Liz and Nellie

by Shonna Slayton

  “How should we get out if the train ran the track?” I asked, not half-liking the idea of being locked in a box like an animal in a freight train.

  “Trains never run off the track in England,” was the quiet, satisfied answer.

  “Too slow for that,” I said teasingly.

  Without cracking a smile, he reached for the basket. “Do you want something to eat?”

  In an equally quiet and dignified manner I answered, “Yes, thank you,” and spread a newspaper across our laps for a tablecloth. We put in our time eating and chatting about my journey until the train reached London.

  As no train was expected at that hour, Waterloo Station was almost deserted. It was some time after we stopped before the guard released us.

  “Goodbye!” shouted several of my fellow passengers as we parted ways for the last time. “Best wishes on your journey!” And then I was shuffled into a four-wheeled cab, facing a young Englishman who had come to meet us.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  I looked dubiously out the window. If it was daylight, I should not have known it. A gray, misty fog hung like a ghostly pall over the city. But I’ve always liked fog. It lends such a soft, beautifying light to things that otherwise in the broad glare of day would be rude and commonplace.

  “How are these streets compared with those of New York?” he asked.

  I looked out over the peaceful scene softly illuminated by gas lamps through the mist. “They are not bad,” I said with a patronizing air, thinking shamefacedly of the dreadful streets of New York, although determined to hear no word against them. One can call one’s own sister ugly, but don’t let a stranger do it! However, if he’d asked me about the train car, I could heartily recommend the comfort of the American model over the English. The English railway carriages were wretchedly heated. One’s feet will be burning on the foot-warmer while one’s back will be freezing in the cold air above.

  We drove first to the London office of The New York World. Along the way, the chipper Englishman pointed out Westminster Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament and the Thames, across which we drove. A great many foreigners have taken views in the same rapid way of America, and afterwards gone home and written books about America, Americans, and Americanisms. I will not attempt to do the same.

  “Welcome, Miss Bly. Here are your cables.” The secretary handed me a stack of envelopes. After opening the first one, I waved it at my correspondent. “I need to go to the American Legation to get a passport.”

  Off we went.

  Mr. McCormick, Secretary of the Legation, came into the room immediately after our arrival, and, bless the man, offered us coffee.

  “Miss Bly, welcome, welcome,” he said, shaking my hand. “Congratulations on making it thus far on your trip. Please have a seat.” He turned to my correspondent. “And you, sir, please wait over there for a moment. I need to ask Miss Bly an important question.”

  I twisted my gloves in nervousness, wondering what information he would need. He got right down to it.

  ‘There is one question all women dread to answer, and, as very few will give a truthful reply, I will ask you to swear to the rest first and fill in the other question afterwards, unless you have no hesitancy in telling me your age.”

  My age? That’s what the fuss was about?

  “Oh, certainly, I will tell you my age, swear to it, too, and I am not afraid. Mr. Greaves may come out of the corner.” I laughed. “Twenty-two,” I lied. In actuality, I was twenty-five.

  “What is the color of your eyes?”

  “Green.”

  It was only a few seconds until we were whirling through the streets of London again. This time we went to the office of the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Company, where I bought tickets that would cover at least half my journey. A few moments again and we were driving rapidly to the Charing Cross station. I was so cold I was shaking, and I wished English cabs came with heated pokers.

  My correspondent went for tickets, and I went for food. It was still early, so I ordered us the only item on the bill of fair that was ready. Ham, eggs, and coffee. It was delicious.

  An announcement went out, and my correspondent looked at my half-finished breakfast. “That’s us. We have to go.”

  I took one last gulp of coffee, hoping it was enough to save me from a growing headache before running down the platform to catch the train.

  Mr. Greaves tried to keep me awake by pointing out the charming farm houses and meadows, but it didn’t matter. I was out until the train stopped.

  “We change for the boat here,” he said, catching up our bags and rugs, which he hauled to a porter. A little walk down to the pier brought us to the place where a boat was waiting. “It will be warmer in the cabin beneath,” Mr. Greaves suggested.

  I shook my head and wrapped my arms around my middle, wondering how quickly my body might have forgotten the motion of the waves. “I prefer the fresh air.”

  “I prefer the bar. I’ll be back to introduce you to France. Do you know any French?”

  I did not.

  “I will translate.” And with that, he left me alone at the rail and joined the other men seeking the bar. I tried not to be irritated, considering I was the one who chose to stay out in the cold.

  My nose froze by the time we anchored at Boulogne, France. I took my mind off my chill by thinking about my detour. Soon I would be meeting Jules Verne, the inspiration for my most daring stunt. Just what did he think of my little adventure?

  At the end of the desolate pier, where boats anchor and where trains start, was a small dingy restaurant. While a little English sailor, who always dropped his h’s and never forgot his “sir,” took charge of our bags and went to secure accommodations for us in the outgoing train, we followed the other passengers into the restaurant to get something warm to eat.

  All around us people were speaking French, and I wondered what I would have done if I had been alone as I had expected. We took our places at the table, and Mr. Greaves began to order in French.

  The waiter looked at him blankly.

  “Maybe you should order in English,” I joked. Perhaps my correspondent didn’t know French as well as he thought he did.

  The waiter glanced at me in relief. “Yes, please. I’m still learning French.”

  BACK ON A train, locked in again, my thoughts wandered to the plight of the young English girl and why she needed a chaperone. It would make any American woman shudder with all her boasted self-reliance, to think of sending her daughter alone on a trip, even of a few hours’ duration where there was every possibility that during those hours she would be locked in a compartment with a stranger.

  I glanced up at the Frenchman sitting opposite me to see if he noticed that I had just stepped on his foot while trying to find some room on the foot-warmer we all shared. He glared at me over the top of his newspaper.

  Small wonder the American girl is fearless. She has not been used to so-called private compartments in English railway carriages, but to large crowds, and every individual that helps to swell that crowd is to her, a protector. When mothers teach their daughters that there is safety in numbers, and that numbers are the body-guard that shield all woman-kind, then chaperones will be a thing of the past, and women will be nobler and better.

  As I was pondering over this subject, the train pulled into a station and stopped.

  My escort looked out the window. “We’re here. Amiens.”

  But the door was still locked. We waited and waited. Finally, Mr. Greaves stuck his head out the window and shouted for the guard to come let us out. For my next stunt, I should learn to be a locksmith.

  I patted my hair to make sure it was in place. There was nothing I could do if my face was travel-stained. Had I been on an American train, I should have been able to make my toilet en route, so that when I stepped off at Amiens and faced the famous novelist and his charming wife, I would have been as trim and tidy as I would have had I been receiving them in my own home.


  Mr. Greaves nudged me. “Quit fussing, here they come.”

  9

  In Which Nellie Bly Asks To See M. Verne’s Study And He Does Her A Great Kindness

  JULES VERNE’S BRIGHT eyes beamed on me with interest and kindliness. His snow-white hair, rather long and heavy, was standing up in artistic disorder around his hat, and his full beard, rivaling his hair in snowiness, hid the lower part of his face. His wife was a short, plump figure wrapped in a sealskin jacket with her hands tucked snuggly into a muff. On her white head was a small black velvet bonnet. And though we did not speak the same language, she greeted me with the cordiality of a cherished friend.

  They had brought their own translator with them, a young man about my age, a Mr. Robert Sherard, who was also a Paris journalist.

  After introductions, M. Verne led the way to the carriages. Mme. Verne walked closely by my side, glancing occasionally at me with a smile, which said in the language of the eye, “I am glad to greet you, and I regret we cannot speak together.”

  M. Verne gracefully helped his wife and me into a coupé, while he entered a carriage with the two other gentlemen. Without a translator, we were left to our own devices. Her knowledge of the English language consisted of “No,” and my French vocabulary consisted of “Oui.”

  It was early evening as we drove through the streets of Amiens and I got a flying glimpse of bright shops, a pretty park, and numerous nurse maids pushing baby carriages about. Mme. Verne pointed out sights along the way, and I smiled at her a lot. She was a charming woman, and even in this awkward position, she made everything go most gracefully.

  Our carriages stopped before a high, stone wall, over the top of which were the peaked outlines of the house. M. Verne hurried up to where we were waiting on a wide, smooth pavement and opened a door in the wall.

  Stepping in, I found myself in a small, smoothly paved courtyard, the wall making two sides and the house forming the square. A large, black shaggy dog came bounding forward to greet us. He jumped up against me, his soft eyes overflowing with affection. I tried to gently pet him back down to the ground, but he was exuberant and determined to knock me to his level.

  “Follet!” M. Verne called. “Arrête! Assieds-toi.” The dog, with a pathetic droop of his tail, received a petting from its master then went off to think it out alone.

  Mme. Verne motioned for us to follow her up a flight of marble steps and across the tiled floor of a beautiful little conservatory. We ended up in a large sitting-room that was dusky with the early shade of a wintry evening. Mme. Verne with her own hand touched a match to the pile of dry wood that lay in the wide open fireplace.

  Meanwhile, M. Verne urged us to remove our outer wrappings. Before this was done, a bright fire was crackling in the grate, throwing a soft, warm light over the dark room.

  Mme. Verne took my elbow and led me to a brocaded silk chair close by the mantel, and when I was seated, she took the chair opposite. Cheered by the warmth, I looked quietly on the scene before me. Though I would have loved to bring out pen and paper to record all I saw, both for my readers and for myself, I concentrated on memorizing all the details that I could.

  The room was large, and the hangings and paintings and soft velvet rug, which left only a border of polished hard wood, were richly dark. On the mantel towering about Mme. Verne’s head were some fine pieces of statuary in bronze, and a nearby table held several tall silver candlesticks.

  A fine white Angora cat came rubbing up against my knee, then seeing its charming mistress on the opposite side, padded over to her and boldly crawled up in her lap as if assured of a cordial welcome.

  Next to me in this semi-circle sat Mr. Sherard, then M. Verne, and Mr. Greaves. M. Verne sat forward on the edge of the chair and spoke quickly and with energetic hand motions while Mr. Sherard translated.

  “Has M. Verne ever been to America?” I asked.

  “Yes, once,” translated Mr. Sherard in an attractive, lazy voice quite opposite to M. Verne’s short, rapid speech. “For a few days only, during which time I saw Niagara. I have always longed to return, but the state of my health prevents me from taking any long journeys. I try to keep a knowledge of everything that is going on in America and greatly appreciate the hundreds of letters I receive yearly from Americans who read my books.”

  Mme. Verne methodically stroked the cat with a dainty, white hand, while her luminous black eyes moved alternately between her husband and me. I wondered what she was thinking of us. Her husband who dreamt up an adventure and the young single woman mad enough to attempt it!

  “How did you get the idea for your novel, Around the World in Eighty Days?” I asked. I knew my readers would want to know the answer, and so did I.

  “I got it from a newspaper,” he replied.

  As a newspaper woman, I was pleased with his answer.

  “I took up a copy of Le Siécle one morning and found in it a discussion and some calculations showing that the journey around the world might be done in eighty days. The idea pleased me, and while thinking it over, it struck me that in their calculations they had not called into account the difference in the meridians. I thought what a denouement such a thing would make in a novel, so I went to work to write one. Had it not been for the denouement, I don’t think that I should ever have written the book.”

  “Yes, a clever ending.”

  “What is your line of travel?” he asked.

  Happy that I could speak directly to M. Verne without the translator, I answered with my list of destinations which I had memorized. “From New York to London, then Calais, Brindisi, Port Said, Ismailia, Suez, Aden, Colombo, Penang, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York.”

  He frowned. “Why do you not go to Bombay as my hero Phileas Fogg did?”

  I felt myself blushing. “Because I am more anxious to save time than a young widow!”

  He laughed. “You may save a young widower before you return.”

  At this, and with the translator’s attractive voice added on, I know I turned a deeper shade of red. But I tried to smile with a look of superior knowledge, as women, fancy free, always will at such insinuations.

  M. Verne spoke to his wife, and Mr. Sherard translated: “It really is not to be believed that this little girl is going all alone around the world. Why, she looks a mere child.”

  Before my indignation could build to full swell, Mme. intervened in gentle tones, translated next: “Yes, but she is just built for work of that sort. She is trim, energetic, and strong. I believe, Jules, that she will make your heroes look foolish. She will beat your record. I am so sure of that that I will wager with you if you like.” The lady looked at me approvingly and melted my heart. If only all women could be as encouraging as she.

  M. Verne looked slightly taken aback, but she had changed his opinion. “I would not like to risk my money, because I feel sure – now that I have seen the young lady – that she has the character to do it.”

  I looked at my watch on my wrist and saw that my time was getting short. There was only one train that I could take from here to Calais, and if I missed it, I might just as well return to New York by the way I came, for the loss of that train meant one week’s delay.

  “If M. Verne would not consider it impertinent, I should like to see his study before I go,” I said at last. I had read so many descriptions of the studies of famous authors and have dwelt with something akin to envy (our space is so limited and expensive in New York) that I should like to see one.

  He said he was only too happy to show it to me, and even as my request was translated, Mme. Verne sprang to her feet and lighted one of the tall wax candles.

  She started with the quick, springy step of a girl to lead the way. M. Verne, who walks with a slight limp, the result of a wound, followed, and we brought up the rear. We went through the conservatory to a small room up through which was a spiral staircase. Mme. Verne paused at every curve to light the gas.

  Up at the top of the house and along
a hall that corresponded in shape to the conservatory below, M. Verne continued, with Mme. Verne stopping to light the gas in the hall. He opened a door that led off the hall, and I followed after him.

  I had expected, judging from the rest of the house, that M. Verne’s study would be a room of ample proportions and richly furnished. But when I stood in M. Verne’s study, I was speechless with surprise. He opened a latticed window, the only window in the room, and Mme. Verne, hurrying in after us, lighted the gas jet that was fastened above a low mantel.

  The room was very small; even my own little den at home was almost as large. It was also very modest and bare. Before the window was a flat-topped desk. The usual litter that accompanies and fills the desk of most literary persons was conspicuously absent. On the desk was a neat little pile of white paper, one bottle of ink, and one penholder.

  “This is part of the new novel I am working on,” he said scooping up the stack of paper and handing it to me. “It’s about the North Pole.”

  I eagerly accepted the manuscript, noting the neat penmanship. I was more impressed than ever with the extreme tidiness of this French author. In several places he had most effectually blotted out something he had written, but there was no interlining, which gave me the idea that M. Verne always improved his work by taking out superfluous things and never by adding.

  The only other piece of furniture was a broad, low couch in the corner, and here in this room with these meager surroundings, Jules Verne had written the books that had brought him everlasting fame: A Journey to the Center of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, A Floating City, The Mysterious Island, and of course, the whole reason I was here in the first place, Around the World in Eighty Days.

  Leading off the study was an enormous library. The large room was completely lined with cases from ceiling to floor, and these glass-doored cases were packed with handsomely- bound books which must cost a fortune.

  While we were examining the wealth of literature that was there before us, M. Verne got an idea. Taking up a candle and asking us to follow, he went out into the hall. Stopping before a large map that hung there, holding up with one hand the candle, he pointed out to us several blue marks.