pletely broke down. Unable to sleep or eat, consumed by hectic fever, a prey to forebodings and hallucinations, she soon became a wreck of her former self. Little could those who saw her on the stage, electrifying her audience by her bursts of passion and superhuman energy, have known her for the same creature who, breathless and exhausted, lay fainting in the arms of her sister and her maid, and, when the representation was over, had to be carried to the carriage, to return to a sleepless bed, and to hours spent next day on the sofa, in a state of prostration and weakness.
"The public, the footlights, Father Corneille," she wrote, "even my dress, impart a fictitious strength which enables me to act my part. That done, I am again powerless, and unable to think or speak until the next performance." Conquering her fatigue, however, she continued her journey, and the following letter, giving an account of her reception, shows how, in the midst of great physical suffering, adulation and success could stimulate her into a semblance of good spirits and life:—
My dear Historian,
Your daily correspondent thinks himself a Talleyrand, but cannot really boast of ordinary common sense. What he may have told you and you may have told him I know not. You are both demented, I think! This is my preface.
Now let us blow the trumpet of history, and attention! True and exact history of the apparition of a wandering tragedian at Berlin, after visiting a thousand other places. Your correspondent declares that on the 12th I gave Adrienne Lecouvreur in the presence of kings and queens. Untrue! Know that this representation, which was to have taken place at the new palace at Potsdam, was adjourned in consequence of the great heat. The public thought neither Adrienne nor Rachel refreshing enough. First of Talleyrand's blunders. Secondly: The Emperor of Russia never saw me act, and could only judge of me in recitation. Third error of said correspondent (not
