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SARAH BERNHARDT
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt.]
SARAH BERNHARDT
BY
JULES HURET
WITH A PREFACE BY
EDMOND ROSTAND
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY
G. A. RAPER
_WITH FIFTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS_
LONDON
CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD.
1899
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.
PREFACE
MY DEAR HURET,
You have given me an attack of vertigo. I have been reading your
biography of our illustrious friend. Its rapid, nervous style, its
accumulation of dates and facts, its hurried rush of scenery and events
flying past as though seen from an express train, all help to attain
what I imagine must have been your object--to give the reader vertigo.
I have got it.
I knew all these things, but I had forgotten them. They are so many
that no one even attempts to reckon them up. We are accustomed to
admire Sarah. “An extraordinary woman,” we say, without at all
realizing how true the remark is. And when we find ourselves suddenly
confronted with an epic narrative such as yours; with such a series of
battles and victories, expeditions and conquests, we stand amazed.
We expected that there was more to tell than we knew, but not quite
so much more! Yes, here is something we had quite forgotten, and here
again is something more! All the early struggles and difficulties and
unfair opposition! All the adventures and freaks of fancy! Twenty
triumphs and ten escapades on a page! You cannot turn the leaves
without awakening an echo of fame. Your brain reels. There is something
positively alarming about this impetuous feminine hand that wields
sceptre, thyrsus, dagger, fan, sword, bauble, banner, sculptor’s
chisel, and horsewhip. It is overwhelming. You begin to doubt. But
all this is told us by Huret, or, in other words, by History, and we
believe. No other life could ever have been so full of activity. The
poet I was used to admire in her the Queen of Attitude and the Princess
of Gesture; I wonder now whether the other poet I am ought not to still
more admire in her the Lady of Energy.
What a way she has of being both legendary and modern! Her golden hair
is a link between her and fairyland, and do not words change into
pearls and diamonds as they fall from her lips? Has she not worn the
fairy’s sky-blue robe, and is not her voice the song of the lark at
heaven’s gate? She may be an actress following an _impresario_, but she
is none the less a star fallen from the sky of the Thousand and One
Nights, and something of the mysterious blue ether still floats about
her. But just as the enchanted bark gives way to the great Atlantic
liner, just as the car drawn by flying frogs and the carriage made
out of a pumpkin vanish before the Sarah Bernhardt saloon-car, so in
this story of to-day, intelligence, independence, and intrepidity
have replaced the miraculous interventions in the tales of long ago.
This heroine has no protecting fairy but herself. Sarah is her own
godmother. Inflexible will is her only magic wand. To guide her through
so many strange and wonderful events to her final apotheosis, she has
no genius but her own.
It seems to me, Jules Huret, that the life of Mme. Sarah Bernhardt will
perhaps form the greatest marvel of the nineteenth century. It will
develop into a legend. To describe her tours round the world, with
their ever-changing scenes and actors, their beauties and absurdities,
to make the locomotives and steamers speak, to portray the swelling of
seas and the rustling of robes, to fill up the intervals of heroic
recitative with speaking, singing, shouting choruses of poets, savages,
kings, and wild animals: this would need a new Homer built up of
Théophile Gautier, Jules Verne, and Rudyard Kipling.
All this, or something like it, courses through my brain while my
attack of giddiness wears off. Now I feel better; I am myself again,
and I try to decide what to say to you, my dear friend, in conclusion.
After reflection, here it is--
I have had an attack of vertigo. There is no doubt about that. But
all these things that I have known only in the telling--all these
journeys, these changing skies, these adoring hearts, these flowers,
these jewels, these embroideries, these millions, these lions, these
one hundred and twelve _rôles_, these eighty trunks, this glory, these
caprices, these cheering crowds hauling her carriage, this crocodile
drinking champagne--all these things, I say, which I have never seen,
astonish, dazzle, delight, and move me less than something else which I
have often seen: this--
A brougham stops at a door; a woman, enveloped in furs, jumps out,
threads her way with a smile through the crowd attracted by the
jingling of the bell on the harness, and mounts a winding stair;
plunges into a room crowded with flowers and heated like a hothouse;
throws her little beribboned handbag with its apparently inexhaustible
contents into one corner, and her bewinged hat into another; takes
off her furs and instantaneously dwindles into a mere scabbard of
white silk; rushes on to a dimly-lighted stage and immediately puts
life into a whole crowd of listless, yawning, loitering folk; dashes
backwards and forwards, inspiring every one with her own feverish
energy; goes into the prompter’s box, arranges her scenes, points
out the proper gesture and intonation, rises up in wrath and insists
on everything being done over again; shouts with fury; sits down,
smiles, drinks tea and begins to rehearse her own part; draws tears
from case-hardened actors who thrust their enraptured heads out of
the wings to watch her; returns to her room, where the decorators are
waiting, demolishes their plans and reconstructs them; collapses, wipes
her brow with a lace handkerchief and thinks of fainting; suddenly
rushes up to the fifth floor, invades the premises of the astonished
costumier, rummages in the wardrobes, makes up a costume, pleats and
adjusts it; returns to her room and teaches the figurantes how to
dress their hair; has a piece read to her while she makes bouquets;
listens to hundreds of letters, weeps over some tale of misfortune,
and opens the inexhaustible little chinking handbag; confers with an
English perruquier; returns to the stage to superintend the lighting of
a scene, objurgates the lamps and reduces the electrician to a state
of temporary insanity; sees a super who has blundered the day before,
remembers it, and overwhelms him with her indignation; returns to her
room for dinner; sits down to table, splendidly pale with fatigue;
ruminates her plans; eats with peals of Bohemian laughter; has no
time to finish; dresses for the evening performance while the manager
reports from the other side of a curtain; acts with all her heart and
soul; discusses business between the acts; remains at the theatre
after the performance, and makes arrangements until three o’clock in
the morning; does not make up her mind to go until she sees her staff
respectfully endeavouring to keep awake; gets into her carriage;
huddles herself into her furs and anticipates the delights of lying
down and resting at last; bursts out laughing on remembering that some
one is waiting to read her a five-act play; returns home, listens to
the piece, becomes excited, weeps, accepts it, finds she cannot sleep,
and takes advantage of the opportunity to study a part!
This, my dear Huret, is what seems to me more extraordinary than
anything. This is the Sarah I have always known. I never made the
acquaintance of the Sarah with the coffin and the alligators. The only
Sarah I know is the one who works. She is the greater.
EDMOND ROSTAND.
_Paris, April 25, 1899._
CONTENTS
PAGE
Preface vii
Sarah Bernhardt 1
“Sarah Bernhardt’s Day” 153
Sarah Bernhardt’s ‘Hamlet’ 179
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt _Frontispiece_
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of five 6
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of eleven 8
Mme. Guérard 13
As Junie in _Britannicus_ 14
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt when a girl 17
As Zanetto in _Le Passant_ 20
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in _François le Champi_ 21
In _Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix_ 24
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s Cheque 26
As Cordelia in _King Lear_ 29
As Doña Sol in _Hernani_ 32
As Léonora in _Dalila_ 35
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of fifteen 39
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra 43
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in _La Fille de Roland_ 46
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in her coffin 49
As Doña Sol in _Hernani_ 53
As Doña Sol in _Hernani_ 56
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in her travelling costume 59
As Léonora in _Dalila_ 63
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in 1877 67
Sketch by Caran d’Ache 70
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt as sculptor 71
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt as painter 75
Caricature by André Gill 77
Sketch by Mme. Sarah Bernhardt 78
As Adrienne Lecouvreur 83
As Adrienne Lecouvreur 87
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in travelling costume, during her first
American tour 89
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her friends at Sainte-Adresse 93
As Léa 97
M. Damala 101
As Théodora 103
Scene from _Théodora_ 107
As Lady Macbeth 111
As Jeanne d’Arc 115
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt on one of her tours 117
As Cleopatra 121
Vestibule of Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s studio 125
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s drawing-room 129
In _La Dame de Chalant_ 133
As Pauline Blanchard 136
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and the painter Clairin 137
As Izeïl 140
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in her entrance-hall 141
As Gismonda 145
The Fort-aux-Poulains, Belle-Isle, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s country
residence 149
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt, from a drawing by C. Léandre 159
As Phèdre 163
As Phèdre 165
Caricature of Mme. Sarah Bernhardt by Capiello 170
In _La Dame aux Camélias_ 174
Scene from _Hamlet_ 181
As Hamlet 187
SARAH BERNHARDT
On the 10th February, 1898, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt telephoned to me to
come and see her. The occasion was a serious one. She told me that on
the following day she would leave her house in the Boulevard Pereire
and enter a private hospital in the Rue d’Armaillé, where she was
to undergo a painful operation. For some time past she had suffered
from a dull, aching pain, and during a performance of _Les Mauvais
Bergers_, in which she had to fall flat on her face, she experienced
a sharper pang than usual. She ought to have at once begun to take
care of herself and avoid all fatigue, but when she returned to her
dressing-room, her first act was to fall on her face again to make
sure that what she had felt was not mere imagination. She went on
making sure in this way through the remaining forty performances of
_Les Mauvais Bergers_. Finally, however, she called in Dr. Pozzi, who
immediately discovered serious internal trouble, and informed her
that an operation must be performed in June. In spite of this, Mme.
Sarah Bernhardt organized a provincial tour; but her condition suddenly
became worse, and Dr. Pozzi decided that the operation must take place
almost immediately.
A few days before the date fixed, the actress decided to break the news
to her son. She did this on the eve of his duel with M. Champsaur, of
which, of course, he had not told her.
“You can imagine what a blow it was to him,” Mme. Sarah Bernhardt
remarked to me.
“Were you not afraid?” I asked--I don’t exactly know why, the great
artiste being as gay and alert as usual.
“Afraid?” she replied. “No; there’s no danger with Pozzi. It’s just
a stroke of bad luck,” she added bravely, with a smile. “I had a
wonderful run of success last year, too much in fact, and now this is a
set-off.”
“When is the operation to be?” I asked.
“On Wednesday. Don’t forget to come and see me when I am convalescent.
I will tell you all sorts of fine stories, so that you won’t get bored.”
The operation was perfectly successful, and on the 1st of May, Mme.
Sarah Bernhardt, who was then quite out of danger, was allowed to
see her friends on condition that they should be very few and their
visits very short. As one of these friends, I spent half-an-hour in the
sick-room.
The hospital, situated in the Ternes quarter of Paris, is a species
of small private house with a courtyard in front, and is as little
like a medical establishment as can be imagined. The patient’s room,
scrupulously neat and clean, was on the first floor, overlooking a
small garden containing a few large trees. The great artiste was lying
on a small iron bed, her fair hair completely covering her pillow. She
was smiling and gay, as usual; perhaps a little paler than her wont,
that was all. My mind involuntarily reverted to Lady Macbeth, Doña
Sol, Maria de Neubourg, Phèdre, and Froufrou, and I thought of all the
triumphs, heroic ardour, wild passion and divine melancholy of thirty
years of art and crowded life abruptly cut short and laid low under the
surgeon’s knife. But the wonderful vitality of this rare creature, who
has always vanquished every combination of adverse circumstances, had
once more got the better of misfortune.
“I kept on telling myself every day,” she said, “that this is the price
I have to pay for the great day I had two years ago. I always said
something of this kind was bound to come. Ask Seylor if I didn’t.”
Mlle. Seylor, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s faithful companion, who has not
been absent from her a day for the last ten years, had just entered the
room.
“Didn’t I tell you so, Seylor?” the patient continued. “When you kissed
me and said how happy you were over my ‘glory,’ as you called it,
didn’t I say, ‘Everything has its bad side as well as its good. See if
I don’t pay dearly for to-day!’”
And a shadow of melancholy came over the great artiste’s features, but
soon disappeared. As the song of a bird arose from the garden, she
exclaimed--
“Listen to that blackbird; isn’t it delightful? He sings every morning
just as if he had been put there on purpose for me.”
Speaking of the operation, she said--
“It lasted an hour and a half, but I did not feel the slightest pain
either then or afterwards. I have had no fever at all. At the present
moment my temperature is not above 97°. For two days the chloroform
rather annoyed me, and I had touches of nausea, but that was all. The
only pain I had was what I inflicted on my son by running the risk.
Poor boy! it’s the first time I have ever made him suffer of my own
free will!”
My eyes wandered round the room. Apart from a few roses and orchids,
there was nothing on the mantelpiece and tables but portraits of
Maurice Bernhardt as a child, as a youth, and as he is to-day. There
was also a marble bust of him.
“Look!” said Sarah, “there are his first shoe and his first shirt.”
Hanging from the corner of a mirror were a tiny little white
patent-leather shoe, all shrivelled by time, and a shirt that might
have fitted a doll.
“They never leave me,” she added. “When I travel, I take them with me,
and I felt I must have them here. I believe they bring me good luck.”
Before taking leave I inquired as to the probable duration of the
convalescence.
“At the end of the week,” was the reply, “I shall be able to get
up. Within ten days I shall take a walk in the garden, and within a
fortnight I am to go to St. Germain and complete my convalescence at
the Pavillon Henri IV. Come and see me soon and we will talk.”
I took advantage of the permission, and in the course of my visits
I was able to take down, from the great artiste’s own lips, the
information contained in these pages, by far the greater part of which
information will be new to the public.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of
five.]
“I was born in Paris,” Mme. Sarah Bernhardt told me, “at No. 265 Rue
St. Honoré, in the house also occupied by my old friend, Mme. Guérard,
who is still bright and hearty in spite of her seventy-six years. She
saw me come into the world, and she was present at the birth of my son
Maurice, and of my grand-daughter.
“My mother, as you know, was a Dutch Jewess. She was fair, short, and
round, with a long body and short legs, but she had a pretty face and
beautiful blue eyes. She spoke French badly, and with a strong foreign
accent. She had fourteen children, among them being two pairs of twins.
I was the eleventh child. I was put out to nurse with a _concierge_,
and the arrangement worked well enough as long as I was quite small;
but I began to find my confinement wearisome, and one day, when I was
at the window of the _concierge’s_ room--you know those little arched
windows that are still to be seen in the entresols of old houses--I saw
my mother coming in through the _porte-cochère_, and I fell out of the
window in my haste to reach her! She realized the situation, and I was
taken home, where I remained several years with my mother and sisters.
My education had to be thought of, and as my father insisted on my
being baptized, I was sent to the Augustinian convent at Grandchamp,
Versailles. Thus, at the age of twelve I became a Christian, was
baptized, received my first communion on the following day, and was
confirmed on the day after with three of my sisters. I became very
pious. I was seized with an extraordinary, passionate adoration for the
Virgin. For a long time I cherished a tiny gold image of her which some
one had given me. One day it was stolen, to my great grief.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of
eleven.]
“I was both reserved and fractious. My mother had little love for me;
she preferred my sisters. I was seldom taken out. Sometimes I was
left at the convent during the holidays. I used to feel sad at being
thus neglected, but the feeling of depression soon wore off, and the
spirit of fun in my nature got the upper hand. One day, when we heard
that all the schools in France, except ours, had been given bonbons
on the occasion of the baptism of the Prince Imperial, I proposed to
several other girls that we should run away, and I undertook to manage
it. Being on good terms with the sister in charge of the gate, I went
into her lodge and pretended to have a hole in my dress under the
armpit. To let her examine the hole I raised my arm towards the cord
communicating with the gate, and whilst she was looking at my dress I
pulled the cord, my accomplices rushed out, and I followed them. Our
entire stock of provisions, ammunition, and sinews of war consisted
of a few clothes, three pieces of soap in a bag, and the sum of seven
francs fifty centimes in money. This was to take us to the other end
of the world! A search had to be made for us, and as the good sisters
could hardly undertake it, the police were set on our track. There
was not much difficulty in finding us, as you may imagine. We were
questioned, and Amelia Pluche--I shall never forget the traitress’s
name--denounced me as the ringleader. I was sent home in disgrace, but,
nevertheless, returned to the convent.
“On another occasion, I remember, I had climbed on to the wall
separating the convent from the cemetery. A grand funeral was in
progress, and the Bishop of Versailles was delivering an address to
quite a crowd. I immediately began to gesticulate, shout, and sing
at the top of my voice so as to interrupt the ceremony. You can
imagine the scene--a child of twelve sitting astride a wall, and a
bishop interrupted in the midst of a funeral oration! The scandal was
great, and I was again expelled. My mother did not at all approve
of these escapades, and I was severely scolded, but, owing no doubt
to influence, I was received in the convent once more. Some time
afterwards, having been sentenced to three days’ solitary confinement
for some offence, I climbed up to the top of a chestnut-tree in the
garden. They sought for me in vain, and then set the watch-dog to find
me. He promptly sat down at the foot of the tree and barked. My retreat
was thus discovered, but there was no way of getting me down. The only
man in the convent was an old gardener, who would not trust himself
at such a height, and the ladders were too short. To all the sisters’
commands and threats I merely replied: ‘I will die here! I want to die
here!’ Finally they had to promise on oath that I should be let off my
three days’ confinement, and I came down with the agility of a monkey.
I was very good at gymnastics. My mother, knowing me to be delicate,
urged me to take all sorts of exercise. I remember that the only prizes
I ever got at the convent were for history, composition, and gymnastics.
“On my departure from Grandchamp came the question, What was I to do? I
was religious, in spite of my wayward and passionate temperament. The
patron saint of the convent, St. Augustin, whose portrait was displayed
in every room, was my first passion, which he shared with the Virgin. I
was strongly inclined to become a nun, but my ideas in this direction
underwent a change soon after my departure from the convent. My mother
provided me with a finishing governess, Mlle. de Brabander--a very
superior woman, who had educated the Grand Duchess Marie of Russia.
Mlle. de Brabander adored me. My mother had considerable difficulty
in deciding what to do with me. In spite of my youth I was asked in
marriage by a neighbouring glover, then by a tanner, and finally by a
chemist, from whom I used to buy medicines. I refused them all! One
of my mother’s friends was the Duc de Morny, and he suggested that
I should try the stage as a profession. My mother thought I was not
sufficiently pretty; I was too thin, she considered. Nevertheless,
she decided to adopt the duke’s suggestion. The story of my admission
to the Conservatoire has often been told. I came with a letter of
recommendation from the Duc de Morny, and I had scarcely recited two
verses of La Fontaine’s fable of _The Two Pigeons_, when Auber signed
to me to stop and come to him.
“‘Is your name Sarah?’ he asked.
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Are you a Jewess?’
“‘By birth, sir, but I have been baptized.’
“‘She has been baptized,’ said Auber to the jury, ‘and it would have
been a pity for such a pretty child not to be.’ Turning to me, he
added, ‘You said your fable very well and you have passed.’
“Consequently I entered the Conservatoire. The next question was,
in which class was I to study? Beauvallet said, ‘She will be a
tragedienne.’ Regnier maintained, ‘She will be a comedienne,’ and
Provost put them in agreement by declaring ‘She will be both.’ I joined
Provost’s class.
“I began my studies without the slightest enthusiasm. I set to work
because I had been brought to the Conservatoire for that purpose, but
I had neither taste nor inclination for the profession I was to enter.
I went to the theatre for the first time in my life two or three days
before the entrance examination. I was taken to the Théâtre Français to
see _Amphitryon_. It made me cry! The stage had really no attraction
for me. I often felt very unhappy at the prospect, and wept bitterly.
Moreover I was horribly timid. When I discussed my real inclinations
with my dear governess, Mlle. de Brabander, I felt more disposed to
study painting than anything else, but I had to give way. Mlle. de
Brabander used to take me to the Conservatoire every day. My mother
gave me the omnibus fare for both of us. I pocketed it and we walked,
because we both hated coming into contact with all sorts of people in
the omnibus. When we had enough money, that is to say, every alternate
day, we took a cab, so that we could make sure of being alone. I have
always had a horror of being obliged to rub shoulders with people I
don’t know. If I can help it, I never stay in a waiting-room or any
public place where I am obliged to inhale other people’s breath. In
this respect I have always been ferociously unsociable.
“At the commencement of my studies at the Conservatoire, I had
considerable difficulties to overcome. I inherited from my mother a
serious defect in pronunciation--speaking with clenched teeth. In all
the imitations of my style this point is seized upon. In my early
days the defect was ten times more pronounced than it is now, and it
clung to me all the time, whereas now it is only noticeable when I
am nervous, generally in the first act. To cure me of the habit, the
Conservatoire teachers gave me little rubber balls, which prevented
me from closing my mouth. My fellow-pupils included Croizette, Lloyd,
Rousseil, Dica-Petit, Léontine Massin, and Mme. Provost-Poncin. Among
the men was Coquelin, who was always very nice to me.
[Illustration: Mme. Guérard.]
“At my first competitive examination I took the second prize for
tragedy, and Rousseil the first. In my last year I took the second
prize for comedy, and Lloyd the first. I could never manage to get a
first. After taking my second prize for tragedy, I stayed a year at
the Conservatoire, in receipt of a salary of £75, paid by the Comédie
Française, which had views concerning me. Finally it was arranged
that I should make my _début_ at the Comédie in _Iphigénie_, with Mme.
Devoyod as Clytemnestre. I knew no one in the company except Coquelin,
who had just entered it, and was as good to me as he had been at the
Conservatoire. I do not remember experiencing any strong emotions
except a real fear; but I do remember that when I lifted my long, thin
arms--and they were thin!--for the sacrifice, the whole audience
laughed. After that I played in Scribe’s _Valérie_, with Coquelin as
Ambroise. Theatrical life was still uninteresting to me. I never went
inside a theatre except to act. Even now, paradoxical as it may seem,
I know scarcely any plays, and scarcely any artistes except such as I
have encountered at the various theatres in which I have played.
[Illustration: As Junie in _Britannicus_.]
“I was far from resting at the Théâtre Français. Less than a year after
my _début_, my sister Regina one evening accidentally trod on Mme.
Nathalie’s train. Mme. Nathalie, who was one of the leading ladies,
pushed the poor girl so roughly that she knocked her head against a
corner and the blood came. I immediately ‘went for’ Mme. Nathalie, gave
her a resounding smack, and called her a great stupid! The men were
delighted, but the affair created a terrible scandal. The manager told
me I must apologize to Mme. Nathalie. I replied--
“‘I will apologize to Mme. Nathalie if she will do the same to my
little sister.’
“No arrangement could be made, and I left the House of Molière for the
first time.
“Owing to this very pronounced feature in my character, no manager
would have anything to do with me. A fairy extravaganza, the _Biche au
Bois_, was being played at the Porte St. Martin, then managed by Marc
Fournier, and I learnt that Mlle. Debay, a former Odéon star, who was
playing the Princesse Désirée, had been taken ill. As the part was in
verse, I said to myself, ‘Here’s my chance,’ and went to see Fournier,
who engaged me on the spot. As I was very young, I was asked who I was,
and I replied that I was an orphan. I rehearsed twice, and the date of
my _début_ was fixed. I sang a duet with Ugalde, who was kind enough to
take the trouble of teaching me how to sing it. On the very first night
it happened that my guardian was amongst the audience. He immediately
recognized me and came to see me, horrified, after the first act. I
implored him to say nothing to my mother, but he rushed off and brought
her to the theatre. At first she would not let me finish, but finally
she yielded to reason, and I played my part to the end, but that was my
first and last appearance in extravaganza.
“After the Porte St. Martin came the Gymnase. In May 1863 I was engaged
by Montigny to replace Victoria, Lafontaine’s wife. The piece was a
vaudeville in rhymes, and I remember having to sing--
‘Un baiser? Non, non!’
“It was too absurd!
“I was very useful to Montigny. I had a marvellous memory, and shrank
from no part, however difficult. I never really loved the stage, but
as it was my profession I did not mean to let the grass grow under
my feet. I was determined to get to the front. One after another I
played in _Le Père de la Débutante_, _Le Démon du Jeu_ by Theodore
Barrière, _La Maison sans Enfants_ by Dumanoir, _L’Etourneau_ by Bayard
and Laya, _Le Premier Pas_ by Labiche and Delacour, and _Un Mari qui
lance sa Femme_ by Raymond Deslandes. In this last piece (April 28,
1864) I was a Russian princess, with nothing to do but eat and dance
all the time. This idiotic part disgusted me to such an extent that I
vowed not to play it a second time. The day after the first performance
I went off to Spain! In the morning I locked my mother in her room so
that she could not interfere with me, and off I set with my accomplice,
a maid who had been discharged by my mother. We went to Marseilles
and got on board a steamer. The only other passenger was a rich
wine-merchant from the south of France. You see how practical we were!
My great object was to go to Madrid--I was mad to see Spain and its
museums--and after encountering a fearful storm we landed at Alicante.
I was dreadfully sick, but fortunately I had brought my little golden
Virgin, and she gave me hope and consolation.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt when a girl.]
“My mother had set the police on my track, but in vain. At last,
however, we were starved out. At the end of two months I had seen all I
wanted to see in Spain, and as all my money was gone I was obliged to
write to my mother for supplies. She made me wait some little time, but
finally sent them, and I returned to Paris.
“One day I encountered Camille Doucet, who, as I told you before, was a
friend of our family.
“‘Well, are you as naughty as ever?’ he asked. ‘Have you been slapping
any more of your confrères lately?’
[Illustration: As Zanetto in _Le Passant_.]
“I explained that I had had no opportunity, and he advised me to apply
to the Odéon, then managed by Chilly and Duquesnel. Chilly was
not much inclined to engage me, but Duquesnel seemed anxious to do
so. Finally he had his way, and it was decided that I should appear
as Junie in _Britannicus_ (January 14, 1867). Taillade, who played
Nero, insisted at rehearsal that I should kiss the hem of his garment.
I imagine he must have set about obtaining this act of superfluous
civility from me rather badly; at any rate, I gave him a sound box on
the ear. Camille Doucet must have thought there was no doubt about my
vocation.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in _François le Champi_.
(From a water-colour by Baudoin.)]
“My second appearance was in _Le Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard_. It was a
hideous ‘frost’! I remember wearing a dress with white, blue, and red
stripes to give me a Louis XV. appearance! Moreover I was as thin as a
lath and absolutely unsuited to the part of Sylvia. Her airs and graces
were never meant for me.
“My first success at the Odéon was as Zacharie in _Athalie_. I recited
the chorus of women, and this was the first occasion on which I really
impressed the public. My reception was, I venture to say, really a
triumph. In _Le Marquis de Villemer_ I next played a wretched part--a
thirty-five-year-old baroness. I wept all the time. George Sand, who
had noticed me, consoled me and promised that I should appear in
_L’Autre_, which she had just finished; and she kept her word. Next
came _Le Passant_. Chilly had been induced with great difficulty to
have this piece played as a benefit performance. He had no faith in
it, and thought it tiresome and without a future. He had so little
confidence in its success that he absolutely refused to pay for the
costumes, and Agar and I were obliged to order our own and settle the
bills out of our own pockets. You know how popular Coppée’s little
piece became. Agar and I played it twice before the Court, with immense
success![1]
[1] Mme. Bernhardt afterwards appeared as Armande in _Les
Femmes Savantes_, in _Les Arrêts_ (a one-act piece by M.
de Boissières), in _François le Champi_, _Le Testament de
César Girodot_, _King Lear_, _Le Legs_, _Le Drame de la Rue
de la Paix_, by Adolphe Belot (1869), and _La Loterie du
Mariage_.
[Illustration: In _Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix_.]
“_Kean_ was being prepared at the Odéon. Chilly wanted the part of Anne
Damby to be given to Jane Essler, and Dumas had already promised it to
Antonine. Duquesnel advised me to go and see Dumas, and not to leave
the house without a written authority to at least rehearse the part. I
well remember going to see Dumas. The door was opened by his daughter,
and I found Dumas in his shirt-sleeves, with a woman leaning on his
shoulder--Oceana I believe she was. I timidly explained the object of
my visit. He listened, looked at me, and said--
“‘You would do very nicely, but I have promised the part to Jane
Essler.’
“I persisted in my request, and he confessed that he had also
undertaken to give the _rôle_ to Antonine.
“Then, I said, ‘As you have promised it to two you may just as well
promise it to three.’
“Fortunately I had learnt the part, and I began to recite it to him,
inwardly repeating Duquesnel’s words: ‘Don’t leave him before you get
a letter.’ Then I urged him again to let me rehearse the part, if only
for a week.
“Finally Dumas had enough of it, and gave me a letter for Chilly, to
this effect: ‘Jane Essler is to play Anne Damby, but you can let the
bearer rehearse for a few days.’
[Illustration]
“When the others saw me rehearsing for the part, there was a sensation.
The end of it was that I kept the part and played it with very, very
great success. A well-known incident happened at the _première_. Dumas
came into his box accompanied by Oceana, and for three-quarters of an
hour the students shouted ‘A la porte!’ to such purpose that Dumas
was obliged to take the woman out, put her in a cab, and return to his
box, wildly cheered by the students. Their hostility was solely against
the woman who had forced this great man to make such a scandalous
exhibition of himself.
“Next came _Le Bâtard_ by Alphonse Touroude, and _L’Autre_ by George
Sand (September 1869), neither of which has any interesting souvenirs
connected with it.”
The war broke out, and ambulances were soon being established
everywhere. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt decided to fit one up at the Odéon
at her own expense, and on September 30 she set to work. Twenty-two
beds were erected, long white curtains were hung at the windows and
_portières_ over the doors, linen was neatly piled in cupboards, the
dispensary was provided with bottles and drugs, and the cellars were
filled with wood and coal. All the arrangements having been planned
beforehand and carried out without delay, everything was completed in
forty-eight hours, and there was nothing more to do but wait for the
patients. They came soon enough! Day and night Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt
and her aides-de-camp were kept at work. One of her first patients was
M. Porel (now the manager of the Vaudeville theatre, and the husband
of Mme. Réjane), who was slightly wounded by a fragment of shell.
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt busied herself not only with the infirmary but
with the office. The ambulance being a military one, and having to
supply daily reports to the central establishment at the Val-de-Grâce
hospital, Mlle. Bernhardt carefully noted all particulars of the
patients admitted and discharged, and kept all her accounts with
remarkable exactitude.
The war and the Commune over, the theatres re-opened their doors, and
M. André Theuriet entrusted Mlle. Bernhardt with the principal _rôle_
in _Jean Marie_, which had just been accepted at the Odéon. Her success
was striking, and she has kept this little piece in her _répertoire_,
reviving it time after time in her tours, just as she has done with
_Phèdre_.
Nothing is more curious and instructive than to note the opinions of
the theatrical critics on Sarah Bernhardt from this period onward.
Sometimes she was lauded to the skies; at other times attempts were
made to crush her by severe and often unjust condemnation. To begin
with, let us take this expression of opinion given by the late M.
Francisque Sarcey on October 14, 1871--
If I experienced great pleasure in seeing _Jean Marie_, it was
because the principal part was taken by Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt.
No one could be more innocently poetic than this young lady. She
will become a great comedienne, and she is already an admirable
artiste. Everything she does has a special savour of its own.
It is impossible to say whether she is pretty. She is thin, and
her expression is sad, but she has queenly grace, charm, and the
inexpressible _je ne sais quoi_. She is an artiste by nature,
and an incomparable one. There is no one like her at the Comédie
Française.
[Illustration: As Cordelia in _King Lear_.]
Ten days afterwards came the first performance of _Fais ce que dois_,
a one-act piece in verse, by M. François Coppée. The same critic
dismissed the matter by saying--“The two sisters Bernhardt, Sarah and
Jeanne, have two such insignificant parts that they can make nothing
out of them.” On November 4, M. Sarcey wrote, in reference to the
impending departure of Mlle. Favart from the Comédie Française--“Her
place should most certainly be taken by Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. Any
other choice would be a monstrous injustice.” In spite of this
impassioned declaration, the Odéon kept its prey. In the same month she
appeared in _La Baronne_, by MM. Charles Edmond and Edouard Foussier.
By this time it was generally recognized that the antique peplum suited
her better than modern dress. Two months afterwards (January 1872) the
indefatigable young actress created the part of Mlle. Aïssé in Louis
Bouilhet’s four-act play of that name. The critic Paul de Saint-Victor
treated her with considerable severity.
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, he wrote, played Aïssé very indifferently.
She was weak and despondent, with no energy and no voice. In
passages requiring the utmost fire and passion she did not rise
above a monotonous sing-song. She cannot be said to have killed
the piece, for it had no life in it, but another actress could
perhaps have given it a more tragical and impressive ending. Mlle.
Bernhardt makes it die of languor and inanition.
[Illustration: As Doña Sol in _Hernani_.]
Mlle. Bernhardt now arrived at one of the turning-points in her life.
Victor Hugo, who had returned to France on the downfall of the Empire,
was superintending the revival of his dramas, and MM. Chilly and
Duquesnel decided to bring out _Ruy Blas_. One evening there was a
big dinner at Victor Hugo’s, and the guests set themselves to work to
arrange the cast. Every _rôle_ was satisfactorily allotted except that
of the Queen, on which there was some difference of opinion. M. Paul
Meurice strongly supported Mlle. Jane Essler. Victor Hugo, observing
that Busnach had taken no part in the discussion, asked him his opinion.
“_Ma foi_,” exclaimed the dramatist, “I think Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is
the only possible choice, and I strongly advise you to have her.”
Busnach argued his case with so much warmth that on the following
day Victor Hugo asked the artiste to go over the part with him, and
accepted her on the spot. Sarah’s success was unmistakable. Auguste
Vitu wrote of her in the _Figaro_ (February 19, 1872)--
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt displayed feeling, grace, and even passion in
the comparatively small part of Doña Maria. If, at the beginning
of the second act, she could succeed in getting rid of the dismal,
psalm-like intonation which she erroneously regards as the proper
way to express melancholy, she would perfect a remarkable creation,
which does her honour.
M. Sarcey was warmer in his praise--
No _rôle_ was ever better adapted to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt’s
talents than that of this melancholy queen. She possesses the gift
of resigned and patient dignity. Her diction is so wonderfully
clear and distinct that not a syllable is missed. At the same time
it is hardly powerful enough for the passionate outbursts in the
last act, but there is a great deal of warmth and feeling in the
impassioned passages at the close.
Immediately after this success the newspapers began to urge M. Perrin,
the manager of the Théâtre Français, to engage the brilliant star
which had just made its appearance in the theatrical firmament. Sarah
was, however, bound by her engagement at the Odéon, and the management
would not hear of releasing her. Offers were made to her, and she
decided to take legal proceedings to have the contract set aside.
The decision was against her, and she was obliged to pay the Odéon
the not excessive indemnity of £200. In this way she returned to the
scene of her _début_. The event excited a great deal of comment in the
theatrical world, and especially, as may be imagined, in the House of
Molière. But the success of _Ruy Blas_ and _Le Passant_ silenced the
envious tongues, and her comrades soon found that they would have to
reckon with the new _pensionnaire_. She set to work with astonishing
ardour, and made her appearance on November 5, 1872, in _Mademoiselle
de Belle-Isle_. There could be no doubt of her possessing the fire of
genius, or of her ability to charm and touch her audience. There was
still a certain want of power, but she was full of happy inspirations.
Paul de Saint-Victor, however, persisted in opposing her. He wrote--
Mlle. Bernhardt made a very indifferent _début_ as Gabrielle. The
artificial reputation she made at the Odéon and brought with her
to the Comédie Française does not stand examination. There is
a deadly monotony about her diction. Everything is on the same
level. The only tone in her voice is the low and plaintive one.
When the action of the play quickens and the passions of the
various characters begin to assert themselves, she dwindles away to
nothing, and loses all the fire, force, and colour that the part
ought to have. What good work can Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt do at the
Théâtre Français? The idea of giving her a leading part in a modern
drama is out of the question. The most she can do is to act as a
feeble substitute for Mlle. Favart. The weakness of her voice and
the insufficiency of her talents exclude her from leading tragedy
parts, and I do not see that she can take her place anywhere except
in the background. She might sigh through the tirades of Atalide in
_Bajazet_ or of Aricie in _Phèdre_ melodiously enough, but that is
really the extent of her powers, and it is not enough to justify
the importance attached to a very unpromising _début_.
[Illustration: As Léonora in _Dalila_.]
The reader will readily understand that these unjust criticisms by a
celebrated writer are given here merely as evidence of the vanity of
theatrical criticism.
In January and February 1873, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared
successively as Junie in _Britannicus_, as Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle,
and as Cherubin in _Le Mariage de Figaro_. With the exception of M.
Sarcey the newspaper critics paid little attention to her. He thought
her one of the best Cherubins he had ever seen: the incarnation of the
adventurous youngster, the little scamp who is sure to be never without
a sweetheart. She had all the self-consciousness of the big school-boy,
with the audacity and impetuousness of a young bantam. She conveyed an
impression of desire without love.
Next month her struggles began again with the production of _Dalila_ by
Edmond About. Her friends seemed inclined to abandon her. M. Sarcey was
far from encouraging--
I fear, he said, that the management has made a mistake in already
giving Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt leading parts. I do not know whether
she will ever be able to fill them, but she certainly cannot do so
at present. She is wanting in power and breadth of conception. She
impersonates soft and gentle characters admirably, but her failings
become manifest when the whole burden of the piece rests on her
frail shoulders.
Apparently forgetting that, only a year before, he had declared Mlle.
Sarah Bernhardt the only possible successor to Mlle. Favart, M. Sarcey
added--
After her two celebrated predecessors, Mlles. Fargueil and Favart,
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt has excited little more than a benevolent
curiosity. She can do nothing really badly, for she is an artiste
to the tips of her fingers, but her voice has no sarcasm or irony,
and is simply hard and distinct. Moreover, her whole personality is
stiff. There is no clinging softness about her. She is more harsh
than cold, and more cold than catlike.
Auguste Vitu indulged in a little fun over her thinness, and described
her as “a needle made to look as neat as a new pin.” “There is nothing
of the sorceress about her,” he added, “except the magic wand--herself.”
Paul de Saint-Victor was unmerciful--
It was a singularly unfortunate idea, he wrote, to let Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt appear in this important part of Léonora, still alive
with the fire breathed into it by Mlle. Fargueil. All the most
essential elements in the character--conquering charm, sovereign
pride, haughty and cutting wit, light and stinging insolence,
pretended pathos and false love--are wanting in her nature. She
displays nothing but a subdued plaintiveness, and when she tries to
intensify her tone she merely strikes a jarring note. She seeks to
be imperious, and is merely violent; her disdain is without hauteur
and her allurements are vulgar. It is a singular delusion to
suppose that she will be able to fill and sustain a great _rôle_.
All the efforts that are made and will be made to push her to the
front will only display her inadequacy.
Some envious rivals inspired newspaper attacks on her on the ground of
her nationality. She was represented as a German Jewess. “Certainly,”
she replied, “I am a Jewess, but not a German,” and she wrote as
follows to M. Jouvin--
I should be really very much obliged if you would include in
your next _feuilleton_ a few words to correct the mistake you
made in your article on the revival of _Dalila_ at the Comédie
Française. Since that day I have received a perfect avalanche of
insulting and threatening letters. Nothing less than this could
have induced me to write to you. I am French, absolutely French.
I proved it during the siege of Paris, and the Society for the
Encouragement of Well-doing awarded me a medal. Would it have
done so if I had been a German? All my family come from Holland.
Amsterdam was the birthplace of my humble ancestors. If I have a
foreign accent--which I much regret--it is cosmopolitan, but not
Teutonic. I am a daughter of the great Jewish race, and my somewhat
uncultivated language is the outcome of our enforced wanderings.
I hope your sense of justice will lead you to rectify a mistake
which may not only affect my son’s future but is painful to me as a
Frenchwoman. I thank you in advance, and am, etc.,
SARAH BERNHARDT.
On the 4th June, 1873, she created Mrs. Douglas in _L’Absent_, by
Eugène Manuel, and Marthe in _Chez L’Avocat_, a one-act piece by Paul
Ferrier. The parts were insignificant, and brought her no increase of
fame. The Press ignored them, almost entirely. She took no holiday
during the summer of this year. During August she re-appeared in
_Andromaque_, and the _Temps_ became kind to her again--
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was tender, bewitching, coquettish, and above
all feminine. Her performance was like an air, sad and passionate
by turns, played by a master hand on a violoncello.
A fortnight later, September 17, she was playing Aricie in _Phèdre_.
The _Figaro_ bestowed a few commonplace compliments on her. She was
accused of being badly dressed, badly got up, and even with being
unmistakably untidy; but M. Sarcey brought out his most flattering and
ecstatic adjectives in her honour.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of
fifteen.]
There can be no doubt about it now. All the opposition excited by
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt’s success must yield to facts. She simply
delighted the public. The beautiful verses allotted to Aricie were
never better delivered. Her voice is genuine music. There was a
continuous thrill of pleasure among the entire audience.