A Frenchman in America Part 18

Half-way between St. Johnsbury and Portsea, the day before yesterday, I was told that the train would be very late, and would not arrive at Portsea before half-past eight. My lecture in that city was to begin at eight. The only thing to do was to send a telegram to the manager of the lecture. At the next station I sent the following:

"Train late. If possible, keep audience waiting half an hour. Will dress on board."

I dressed in the state-room of the parlor-car. At forty minutes past eight the train arrived at Portsea. I immediately jumped into a cab and drove to the City Hall, where the lecture was to take place. The building was lighted, but, as I ascended the stairs, there was not a person to be seen or a sound to be heard. "The place is deserted," I thought; "and if anybody came to hear me, they have all gone."

I opened the door of the private room behind the platform and there found the manager, who expressed his delight to see me. I excused myself, and was going to enter into a detailed explanation when he interrupted:

[Ill.u.s.tration: I TIP-TOED OUT.]

"Oh, that's all right."

"What do you mean?" said I. "Have you got an audience there, on the other side of that door?"

"Why, we have got fifteen hundred people."

"There?" said I, pointing to the door.

"Yes, on the other side of that door."

"But I can't hear a sound."

"I guess you can't. But that's all right; they are there."

"I suppose," I said, "I had better apologize to them for keeping them waiting three-quarters of an hour."

"Well, just as you please," said the manager. "I wouldn't."

"Wouldn't you?"

"No; I guess they would have waited another half-hour without showing any sign of impatience."

I opened the door trembling. My desk was far, far away. My manager was right; the audience was there. I stepped on the platform, shut the door after me, making as little noise as I could, and, walking on tiptoe so as to wake up as few people as possible, proceeded toward the table. Not one person applauded. A few people looked up unconcernedly, as if to say, "I guess that's the show." The rest seemed asleep, although their eyes were open.

Arrived at the desk, I faced the audience, and ventured a little joke, which fell dead flat.

I began to realize the treat that was in store for me that night.

I tried another little joke, and--missed fire.

"Never mind, old fellow," I said to myself; "it's two hundred and fifty dollars; go ahead."

And I went on.

I saw a few people smile, but not one laughed, although I noticed that a good many were holding their handkerchiefs over their mouths, probably to stifle any attempt at such a frivolous thing as laughter. The eyes of the audience, which I always watch, showed signs of interest, and n.o.body left the hall until the conclusion of the lecture. When I had finished, I made a small bow, when certainly fifty people applauded. I imagined they were glad it was all over.

"Well," I said to the manager, when I had returned to the little back room, "I suppose we must call this a failure."

"A failure!" said he; "it's nothing of the sort. Why, I have never seen them so enthusiastic in my life!"

I went to the hotel, and tried to forget the audience I had just had by recalling to my mind a joyous evening in Scotland. This happened about a year ago, in a mining town in the neighborhood of Glasgow, where I had been invited to lecture, on a Sat.u.r.day night, to the members of a popular--very popular--Inst.i.tute.

[Ill.u.s.tration: I AM ESCORTED TO THE HALL.]

I arrived at the station from Glasgow at half-past seven, and there found the secretary and the treasurer of the Inst.i.tute, who had been kind enough to come and meet me. We shook hands. They gave me a few words of welcome. I thought my friends looked a little bit queer. They proposed that we should walk to the lecture hall. The secretary took my right arm, the treasurer took my left, and, abreast, the three of us proceeded toward the hall. They did not take me to that place; _I_ took them, holding them fast all the way--the treasurer especially.

We arrived in good time, although we stopped once for light refreshment.

At eight punctually, I entered the hall, preceded by the president, and followed by the members of the committee. The president introduced me in a most queer, incoherent speech. I rose, and was vociferously cheered.

When silence was restored, I said in a calm, almost solemn manner: "Ladies and Gentlemen." This was the signal for more cheering and whistling. In France whistling means hissing, and I began to feel uneasy, but soon I bore in mind that whistling, in the North of Great Britain, was used to express the highest pitch of enthusiasm.

So I went on.

The audience laughed at everything I said, and even before I said it. I had never addressed such keen people. They seemed so anxious to laugh and cheer in the right place that they laughed and cheered all the time--so much so that in an hour and twenty minutes, I had only got through half my lecture, which I had to bring to a speedy conclusion.

The president rose and proposed a vote of thanks in another most queer speech, which was a new occasion for cheering.

When we had retired in the committee room, I said to the secretary: "What's the matter with the president? Is he quite right?" I added, touching my forehead.

"Oh!" said the secretary, striking his chest as proudly as possible, "he is drunk--and so am I."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE'S DRUNK, AND SO AM I."]

The explanation of the whole strange evening dawned upon me. Of course they were drunk, and so was the audience.

That night, I believe I was the only sober person on the premises.

Yesterday, I had an interesting chat with a native of the State of Maine on the subject of my lecture at Portsea.

"You are perfectly wrong," he said to me, "in supposing that your lecture was not appreciated. I was present, and I can a.s.sure you that the attentive silence in which they listened to you from beginning to end is the proof that they appreciated you. You would also be wrong in supposing that they do not appreciate humor. On the contrary, they are very keen of it, and I believe that the old New Englander was the father of American humor, through the solemn manner in which he told comic things, and the comic manner in which he told the most serious ones.

Yes, they are keen of humor, and their apparent want of appreciation is only due to reserve, to self-control."

And, as an ill.u.s.tration of it, my friend told me the following anecdote which, I have no doubt, a good many Americans have heard before:

Mark Twain had lectured to a Maine audience without raising a single laugh in his listeners, when, at the close, he was thanked by a gentleman who came to him in the green-room, to tell him how hugely every one had enjoyed his amusing stories. When the lecturer expressed his surprise at this announcement, as the audience had not laughed, the gentleman added:

"Yes, we never were so amused in our lives, and if you had gone on five minutes more, upon my word I don't think we could have held out any longer."

Such is New England self-control.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XIX.

A LOVELY RIDE TO CANADA--QUEBEC, A CORNER OF OLD FRANCE STRAYED UP AND LOST IN THE SNOW--THE FRENCH CANADIANS--THE PARTIES IN CANADA--WILL THE CANADIANS BECOME YANKEES?