“Hip, hip, hurrah! A cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted the turbulent young man.
His head was above all the other heads; he had luminous eyes and long hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet, though, and one of the greatest of the century, a poet who was a genius, but who was, alas! later tortured and finally vanquished by madness. It was Oscar Wilde.
The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached our train amidst shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip, hip, hurrah for the French actors!”
When the train arrived at Charing Cross towards nine o’clock we were nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again on our arrival in London with more hurrahs. There were plenty of people, crowds of people, but none appeared to know us.
On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet laid down, and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything, as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however, had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris.
This news disappointed me, and even annoyed me personally. I had been told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely indifferent. The crowd was large and even dense, but cold.
“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer.
“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,” he replied.
“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued.
“No. The Prince has taken a box for the season, for which he has paid four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.”