INCIDENTS OF THE TOUR.
PROTEST AGAINST PRICES IN HAVANA--THE CUBANS SUCCUMB--JENNY LIND
TAKES THE CITY BY STORM--A MAGNIFICENT TRIUMPH--COUNT PENALVER--A
SPLENDID OFFER--MR. BRINCKERHOFF--BENEFIT FOR THE
HOSPITALS--REFUSING TO RECEIVE THANKS--VIVALLA AND HIS DOG--HENRY
BENNETT--HIS PARTIAL INSANITY--OUR VOYAGE TO NEW ORLEANS--THE
EDITOR OF THE NEW YORK HERALD ON BOARD--I SAVE THE LIFE OF JAMES
GORDON BENNETT--ARRIVAL AT THE CRESCENT CITY--CHEATING THE CROWD--A
DUPLICATE MISS LIND--A BOY IN RAPTURES--A MAMMOTH HOG--UP THE
MISSISSIPPI--AMUSEMENTS ON BOARD--IN LEAGUE WITH THE EVIL ONE--AN
AMAZED MULATTO.
Soon after arriving in Havana, I discovered that a strong prejudice
existed against our musical enterprise. I might rather say that the
Habaneros, not accustomed to the high figure which tickets had commanded
in the States, were determined on forcing me to adopt their opera
prices, whereas I paid one thousand dollars per night for the Tacon
Opera House, and other expenses being in proportion, I was determined to
receive remunerating prices, or give no concerts. This determination on
my part annoyed the Habaneros, who did not wish to be thought penurious,
though they really were so. Their principal spite, therefore, was
against me; and one of their papers politely termed me a “Yankee
pirate,” who cared for nothing except their doubloons. They attended the
concert, but were determined to show the great songstress no favor. I
perfectly understood this feeling in advance, but studiously kept all
knowledge of it from Miss Lind. I went to the first concert, therefore,
with some misgivings in regard to her reception. The following, which I
copy from the Havana correspondence of the _New York Tribune_, gives a
correct account of it:
* * * * *
“Jenny Lind soon appeared, led on by Signor Belletti. Some three or
four hundred persons clapped their hands at her appearance, but
this token of approbation was instantly silenced by at least two
thousand five hundred decided hisses. Thus, having settled the
matter that there should be no forestalling of public opinion, and
that if applause was given to Jenny Lind in that house it should
first be incontestably earned, the most solemn silence prevailed. I
have heard the Swedish Nightingale often in Europe as well as in
America and have ever noticed a distinct tremulousness attending
her first appearance in any city. Indeed this feeling was plainly
manifested in her countenance as she neared the foot-lights; but
when she witnessed the kind of reception in store for her--so
different from anything she had reason to expect--her countenance
changed in an instant to a haughty self-possession, her eye flashed
defiance, and, becoming immovable as a statue, she stood there,
perfectly calm and beautiful. She was satisfied that she now had an
ordeal to pass and a victory to gain worthy of her powers. In a
moment her eye scanned the immense audience, the music began and
then followed--how can I describe it?--such heavenly strains as I
verily believe mortal never breathed except Jenny Lind, and mortal
never heard except from her lips. Some of the oldest Castilians
kept a frown upon their brow and a curling sneer upon their lip;
their ladies, however, and most of the audience began to look
surprised. The gushing melody flowed on increasing in beauty and
glory. The _caballeros_, the _senoras_ and _senoritas_ began to
look at each other; nearly all, however, kept their teeth clenched
and their lips closed, evidently determined to resist to the last.
The torrent flowed deeper and faster, the lark flew higher and
higher, the melody grew richer and grander; still every lip was
compressed. By and by, as the rich notes came dashing in rivers
upon our enraptured ears, one poor critic involuntarily whispered a
‘brava.’ This outbursting of the soul was instantly hissed down.
The stream of harmony rolled on till, at the close, it made a clean
sweep of every obstacle, and carried all before it. Not a vestige
of opposition remained, but such a tremendous shout of applause as
went up I never before heard.
“The triumph was most complete. And how was Jenny Lind affected?
She who stood a few moments previous like adamant, now trembled
like a reed in the wind before the storm of enthusiasm which her
own simple notes had produced. Tremblingly, slowly, and almost
bowing her face to the ground, she withdrew. The roar and applause
of victory increased. ‘_Encore! encore! encore!_’ came from every
lip. She again appeared, and, courtesying low, again withdrew, but
again, again, and again did they call her out and at every
appearance the thunders of applause rang louder and louder. Thus
five times was Jenny Lind called out to receive their unanimous and
deafening plaudits.”
I cannot express what my feelings were as I watched this scene from the
dress circle. Poor Jenny! I deeply sympathized with her when I heard
that first hiss. I indeed observed the resolute bearing which she
assumed, but was apprehensive of the result. When I witnessed her
triumph, I could not restrain the tears of joy that rolled down my
cheeks; and rushing through a private box, I reached the stage just as
she was withdrawing after the fifth encore. “God bless you, Jenny, you
have settled them!” I exclaimed.
“Are you satisfied?” said she, throwing her arms around my neck. She,
too, was crying with joy, and never before did she look so beautiful in
my eyes as on that evening.
One of the Havana papers, notwithstanding the great triumph, continued
to cry out for low prices. This induced many to absent themselves,
expecting soon to see a reduction. It had been understood that we would
give twelve concerts in Havana; but when they saw, after the fourth
concert, which was devoted to charity, that no more were announced, they
became uneasy. Committees waited upon us requesting more concerts, but
we peremptorily declined. Some of the leading Dons, among whom was Count
Penalver, then offered to guarantee us $25,000 for three concerts. My
reply was, that there was not money enough on the island of Cuba to
induce me to consent to it. That settled the matter, and gave us a
pleasant opportunity for recreation.
We visited, by invitation, Mr. Brinckerhoff, the eminent American
merchant at Matanzas, whom I had met at the same place three years
previously, and who subsequently had visited my family in Connecticut.
The gentlemanly host did everything in his power to render our stay
agreeable; and Miss Lind was so delighted with his attentions and the
interesting details of sugar and coffee plantations which we visited
through his kindness, that as soon as she returned to Havana, she sent
on the same tour of pleasure Mr. Benedict, who had been prevented by
illness from accompanying us.
I found my little Italian plate-dancer, Vivalla, in Havana. He called on
me frequently. He was in great distress, having lost the use of his
limbs on the left side of his body by paralysis. He was thus unable to
earn a livelihood, although he still kept a performing dog, which turned
a spinning-wheel and performed some curious tricks. One day, as I was
passing him out of the front gate, Miss Lind inquired who he was. I
briefly recounted to her his history. She expressed deep interest in his
case, and said something should be set apart for him in the benefit
which she was about to give for charity. Accordingly, when the benefit
came off, Miss Lind appropriated $500 to him, and I made the necessary
arrangements for his return to his friends in Italy. At the same benefit
$4,000 were distributed between two hospitals and a convent.
A few mornings after the benefit our bell was rung, and the servant
announced that I was wanted. I went to the door and found a large
procession of children, neatly dressed and bearing banners, attended by
ten or twelve priests, arrayed in their rich and flowing robes. I
inquired their business, and was informed that they had come to see Miss
Lind, to thank her in person for her benevolence. I took their message,
and informed Miss Lind that the leading priests of the convent had come
in great state to see and thank her. “I will not see them,” she replied;
“they have nothing to thank me for. If I have done good, it is no more
than my duty, and it is my pleasure. I do not deserve their thanks, and
I will not see them.” I returned her answer, and the leaders of the
grand procession went away in disappointment.
The same day Vivalla called, and brought her a basket of the most
luscious fruit that he could procure. The little fellow was very happy
and extremely grateful. Miss Lind had gone out for a ride.
“God bless her! I am so happy; she is such a good lady. I shall see my
brothers and sisters again. Oh, she is a very good lady,” said poor
Vivalla, overcome by his feelings. He begged me to thank her for him,
and give her the fruit. As he was passing out of the door, he hesitated
a moment, and then said, “Mr. Barnum, I should like so much to have the
good lady see my dog turn a wheel; it is very nice; he can spin very
good. Shall I bring the dog and wheel for her? She is such a good lady,
I wish to please her very much.” I smiled, and told him she would not
care for the dog; that he was quite welcome to the money, and that she
refused to see the priests from the convent that morning, because she
never received thanks for favors.
When Jenny came in I gave her the fruit, and laughingly told her that
Vivalla wished to show her how his performing dog could turn a
spinning-wheel.
“Poor man, poor man, do let him come; it is all the good creature can do
for me,” exclaimed Jenny, and the tears flowed thick and fast down her
cheeks. “I like that, I like that,” she continued; “do let the poor
creature come and bring his dog. It will make him so happy.”
I confess it made me happy, and I exclaimed, for my heart was full, “God
bless you, it will make him cry for joy; he shall come to-morrow.”
I saw Vivalla the same evening, and delighted him with the intelligence
that Jenny would see his dog perform the next day, at four o’clock
precisely.
“I will be punctual,” said Vivalla, in a voice trembling with emotion;
“but I was _sure_ she would like to see my dog perform.”
For full half an hour before the time appointed did Jenny Lind sit in
her window on the second floor and watch for Vivalla and his dog. A few
minutes before the appointed hour, she saw him coming. “Ah, here he
comes! here he comes!” she exclaimed in delight, as she ran down stairs
and opened the door to admit him. A negro boy was bringing the small
spinning-wheel, while Vivalla led the dog. Handing the boy a silver
coin, she motioned him away, and taking the wheel in her arms, she said,
“This is very kind of you to come with your dog. Follow me. I will carry
the wheel up stairs.” Her servant offered to take the wheel, but no, she
would let no one carry it but herself. She called us all up to her
parlor, and for one full hour did she devote herself to the happy
Italian. She went down on her knees to pet the dog and to ask Vivalla
all sorts of questions about his performances, his former course of
life, his friends in Italy, and his present hopes and determinations.
Then she sang and played for him, gave him some refreshments, finally
insisted on carrying his wheel to the door, and her servant accompanied
Vivalla to his boarding-house.
Poor Vivalla! He was probably never so happy before, but his enjoyment
did not exceed that of Miss Lind. That scene alone would have paid me
for all my labors during the entire musical campaign. A few months
later, however, the Havana correspondent of the _New York Herald_
announced the death of Vivalla and stated that the poor Italian’s last
words were about Jenny Lind and Mr. Barnum.
When Captain Rawlings, of the Steamer “Isabella” made his next return
trip from Charleston, he brought a fine lot of game and invited Messrs.
Benedict, Belletti and myself to a breakfast on board, where we met Mr.
John Howard, of the Irving House, New York, Mr. J. B. Monnot, of the New
York Hotel, Mr. Mixer, of the Charleston Hotel, and Mr. Monroe of one of
the Havana hotels. The breakfast was a very nice one, and was
accompanied by some “very fine old Madeira,” which received the highest
encomiums of the company.
“Now,” said Captain Rawlings, “you must break your rule once, Mr.
Barnum, and wash down your game with a glass or two of this choice
Madeira. It is very old and fine, as smooth as oil, and the game is
hardly game without it. Do take some.”
I positively declined, saying I did not doubt that he had the genuine
article for once, but that most of what was offered and sold as wine did
not contain a single drop of the juice of the grape. This led to a
general talk about the impositions practised, even in the best hotels,
in serving customers with “fine old wines and liquors” at the bar and at
the table, and some very curious and amusing stories were told and
confessions made. But there could be no mistake about this Madeira; it
was rich, rare, old, oily, and genuine in flavor and quality; all the
connoisseurs at the table were unanimous in their verdict.
But when the breakfast was over and we were going ashore, as I was
sitting next the captain in his own boat, he said to me:
“Barnum, that fine old Madeira is the real ‘game’ of my game breakfast;
I wanted to test those experienced tasters, and I gave them some wine
which I bought for a dollar and a half a gallon at a corner grocery in
Charleston.”
In the party which accompanied me to Havana, was Mr. Henry Bennett, who
formerly kept Peale’s Museum in New York, afterwards managing the same
establishment for me when I purchased it, and he was now with me in the
capacity of a ticket-taker. He was as honest a man as ever lived, and a
good deal of a wag. I remember his going through the market once and
running across a decayed actor who was reduced to tending a market
stand; Bennett hailed him with “Hallo! what are you doing here; what are
you keeping that old turkey for?”
“O! for a profit,” replied the actor.
“Prophet, prophet!” exclaimed Bennett, “patriarch, you mean!”
With all his waggery he was subject at times to moods of the deepest
despondency, bordering on insanity. Madness ran in his family. His
brother, in a fit of frenzy, had blown his brains out. Henry himself had
twice attempted his own life while in my employ in New York. Some time
after our present journey to Havana, I sent him to London. He conducted
my business precisely as I directed, writing up his account with me
correctly to a penny. Then handing it to a mutual friend with directions
to give it to me when I arrived in London the following week, he went to
his lodgings and committed suicide.
While we were in Havana, Bennett was so despondent at times that we were
obliged to watch him
[Illustration: _J. G. BENNETT AND HIS MONKEY._]
carefully, lest he should do some damage to himself or others. When we
left Havana for New Orleans, on board the steamer “Falcon,” Mr. James
Gordon Bennett, editor of the _New York Herald_, and his wife were also
passengers. After permitting one favorable notice in his paper, Bennett
had turned around, as usual, and had abused Jenny Lind and bitterly
attacked me. There was an estrangement, no new thing, between the editor
and myself. The _Herald_, in its desire to excite attention, has a habit
of attacking public men and I had not escaped. I was always glad to get
such notices, for they served as inexpensive advertisements to my
Museum, and brought custom to me free of charge.
Ticket-taker Bennett, however, took much to heart the attacks of Editor
Bennett upon Jenny Lind, and while in New York he threatened to cowhide
his namesake, as so many men have actually done in days gone by, but I
restrained him. When Editor Bennett came on board the “Falcon,” he had
in his arms a small pet monkey belonging to his wife, and the animal was
placed in a safe place on the forward deck. When Henry Bennett saw the
editor he said to a bystander:
“I would willingly be drowned if I could see that old scoundrel go to
the bottom of the sea.”
Several of our party overheard the remark and I turned laughingly to
Bennett and said: “Nonsense; he can’t harm any one and there is an old
proverb about the impossibility of drowning those who are born to
another fate.”
That very night, however, as I stood near the cabin door, conversing
with my treasurer and other members of my company, Henry Bennett came up
to me with a wild air, and hoarsely whispered:
“Old Bennett has gone forward alone in the dark to feed his monkey, and
d--n him, I am going to throw him overboard.”
We were all startled, for we knew the man and he seemed terribly in
earnest. Knowing how most effectively to address him at such times, I
exclaimed.
“Ridiculous! you would not do such a thing.”
“I swear I will,” was his savage reply. I expostulated with him, and
several of our party joined me.
“Nobody will know it,” muttered the maniac, “and I shall be doing the
world a favor.”
I endeavored to awaken him to a sense of the crime he contemplated,
assuring him that it could not possibly benefit any one, and that from
the fact of the relations existing between the editor and myself, I
should be the first to be accused of his murder. I implored him to go to
his stateroom, and he finally did so, accompanied by some of the
gentlemen of our party. I took pains to see that he was carefully
watched that night, and, indeed, for several days, till he became calm
again. He was a large, athletic man, quite able to pick up his namesake
and drop him overboard. The matter was too serious for a joke, and we
made little mention of it; but more than one of my party said then, and
has said since, what I really believe to be true, that “James Gordon
Bennett would have been drowned that night had it not been for P. T.
Barnum.”
This incident has long been known to several of my intimate friends, and
when Mr. Bennett learns the fact from this volume, he may possibly be
somewhat mollified over his payment to me, fifteen years later, of
$200,000 for the unexpired lease of my Museum, concerning which some
particulars will be given anon.
In New Orleans the wharf was crowded by a great concourse of persons, as
the steamer “Falcon” approached. Jenny Lind had enjoyed a month of
quiet, and dreaded the excitement which she must now again encounter.
“Mr. Barnum, I am sure I can never get through that crowd,” said she, in
despair.
“Leave that to me. Remain quiet for ten minutes, and there shall be no
crowd here,” I replied.
Taking my daughter on my arm, she threw her veil over her face, and we
descended the gangway to the dock. The crowd pressed around. I had
beckoned for a carriage before leaving the ship.
“That’s Barnum, I know him,” called out several persons at the top of
their voices.
“Open the way, if you please, for Mr. Barnum and Miss Lind!” cried Le
Grand Smith over the railing of the ship, the deck of which he had just
reached from the wharf.
“Don’t crowd her, if you please, gentlemen,” I exclaimed, and by dint of
pushing, squeezing and coaxing, we reached the carriage, and drove for
the Montalba buildings, where Miss Lind’s apartments had been prepared,
and the whole crowd came following at our heels. In a few minutes
afterwards, Jenny and her companion came quietly in a carriage, and were
in the house before the ruse was discovered. In answer to incessant
calls, she appeared a moment upon the balcony, waved her handkerchief,
received three hearty cheers, and the crowd dispersed.
A poor blind boy, residing in the interior of Mississippi, a
flute-player, and an ardent lover of music, visited New Orleans
expressly to hear Jenny Lind. A subscription had been taken up among
his neighbors to defray the expenses. This fact coming to the ears of
Jenny, she sent for him, played and sang for him, gave him many words of
joy and comfort, took him to her concerts, and sent him away
considerably richer than he had ever been before.
A funny incident occurred at New Orleans. Our concerts were given in the
St. Charles Theatre, then managed by my good friend, the late Sol.
Smith. In the open lots near the theatre were exhibitions of mammoth
hogs, five-footed horses, grizzly bears, and other animals.
A gentleman had a son about twelve years old, who had a wonderful ear
for music. He could whistle or sing any tune after hearing it once. His
father did not know nor care for a single note, but so anxious was he to
please his son, that he paid thirty dollars for two tickets to the
concert.
“I liked the music better than I expected,” said he to me the next day,
“but my son was in raptures. He was so perfectly enchanted that he
scarcely spoke the whole evening and I would on no account disturb his
delightful reveries. When the concert was finished we came out of the
theatre. Not a word was spoken. I knew that my musical prodigy was happy
among the clouds, and I said nothing. I could not help envying him his
love of music, and considered my thirty dollars as nothing, compared to
the bliss which it secured to him. Indeed, I was seriously thinking of
taking him to the next concert, when he spoke. We were just passing the
numerous shows upon the vacant lots. One of the signs attracted him, and
he said, ‘Father, let us go in and see the big hog!’ The little scamp! I
could have horse-whipped him!” said the father, who, loving a joke,
could not help laughing at the ludicrous incident.
Some months afterwards, I was relating this story at my own table to
several guests, among whom was a very matter-of-fact man who had not the
faintest conception of humor. After the whole party had laughed heartily
at the anecdote, my matter-of-fact friend gravely asked:
“And was it a very large hog, Mr. Barnum?”
I made arrangements with the captain of the splendid steamer “Magnolia,”
of Louisville, to take our party as far as Cairo, the junction of the
Mississippi and Ohio rivers, stipulating for sufficient delay in
Natchez, Mississippi, and in Memphis, Tennessee, to give a concert in
each place. It was no unusual thing for me to charter a steamboat or a
special train of cars for our party. With such an enterprise as that,
time and comfort were paramount to money.
The time on board the steamer was whiled away in reading, viewing the
scenery of the Mississippi, and other diversions. One day we had a
pleasant musical festival in the ladies’ saloon for the gratification of
the passengers, at which Jenny volunteered to sing without ceremony. It
seemed to us she never sang so sweetly before. I also did my best to
amuse my fellow passengers with anecdotes and the exhibition of sundry
legerdemain tricks which I had been obliged to learn and use in the
South years before and under far different circumstances than those
which attended the performance now. Among other tricks, I caused a
quarter of a dollar to disappear so mysteriously from beneath a card,
that the mulatto barber on board came to the conclusion that I was in
league with the devil.
The next morning I seated myself for the operation of shaving, and the
colored gentleman ventured to dip into the mystery. “Beg pardon, Mr.
Barnum, but I have heard a great deal about you, and I saw more than I
wanted to see last night. Is it true that you have sold yourself to the
devil, so that you can do what you’ve a mind to?”
“Oh, yes,” was my reply, “that is the bargain between us.”
“How long did you agree for?” was the question next in order.
“Only nine years,” said I. “I have had three of them already. Before the
other six are out, I shall find a way to nonplus the old gentleman, and
I have told him so to his face.”
At this avowal, a larger space of white than usual was seen in the
darkey’s eyes, and he inquired, “Is it by this bargain that you get so
much money?”
“Certainly. No matter who has money, nor where he keeps it, in his box
or till, or anywhere about him, I have only to speak the words, and it
comes.”
The shaving was completed in silence, but thought had been busy in the
barber’s mind, and he embraced the speediest opportunity to transfer his
bag of coin to the iron safe in charge of the clerk.
The movement did not escape me, and immediately a joke was afoot. I had
barely time to make two or three details of arrangement with the clerk,
and resume my seat in the cabin, ere the barber sought a second
interview, bent on testing the alleged powers of Beelzebub’s colleague.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Barnum, but where is my money? Can you get it?”
“I do not want your money,” was the quiet answer. “It is safe.”
“Yes, I know it is safe--ha! ha!--it is in the iron safe in the clerk’s
office--safe enough from you!”
“It is not in the iron safe!” said I. This was said so quietly, yet
positively, that the colored gentleman ran to the office, and inquired
if all was safe. “All right,” said the clerk. “Open, and let me see,”
replied the barber. The safe was unlocked and lo! the money was gone!
In mystified terror the loser applied to me for relief. “You will find
the bag in your drawer,” said I, and there it was found!
Of course, I had a confederate, but the mystification of that mulatto
was immense.