I am old enough to have been under the spell of Sarah Bernhardt when
she was in her prime; and young enough to have kept the enthusiasm
which she awoke in me till the last days of her long life drew
near. To most reviewers of the hour here in New York, with their
near backgrounds, Bernhardt has sometimes seemed a tedious legend.
But to those of us who were fortunate enough to applaud her at the
Théâtre-Français on great nights gone by, she will be always dear and
an unfading glory.
It is not, though, to the actress who has passed on to another stage
that I ask permission to pay tribute--the poor tribute of a friend who
knew her closely, at her best and worst, and who, despite her human
faults and human frailties, admired her always and believed her a great
woman. Beside her even Duse, a rare artist, seems rather trifling to
the writer of these lines. While of the “stars”, so called, to whom
most here bow down, who has a scintilla of her brightness?
She was an artist, of the finest, highest kind. But she was first
a character--a woman of compelling will and force, individual, all
herself, a burning flame. Incidentally, but only in a small way, she
was in turn sculptor, painter, and writer. She had invented several
plays, some of which were never acted, while one was seen and rather
well received at the Paris Odéon. She had also now and then dashed off
some novels. Of these the last, I think, was “Petite Idole”, published
here last year as “The Idol of Paris”. It is largely autobiographical.
If any person in the world has proved the truth of the perhaps
misleading dictum which defines genius as the art of taking infinite
pains, Bernhardt surely has. She was an honest, tireless, never
resting worker in her chosen field. Her art was the one god she always
worshipped. And to that art she gave up all her strength. She had
no patience with her many gifted rivals who were content with being
charming and inspired. Unless they worked to make the utmost of their
gifts, she would condemn them. Thanks to her patience, her intelligence
and honesty, her artistic honesty, when she was seventy she could
still delight her audiences. Behind all her most amazing exhibitions,
we could perceive the great technique which made them possible. Her
technique helped her to the very end. It overcame, at times, the tragic
handicap of an actress who had lost one of her limbs. It enabled her,
only a few years ago, to play the death scene in “La Dame aux Camélias”
as touchingly as in her early days. Her devotion to the technique of
her art shamed our young “stars”. But our reviewers only saw in her--a
woman: a woman maimed and aging, and not beautiful, perhaps, who
fought with passion to retain her envied queenship.
For she had been--and she still was--a queen. I can recall a certain
night when Paris crowned her, and when the critics of New York, at
my petition, sent her a message to express their admiration. And I
remember her reply--the gracious telegram in which she thanked them for
their tribute. She was not young then. She was growing old. Yet her
vitality and will were so surprising that for almost twenty years after
that night she kept her grip on Paris. Not till a year or two ago,
indeed, did she begin to realize--or to confess--how old she was. When
I last talked with her, in her familiar home near the Place Wagram,
I noticed that she was ceasing to disguise her age. White locks were
mingled with her tawny hair and, to my sorrow, she was slightly hard
of hearing. We lunched together. She was full of life, as usual. She
talked of everything: the stage, the world, and art. She referred to
Charlie Chaplin and to Arbuckle (who, she protested, was too fat to be
a criminal). But I could see that it was only by an effort that she
kept pace with life. The coquetries and graces which had charmed me
many times at her own table were less natural. And they all vanished
when a retainer came to carry her upstairs--poor tortured soul--on a
chair or litter. I turned away then, for I dreaded to embarrass her,
but she rebuked me, saying, “Oh, you needn’t mind me!”
She had been a friend to me, and in her way an ideal, since my young
student days at the Sorbonne. And when she chose, she could be a
kind friend. Yet caprices were not foreign to her nature, and, if it
pleased her, she could be a dangerous foe. She never, I think, wholly
forgave Duse for challenging her supremacy, or quite forgot what she
regarded--even if she did not say so--as Duse’s ingratitude. It was
at Bernhardt’s theatre (then the Renaissance) that Duse had appeared
for the first time in Paris. Soon after that, the two “stars” had been
parted.
However tragic she might be upon the boards, in private--with her
friends--Bernhardt dropped tragedy. She had the gaiety and lightness
of a comédienne, though only twice, in great ways, did she reveal
this fact--in “Francillon” and in “Frou-frou”. It was a privilege and
joy to be her guest, as I have often been. To her the theatre seemed
a part, not all, of life. When she was touring in this country, she
would miss no chance, if her train stopped here or there, of getting
out and driving madly through the neighborhood, till “All aboard!” was
heard and she rode on again. Her interest in life was inexhaustible. It
was not confined to drama or to those other arts in which she played
her part. It embraced religion, science, sociology, politics, and
literature.
At our last meeting, she presented me with a copy of her novel “Petite
Idole”, which she had written “_pour passer le temps_” when she was
“resting” in her Belle-Ile seaside home. “Read this,” she said. “I
think you will like it. Much in the book, as you will see, concerns
myself.”
I have not forgotten many other things she said to me, especially as
to the folly, as she thought it, of allowing oneself to cease working
before one was exhausted. At eighty or thereabouts, the most popular
and remarkable journalist of his time in France, Emile de Girardin, had
announced to her his intention of retiring. “Don’t do that”, she had
answered, “or you’ll--die!” But he persisted. And he lived six weeks.
No matter who might be the guests she was entertaining--royalties
had foregathered with her--when she was due at a performance or a
rehearsal she would leave them. Art and her public meant much more to
her than royalty. Once, when I was among her visitors at Les Poulains
(her first Belle-Ile house, off the coast of Brittany) she received a
telegram. It reminded her that she had promised to be present at the
unveiling of some statue in the north of France. In a moment she began
packing. Next morning we were whirled away in a dreadful express train
to Paris. A promise of that kind was not mere piecrust to this spoilt
tragédienne.
Her leisure? Well, she spent it in reading plays, in writing stories,
or in painting, studying parts, and toying with sculpture. She had a
quick wit and she liked amusing anecdotes. Her humor helped to sustain
her in adversity.
Adversity. It dogged her. Even in the heydey of her career she was in
financial difficulties. She had been “sold up” in one of her Paris
homes--in the Avenue de Villiers. Her possessions had been scattered.
She was constantly in debt. For, though she had earned millions, she
had spent freely. Money was much to her. Yet she treated it as if it
meant little. I am told (I do not know how truly) that, but for her
indebtedness to the United States Internal Revenue Department, she
would have returned to America, for the last of her farewell tours. It
may have been just as well that she did not return.
Time was, in the days of “Le Sphinx” and “L’Etrangère” at the
Théâtre-Français, when it was Sarah Bernhardt’s wish, they say, to
be buried at Père-la-Chaise (where she now rests), next to her long
popular comrade and rival, Croizette. Later we heard that she had
determined she would prefer her tomb to be erected on one of the huge
rocks on the dark coastline of Belle-Ile. There the roaring waves and
peeping sea gulls would have sung to her an appropriate threnody. And
there, perhaps, long after those who loved and applauded her had gone
to their accounts, pilgrims would have stared and wondered at her
monument.
_Abbie Farwell Brown_
A meeting at the Boston Authors’ Club is something to remember. The
faces one sees are largely of New England. It is as if one had stepped
back to a different period when English blood in America had not quite
so great a foreign infusion. In this Colonial, or perhaps Victorian
atmosphere, Abbie Farwell Brown is a gay, active figure. It was in
this atmosphere that Josephine Preston Peabody Marks was beloved and
influential. They were great friends. Miss Abbie Brown has written many
books for children. She has written short stories. She has published
volumes of poems. Her muse is a fanciful one. It springs from the
sources of the Cambridge School. It is gentle, quiet, and not without
its charm. Its place in America cannot yet be shaken by the Menckens
and the Untermeyers.