BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU, BY SARAH BERNHARDT.
Up to the last moment, people in Paris did not believe that I would really go. I had such uncertain health that it seemed folly to undertake such a journey. But when it was quite certain that I was going, there was a general outburst from my enemies and the hue and cry after me was in full swing. I have now under my eyes the specimens of insanity, calumnies, lies, and stupidities, burlesque portraits, doleful pleasantries, good-bys to the darling, the idol, the star, the zimm! boum! boum! etc., etc.... It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was confounded. I had not read the greater part of these articles, but my secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little notebooks, whether favorable or unfavorable. It was my godfather who had commenced doing this when I entered the Conservatoire and after his death I had it continued.
Happily I find, in these thousands of lines, fine and noble words—words written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Vallés, Jules Lemaître, etc.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed Victor Hugo, Francois Coppée, Richemin, Haroucourt, Henri de Bornier, Catulle Mendès, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.
I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies; but I confess that the kindly appreciation and praises accorded me by the superior spirits afforded me infinite joy.
CHAPTER XXV
MY ARRIVAL IN AMERICA
The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and other successes was named L’Amérique. It was the unlucky boat, the boat that was haunted by the Gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents, and storms had been its lot. It had been stranded for months with its keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat and it had foundered on the shoals of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Hâvre roadstead, but no great damage was done, and the poor boat had had a celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous. In 1876 or 1877 a new pumping system was adopted and although this system had been in use by the English for a long time it was quite unknown aboard French boats. The captain very wisely decided to have these pumps worked by his crew so that in case of any danger the men would be ready to manipulate them easily. The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of the men came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling with water, and no one could discover the cause of it. “Go on pumping!” shouted the captain. “Hurry up! Pump away!” The pumps were worked frantically and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the passengers safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after, tried the pumps which worked admirably but in the contrary way to that indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the Compagnie Transatlantique £48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to start the ship again and passengers refused to go by it they offered my impresario, M. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very intelligent he was, for in spite of all prognostications the boat had paid her tribute.
I had hitherto traveled very little and I was wild with delight.
On the 15th of October, 1880, at six o’clock in the morning, I entered my cabin. It was a large one and hung with light red rep embroidered with my initials. What a profusion of the letters S. B.! Then there was a large brass bedstead brightly polished, and flowers everywhere. Adjoining mine was a very comfortable cabin for my petite dame, and leading out of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other persons I employed were at the other end of the ship. The sky was misty, and the sea gray, with no horizon. I was on my way over there, beyond that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a mysterious rampart. The clearing of the deck for the departure upset everyone and everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain’s call, the bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in time to catch the boat, the “Halloo!” “Look out!” of the men who were pitching the packages from the port into the hold, the sound of the laughing waves breaking over the side of the boat, all this mingled together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who, up to the last moment enjoyed the “Good-bys,” the handshakings, the plans about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over flung themselves sobbing on their bed.