XXXVIII
THE RETURN TO FRANCE—THE WELCOME AT HÂVRE
Our great voyage was drawing towards its close. I say great voyage, for it was my first one. It had lasted seven months. The voyages I have since undertaken were always from eleven to sixteen months.
From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy, Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an admirable city, but one which at that time had a sadness about it that affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited.
After two admirable performances there and a supper at the Embassy, we left for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to come to a close. In that city I gave a grand professional matinée at the general demand of the actors and actresses of New York. The piece chosen was La Princesse Georges.
Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was applauded by the artistes. Nothing escaped the particular state of mind of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair-comb was handed to me, on which were engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From Salvini I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal bearing a forget-me-not in turquoises. In my dressing-room I counted one hundred and thirty bouquets.
That evening we gave our last performance with La Dame aux Camélias. I had to return and bow to the public fourteen times.
Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and bravos I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths, which I did not in the least understand. After each “call” I asked in the wings what the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him, abashed. “Yes, they want you to make a little speech.”
“Ah no!” I exclaimed, as I again went on the stage to make a bow. “No.” And in making my bow to the public I murmured, “I cannot speak. But I can tell you: Thank you, with all my heart!”
It was in the midst of a thunder of applause, underscored with “Hip, hip, hurrah! Vive la France!” that I left the theatre.
On Wednesday, May 4, I embarked on the same Trans-atlantic steamer, the America, the phantom vessel to which my journey had brought good luck. But it had no longer the same commander. The new one’s name was Santelli. He was as little and fair-complexioned as his predecessor was big and dark. But he was as charming, and a nice conversationist.