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.