He said all this in English and Jarrett translated it to my sister who lent herself to this little comedy very willingly. During this time Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which was stationed in front of the theater where no one was waiting. And it was fortunate we took this course, for my sister only got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour later, very tired, but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my hat, my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices of the little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic public.
We had to set out at nine o’clock for Menlo Park. We had to dress in traveling costume, for the following day we were to leave for Boston and my trunks had gone that day with my company, which preceded me by several hours.
The dinner was, as usual, very bad, for in those days in America the food was unspeakably awful. At ten o’clock we took the train—a pretty, special train all decorated with flowers and banners, which they had been kind enough to prepare for me. But it was a painful journey, all the same, for at each instant we had to pull up to allow another train to pass, or an engine to maneuver, or to wait to pass over the points. It was two o’clock in the morning when the train at last reached the station of Menlo Park, the residence of Thomas Edison.
It was a very dark night and the snow was falling silently in heavy flakes. A carriage was waiting and the one lamp of this carriage served to light up the whole station, for orders had been given that the electric lights should be put out. I found my way with the help of Jarrett and some of my friends who had accompanied us from New York. The intense cold froze the snow as it fell, and we walked over veritable blocks of sharp, jagged ice, which crackled under our feet. Behind the first carriage was another heavier one, with only one horse and no lamp. There was room for five or six persons to crowd into this. We were ten in all; Jarrett, Abbey, my sister, and I took our places in the first one, leaving the others to get into the second. We looked like a band of conspirators, the dark night, the two mysterious carriages, the silence caused by the icy coldness, the way in which we were muffled in our furs, and our anxious expressions as we glanced around us—all this made our visit to the celebrated Edison resemble a scene out of an operetta.
The carriage rolled along, sinking deep into the snow and jolting terribly; the jolts made us dread every instant some tragi-comic accident. I cannot tell how long we had been rolling along for, lulled by the movement of the carriage and buried in my warm furs, I was quietly dozing when a formidable “Hip-hip-hurrah!” made us all jump, my traveling companions, the coachman, the horse, and I. As quick as thought the whole country was suddenly illuminated. Under the trees, on the trees, among the bushes, along the garden walks, lights flashed forth triumphantly. The wheels of the carriage turned a few times more and then drew up at the house of the famous Thomas Edison. A group of people awaited us on the veranda, four men, two ladies, and a young girl. My heart began to beat quickly as I wondered which of these men was Edison. I had never seen his photograph and I had the greatest admiration for his genius. I sprang out of the carriage and the dazzling electric light made it seem like daytime to us. I took the bouquet which Mrs. Edison offered me and thanked her for it, but all the time I was endeavoring to discover which of these was the Great Man. They all four advanced toward me, but I noticed the flush that came into the face of one of them and it was so evident from the expression of his blue eyes that he was intensely bored that I guessed this was Edison. I felt confused and embarrassed myself, for I knew very well that I was causing inconvenience to this man by my visit. He, of course, imagined that it was due to the idle curiosity of a foreigner, eager to court publicity. He was no doubt thinking of the interviewing in store for him the following day, and of the stupidities he would be made to utter. He was suffering beforehand at the idea of the ignorant questions I should ask him, of all the explanations he would, out of politeness, be obliged to give me, and at that moment Thomas Edison took a dislike to me. His wonderful blue eyes, more luminous than his incandescent lamps, enabled me to read his thoughts. I immediately understood that he must be won over, and my combative instinct had recourse to all my powers of fascination, in order to vanquish this delightful but bashful savant. I made such an effort and succeeded so well that, half an hour later, we were the best of friends. I followed him about quickly, climbing up staircases as narrow and steep as ladders, crossing bridges suspended in the air above veritable furnaces, and he explained everything to me. I understood all, and I admired him more and more, for he was so simple and charming, this king of light. As we leaned over a slightly unsteady bridge, above the terrible abyss in which immense wheels, encased in wide thongs, were turning, tacking about, and rumbling, he gave various orders in a clear voice and light then burst forth on all sides, sometimes in sputtering, greenish jets, sometimes in quick flashes or in serpentine trails like streams of fire. I looked at this man of medium size, with rather a large head and a noble-looking profile, and I thought of Napoleon I. There is certainly a great physical resemblance between these two men, and I am sure that one compartment of their brain would be found to be identical. Of course I do not compare their genius. The one was “destructive” and the other “creative,” but while I execrate battles, I adore victories and, in spite of his errors, I have raised an altar in my heart to that god of Glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at Edison thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who was dead. The deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling rapidity of the changes of light—all that together made my head whirl and, forgetting where I was, I leaned for support on the slight balustrade which separated me from the abyss beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger that, before I had recovered from my surprise, Edison had helped me into an adjoining room and installed me in an armchair without my realizing how it had all happened. He told me afterwards that I had turned dizzy.
After having done the honors of his telephonic discovery and of his astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and took me to the dining-room where I found his family assembled. I was very tired and did justice to the supper that had been so hospitably prepared for us.
I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning and this time the country round, the roads, and the station were all lighted up, à giorno, by the thousands of jets of my kind host. What a strange power of suggestion the darkness has! I thought I had traveled a long way that night, and it seemed to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved to be quite a short distance and the roads were charming, although they were covered with snow. Imagination had played a great part during the journey to Edison’s house, but reality played a much greater one during the same journey back to the station. I was enthusiastic in my admiration of the inventions of this man, and I was charmed with his timid graciousness and perfect courtesy, and with his profound love of Shakespeare.
The next day or rather that same day, for it was then four in the morning, I started after my company for Boston. Mr. Abbey, my impresario, had arranged for me to have a delightful “car,” but it was nothing like the wonderful Pullman car that I was to have from Philadelphia for continuing my tour. I was very much pleased with this one, nevertheless. In the middle of the room there was a real bed, large and comfortable, on a brass bedstead. Then there was an armchair, a pretty dressing table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and flowers everywhere, but flowers without overpowering perfume. In the car adjoining mine were my own servants, who were also very comfortable. I went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied and woke up at Boston.
A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters and curious men and women, a public decidedly more interested than friendly, not badly intentioned but by no means enthusiastic. Public opinion in New York had been greatly occupied with me during the past month. I had been so much criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid and disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me. Some people blamed and others admired the disdain with which I had treated these turpitudes, but everyone knew that I had won in the end, and that I had triumphed over all and everything. Boston knew, too, that clergymen had preached from their pulpits saying that I had been sent by the Old World to corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration from hell, etc., etc. Everyone knew all this, but the public wanted to see for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women. Tradition says that it was a woman who first set foot in Boston. Women form the majority there. They are puritanical with intelligence, and independent with a certain grace. I passed between the two lines formed by this strange, courteous, and cold crowd, and, just as I was about to get into my carriage a lady advanced toward me and said: “Welcome to Boston, madame.”
“Welcome, madame,” and she held out a soft little hand to me. (American women generally have charming hands and feet.) Other people now approached and smiled, and I had to shake hands with many of them. I took a fancy to this city at once, but all the same I was furious for a moment when a reporter sprang on to the steps of the carriage just as we were driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious than any of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the limits and I pushed the wretched man back angrily. Jarrett was prepared for this and saved him by the collar of his coat; otherwise he would have fallen down on the pavement as he deserved.