“You will find it all on this paper. I am sure I could not tell you all these things. On my tours I often take the train or steamer without even asking where I am going. What does it matter to me?”
I read as follows—
“Leave Paris, 23rd January, and Havre, 24th; arrive at New York, 1st February. New York, 1st February to 14th March; Washington, 16th to 21st March; Philadelphia, 23rd to 28th March; Boston, 30th March to 4th April; Montreal, 6th to 11th April; Detroit, Indianapolis, and St. Louis, 13th to 18th April; Denver, 20th to 22nd April; San Francisco, 24th April to 1st May. Leave San Francisco for Australia, 2nd May. Stay in Australia about three months. Open at Melbourne, 1st June; visit Sydney, Adelaide, and Brisbane, completing engagements at end of August. Return to San Francisco, 28th September. Principal cities of the United States, then Mexico and Havana. Return to New York about 1st March, 1892. If business then better in South America, take the Argentine Republic, Uruguay, and Brazil in June, July, August, September, and October, 1892; London, January 1893; then Russia and European capitals.”
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s drawing-room.
“Two years!” I said. “Don’t you feel sorry to think of leaving Paris for two years?”
“Not at all,” replied the Bohemian genius. “Far from it; it is just the same thing as going to the Bois de Boulogne or the Odéon. I love travelling. I am delighted to be off, and full of joy to get back again. There is genuine and healthy excitement in moving from place to place and getting over so much ground. It never bores me, and then I haven’t time to be bored. Just think—I have never stayed more than a fortnight in any one place! At the end of these two years I shall have gone half round the world. I know North America already, and I have been there twice; but this time we are going to Australia, which will be quite new to me. We shall stop at the Sandwich Islands and play before Queen Pomaré, at Honolulu. There’s a novelty for you!”
“Won’t you miss your home, your comforts, and your friends?”
“I shall have them all again when I come back, and my delight will be all the greater for being so long deprived of them. And as for comfort, we travel like princes. Very often we have a special train for ourselves and our baggage. There is a big car, called the ‘Sarah Bernhardt,’ containing a fine bedroom, with a four-post bed, bath-room, drawing-room, and kitchen, all for me, and there are about thirty beds for the rest of the troupe. You see how convenient it is; and as the train is our own, we can stop when we like. When we come to a specially nice neighbourhood we leave the train, play ball games on the prairie, have pistol practice, and amuse ourselves generally. If we don’t care to get off the train, we turn the beds up against the sides and have dancing with a piano. There is plenty of room, as we have three long cars joined together. You see, we don’t suffer from ennui!”
“How do you spend your time on these long sea-voyages?”