“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, madame?” he asked.
I remained standing, my profile turned toward him at his request. When he had finished I asked to see what he had done and, perfectly unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing of a skeleton with a curly wig. I tore the sketch up and threw it at him, but the following day that horror appeared in the papers, with a disagreeable inscription underneath it. Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art with a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years ago reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious articles, and the public, very much less literary then than at present, always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes invented by reporters hard up for copy. I should think that no creature in the world, since the invention of reportage, has ever had as much to endure as I had during that first tour. The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long before I arrived in America; there was all the treachery of the friends of the Comédie and even of my own admirers, who hoped that I should not succeed on my tour so that I might return more quickly to the fold, humiliated, calmed down, and subdued. Then there were the exaggerated announcements invented by my impresario, Abbey, and my representative, Jarrett. These announcements were often outrageous and always ridiculous, but I did not know their real source until long afterwards when it was too late, much too late, to undeceive the public, who were fully persuaded that I was the instigator of all these inventions. I therefore did not attempt to undeceive them. It matters very little to me whether people believe one thing or another. Life is short, even for those who live a long time, and we must live for the few who know and appreciate us, who judge and absolve us, and for whom we have the same affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as a mere crowd, lively or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is nothing to be expected but fleeting emotions, either pleasant or unpleasant, which leave no trace behind them. We ought to hate very rarely, as it is too fatiguing, remain indifferent to a great deal, forgive often and never forget. Forgiving does not mean forgetting, at least it does not with me. I will not mention here any of the outrageous and infamous attacks that were made upon me, as it would be doing too great an honor to the wretched people who were responsible for them from beginning to end, dipping their pen in the gall of their own soul. All I can say is that nothing kills but death, and that anyone who wishes to defend himself or herself from slander can do it. For that one must live. It is not given to everyone to be able to do it, but it depends on the will of God who sees and judges.
CHAPTER XXVI
NEW YORK AND BOSTON
I TOOK two days’ rest before going to the theater, for I could feel the movement of the boat all the time, my head was dizzy, and it seemed to me as though the ceiling moved up and down. The twelve days on the sea had quite upset my health. I sent a line to the stage manager telling him that we would rehearse on Wednesday, and on that day as soon as luncheon was over I went to the Booth Theater, where our performances were to take place. At the door reserved for the artistes I saw a compact, swaying crowd, very much animated and gesticulating. These strange-looking individuals did not belong to the artiste world. They were not reporters, either, for I knew them too well, alas! to be mistaken in them. They were not there out of curiosity, either, these people, for they seemed too much occupied and then, too, there were only men. When my carriage drew up one of them rushed forward to the door of it and then returned to the swaying crowd. “Here she is, here she is!” I heard, and then all these common men with their white neckties and questionable-looking hands, with their coats flying open and trousers whose knees were worn and dirty looking, crowded behind me into the narrow passage leading to the staircase. I did not feel very easy in my mind, and I mounted the stairs rapidly. Several persons were waiting for me at the top, Mr. Abbey, Jarrett, and also some reporters, two gentlemen, and a charming and most distinguished woman whose friendship I have kept ever since, although she does not care much for French people. I saw Mr. Abbey, who was usually very dignified and cold, advance in the most gracious and courteous way to one of the men who were following me. They raised their hats to each other and, followed by the strange and brutal-looking regiment, they advanced toward the center of the stage. I then saw the strangest of sights. In the middle of the stage were my forty-two trunks. In obedience to a sign twenty of the men came forward and placing themselves, each one between two trunks, with a quick movement with their right and left hands they lifted the lids of the trunks on the right and left of them. Jarrett with frowns and an unpleasant grin held out my keys to them. He had asked me that morning for my keys for the customs. “Oh, it’s nothing!” he said, “don’t be uneasy,” and the way in which my luggage had always been respected in other countries had given me perfect confidence about it. The principal personage of the ugly group came toward me accompanied by Abbey, and Jarrett explained things to me. The man was an official from the American customhouse. The custom office is an abominable institution in every country, but worse in America than anywhere else. I was prepared for all this and was most affable to the tormenter of a traveler’s patience. He raised the melon which served him for a hat and, without taking his cigar out of his mouth made some incomprehensible remark to me. He then turned to his regiment of men, made an abrupt sign with his hand, and uttered some word of command, whereupon the forty dirty hands of these twenty men proceeded to forage among my velvets, satins, and laces. I rushed forward to save my poor dresses from such outrageous violations, and I ordered our costume maker to lift my gowns out one at a time, which she accordingly did, aided by my maid, who was in tears at the small amount of respect shown by these boors to all my beautiful, fragile things. Two ladies had just arrived, very noisy and businesslike. One of them was short and stout, her nose seemed to begin at the roots of her hair; she had round, placid-looking eyes and a mouth like a snout; her arms she was hiding timidly behind her heavy, flabby bust and her ungainly knees seemed to come straight out of her groin. She looked like a seated cow. Her companion was like a terrapin, with her little, black, evil-looking head at the end of a neck which was too long, and very stringy. She kept shooting it out of her boa and drawing it back with the most incredible rapidity. The rest of her body bulged out.... These two delightful persons were the dressmakers sent for by the customhouse to estimate my costumes. They glanced at me in a furtive way and gave a little bow, full of bitterness and jealous rage at the sight of my dresses, and I was quite aware that two more enemies had now come upon the scene. These two odious shrews began to chatter and argue, pawing and crumpling my dresses and cloaks at the same time. They kept exclaiming in the most emphatic way: “Oh, how beautiful! What magnificence! What luxury! All our customers will want gowns like these and we shall never be able to make them! It will be the ruin of all the American dressmakers.” They were working up the judges into a state of excitement for this “chiffon court martial.” They kept lamenting, then going into raptures and asking for “justice” against foreign invasion. The ugly band of men nodded their heads in approval and spat on the ground to affirm their independence. Suddenly the Terrapin turned on one of the inquisitors:
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful! Show it them, show it them!” she exclaimed, seizing on a dress all embroidered with pearls, which I wore in “La Dame aux Camélias.”
“This dress is worth at least $10,000,” she said and then, coming up to me she asked: “How much did you pay for that dress, madame?”
I ground my teeth together and would not answer, for just at that moment I should have enjoyed seeing the Terrapin in one of the saucepans in the Albemarle Hotel kitchen. It was nearly half past five and my feet were frozen. I was half dead, too, with fatigue and suppressed anger. The rest of the examination was postponed until the next day, and the ugly band of men offered to put everything back in the trunk, but I objected to that. I sent out for five hundred yards of blue tarlatan to cover over the mountain of dresses, hats, cloaks, shoes, laces, linen, stockings, furs, gloves, etc., etc. They then made me take my oath to remove nothing, for they had such charming confidence in me, and I left my butler there in charge. He was the husband of Félicie, my maid, and a bed was put up for him on the stage. I was so nervous and upset that I wanted to go somewhere far away, to have some fresh air, and to stay out for a long time. A friend offered to take me to see the Brooklyn Bridge.
“That masterpiece of American genius will make you forget the petty miseries of our red-tape affairs,” he said gently, and so we set out for Brooklyn Bridge.
Oh, that bridge! It is insane, admirable, imposing, and it makes one feel proud. Yes, one is proud to be a human being when one realizes that a human brain has created and suspended in the air, fifty yards from the ground, that fearful thing which bears a dozen trains filled with passengers, ten or twelve tram cars, a hundred cabs, carriages, and carts, and thousands of foot passengers, and all that moving along together amidst the uproar of the music of the metals, clanging, clashing, grating, and groaning under the enormous weight of people and things. The movement of the air caused by this frightful, tempestuous coming and going, caused me to feel giddy and stopped my breath. I made a sign for the carriage to stand still and I closed my eyes. I then had a strange indefinable sensation of universal chaos. I opened my eyes again when my brain was a little more tranquil and I saw New York stretching out along the river, wearing its night ornaments, which glittered as much through its dress with thousands of electric lights as the firmament with its tunic of stars. I returned to the hotel reconciled with this great nation. I went to sleep tired in body but rested in mind, and had such delightful dreams that I was in a good humor the following day. I adore dreams, and my sad, unhappy days are those which follow dreamless nights. My great grief is that I cannot choose my dreams. How many times I have done all in my power at the end of a happy day to make myself dream a continuation of it! How many times I have called up the faces of those I love just before falling asleep! but my thoughts wander and carry me off elsewhere, and I prefer that or even a disagreeable dream to none at all. When I am asleep my body has an infinite sense of enjoyment, but it is torture to me for my thoughts to slumber. My vital forces rebel against such negation of life. I am quite willing to die once for all, but I object to slight deaths such as those of which one has the sensation on dreamless nights. When I awoke, my maid told me that Jarrett was waiting for me to go to the theater, so that the valuation of my costumes could be terminated. I sent word to Jarrett that I had seen quite enough of the regiment from the customhouse, and I asked him to finish everything without me, as Mme. Guérard would be there. During the next two days the Terrapin, the Seated Cow and the Black Band made notes for the customhouse, took sketches for the papers and patterns of my dresses for customers. I began to get impatient, as we ought to have been rehearsing. Finally, I was told on Thursday morning that the business was over, and that I could not have my trunks until I had paid 28,000 francs for duty. I was seized with such a violent fit of laughing that poor Abbey, who had been terrified, caught it from me and even Jarrett showed his cruel teeth.