A Frenchman in America: Recollections of Men and Things

When the writer of some “society” paper, English or American, reproaches a sociologist for writing about the masses instead of the classes, suggesting that “he probably never frequented the best society of the nation he describes,” that writer writes himself down an ass.

In the matters of feeling, conduct, taste, culture, I have never discovered the least difference between a gentleman from America and a gentleman from France, England, Russia, or any other country of Europe – including Germany. So, if we want to find a typical American, it is not in good society that we must search for him, but among the mass of the population.

Well, it is just here that our search will break down. We shall come across all sorts and conditions of Americans, but not one that is really typical.

A little while ago, the Century Magazine published specimens of composite photography. First, there was the portrait of one person, then that of this same face with another superposed, then another containing three faces blended, and so on up to eight or nine. On the last page the result was shown. I can only compare the typical American to the last of those. This appears to me the process of evolution through which the American type is now going. What it will be when this process of evolution is over, no one, I imagine, can tell. The evolution will be complete when immigration shall have ceased, and all the different types have been well mixed and assimilated. While the process of assimilation is still going on, the result is suspended, and the type is incomplete.

But, meanwhile, are there not certain characteristic traits to be found throughout almost all America? That is a question much easier to answer.

Is it necessary to repeat that I put aside good society and confine myself merely to the people?

Nations are like individuals: when they are young, they have the qualities and the defects of children. The characteristic trait of childhood is curiosity. It is also that of the American. I have never been in Australia, but I should expect to find this trait in the Australian.

Look at American journalism. What does it live on? Scandal and gossip. Let a writer, an artist, or any one else become popular in the States, and the papers will immediately tell the public at what time he rises and what he takes for breakfast. When any one of the least importance arrives in America, he is quickly beset by a band of reporters who ask him a host of preposterous questions and examine him minutely from head to foot, in order to tell the public next day whether he wears laced, buttoned, or elastic boots, enlighten them as to the cut of his coat and the color of his trowsers, and let them know if he parts his hair in the middle or not.

Every time I went into a new town to lecture I was interviewed, and the next day, besides an account of the lecture, there was invariably a paragraph somewhat in this style:

The lecturer is a man of about forty, whose cranium is getting visible through his hair. He wears a double eye-glass, with which he plays while talking to his audience. His handkerchief was black-bordered. He wore the regulation patent leather shoes, and his shirt front was fastened with a single stud. He spoke without effort or pretension, and often with his hands in his pockets, etc.

A few days ago, on reading the morning papers in a town where I had lectured the night before, I found, in one of them, about twenty lines consecrated to my lecture, and half a column to my hat.

I must tell you that this hat was brown, and all the hats in America are black. If you wear anything that is not exactly like what Americans wear, you are gazed at as if you were a curious animal. The Americans are as great badauds as the Parisians. In London, you may go down Regent Street or Piccadilly got up as a Swiss admiral, a Polish general, or even a Highlander, and nobody will take the trouble to look at you. But, in America, you have only to put on a brown hat or a pair of light trowsers, and you will become the object of a curiosity which will not fail very promptly to bore you, if you are fond of tranquility, and like to go about unremarked.

I was so fond of that poor brown hat, too! It was an incomparably obliging hat. It took any shape, and adapted itself to any circumstances. It even went into my pocket on occasions. I had bought it at Lincoln & Bennett’s, if you please. But I had to give it up. To my great regret, I saw that it was imperative: its popularity bid fair to make me jealous. Twenty lines about me, and half a column about that hat! It was time to come to some determination. It was not to be put up with any longer. So I took it up tenderly, smoothed it with care, and laid it in a neat box which was then posted to the chief editor of the paper with the following note:

Dear Sir:

I see by your estimable paper that my hat has attracted a good deal of public attention during its short sojourn in your city. I am even tempted to think that it has attracted more of it than my lecture. I send you the interesting headgear, and beg you will accept it as a souvenir of my visit, and with my respectful compliments.

A citizen of the Great Republic knows how to take a joke. The worthy editor inserted my letter in the next number of his paper, and informed his readers that my hat fitted him to a nicety, and that he was going to have it dyed and wear it. He further said, “Max O’Rell evidently thinks the song, ‘Where did you get that hat?’ was specially written to annoy him,” and went on to the effect that “Max O’Rell is not the only man who does not care to tell where he got his hat.”

Do not run away with the idea that such nonsense as this has no interest for the American public. It has.

American reporters have asked me, with the most serious face in the world, whether I worked in the morning, afternoon, or evening, and what color paper I used (sic). One actually asked me whether it was true that M. Jules Claretie used white paper to write his novels on, and blue paper for his newspaper articles. Not having the honor of a personal acquaintance with the director of the Comédie-Française, I had to confess my inability to gratify my amiable interlocutor.

Look at the advertisements in the newspapers. There you have the bootmaker, the hatter, the traveling quack, publishing their portraits at the head of their advertisements. Why are those portraits there, if it be not to satisfy the curiosity of customers?

The mass of personalities, each more trumpery than the other, those details of people’s private life, and all the gossip daily served up in the newspapers, are they not proof enough that curiosity is a characteristic trait of the American?

This curiosity, which often shows itself in the most impossible questions, gives immense amusement to Europeans. Unhappily, it amuses them at the expense of well-bred Americans – people who are as innocent of it as the members of the stiffest aristocracy in the world could be. The English, especially, persist in not distinguishing Americans who are gentlemen from Americans who are not.

…

And even that easy-going American bourgeois, with his childish but good-humored nature, they often fail to do justice to. They too often look at his curiosity as impertinence and ill-breeding, and will not admit that, in nine cases out of ten, the freedom he uses with you is but a show of good feeling, an act of good-fellowship.

Take, for instance, the following little story:

An American is seated in a railway carriage, and opposite him is a lady in deep mourning, and looking a picture of sadness; a veritable mater dolorosa.

“Lost a father?” begins the worthy fellow.

“No, sir.”

“A mother, maybe?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah! a child then?”

“No, sir; I have lost my husband.”

“Your husband! Ah! Left you comfortable?”

The lady, rather offended, retires to the other end of the car, and cuts short the conversation.

“Rather stuck up, this woman,” remarks the good Yankee to his neighbor.

The intention was good, if the way of showing it was not. He had but wanted to show the poor lady the interest he took in her.

After having seen you two or three times, the American will suppress “Mr.” and address you by your name without any handle to it. Do not say that this is ill placed familiarity; it is meant as an act of good-fellowship, and should be received by you as such.

If you are stiff, proud, and stuck-up, for goodness’ sake, never go to America; you will never get on there. On the contrary, take over a stock of simple, affable manners and a good temper, and you will be treated as a friend everywhere, fêted, and well looked after.

In fact, try to deserve a certificate of good-fellowship, such as the Clover Club, of Philadelphia, awards to those who can sit at its hospitable table without taking affront at the little railleries leveled at them by the members of that lively association. With people of refinement who have humor, you can indulge in a joke at their expense. So says La Bruyère. Every visitor to America, who wants to bring back a pleasant recollection of his stay there, should lay this to heart.

Such are the impressions that I formed of the American during my first trip to his country, and the more I think over the matter, the more sure I am that they were correct. Curiosity is his chief little failing, and good-fellowship his most prominent quality. This is the theme I will develop and send to the Editor of the North American Review. I will profit by having a couple of days to spend in New York to install myself in a cosy corner of that cosiest of clubs, the “Players,” and there write it.

It seems that, in the same number of this magazine, the same subject is to be treated by Mr. Andrew Lang. He has never seen Jonathan at home, and it will be interesting to see what impressions he has formed of him abroad. In the hands of such a graceful writer, the “typical American” is sure to be treated in a pleasant and interesting manner.

CHAPTER XVI

I am Asked to Express Myself Freely on America – I Meet Mrs. Blank and for the First Time Hear of Mr. Blank – Beacon Street Society – The Boston Clubs Boston, January 25.

It amuses me to notice how the Americans to whom I have the pleasure of being introduced, refrain from asking me what I think of America. But they invariably inquire if the impressions of my first visit are confirmed.

This afternoon, at an “At Home,” I met a lady from New York, who asked me a most extraordinary question.

“I have read ‘Jonathan and His Continent,’” she said to me. “I suppose that is a book of impressions written for publication. But now, tell me en confidence, what do you think of us?”

“Is there anything in that book,” I replied, “which can make you suppose that it is not the faithful expression of what the author thinks of America and the Americans?”

“Well,” she said, “it is so complimentary, taken altogether, that I must confess I had a lurking suspicion of your having purposely flattered us and indulged our national weakness for hearing ourselves praised, so as to make sure of a warm reception for your book.”

“No doubt,” I replied, “by writing a flattering book on any country, you would greatly increase your chance of a large sale in that country; but, on the other hand, you may write an abusive book on any country and score a great success among that nation’s neighbors. For my part, I have always gone my own quiet way, philosophizing rather than opinionating, and when I write, it is not with the aim of pleasing any particular public. I note down what I see, say what I think, and people may read me or not, just as they please. But I think I may boast, however, that my pen is never bitter, and I do not care to criticise unless I feel a certain amount of sympathy with the subject of my criticism. If I felt that I could only honestly say hard things of people, I would always abstain altogether.”

“Now,” said my fair questioner, “how is it that you have so little to say about our Fifth Avenue folks? Is it because you have seen very little of them, or is it because you could only have said hard things of them?”

“On the contrary,” I replied; “I saw a good deal of them, but what I saw showed me that to describe them would be only to describe polite society, as it exists in London and elsewhere. Society gossip is not in my line; boudoir and club smoking-room scandal has no charm for me. Fifth Avenue resembles too much Mayfair and Belgravia to make criticism of it worth attempting.”

I knew this answer would have the effect of putting me into the lady’s good graces at once, and I was not disappointed. She accorded to me her sweetest smile, as I bowed to her to go and be introduced to another lady by the mistress of the house.

The next lady was a Bostonian. I had to explain to her why I had not spoken of Beacon Street people, using the same argument as in the case of Fifth Avenue society, and with the same success.

…

At the same “At Home,” I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Blank, whom I had met many times in London and Paris.

She is one of the crowd of pretty and clever women whom America sends to brighten up European society, and who reappear in London and Paris with the regularity of the swallows. You meet them everywhere, and conclude that they must be married, since they are styled Mrs. and not Miss. But whether they are wives, widows, or divorcées, you rarely think of inquiring, and you may enjoy their friendship for years without knowing whether they have a living lord or not.

Mrs. Blank, as I say, is a most fascinating specimen of America’s daughters, and to-day I find that Mr. Blank is also very much alive, but that the companions of his joys and sorrows are the telephone and the ticker; in fact it is thanks to his devotion to these that the wife of his bosom is able to adorn European society during every recurring season.

American women have such love for freedom and are so cool-headed that their visits to Europe could not arouse suspicion even in the most malicious. But, nevertheless, I am glad to have heard of Mr. Blank, because it is comfortable to have one’s mind at rest on these subjects. Up to now, whenever I had been asked, as sometimes happened, though seldom: “Who is Mr. Blank, and where is he?” I had always answered: “Last puzzle out!”

…

Lunched to-day in the beautiful Algonquin Club, as the guest of Colonel Charles H. Taylor, and met the editors of the other Boston papers, among whom was John Boyle O’Reilly,1 the lovely poet, and the delightful man. The general conversation turned on two subjects most interesting to me, viz., American journalism, and American politics. All these gentlemen seemed to agree that the American people take an interest in local politics only, but not in imperial politics, and this explains why the papers of the smaller towns give detailed accounts of what is going on in the houses of legislature of both city and State, but do not concern themselves about what is going on in Washington. I had come to that conclusion myself, seeing that the great papers of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago devoted columns to the sayings and doings of the political world in London and Paris, and seldom a paragraph to the sittings of Congress in Washington.

In the morning, before lunch, I had called on Mr. John Holmes, the editor of the Boston Herald, and there met a talented lady who writes under the nom de plume of “Max Eliot,” and with whom I had a delightful half-hour’s chat.

I have had to-day the pleasure of meeting the editors of all the Boston newspapers.

…

In the evening, I dined with the members of the New England Club, who meet every month to listen, at dessert, to some interesting debate or lecture. The wine is supplied by bets. You bet, for instance, that the sun will shine on the following Friday at half-past two. If you lose, you are one of those who will have to supply one, two, or three bottles of champagne at the next dinner, and so on. This evening the lecture, or rather the short address, was given by Colonel Charles H. Taylor on the history of American journalism. I was particularly interested to hear the history of the foundation of the New York Herald, by James Gordon Bennett, and that of the New York World, by Mr. Pulitzer, a Hungarian emigrant, who, some years ago, arrived in the States, unable to speak English, became jack-of-all-trades, then a reporter on a German paper, proprietor of a Western paper, and then bought the World, which is now one of the best paying concerns in the whole of the United States. This man, who, to maintain himself, not in health, but just alive, is obliged to be constantly traveling, directs the paper by telegraph from Australia, from Japan, from London, or wherever he happens to be. It is nothing short of marvelous.

…

I finished the evening in the St. Botolph Club, and I may say that I have to-day spent one of the most delightful days of my life, with those charming and highly cultured Bostonians, who, a New York witty friend of mine declares, “are educated beyond their intellects.”

CHAPTER XVII

A Lively Sunday in Boston – Lecture in the Boston Theater – Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes – The Booth-Modjeska Combination Boston, January 26.

“Max Eliot” devotes a charming and most flattering article to me in this morning’s Herald, embodying the conversation we had together yesterday in the Boston Herald’s office. Many thanks, Max.

A reception was given to me this afternoon by Citizen George Francis Train, and I met many artists, journalists, and a galaxy of charming women.

The Citizen is pronounced to be the greatest crank on earth. I found him decidedly eccentric, but entertaining, witty, and a first-rate raconteur. He shakes hands with you in the Chinese fashion – he shakes his own. He has taken a solemn oath that his body shall never come in contact with the body of any one.

A charming programme of music and recitations was gone through.

The invitation cards issued for the occasion speak for themselves.

CITIZEN

GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN’S

RECEPTION

To

CITOYEN MAX O’RELL.

P.S. – “Demons” have checkmated “Psychos”! Invitations canceled! “Hub” Boycotts Sunday Receptions! Boston half century behind New York and Europe’s Elite Society. (Ancient Athens still Ancient!) Regrets and Regards! Good-by, Tremont! (The Proprietors not to blame.)

Vide some of his “Apothegmic Works”! (Reviewed in Pulitzer’s New York World and Cosmos Press!)…

John Bull et Son Ile! Les Filles de John Bull! Les Chers Voisins! L’Ami Macdonald! John Bull, Junior! Jonathan et Son Continent! L’Eloquence Française! etc.

YOU ARE INVITED TO MEETthis distinguished French Traveler, Author, and Lecturer (From the land of Lafayette, Rochambeau, and De Grasse),AT MY SIXTH “POP-CORN RECEPTION”!Sunday, January Twenty-Sixth, From 2 to 7 P. M. (Tremont House!)Private Banquet Hall! Fifty “Notables”!

Talent from Dozen Operas and Theaters! All Stars! No Airs! No “Wall Flowers”! No Amens! No Selahs! But “MUTUAL ADMIRATION CLUB OF GOOD FELLOWSHIP”! No Boredom! No Formality! (Dress as you like!) No Programme! (Pianos! Cellos! Guitars! Mandolins! Banjos! Violins! Harmonicas! Zithers!) Opera, Theater and Press Represented!

Succeeding Receptions: To Steele Mackaye! Nat Goodwin! Count Zubof (St. Petersburg)! Prima Donna Clementina De Vere (Italy)! Albany Press Club! (Duly announced printed invitations!)

GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN,Tremont House for Winter!

Psychic Press thanks for friendly

notices of Sunday Musicales!

It will be seen from the “P. S.” that the reception could not be held at the Tremont House; but the plucky Citizen did not allow himself to be beaten, and the reception took place at the house of a friend.

…

In the evening I lectured in the Boston Theater to a beautiful audience.

If there is a horrible fascination about “the man who won’t smile,” as I mentioned in a foregoing chapter, there is a lovely fascination about the lady who seems to enjoy your lecture thoroughly. You watch the effects of your remarks on her face, and her bright, intellectual eyes keep you in good form the whole evening; in fact, you give the lecture to her. I perhaps never felt the influence of that face more powerfully than to-night. I had spoken for a few minutes, when Madame Modjeska, accompanied by her husband, arrived and took a seat on the first row of the orchestra stalls. To be able to entertain the great tragédienne became my sole aim, and as soon as I perceived that I was successful, I felt perfectly proud and happy. I lectured to her the whole evening. Her laughter and applause encouraged me, her beautiful, intellectual face cheered me up, and I was able to introduce a little more acting and by-play than usual.

I had had the pleasure of making Madame Modjeska’s acquaintance two years ago, during my first visit to the United States, and it was a great pleasure to be able to renew it after the lecture.

I will go and see her Ophelia to-morrow night.

… January 27.

Spent the whole morning wandering about Boston, and visiting a few interesting places. Beacon Street, the public gardens, and Commonwealth Avenue are among the finest thoroughfares I know. What enormous wealth is contained in those miles of huge mansions!

The more I see Boston, the more it strikes me as a great English city. It has a character of its own, as no other American city has, excepting perhaps Washington and Philadelphia. The solidity of the buildings, the parks, the quietness of the women’s dresses, the absence of the twang in most of the voices, all remind you of England.

After lunch I called on Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. The “Autocrat of the Breakfast Table” is now over eighty, but he is as young as ever, and will die with a kind smile on his face and a merry twinkle in his eyes. I know no more delightful talker than this delightful man. You may say of him that every time he talks he says something. When he asked me what it was I had found most interesting in America, I wished I could have answered: “Why, my dear doctor, to see and to hear such a man as you, to be sure!” But the doctor is so simple, so unaffected, that I felt an answer of that kind, though perfectly sincere, would not have been one calculated to please him. The articles “Over the Tea Cups,” which he writes every month for the Atlantic Monthly, and which will soon appear in book form, are as bright, witty, humorous, and philosophic as anything he ever wrote. Long may he live to delight his native land!

…

In the evening I went to see Mr. Edwin Booth and Madame Modjeska in “Hamlet.” By far the two greatest tragedians of America in Shakespeare’s greatest tragedy. I expected great things. I had seen Mounet-Sully in the part, Henry Irving, Wilson Barrett; and I remembered the witty French quatrain, published on the occasion of Mounet-Sully attempting the part:

Sans Fechter ni RivièreLe cas était hasardeux;Jamais, non jamais sur terre,On n’a fait d’Hamlet sans eux.

I had seen Mr. Booth three times before. As Brutus, I thought he was excellent. As Richelieu he was certainly magnificent; as Iago ideally superb.

His Hamlet was a revelation to me. After seeing the raving Hamlet of Mounet-Sully, the somber Hamlet of Irving, and the dreamy Hamlet of Wilson Barrett, I saw this evening Hamlet the philosopher, the rhetorician.

Mr. Booth is too old to play Hamlet as he does, that is to say, without any attempt at making-up. He puts on a black wig, and that is all, absolutely all. It is, however, a most remarkable, subtle piece of acting in his hands.

Madame Modjeska was beautiful as Ophelia. No tragédienne that I have ever seen weeps more naturally. In all sad situations she makes the chords of one’s heart vibrate, and that without any trick or artifice, but simply by the modulations of her singularly sympathetic voice and such like natural means.

It is very seldom that you can see in America, outside of New York, more than one very good actor or actress playing together. So you may imagine the success of such a combination as Booth-Modjeska.

Every night the theater is packed from floor to ceiling, although the prices of admission are doubled.