“My dear Abbey,” I exclaimed, “arrange as you like about it, but I must make my début on Monday, the 8th of November, and to-day is Thursday. I shall be at the theater on Monday to dress. See that I have my trunks, for there was nothing about the customhouse in my contract. I will pay half, though, of what you have to give.” The 28,000 francs were handed over to an attorney who made a claim in my name on the Board of Customs. My trunks were left with me, thanks to this deposit, and the rehearsals commenced at Booth’s Theater.
SARAH BERNHARDT AT HOME, BY WALTER SPINDLER.
On Monday evening, November 8th, at 8.30, the curtain rose for the first performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur.” The house was crowded and the seats, which had been sold to the highest bidders and then sold by them again, had fetched exorbitant prices. I was awaited with impatience and curiosity, but not with any sympathy. There were no young girls present, as the piece was too immoral. (Poor Adrienne Lecouvreur!) The audience was very polite to the artistes of my company, but rather impatient to see the strange person who had been announced to them. The curtain fell at the end of the first act and Adrienne had not appeared. One of the audience, very much annoyed, asked to see Mr. Henry Abbey. “I want my money back,” he said, “as la Bernhardt is not in every act.” Abbey refused to return the money to the extraordinary individual and as the curtain was going up he hurried back to take possession of his seat again. My appearance was greeted by several rounds of applause, which I believe had been paid for in advance by Abbey and Jarrett. I commenced and the sweetness of my voice as in the fable of the “Two Pigeons” worked the miracle. The whole house this time burst out into hurrahs. A current of sympathy was established between my public and myself. Instead of the hysterical skeleton that had been announced to them, they had before them a very frail-looking creature with a sweet voice. The fourth act was applauded and Adrienne’s rebellion against the Princesse de Bouillon stirred the whole house. Finally, in the fifth act, when the unfortunate artiste is dying, poisoned by her rival, there was quite a manifestation and everyone was deeply moved.
At the end of the third act all the young men were sent off by the ladies to find all the musicians they could get together, and to my surprise and delight on arriving at my hotel a charming serenade was played for me while I was at supper. The crowd had assembled under my windows at the Albemarle Hotel and I was obliged to go out on to the balcony several times to bow and to thank this public, which I had been told I should find cold and prejudiced against me. From the bottom of my heart I also thanked all my detractors and slanderers, as it was through them that I had had the pleasure of fighting, with the certainty of conquering. The victory was all the more enjoyable as I had not dared to hope for it.
I gave twenty-seven performances in New York. The plays were “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “Hernani,” “La Dame aux Camélias,” “Le Sphinx,” “L’Etrangère.” The average receipts were 20,342 francs for each performance, including matinées. The last performance was given on Saturday, December 4th, as a matinée, for my company had to leave that night for Boston and I had reserved the evening to go to Mr. Edison, at Menlo Park, where I had a reception worthy of fairyland.
Oh, that matinée of Saturday, December 4th! I can never forget it! When I got to the theater to dress it was midday, for the matinée was to commence at half past one. My carriage stopped, not being able to get along, for the street was filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they had borrowed from the neighboring shops, or on folding seats which they had brought themselves. The play was “La Dame aux Camélias.” I had to get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five yards on foot in order to get to the stage door. It took me twenty-five minutes to do it. People shook my hands and begged me to come back. One lady took off her brooch and pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts surrounded by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch had its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled out her notebook and begged me to write my name. The idea took like lightning. Small boys under the care of their parents wanted me to write my name on their cuffs. My arms were full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my hands. I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in her hand had tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she had only succeeded in cutting the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett signalled and shouted—I could not get along. They sent for the police, who delivered me, but without any ceremony, either for my admirers or for myself. They were real brutes, those policemen, and made me very angry. I played “La Dame aux Camélias” and I counted seventeen calls after the third act and twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of the cheering and calls the play had lasted an hour longer than usual and I was half dead with fatigue. I was just about to go to my carriage to get back to my hotel when Jarrett came to tell me that there were more than 50,000 people waiting outside. I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened.
“Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed! I am tired out. I can do no more.”
But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius.
“Stay,” said he to my sister, “put on madame’s hat and boa and take my arm. And take also these bouquets—give me what you cannot carry. And now we will go to your sister’s carriage and make our bow.”