The evening before my departure from America I had received a long cablegram signed Grosos, President of the Life Saving Society at Hâvre, asking me to give a performance for the benefit of the families of the society upon my arrival. I accepted with unspeakable joy. On regaining my native land I should assist in drying tears.
After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship oscillated slightly, and we left New York on Thursday, the 5th of May.
Detesting as I usually do sea traveling I set out this time with a light heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible discomfort caused by the voyage.
We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the boat stopped. I sprang out of my berth and was soon on deck fearing some accident to our boat, Phantom, as we had nicknamed it. In front of us a French boat had raised, lowered, and again raised its small flags. The captain, who had given the replies to these signals, sent for me and explained to me the working and the orthography of the signals. I could not remember anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A small boat was lowered from the ship opposite us and two sailors and a young man, very poorly dressed and with a pale face, embarked. Our captain had the steps lowered, the small boat accosted, and the young man escorted by two sailors came on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer who was waiting at the top of the steps. He read it and, looking at the young man, he said quietly, “Follow me.” The small boat and the sailors returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the engine shrieked, and after the usual salute the two ships continued their way. The unfortunate young man was brought before the captain. I went away after asking the captain to tell me afterwards what was the meaning of it all unless it should prove to be something which had to be kept secret.
The captain came himself and told me some time after. The young man was a poor artist, a wood engraver who had managed to slip aboard a steamer bound for New York. He had not a cent of money for his passage, as he had not even been able to pay for an immigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to get through without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various kinds. He had, however, been taken ill and it was this illness which had betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish he had talked aloud in his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words. He was taken into the infirmary and when there he had confessed everything. The captain undertook to make him accept what I sent him for his journey to America. The story soon spread and other passengers made a collection so that the young engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune of £48. Three days later he brought me a little wooden box, manufactured, carved, and engraved by him. This little box is now nearly full of petals of flowers for every year on the 7th of May I receive a small bouquet of flowers with these words, always the same ones, year after year: “Gratitude and Devotion.” I always put the petals of the flowers into the little box, but for the last seven years I have not received any. Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist to discontinue this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea, but the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness as forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions of the human being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode in our mind, in our heart, while Death is always here laying traps for us, watching all we do, and jeering gayly when sleep closes our eyes, for we give him then the illusion of what he knows will some day be a reality.
SARAH BERNHARDT IN “L’AIGLON”—PAINTING BY G. CLAIRIN.
Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened during the voyage. I spent every night on deck, gazing at the horizon, hoping to draw toward me that land on which were the loved ones. I turned in toward morning and slept all day to kill the time.
The boats in those days did not perform the crossing with the speed of to-day. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly long. I was so impatient to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to send me to sleep for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours’ sleep with a strong dose of chloral and I felt stronger and calmer for confronting the shock of happiness.
Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th. I was ready and had pawed the ground distractedly for an hour when an officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with the commander who was waiting for me.