have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours. Madame George
Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely timid. She did not talk
much, but smoked all the time. Her large eyes were always dreamy, and
her mouth, which was rather heavy and common, had the kindest
expression. She had perhaps had a medium-sized figure, but she was no
longer upright. I used to watch her with the most romantic affection,
for had she not been the heroine of a fine love romance!
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT IN
_FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI_
]
I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in mine I held it as
long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle and fascinating.
Prince Napoleon, commonly known as “Plon-Plon,” often used to come to
George Sand’s rehearsals. He was extremely fond of her. The first time I
ever saw that man I turned pale, and felt as though my heart had stopped
beating. He looked so much like Napoleon I. that I disliked him for it.
By resembling him it seemed to me that he made him seem less far away,
and brought him nearer to every one.
Madame Sand introduced me to him, in spite of my wishes. He looked at me
in an impertinent way: he displeased me. I scarcely replied to his
compliments, and went closer to George Sand.
“Why, she is in love with you!” he exclaimed, laughing.
George Sand stroked my cheek gently.
“She is my little Madonna,” she answered; “do not torment her.”
I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances at the Prince.
Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening to him, for his
conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the same time witty. He
sprinkled his discourses and his replies with words that were a trifle
crude, but all that he said was interesting and instructive. He was not
very indulgent, though, and I have heard him say base, horrible things
about little Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew
such an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet, that
George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing, although she called
the Prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious, too, but at the same
time he did not like people to be wanting in respect to him. One day an
artiste, named Paul Deshayes, who was playing in _François le Champi_,
came into the green-room. Prince Napoleon, Madame George Sand, the
curator of the library, whose name I have forgotten, and myself were
there. This artiste was common, and something of an anarchist. He bowed
to Madame Sand, and addressing the Prince, said:
“You are sitting on my gloves, sir.”
The Prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out, and, throwing them on
the floor, remarked, “I thought this seat was clean.”
The actor coloured, picked up the gloves, and went away, murmuring some
revolutionary threat.
I played the part of Hortense in _Le testament de César_, by Girodot,
and of Anna Danby in Alexandre Dumas’s _Kean_.
On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece[1] the
audience was most aggravating. Dumas _père_ was quite out of favour on
account of a private matter that had nothing to do with art. Politics
for some time past had been exciting every one, and the return of Victor
Hugo from exile was very much desired. When Dumas entered his box he was
greeted by yells. The students were there in full force, and they began
shouting for _Ruy Blas_. Dumas rose and asked to be allowed to speak.
“My young friends,” he began, as soon as there was silence. “We are
quite willing to listen,” called out some one, “but you must be alone in
your box.”
Footnote 1:
February 18, 1868.
Dumas protested vehemently. Several persons in the orchestra took his
side, for he had invited a lady into his box, and whoever that lady
might be, no one had any right to insult her in so outrageous a manner.
I had never yet witnessed a scene of this kind. I looked through the
hole in the curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw our
great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting, swearing,
and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of applause. The woman had
disappeared from the box. She had taken advantage of the moment when
Dumas, leaning well over the front of the box, was answering, “No, no,
this lady shall not leave the box!”
Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house, delighted,
shouted, “Bravo!” Dumas was then allowed to continue, but only for a few
seconds. Cries of “_Ruy Blas! Ruy Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Hugo!” could then
be heard again in the midst of an infernal uproar. We had been ready to
commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited. Chilly and
Duquesnel then came to us on the stage.
“_Courage, mes enfants_, for the house has gone mad,” they said. “We
will commence anyhow, let what will happen.”
“I’m afraid I shall faint,” I said to Duquesnel. My hands were as cold
as ice, and my heart was beating wildly. “What am I to do,” I asked him,
“if I get too frightened?”
“There’s nothing to be done,” he replied. “Be frightened, but go on
playing, and don’t faint upon any account!”
The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest, bird
cries, cat-calls, and a heavy rhythmical refrain of “_Ruy Blas! Ruy
Blas!_ Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!”
My turn came. Berton _père_, who was playing Kean, had been received
badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of an Englishwoman in the
year 1820. As soon as I appeared I heard a burst of laughter, and I
stood still, rooted to the spot in the doorway. At the very same instant
the cheers of my dear friends the students drowned the laughter of the
aggravators. This gave me courage, and I even felt a desire to fight.
But it was not necessary, for after the second endlessly long harangue,
in which I give an idea of my love for Kean, the house was delighted,
and gave me an ovation.
“Ignotus” wrote the following paragraph in the _Figaro_:
“Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric costume which
increased the tumult, but her rich voice, that astonishing voice of
hers, appealed to the public, and she charmed them like a little
Orpheus.”
After _Kean_ I played in _La loterie du mariage_. When we were
rehearsing the piece, Agar came up to me one day, in the corner where I
usually sat. I had a little arm-chair there from my dressing-room, and
put my feet up on a straw chair. I liked this place, because there was a
little gas-burner there, and I could work whilst waiting for my turn to
go on the stage. I loved embroidery and tapestry work. I had a quantity
of different kinds of fancy work commenced, and could take up one or the
other as I felt inclined.
Madame Agar was an admirable creature. She had evidently been created
for the joy of the eyes. She was a brunette, tall, pale, with large,
dark, gentle eyes, a very small mouth with full rounded lips, which went
up at the corners with an imperceptible smile. She had exquisite teeth,
and her head was covered with thick, glossy hair. She was the living
incarnation of one of the most beautiful types of ancient Greece. Her
pretty hands were long and rather soft, whilst her slow and rather heavy
walk completed the illusion. She was the great _tragédienne_ of the
Odéon Theatre. She approached me, with her measured tread, followed by a
young man of from twenty-four to twenty-six years of age.
“Well, my dear,” she said, kissing me, “there is a chance for you to
make a poet happy!” She then introduced François Coppée. I invited the
young man to sit down, and then I looked at him more thoroughly. His
handsome face, emaciated and pale, was that of the immortal Bonaparte. A
thrill of emotion went through me, for I adore Napoleon I.
“Are you a poet, Monsieur?” I asked.
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
His voice, too, trembled, for he was still more timid than I was.
“I have written a little piece,” he continued, “and Mlle. Agar is sure
that you will play it with her.”
“Yes, my dear,” put in Agar, “you are going to play it for him. It is a
little masterpiece, and I am sure you will make a gigantic success.”
“Oh, and you too. You will be so beautiful in it!” said the poet, gazing
rapturously at Agar.
I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on returning a few
minutes later I found the young poet talking in a low voice to the
beautiful _tragédienne_. I coughed, and Agar, who had taken my arm-
chair, wanted to give it me back. On my refusing it she pulled me down
on to her lap. The young man drew up his chair and we chatted away
together, our three heads almost touching. It was decided that after
reading the piece I should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable
of judging poetry, and that we should then get permission from both
managers to play it at a benefit that was to take place after our next
production.
The young man was delighted, and his pale face lighted up with a
grateful smile as he shook hands excitedly. Agar walked away with him as
far as the little landing which projected over the stage. I watched them
as they went, the magnificent statue-like woman and the slender outline
of the young writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time. She was
certainly very beautiful, but to me there was no charm about her, and I
could not understand why this poetical Bonaparte was in love with this
matronly woman. It was as clear as daylight that he was, and she too
appeared to be in love. This interested me infinitely. I watched them
clasp each other’s hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward
movement, the young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was holding and
kissed it fervently.
Agar came back to me with a faint colour in her cheeks. This was rare
with her, for she had a marble-like complexion. “Here is the
manuscript!” she said, giving me a little roll of paper.
The rehearsal was over, and I wished Agar good-bye, and on my way home
read the piece. I was so delighted with it that I drove straight back to
the theatre to give it to Duquesnel at once. I met him coming
downstairs.
“Do come back again, please!” I exclaimed.
“Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?” he asked. “You look as
though you have won a big lottery prize.”
“Well, it is something like that,” I said, and entering his office, I
produced the manuscript,
“Read this, please,” I continued.
“I’ll take it with me,” he said.
“Oh no, read it here at once!” I insisted. “Shall I read it to you?”
“No, no,” he replied; “your voice is treacherous. It makes charming
poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have it,” he continued,
sitting down in his arm-chair. He began to read whilst I looked at the
newspapers.
“It’s delicious!” he soon exclaimed. “It’s a perfect masterpiece.”
I sprang to my feet in joy.
“And you will get Chilly to accept it?”
“Oh yes, you can make your mind easy. But when do you want to play it?”
“Well, the author seems to be in a great hurry,” I said, “and Agar too.”
“And you as well,” he put in, laughing, “for this is a _rôle_ that just
suits your fancy.”
“Yes, my dear ‘_Duq_,’” I acknowledged. “I too want it put on at once.
Do you want to be very nice?” I added. “If so, let us have it for the
benefit of Madame —— in a fortnight from now. That would not make any
difference to other arrangements, and our poet would be so happy.”
“Good!” said Duquesnel, “I will settle it like that. What about the
scenery, though?” he muttered meditatively, biting his nails, which were
then his favourite meal when disturbed in his mind.
I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him home, and on
the way I put my plan before him.
We might have the scenery of _Jeanne de Ligneris_, a piece that had been
put on and taken off again immediately, after being jeered at by the
public. The scenery consisted of a superb Italian park, with flowers,
statues, and even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we spoke of them
to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost he would shriek, as he
had done in his _rôle_ of Rodin. Agar and I would supply our own
costumes.
When I arrived at Duquesnel’s house, he asked me to go in and discuss
the costumes with his wife. I accepted his invitation, and, after
kissing the prettiest face one could possibly dream of, I told its owner
about our plot. She approved of everything, and promised to begin at
once to look out for pretty designs for our costumes. Whilst she was
talking I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that charming
head, with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and the face, with
its two little pink dimples. Her hair was soft and light, and formed a
halo round her forehead. I admired, too, her delicate wrists, finishing
with the loveliest hands imaginable, hands that were later on quite
famous.
On leaving my two friends I drove straight to Agar’s to tell her what
had happened. She kissed me over and over again, and a cousin of hers, a
priest, who happened to be there, appeared to be very delighted with my
story. He seemed to know about everything. Presently there was a timid
ring at the bell, and François Coppée was announced.
“I am just going away,” I said to him, as I met him in the doorway and
shook hands. “Agar will tell you everything.”
XIV
LE PASSANT—AT THE TUILERIES—FIRE IN MY FLAT
The rehearsals of _Le Passant_ commenced very soon after this, and were
delightful, for the timid young poet was a most interesting and
intelligent talker.
The first performance took place as arranged, and _Le Passant_ was a
veritable triumph. The whole house cheered over and over again, and Agar
and myself had eight curtain calls. We tried in vain to bring the author
forward, as the audience wished to see him. François Coppée was not to
be found. The young poet, hitherto unknown, had become famous within a
few hours. His name was on all lips. As for Agar and myself, we were
simply overwhelmed with praise, and Chilly wanted to pay for our
costumes. We played this one-act piece more than a hundred times
consecutively to full houses.
We were asked to give it at the Tuileries, and at the house of Princess
Mathilde.
Oh, that first performance at the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain
for ever, and with my eyes shut I can see every detail again even now.
It had been arranged between Duquesnel and the official sent from the
Court that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries to see the room where
we were to play, in order to have it arranged according to the
requirements of the piece. Count de Laferrière was to introduce me to
the Emperor, who would then introduce me to the Empress Eugénie. Agar
was to be introduced by Princess Mathilde, to whom she was then sitting
as Minerva.
M. de Laferrière came for me at nine o’clock in a state carriage, and
Madame Guérard accompanied me.
M. de Laferrière was a very agreeable man, with rather stiff manners. As
we were turning round the Rue Royale the carriage had to draw up an
instant, and General Fleury approached us. I knew him, as he had been
introduced to me by Morny. He spoke to us, and Comte de Laferrière
explained where we were going. As he left us he said to me, “Good luck!”
Just at that moment a man who was passing by took up the words and
called out, “Good luck, perhaps, but not for long, you crowd of good-
for-nothings!”
On arriving at the Palace we all three got out of the carriage, and were
shown into a small yellow drawing-room on the ground floor.
“I will go and inform his Majesty that you are here,” said M. de
Laferrière, leaving us.
When alone with Madame Guérard I thought I would rehearse my three
curtseys.
“_Mon petit Dame_,” I said, “tell me whether they are right.”
I made the curtseys, murmuring, “Sire ... Sire ...” I began over again
several times, looking down at my dress as I said “Sire ...” when
suddenly I heard a stifled laugh.
I stood up quickly, furious with Madame Guérard, but I saw that she too
was bent over in a half circle. I turned round quickly, and behind
me—was the Emperor. He was clapping his hands silently and laughing
quietly, but still he _was_ laughing. My face flushed, and I was
embarrassed, for I wondered how long he had been there. I had been
curtseying I do not know how many times, trying to get my reverence
right, and saying, “There ... that’s too low.... There; is that right,
Guérard?”
“Good Heavens!” I now said to myself. “Has he heard it all?”
In spite of my confusion, I now made my curtsey again, but the Emperor
said, smiling:
“Oh! no; it could not be better than it was just now. Save them for the
Empress, who is expecting you.”
Oh, that “just now.” I wondered when it had been?
I could not question Madame Guérard, as she was following at some
distance with M. de Laferrière. The Emperor was at my side, talking to
me of a hundred things, but I could only answer in an absent-minded way,
on account of that “just now.”
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT IN A FANCY COSTUME
BY WALTER SPINDLER
]
I liked him much better thus, quite near, than in his portraits. He had
such fine eyes, which he half closed whilst looking through his long
lashes. His smile was sad and rather mocking. His face was pale and his
voice faint, but seductive.
We found the Empress seated in a large arm-chair. Her body was sheathed
in a grey dress, and seemed to have been moulded into the material. I
thought her very beautiful. She too was more beautiful than her
portraits. I made my three curtseys under the laughing eyes of the
Emperor. The Empress spoke, and the spell was then broken. That rough,
hard voice coming from that brilliant woman gave me a shock.
From that moment I felt ill at ease with her, in spite of her
graciousness and her kindness. As soon as Agar arrived and had been
introduced, the Empress had us conducted to the large drawing-room,
where the performance was to take place. The measurements were taken for
the platform, and there was to be the flight of steps where Agar had to
pose as the unhappy courtesan cursing mercenary love and longing for
ideal love.
This flight of steps was quite a problem. They were supposed to
represent the first three steps of a huge flight leading up to a
Florentine palace, and had to be half hidden in some way. I asked for
some shrubs, flowers and plants, which I arranged along the three steps.
The Prince Imperial, who had come in, was then about thirteen years of
age. He helped me to arrange the plants, and laughed wildly when Agar
mounted the steps to try the effect. He was delicious, with his
magnificent eyes with heavy lids like those of his mother, and with his
father’s long eyelashes. He was witty like the Emperor, whom people
surnamed “Louis the Imbecile,” and who certainly had the most refined,
subtle, and at the same time the most generous wit.
We arranged everything as well as we could, and it was decided that we
should return two days later for a rehearsal before their Majesties.
How gracefully the Prince Imperial asked permission to be present at the
rehearsal! His request was granted, and the Empress then took leave of
us in the most charming manner, but her voice was very ugly. She told
the two ladies who were with her to give us wine and biscuits, and to
show us over the Palace if we wished to see it. I did not care much
about this, but _mon petit Dame_ and Agar seemed so delighted at the
offer that I gave in to them.
I have regretted ever since that I did so, for nothing could have been
uglier than the private rooms, with the exception of the Emperor’s study
and the staircases. This inspection of the Palace bored me terribly. A
few of the pictures consoled me, and I stayed some time gazing at
Winterhalter’s portrait representing the Empress Eugénie. She looked
beautiful, and I thanked Heaven that the portrait could not speak, for
it served to explain and justify the wonderful good luck of her Majesty.
The rehearsal took place without any special incident. The young Prince
did his utmost to prove to us his gratitude and delight, for we had made
it a dress rehearsal on his account, as he was not to be present at the
_soirée_. He sketched my costume, and intended to have it copied for a
_bal déguisé_ which was to be given for the Imperial child. Our
performance was in honour of the Queen of Holland, accompanied by the
Prince of Orange, commonly known in Paris as “Prince Citron.”
A rather amusing incident occurred during the evening. The Empress had
remarkably small feet, and in order to make them look still smaller she
encased them in shoes that were too narrow. She looked wonderfully
beautiful that night, with her pretty sloping shoulders emerging from a
dress of pale blue satin embroidered with silver. On her lovely hair she
was wearing a little diadem of turquoises and diamonds, and her small
feet were on a cushion of silver brocade. All through Coppée’s piece my
eyes wandered frequently to this cushion, and I saw the two little feet
moving restlessly about. Finally I saw one of the shoes pushing its
little brother very, very gently, and then I saw the heel of the Empress
come out of its prison. The foot was then only covered at the toe, and I
was very anxious to know how it would get back, for under such
circumstances the foot swells, and cannot go into a shoe that is too
narrow. When the piece was over we were recalled twice, and as it was
the Empress who started the applause, I thought she was putting off the
moment for getting up, and I saw her pretty little sore foot trying in
vain to get back into its shoe. The curtains were drawn, and as I had
told Agar about the cushion drama, we watched through them its various
phases.
The Emperor rose, and every one followed his example. He offered his arm
to the Queen of Holland, but she looked at the Empress, who had not yet
risen. The Emperor’s face lighted up with that smile which I had already
seen. He said a word to General Fleury, and immediately the generals and
other officers on duty, who were seated behind the sovereigns, formed a
rampart between the crowd and the Empress. The Emperor and the Queen of
Holland then passed on, without appearing to have noticed her Majesty’s
distress, and the Prince of Orange, with one knee on the ground, helped
the beautiful sovereign to put on her Cinderella-like slipper. I saw
that the Empress leaned more heavily on the Prince’s arm than she would
have liked, for her pretty foot was evidently rather painful.
We were then sent for to be complimented, and we were surrounded and
fêted so much that we were delighted with our evening.
After _Le Passant_ and the prodigious success of that adorable piece, a
success in which Agar and I had our share, Chilly thought more of me,
and began to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes, which was
great extravagance for him. I had become the adored queen of the
students, and I used to receive little bouquets of violets, sonnets, and
long, long poems—too long to read. Sometimes on arriving at the theatre
as I was getting out of my carriage I received a shower of flowers which
simply covered me, and I was delighted, and used to thank my
worshippers. The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so
that when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather
chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant and
would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can understand quite well
that this used to exasperate the regular subscribers of the Odéon, who
were very kindly disposed towards me nevertheless, as they too used to
spoil me, but they would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and
less headstrong. How many times one or another of these old subscribers
would come and give me a word of advice. “Mademoiselle, you were
charming in _Junie_,” one of them observed; “but you bite your lips, and
the Roman women never did that!”
“My dear girl,” another said, “you were delicious in _François le
Champi_, but there is not a single Breton woman in the whole of Brittany
with her hair curled.”
A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day rather curtly, “It is a
want of respect, Mademoiselle, to turn your back on the public!”
“But, Monsieur,” I replied, “I was accompanying an old lady to a door at
the back of the stage. I could not walk along with her backwards.”
“The artistes we had before you, Mademoiselle, who were quite as
talented as you, if not more so, had a way of going across the stage
without turning their back on the public.”
And he turned quickly on his heel and was going away, when I stopped
him.
“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass,
without turning your back on me?”
He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and
disappeared, slamming the door after him.