Part 4 (1/2)

We left Clark's early in the morning without having made a second trip to the trees, as we wanted to, but the time was nearing when John Cadwalader was to leave us for his trip around the world. We were already too late as it was, and if anything should happen like another Gulliver across our downward path he would lose the steamer which starts from San Francisco in three days. I sat in the favorite seat next to the driver and waved a long farewell to the beautiful forest which I shall probably never see again.

Here another funny thing happened. Everything funny seems to happen at the end of our trip. The driver (a new one, not the one of yesterday) after a long silence, and having changed a piece of straw he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other many times, made up his mind to speak. I did not speak first, though I longed to, as I am told it is not wise to speak to the man at the wheel, especially when the wheel happens to be a California coach and six horses.

”A beautiful day,” the driver ventured.

”Yes,” I said, ”it is one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen.”

He, after a long pause, said, ”Was you in the hotel parlor last night?”

”Yes,” I said, ”I was.”

”Did you hear that lady sing?”

”Yes, I did. Did you?”

”You bet I did. I was standing with the rest of the folks out on the piazza.”

How curious it would be to hear a wild Western unvarnished, unprejudiced judgment of myself! ”What did you think of her singing?” I asked my companion.

He replied by asking, ”Have you ever heard a nightingale, ma'm?”

”Oh yes, many times,” I answered, wondering what he would say next.

”Wal, I guess some of them nightingales will have to take a back seat when she sings.”

I actually blushed with pride. I considered this was the greatest compliment I had ever had.

We arrived safely, without any adventure, at Sacramento, where John Cadwalader left us, and the rest of the party continued as far as Chicago together, where we bade each other good-by, each going his different way.

CAMBRIDGE, _June, 1877_.

My dear Sister,--Sarah Bernhardt is playing in Boston now, much to Boston's delight. I went to see her at the Tremont House, where she is staying. She looked enchanting, and was dressed in her most characteristic manner, in a white dress with a border of fur. Fancy, in this heat! She talked about Paris, her latest successes, asked after Nina, and finally--what I wanted most to know--her impressions of America.

This is her first visit. I found that she seemed to be cautious about expressing her opinions. She said she was surprised to see how many people in America understood French. ”Really?” I answered. ”It did not strike me so the other evening when I heard you in 'La Dame aux Camelias.'” ”I don't mean the public,” she replied. ”It apparently understands very little, and the turning of the leaves of the librettos distracts me so much that I sometimes forget my role. At any rate, I wait till the leaves have finished rustling. But in society,” she added, ”I find that almost every one who is presented to me talks very good French.” ”Well,” I answered, ”if Boston didn't speak French I should be ashamed of it.” She laughed. ”Sometimes,” she said, ”they do make curious mistakes. I am making note of all I can remember. They will be amusing in the book I am writing. A lady said to me, 'What I admire the most in you, madame, _c'est votre temperature_.'” She meant ”temperament.” ”What did you answer to that?” I asked. ”I said, '_Oui, madame, il fait tres chaud_,' which fell unappreciated.”

She is bored with reporters, who besiege her from morning till night.

One--a woman--who sat with note-book in hand for ages (”_une eternite_”

she said) reporting, the next day sent her the newspaper in which a column was filled with the manner she treated her nails. Not one word about ”_mon art_”! ”Some of my _admirateurs_” she said, ”pay their fabulous compliments through an interpreter.” She thought this was ridiculous. When I got up to leave she said, ”_Chere_ madame, you know Mr. Longfellow?” ”Yes,” I replied, ”very well.” ”Could you not arrange that I might make his bust? You can tell him that you know my work, and that I can do it if he will let me.”

I told her that I would try. She was profuse in her thanks in antic.i.p.ation, but, alas! Mr. Longfellow, when I spoke to him, turned a cold shoulder on the idea. He begged me to a.s.sure Sarah Bernhardt nothing would have given him more pleasure, but, with a playful wink, ”I am leaving for Portland in a few days, and I am afraid she will have left Boston when I come back”--thus cutting the Gordian (k)_not_ with a snap. But, evidently regretting his curtness, he said, ”Tell her if she is at liberty to-morrow I will offer her a cup of tea.” Then he added: ”You must come and chaperon me. It would not do to leave me alone with such a dangerous and captivating visitor.” He invited Mr. Howells and Oliver Wendell Holmes to meet her. I wrote to Sarah Bernhardt what the result of my interview was and gave the invitation. She sent back a short ”I will come.” The next afternoon I met her at Mr. Longfellow's.

When we were drinking our tea she said, ”_Cher_ M. Longfellow, I would like so much to have made your bust, but I am so occupied that I really have not the time.” And he answered her in the most suave manner, ”I would have been delighted to sit for you, but, unfortunately, I am leaving for the country to-morrow.” How clever people are!

Mr. Longfellow speaks French like a native. He said: ”I saw you the other evening in 'Phedre.' I saw Rachel in it fifty years ago, but you surpa.s.s her. You are magnificent, for you are _plus vivante_. I wish I could make my praises vocal--_chanter vos louanges_.”

”I wish that you could make _me_ vocal,” she said. ”How much finer my Phedre would be if I could sing, and not be obliged to depend upon some horrible soprano behind the scenes!”

”You don't need any extra attraction,” Mr. Longfellow said. ”I wish I could make you feel what I felt.”