revived. She displayed all her tender poetical grace in the character
of the woman on the brink of surrender to temptation: one of Musset’s
airy creations straying amongst M. Feuillet’s _bourgeois_ proverbs.
In _Le Sphinx_, by the same author, produced on the 23rd March, 1874,
she played the rather subordinate _rôle_ of Berthe de Savigny. The
notices of this performance show it to have been her first unmistakable
success. Hitherto the Paris first-night audiences had merely tolerated
her, but on this occasion she accomplished the feat of making a
secondary part into an important one. Nevertheless, as one of her
critics remarks, she in no way trespassed on her sister actresses’
preserves. She played with great discretion, but her graceful movements
and the music of her golden voice created a deep impression. The
struggle, however, was not yet over. A few connoisseurs admired her
greatly, while others regarded her with positive aversion. Her
engagement by M. Perrin required something very like audacity, and the
wisdom of the step remained doubtful, the majority of opinions being
still unfavourable to her. She excited intense envy among her rivals.
There was great dissatisfaction among the other ladies of the company
when it was known that M. Perrin intended to pay £100 for a costume she
had ordered for _Le Sphinx_. Her next appearance was in a one-act play
in verse, _La Belle Paule_, by M. Paul Denayrouse, and in August she
re-appeared in _Zaïre_. This proved to be the most complete success she
had attained since her engagement at the Comédie Française. It was far
greater than that of any other member of the cast, as M. Vitu and M.
Sarcey recognized. Paul de Saint-Victor alone persisted in depreciating
her. According to him she was monotonous, weak, lackadaisical, and
hardly noticeable!
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra.]
On December 22 she played Phèdre for the first time. The risk was
great, the part being one of the most exhausting in the whole
_répertoire_ of the theatre. During the first act she was intensely
and perceptibly nervous. Her teeth were set, and her enunciation was
hard and abrupt. Her tone was cold and slightly raucous. But in the
second act she began to gain confidence, and after her declaration to
Hippolyte success began and lasted to the end. She delivered the final
lines with consummate art, and, in spite of her delicate physique,
she was excellent in the stormy scene with Hippolyte. In the fourth act
she was completely carried away by her part. At one point she tripped,
and, probably for the first time in her life, mangled a line--she,
the incarnation of poetry! Instead of saying, “Reconnais sa vengeance
aux fureurs de ta fille,” she exclaimed: “Reconnais sa fureur aux
vengeances de ta fille.” The public, however, paid no attention to the
slip, nor perhaps did the actress herself. At any rate, she finished in
triumph. M. Sarcey considered her superior to Rachel; and M. Jouvin,
writing in the _Presse_, declared that Clairon, who has bequeathed us
a summary of her views on the part, could not have failed to applaud
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt.
The first performance of _La Fille de Roland_, by Henri de Bornier,
took place on February 15, 1875, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appearing as
Berthe, with Maubant and Mounet-Sully in other parts. On this occasion
again critical opinion was divided. Paul de Saint-Victor, in the
_Moniteur Universel_, described her as merely an agreeable reciter of
verses, without any of the varied and living qualities of the real
tragedienne.
Her delivery is still the same musical jeremiad as before. All her
tirades are given with the same plaintive, sing-song intonation.
When the action quickens the sound rises to a higher key, but the
melody remains unaltered. This constant recitative gives way in the
strong passages to breathless cries, painful to hear. Her outbursts
are those of a breaking voice. They positively wound the ear.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in _La Fille de Roland_.]
According to Auguste Vitu, in the _Figaro_, her interpretation was
fair, and no more. M. Sarcey, however, observed that it was only
justice to admit that she had made something out of nothing. In the
afternoon preceding the _première_, she had been elected a full member,
or _sociétaire_, of the company, together with her comrade Laroche.
Her antagonists had laid down their arms! In the evening the astonished
critics beheld all the lady members of the company vigorously
applauding the new _sociétaire_!
On April 27, 1875 came the revival of Emile Augier’s _Gabrielle_, in
which Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared with Coquelin. She was reproached
with making the character allotted to her into an ideal, poetic, and
romantic woman, quite in opposition to the author’s conception. She
re-studied the part, and in December of the same year she created quite
another Gabrielle. M. Sarcey, who went to see her, was astonished to
observe that she had effected a complete transformation.
When the Salon opened, Sarah Bernhardt gave her rivals another
unpleasant surprise by exhibiting busts of Emile de Girardin and
Busnach. Her new departure excited a great sensation. It was impossible
to set a foot behind the scenes of any Paris theatre without being
assailed by such questions as--
“Have you seen the busts? What do you think of them? Are they really
very good?”
Portraits of Mlle. Bernhardt were exhibited at the Salon by Clairin
and Louise Abbéma. The latter painted her sitter in a black cashmere
bodice with an iron-grey skirt, black _guipure_ chemisette, black
hat and black feathers--the costume worn by her as Mrs. Clarkson in
_L’Etrangère_. M. Clairin’s Sarah Bernhardt was in a white cashmere
_peignoir_, trimmed with white feathers, and with lace ruffles at the
sleeves and neck; black satin slippers, sky-blue stockings, and a large
feather screen: the actress lying on a cerise velvet divan, with a
many-coloured cushion under her head.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in her coffin.]
Sarah Bernhardt was now a full-blown Parisian celebrity, and her fame
was destined to go on increasing. Curiosity began to be felt concerning
even the most insignificant details of her daily life. This public
curiosity stimulated her, as an independent and original person, to
brave the gossip of the city and its _bourgeois_ hypocrisy. All sorts
of more or less true tales of her eccentricities were told about
this time. She was constantly haunted by ideas of death, her frail
organization being, no doubt, still incomplete. From time to time she
fainted on the stage, and her unruly imagination promptly led her to
expect the most direful consequences, but her extraordinary elasticity
of temperament soon supplied her with renewed strength and vitality,
and the complete prostration of to-day was always followed on the
morrow by the most sanguine anticipations. One day she caused herself
to be measured for a coffin, and had it brought to her house. This
coffin, which she courageously keeps at the foot of the bed, is made of
pear-wood. The only ornament consists of the artiste’s initials S. B.,
with the motto _Quand-même_! The inside is lined with white satin, and
is provided with a mattress, bolster, and cushions--a bed fit for the
most charming of coquettes. But for the spectacle of the lid, always
ready to be screwed down, any one would readily lie on this pleasant,
perfumed couch. Unfortunately, the lid is a stern reality. There is
something else to note. Inspired by a strange but poetical fancy,
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt has lined the bottom of the coffin with her most
cherished souvenirs. Love-letters and faded bouquets are there, huddled
together pell-mell, awaiting her coming--waiting to remind her, in the
silence of the tomb, of the sad or happy hours in which she knew them.
The _première_ of _L’Etrangère_ (May 25, 1876) was exclusively a
personal success for her. The newspapers spoke severely of M. Dumas’
work--
If Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, said M. Sarcey, had not thrown the
glamour of her gestures and diction over the silly sentimentality
of Mrs. Clarkson, the public would have burst out laughing. The
piece is simply bad melodrama of the Ambigu type.
Her health was still far from robust, and during a performance of
_L’Etrangère_ (May 25, 1876) a painful incident occurred. Before
the curtain rose M. Got had asked the indulgence of the public for
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, who was indisposed. The request was far from
unnecessary, for as soon as the young artiste appeared on the stage it
was evident that she was in great pain. The performance followed its
course, but in the middle of her long tirade in the third act, Mlle.
Sarah Bernhardt suddenly turned pale, threw up her arms, and fell to
the floor. Indescribable excitement arose amongst the audience. The
curtain was promptly lowered, and the most alarming rumours were in
circulation, when M. Got came forward and made a reassuring speech,
adding, however, that Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was far too ill to permit
of her reappearing. Mlle. Lloyd, who had been immediately informed,
took the vacant place, and the performance proceeded, but the anxiety
among actors and public was so great that when the curtain fell general
depression prevailed. Inquiries were made at midnight, and it was
ascertained that the patient was a little better, but that absolute
rest was necessary, and that the doctor had forbidden her even to speak.
Her illness led to a rumour that she was about to retire into a
convent. Paragraphs, of which the following is a specimen, began to
appear in the newspapers--
It is said that an artiste of the Comédie Française was recently
driven by private sorrows to take refuge in the sweets of monastic
solitude. It appears, however, that after two days’ retirement the
comedienne in question came to the conclusion that she was not yet
ripe for the cloister. She bade farewell to the bare walls of the
convent and returned to the theatre, much to the disgust of her
fellow-actresses, who realized only too well that she was steadily
growing not only into a star but into a planet. You see, M. Sarcey,
people can’t do without you!!! (_Figaro_, July 9, 1876).
[Illustration: As Doña Sol in _Hernani_.]
None the less Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt continued to work. On September
27, _Rome Vaincue_, by M. Parodi, was brought out, and this time
she obtained a brilliant and unmistakable success. Not a single
discordant note was heard in the chorus of praise. M. Auguste Vitu
wrote--
Draped like an antique statue, her head crowned with long white
curls under her matron’s veil, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt made Posthumia
one of her finest creations. No other living actress could have
rendered this character with so much nobility, grandeur, and true
feeling. The genuine tears shed by her audience must have shown her
how deeply she had touched their hearts and minds.
M. Sarcey was quite poetical--
When Parodi came to chat with me about the rehearsals then going
on, he said--“I never imagined how much there was in the part until
I heard Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt play it. She puts into it all the
life it has. I cannot recognize my own verses when they fall from
her lips.” I have indeed rarely seen anything so perfectly fine,
especially as regards the last act. She was no longer a comedienne,
but human nature itself, interpreted by a marvellous intelligence,
a soul full of fire, and the most harmonious and melodious voice
that ever delighted human ears. She acts with her whole heart
and soul. She is a marvellous, incomparable artiste, one of the
_élite_, or, in a word, a genius.
She appeared in _Hernani_ on November 21, 1877, with considerable
success. She was now unmistakably the spoilt child of the public.
She had vanquished almost all her adversaries, and practically every
theatre-goer was an admirer of her talent. She realized this and
profited by it. Nevertheless she had her moments of humility and
self-effacement. She wrote as follows to her manager on New Year’s Day,
1878--
My dear Monsieur Perrin, I have begun the year badly. I caught
cold this morning when coming back from the cemetery, and I am far
from well. I should have liked to tell you this evening of all the
grateful affection I feel for you. If you could only understand how
entirely I am yours! But all that is difficult for me to express.
I owe everything to you. The good points I have, you brought out.
I tried to become a little somebody, and you determined that it
should be so. Blessings on that determination of yours, and my
loving greetings to you! My illness depresses me, and I have little
hope of completing the year just begun. Monsieur Perrin, I love you
very much.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
[Illustration: As Doña Sol in _Hernani_.]
Her celebrity was unmistakably shown by the wild stories which began
to be told about her. She was said to have thrown a live kitten on to
a fire; to have poisoned with her own fair hands two monkeys which
had ceased to please her; to have cut off a dog’s head with a view to
solving the question whether life continues after decapitation; the
skeleton in her bedroom was all that remained of one of her victims,
etc. As a matter of fact, she was then keeping two Russian greyhounds,
a poodle, a bulldog, a terrier, a leveret, a parrot, three cats, and
several birds. Afterwards she kept lions! Could a woman who was so fond
of animals torture them as she was said to have done?
At Bressant’s benefit performance, February 27, 1878, she played two
acts from Jean Aicard’s _Othello_ with M. Mounet-Sully, who failed
completely. M. Sarcey says--
As for Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, she simply rescued the piece. Her
attitude in the death-agony, her head and arms hanging over
the side of the bed, was so fine, graceful, and tragic, that
enthusiastic applause came from every part of the house.
M. Auguste Vitu summed up his opinion as follows--
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was very fine as Desdemona. It is one of her
best creations. I say nothing of M. Mounet-Sully, whose efforts
were not a success.
On April 2 she appeared for the first time as Alcmène in _Amphitryon_.
No notice was taken of this in the newspapers. She again played in
_Zaïre_ (May 30), and _Le Sphinx_ (October 28), with continued success.
In the meantime she made several ascents in Giffard’s captive balloon
at the Exhibition, to the great scandal of the Boulevards. An article
published by Albert Millaud in the _Figaro_ gives a very good idea of
the spirit of gossip then prevailing. Sarah Bernhardt replied to his
article in the following letter--
Your kind references to the artiste induce me to write in defence
of the woman. Those who persist in dinning me into the ears of the
public are clever enemies of mine. It is excessively annoying not
to be able to do anything without being accused of eccentricity. I
love balloon ascents, but now I dare not indulge in them. I have
never skinned dogs or burnt cats alive. My hair is not dyed, and
my face has a sufficiently corpse-like pallor to absolve me from
the suspicion of painting. I am told that my thinness is eccentric,
but what am I to do? I should much prefer to be one of those happy
people who are neither too fat nor too thin. My illnesses are
said to attract too much attention, but they come without warning
and strike me down wherever I may happen to be, and if people
are there, so much the worse. I am reproached with trying to do
everything: acting, sculpture, and painting; but these things
amuse me, and bring me money to spend as best pleases me. Such are
my crimes. You have taken my part, perhaps without intending to
do so, but none the less I thank you heartily. As you applauded
the artiste, I did not like to think that the woman might seem so
unpleasant a contrast; and then it is such a pleasure to complain!
Thanks for your kindness, Monsieur Millaud.
SARAH BERNHARDT.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in her travelling costume.]
Some little time afterwards she published an account of her ballooning
experiences in an amusing little book entitled, _In the Clouds_;
_Impressions of a Chair_, with some very pretty illustrations by
Clairin. The simple and unstudied gaiety of this book brought it
into great favour. Of course she was accused of another attempt to
advertise herself, and her literary efforts were riddled with epigrams,
but she was beginning to be accustomed to this kind of thing. Several
newspapers asked her to write for them. The _Globe_ requested her to
supply the 1879 Salon critique, and another journal suggested that she
should write an article on England, in which country she was about to
perform. “How in the world,” exclaimed Albert Millaud, with mingled
astonishment and alarm, “can such a frail creature, made up of poetry
and grace, accomplish such labours?”
On February 7, 1879, she played Monime in _Mithridate_ for the first
time. The whole success of the performance fell to her. “If ever a
part suited Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt,” said M. Sarcey, “Monime is that
part.” “Had it been written expressly for her, it could not have fitted
her better,” exclaimed M. Auguste Vitu. Even the unappeasable Paul de
Saint-Victor had to give way.
The _rôle_, he wrote, is within the scope of her talents, and is
exactly adapted to her voice. She has all the required uniformity
of tone and touching sweetness, relieved by one or two outbursts
of offended dignity and quietly ironical smiles. She obtained
well-merited applause.
_Ruy Blas_ was reproduced on April 4. According to M. Claretie it would
be impossible to have a more exquisite impersonation of any poetical
creation, or a better rendering of all the emotions of the character.
Emile Zola, who was then theatrical critic on the _Voltaire_,
wrote--“_Ruy Blas_ was played to perfection at the Comédie Française.
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is exquisite.” M. Auguste Vitu gave his opinion
in these terms--
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt did not play the Queen better last night than
she did at the Odéon in 1872, for the simple reason that she was
then perfection itself. Yesterday’s applause and calls before the
curtain must have convinced her that she was quite as charming as
she was six years ago.
The _Figaro_ descriptive writer tells us--
Everybody was attacked by stage fright, and Sarah was far from
being any better than her _confrères_. In the second act, she
trembled to such an extent that when she tried to take her
attendant Casilda by the chin she could only indicate the act
by a gesture. “For goodness’ sake,” whispered Mlle. Baretta,
“don’t tremble like that; you’ll frighten me horribly.” Back in
her dressing-room, Sarah began to weep copiously, but this time
with joy. Victor Hugo remained only a short time in the front
of the house. Between the first and second acts he paid a visit
to Sarah before her turn came. Before the fifth act Sarah came
to the poet for a little of the encouragement he knows so well
how to administer, and which always gives her so much ardour and
confidence.
[Illustration: As Léonora in _Dalila_.]
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt had now been nearly seven years at the Comédie
Française, and those who knew her were beginning to feel surprise at
the length of her stay. The same year, 1879, was to witness several
events leading up to her final flight in search of independence and
freedom of movement. Mr. Mayer engaged the Comédie Française troupe for
a series of performances to be given at the Gaiety Theatre, London,
in June. Sarah was to play in _L’Etrangère_, _Phèdre_, _Le Sphinx_,
_Hernani_, _Andromaque_, and _Zaïre_. The company left for London on
June 1. Next day _Phèdre_ was played, and _L’Etrangère_ on the 3rd.
Sarah was somewhat coldly received at first, but British iciness soon
melted beneath the tragedienne’s fire. On the 9th, M. Sarcey felt
justified in writing--“The English can adore two idols at the same
time, and they are now devoted to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt.”
On the first evening she insisted on playing the second act of _Phèdre_
as an interlude. Just as her turn was coming, she was seized by one
of those “blue funks” by which actors are sometimes liable to be
paralyzed. She fell down in a state of collapse; her hands and feet
became icy cold, and she had to be rubbed vigorously for ten minutes to
put a little life into her. She was half carried on to the stage. As
was only to be expected, she attacked her words badly, went on worse,
and failed completely. The audience, however, noticed nothing, and
applauded her frantically. She was “called,” and was enthusiastically
cheered as she stood leaning on the arm of M. Mounet-Sully, without
whose support she must have fallen, half dead as she was.
But now things began to go wrong. _L’Etrangère_ had been announced
for a Saturday _matinée_, and _Hernani_ for the evening. Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt was in both pieces, but her parts were not very tiring
ones. Like Doña Sol, Mrs. Clarkson has only one act calling for real
exertion. Moreover, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt had not played at all since
her appearance in _Zaïre_, and she had had time to rest. As a matter
of fact--and this was the principal grievance of the Comédie against
her--she did not rest. She had, for instance, performed _Le Passant_
and the second act of _Phèdre_ on the Friday night at a private house,
before an aristocratic audience. When the time came for her to go to
the theatre, she sent her maid to say that she was tired and could not
perform. The effect may easily be imagined. Every seat was taken, the
Saturday performances being always the best attended. It was feared
that the public would take the announcement, which would have to be
made, as a gross breach of politeness. How was it possible to organize
another performance at such short notice? If only she had let them know
in the morning! There was, however, no escape. Coquelin, whose turn it
was to make the announcements for the week, went before the curtain.
In a few well-chosen words he explained what had occurred, asked the
audience to excuse the Comédie Française, and wound up by announcing
that there would be no performance. A great commotion followed, and
several hisses were heard--a very rare occurrence in a good English
theatre. Chance brought an addition to the strength of the company in
the shape of an actor who happened to call at the theatre for his
letters. Some one pointed out that it would now be possible to play
_Tartuffe_, and Coquelin was called upon to make another proclamation.
But Coquelin was too disconcerted to do anything of the kind. “I should
be a perfect weathercock,” he exclaimed. “I really can’t go on and
say the exact opposite of what I said five minutes before. Let Got
go!” Got was the _doyen_ and sage of the company, the last resource in
desperate emergencies. He went forward and delivered a little speech
to the effect that _Tartuffe_ would be performed for those who liked
to remain, and that their money would be returned. As for those who
desired to see _L’Etrangère_, their tickets would be available for a
special _matinée_, which would be given on the Wednesday following.
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in 1877.]
Here was a pretty kettle of fish! M. Sarcey, who had, as usual,
accompanied the Comédie Française troupe, observed--
Another affair of this kind would be more than enough to make the
Comédie Française unpopular in England. Those persons who, through
caprice or a desire to show off, or, to put it differently, through
a mistaken estimate of their own physical powers, place their
_confrères_ in such difficulties, are greatly to blame, and they
may be sure that a day will come when they will have to atone for
such conduct. Spoilt children are amusing until some friend of the
family wants to know at what time they are put to bed.
[Illustration: Sarah Bernhardt and F. Sarcey. By Caran d’Ache.]
The whole of the French Press rose in wrath. M. Albert Wolff, in
the _Figaro_, was particularly aggressive. He raked up all the old
grievances against the actress, and accused her of having gone about
in male attire, and having organized an exhibition of her sculpture and
paintings in London. Sarah sent him the following reply by telegraph--
_London, June 28._
MONSIEUR ALBERT WOLFF, _Figaro_ Office.