairs and the bird."