was written by Francisque Sarcey, with whom I was not then acquainted,
but who was following my career with very great interest. “It was a very
brilliant assembly, as this _début_ had attracted all theatre-lovers.
The fact is, beside the special merit of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, a whole
crowd of true or false stories had been circulated about her personally,
and all this had excited the curiosity of the Parisian public. Her
appearance was a disappointment. She had by her costume exaggerated in a
most ostentatious way a slenderness which is elegant under the veils and
ample drapery of the Grecian and Roman heroines, but which is
objectionable in modern dress. Then, too, either powder does not suit
her, or stage fright had made her terribly pale. The effect of this long
white face emerging from a long black sheath was certainly unpleasant [I
looked like an ant], particularly as the eyes had lost their brilliancy
and all that relieved the face were the sparkling white teeth. She went
through the first three acts with a convulsive tremor, and we only
recognised the Sarah of _Ruy Blas_ by two couplets which she gave in her
enchanting voice with the most wonderful grace, but in all the more
powerful passages she was a failure. I doubt whether Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt will ever, with her delicious voice, be able to render those
deep thrilling notes, expressive of paroxysms of violent passion, which
are capable of carrying away an audience. If only nature had endowed her
with this gift she would be a perfect artiste, and there are none such
on the stage. Roused by the coldness of her public, Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt was entirely herself in the fifth act. This was certainly our
Sarah once more, the Sarah of _Ruy Blas_, whom we had admired so much at
the Odéon....”
As Sarcey said, I made a complete failure of my _début_. My excuse,
though, was not the “stage fright” to which he attributed it, but the
terrible anxiety I felt on seeing my mother hurriedly leave her seat in
the dress circle five minutes after my appearance on the stage.
I had glanced at her on entering, and had noticed her deathlike pallor.
When she went out I felt that she was about to have one of those attacks
which endangered her life, so that the first act seemed to me
interminable. I uttered one word after another, stammering through my
sentences haphazard, with only one idea in my head, a longing to know
what had happened. Oh, the public cannot conceive of the tortures
endured by the unfortunate comedians who are there before them in flesh
and blood on the stage, gesticulating and uttering phrases, while their
heart, all torn with anguish, is with the beloved absent one who is
suffering. As a rule, one can fling away the worries and anxieties of
every-day life, put off one’s own personality for a few hours, take on
another, and, forgetting everything else, enter as it were into another
life. But that is impossible when our dear ones are suffering. Anxiety
then lays hold of us, attenuating the bright side, magnifying the dark,
maddening our brain, which is living two lives at once, and tormenting
our heart, which is beating as though it would burst.
These were the sensations I experienced during the first act.
“Mamma! What has happened to Mamma?” were my first words on leaving the
stage. No one could tell me anything.
Croizette came up to me and said, “What’s the matter? I hardly recognise
you as you are, and you weren’t yourself at all just now in the play.”
In a few words I told her what I had seen and all that I had felt.
Frédéric Febvre sent at once to get news, and the doctor came hurrying
to me.
“Your mother had a fainting fit, Mademoiselle,” he said, “but they have
just taken her home.”
“It was her heart, wasn’t it?” I asked, looking at him.
“Yes,” he replied; “Madame’s heart is in a very agitated state.”
“Oh, I know how ill she is,” I said, and not being able to control
myself any longer, I burst into sobs. Croizette helped me back to my
dressing-room. She was very kind; we had known each other from
childhood, and were very fond of each other. Nothing ever estranged us,
in spite of all the malicious gossip of envious people and all the
little miseries due to vanity.
My dear Madame Guérard took a cab and hurried away to my mother to get
news for me. I put a little more powder on, but the public, not knowing
what was taking place, were annoyed with me, thinking I was guilty of
some fresh caprice, and received me still more coldly than before. It
was all the same to me, as I was thinking of something else. I went on
saying Mlle. de Belle-Isle’s words (a most stupid and tiresome _rôle_),
but all the time I, Sarah, was waiting for news about my mother. I was
watching for the return of _mon petit Dame_. “Open the door on the O.P.
side just a little way,” I had said to her, “and make a sign like this
if Mamma is better, and like that if she is worse.” But I had forgotten
which of the signs was to stand for better, and when, at the end of the
third act I saw Madame Guérard opening the door and nodding her head for
“yes,” I became quite idiotic.
It was in the big scene of the third act, when Mlle. de Belle-Isle
reproaches the Duc de Richelieu (Bressant) with doing her such
irreparable harm. The Duc replies, “Why did you not say that some one
was listening, that some one was hidden?” I exclaimed, “It’s Guérard
bringing me news!” The public had not time to understand, for Bressant
went on quickly, and so saved the situation.
After an unenthusiastic call I heard that my mother was better, but that
she had had a very serious attack. Poor mamma, she had thought me such a
fright when I made my appearance on the stage that her superb
indifference had given way to grievous astonishment, and that in its
turn to rage on hearing a lady seated near her say in a jeering tone,
“Why, she’s like a dried bone, this little Bernhardt!”
I was greatly relieved on getting the news, and I played my last act
with confidence. The great success of the evening, though, was
Croizette’s, who was charming as the Marquise de Prie. My success,
nevertheless, was assured in the performances which followed, and it
became so marked that I was accused of paying for applause. I laughed
heartily at this, and never even contradicted the report, as I have a
horror of useless words.
I next appeared as Junie in _Britannicus_, with Mounet-Sully, who played
admirably as Nero. In this delicious _rôle_ of Junie I obtained an
immense and incredible success.
Then in 1873 I played Chérubin in _Le Mariage de Figaro_. Croizette
played Suzanne, and it was a real treat for the public to see that
delightful creature play a part so full of gaiety and charm.
Chérubin was for me the opportunity of a fresh success.
In the month of March 1873 Perrin took it into his head to stage
_Dalila_, by Octave Feuillet. I was then taking the part of young girls,
young princesses, or boys. My slight frame, my pale face, my delicate
aspect marked me out for the time being for the _rôle_ of victim.
Perrin, who thought that the victims attracted pity, and that it was for
this reason I pleased my audiences, cast the play most ridiculously: he
gave me the _rôle_ of Dalila, the swarthy, wicked, and ferocious
princess, and to Sophie Croizette he gave the _rôle_ of the fair young
dying girl.
The piece, with this strange cast, was destined to fail. I forced my
character in order to appear the haughty and voluptuous siren; I stuffed
my bodice with wadding and the hips under my skirts with horse-hair; but
I kept my small, thin, sorrowful face. Croizette was obliged to repress
the advantages of her bust by bands which oppressed and suffocated her,
but she kept her pretty plump face with its dimples.
I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers. In fact, it
was absurd. The piece was a _demi-succès_.
After that I created _L’Absent_, a pretty piece in verse, by Eugène
Manuel; _Chez l’Avocat_, a very amusing thing in verse, by Paul Ferrier,
in which Coquelin and I quarrelled beautifully. Then, on August 22, I
played with immense success the _rôle_ of Andromaque. I shall never
forget the first performance, in which Mounet-Sully obtained a delirious
triumph. Oh, how fine he was, Mounet-Sully, in his _rôle_ of Orestes!
His entrance, his fury, his madness, and the plastic beauty of this
marvellous artiste—how magnificent!
After _Andromaque_ I played Aricie in _Phèdre_, and in this secondary
_rôle_ it was I who really made the success of the evening.
I took such a position in a very short time at the Comédie that some of
the artistes began to feel uneasy, and the management shared their
anxiety. M. Perrin, an extremely intelligent man, whom I have always
remembered with great affection, was horribly authoritative. I was also,
so that there was always perpetual warfare between us. He wanted to
impose his will on me, and I would not submit to it. He was always ready
to laugh at my outbursts when they were against the others, but he was
furious when they were directed against himself. As for me, I will own
that to get Perrin in a fury was one of my delights. He stammered so
when he tried to talk quickly, he who weighed every word on ordinary
occasions; the expression of his eyes, which was generally wavering,
grew irritated and deceitful, and his pale, distinguished-looking face
became mottled with patches of wine-dreg colour.
His fury made him take his hat off and put it on again fifteen times in
as many minutes, and his extremely smooth hair stood on end with this
mad gallop of his head-gear. Although I had certainly arrived at the age
of discretion, I delighted in my wicked mischievousness, which I always
regretted after, but which I was always ready to recommence; and even
now, after all the days, weeks, months, and years that I have lived
since then, it still gives me infinite pleasure to play a joke on any
one.
All the same, life at the Comédie began to affect my nerves.
I wanted to play Camille in _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_: the _rôle_
was given to Croizette. I wanted to play Célimène: that _rôle_ was
Croizette’s. Perrin was very partial to Croizette. He admired her, and
as she was very ambitious, she was most thoughtful and docile, which
charmed the authoritative old man. She always obtained everything she
wanted, and as Sophie Croizette was frank and straightforward, she often
said to me when I was grumbling, “Do as I do; be more yielding. You pass
your time in rebelling; I appear to be doing everything that Perrin
wants me to do, but in reality I make him do all I want him to. Try the
same thing.” I accordingly screwed up my courage and went up to see
Perrin. He nearly always said to me when we met, “Ah, how do you do,
Mademoiselle Revolt? Are you calm to-day?”
“Yes, very calm,” I replied; “but be amiable and grant me what I am
going to ask you.” I tried to be charming, and spoke in my prettiest
way. He almost purred with satisfaction, and was witty (this was no
effort to him, as he was naturally so), and we got on very well together
for a quarter of an hour. I then made my petition:
“Let me play Camille in _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_”.
“That’s impossible, my dear child,” he replied; “Croizette is playing
it.”
“Well then, we’ll both play it; we’ll take it in turns.”
“But Mademoiselle Croizette wouldn’t like that.”
“I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would not mind it.”
“You ought not to have spoken to her about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because the management does the casting, not the artistes.”
He didn’t purr any more, he only growled. As for me, I was in a fury,
and a few minutes later I went out of the room, banging the door after
me.
All this preyed on my mind, though, and I used to cry all night. I then
decided to take a studio and devote myself to sculpture. As I was not
able to use my intelligence and my energy in creating _rôles_ at the
theatre, as I wished, I gave myself up to another art, and began working
at sculpture with frantic enthusiasm. I soon made great progress, and
started on an enormous composition, _After the Storm_. I was indifferent
now to the theatre. Every morning at eight my horse was brought round,
and I went for a ride, and at ten I was back in my studio, 11 Boulevard
de Clichy. I was very delicate, and my health suffered from the double
effort I was making. I used to vomit blood in the most alarming way, and
for hours together I was unconscious. I never went to the Comédie except
when obliged by my duties there. My friends were seriously concerned
about me, and Perrin was informed of what was going on. Finally, incited
by the Press and the Department of Fine Arts, he decided to give me a
_rôle_ to create in Octave Feuillet’s play _Le Sphinx_.
The principal part was for Croizette, but on hearing the play read I
thought the part destined for me charming, and I resolved that it should
also be the principal _rôle_. There would have to be two principal ones,
that was all. The rehearsals went along very smoothly at the start, but
it soon became evident that my _rôle_ was more important than had been
imagined, and friction soon began.
Croizette herself got nervous, Perrin was annoyed, and all this by-play
had the effect of calming me. Octave Feuillet, a shrewd, charming man,
extremely well bred and slightly ironical, thoroughly enjoyed the
skirmishes that took place. War was doomed to break out, however, and
the first hostilities came from Sophie Croizette.
I always wore in my bodice three or four roses, which were apt to open
under the influence of the warmth, and some of the petals naturally
fell. One day Sophie Croizette slipped down full length on the stage,
and as she was tall and not slim, she fell rather unbecomingly, and got
up again ungracefully. The stifled laughter of some of the subordinate
persons present stung her to the quick, and turning to me she said,
“It’s your fault; your roses fall and make every one slip down.” I began
to laugh.
“Three petals of my roses have fallen,” I replied, “and there they all
three are by the arm-chair on the prompt side, and you fell on the O.P.
side. It isn’t my fault, therefore; it is just your own awkwardness.”
The discussion continued, and was rather heated on both sides. Two clans
were formed, the “Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists.” War was
declared, not between Sophie and me, but between our respective admirers
and detractors. The rumour of these little quarrels spread in the world
outside the theatre, and the public too began to form clans. Croizette
had on her side all the bankers and all the people who were suffering
from repletion. I had all the artists, the students, dying folks, and
the failures. When once war was declared there was no drawing back from
the strife. The first, the most fierce, and the definitive battle was
fought over the moon.
We had begun the full dress rehearsals. In the third act the scene was
laid in a forest glade. In the middle of the stage was a huge rock upon
which was Blanche (Croizette) kissing Savigny (Delaunay), who was
supposed to be my husband. I (Berthe de Savigny) had to arrive by a
little bridge over a stream of water. The glade was bathed in moonlight.
Croizette had just played her part, and her kiss had been greeted with a
burst of applause. This was rather daring in those days for the Comédie
Française. (But since then what have they not given there?)
Suddenly a fresh burst of applause was heard. Amazement could be read on
some faces, and Perrin stood up terrified. I was crossing over the
bridge, my pale face ravaged with grief, and the _sortie de bal_ which
was intended to cover my shoulders was dragging along, just held by my
limp fingers; my arms were hanging down as though despair had taken the
use out of them. I was bathed in the white light of the moon, and the
effect, it seems, was striking and deeply impressive. A nasal,
aggressive voice cried out, “One moon effect is enough. Turn it off for
Mademoiselle Bernhardt.”
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT PAINTING
(1878–9)
]
I sprang forward to the front of the stage. “Excuse me, Monsieur
Perrin,” I exclaimed, “you have no right to take my moon away. The
manuscript reads, _Berthe advances, pale, convulsed with emotion, the
rays of the moon falling on her_.... I am pale and I am convulsed. I
must have my moon.”
“It is impossible,” roared Perrin. “Mademoiselle Croizette’s words: ‘You
love me, then!’ and her kiss must have this moonlight. She is playing
the Sphinx; that is the chief part in the play, and we must leave her
the principal effect.”
“Very well, then; give Croizette a brilliant moon, and give me a less
brilliant one. I don’t mind that, but I must have my moon.” All the
artistes and all the _employés_ of the theatre put their heads in at all
the doorways and openings both on the stage and in the house itself. The
“Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists” began to comment on the
discussion.
Octave Feuillet was appealed to, and he got up in his turn.
“I grant that Mademoiselle Croizette is very beautiful in her moon
effect. Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt is ideal too, with her ray of
moonlight. I want the moon therefore for both of them.”
Perrin could not control his anger. There was a discussion between the
author and the director, followed by others between the artistes, and
between the door-keeper and the journalists who were questioning him.
The rehearsal was interrupted. I declared that I would not play the part
if I did not have my moon. For the next two days I received no notice of
another rehearsal, but through Croizette I heard that they were trying
my _rôle_ of Berthe privately. They had given it to a young woman whom
we had nicknamed “the Crocodile,” because she followed all the
rehearsals just as that animal follows boats—she was always hoping to
snatch up some _rôle_ that might happen to be thrown overboard. Octave
Feuillet refused to accept the change of artistes, and he came himself
to fetch me, accompanied by Delaunay, who had negotiated matters.
“It’s all settled,” he said, kissing my hands; “there will be a moon for
both of you.”
The first night was a triumph both for Croizette and for me.
The party strife between the two clans waxed warmer and warmer, and this
added to our success and amused us both immensely, for Croizette was
always a delightful friend and a loyal comrade. She worked for her own
ends, but never against any one else.
After _Le Sphinx_ I played a pretty piece in one act by a young pupil of
the Ecole Polytechnique, Louis Denayrouse, _La Belle Paule._ This author
has now become a renowned scientific man, and has renounced poetry.
I had begged Perrin to give me a month’s holiday, but he refused
energetically, and compelled me to take part in the rehearsals of
_Zaïre_ during the trying months of June and July, and, in spite of my
reluctance, announced the first performance for August 6. That year it
was fearfully hot in Paris. I believe that Perrin, who could not tame me
alive, had, without really any bad intention, but by pure autocracy, the
desire to tame me dead. Doctor Parrot went to see him, and told him that
my state of weakness was such that it would be positively dangerous for
me to act during the trying heat. Perrin would hear nothing of it. Then,
furious at the obstinacy of this intellectual _bourgeois_, I swore I
would play on to the death.
Often, when I was a child, I wished to kill myself in order to vex
others. I remember once having drunk the contents of a large ink-pot
after being compelled by mamma to swallow a “panade,”[2] because she
imagined that panades were good for the health. Our nurse had told her
my dislike to this form of nourishment, adding that every morning I
emptied the panade into the slop-pail. I had, of course, a very bad
stomach-ache, and screamed out in pain. I cried to mamma, “It is you who
have killed me!” and my poor mother wept. She never knew the truth, but
they never again made me swallow anything against my will.
Footnote 2:
Bread stewed a long time in water and flavoured with a little butter
and sugar, a kind of “sops” given to children in France.
Well, after so many years I experienced the same bitter and childish
sentiment. “I don’t care,” I said; “I shall certainly fall senseless
vomiting blood, and perhaps I shall die! And it will serve Perrin right.
He will be furious!” Yes, that is what I thought. I am at times very
foolish. Why? I don’t know how to explain it, but I admit it.
The 6th of August, therefore, I played, in tropical heat, the part of
Zaïre. The entire audience was bathed in perspiration. I saw the
spectators through a mist. The piece, badly staged as regards scenery,
but very well presented as regards costume, was particularly well played
by Mounet-Sully (Orosmane), Laroche (Néréstan) and myself (Zaïre), and
obtained an immense success.
I was determined to faint, determined to vomit blood, determined to die,
in order to enrage Perrin. I played with the utmost passion. I had
sobbed, I had loved, I had suffered, and I had been stabbed by the
poignard of Orosmane, uttering a true cry of suffering, for I had felt
the steel penetrate my breast. Then, falling panting, dying, on the
Oriental divan, I had meant to die in reality, and dared scarcely move
my arms, convinced as I was that I was in my death agony, and somewhat
afraid, I must admit, at having succeeded in playing such a nasty trick
on Perrin. But my surprise was great when the curtain fell at the close
of the piece and I got up quickly to answer to the call and bow to the
audience without languor, without fainting, feeling strong enough to go
through my part again if it had been necessary.
And I marked this performance with a little white stone—for that day I
learned that my vital force was at the service of my intellectual force.
I had desired to follow the impulse of my brain, whose conceptions
seemed to me to be too forceful for my physical strength to carry out.
And I found myself, after having given out all of which I was
capable—and more—in perfect equilibrium.
Then I saw the possibility of the longed-for future.
I had fancied, and up to this performance of _Zaïre_ I had always heard
and read in the papers that my voice was pretty, but weak; that my
gestures were gracious, but vague; that my supple movements lacked
authority, and that my glance lost in heavenward contemplation could not
tame the wild beasts (the audience). I thought then of all that.
I had received proof that I could rely on my physical strength, for I
had commenced the performance of _Zaïre_ in such a state of weakness
that it was easy to predict that I should not finish the first act
without fainting.
On the other hand, although the _rôle_ was easy, it required two or
three shrieks, which might have provoked the vomiting of blood that
frequently troubled me at that time.
That evening, therefore, I acquired the certainty that I could count on
the strength of my vocal cords, for I had uttered my shrieks with real
rage and suffering, hoping to break something, in my wild desire to be
revenged on Perrin.
Thus this little comedy turned to my profit. Being unable to die at
will, I changed my batteries and resolved to be strong, vivacious, and
active, to the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries, who had
only put up with me because they thought I should soon die, but who
began to hate me as soon as they acquired the conviction that I should
perhaps live for a long time. I will only give one example, related by
Alexandre Dumas _fils_, who was present at the death of his intimate
friend Charles Narrey, and heard his dying words: “I am content to die
because I shall hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the grand
Français” (Ferdinand de Lesseps).
But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful to me the sort
of _farniente_ to which Perrin condemned me.
In fact, after _Zaïre_, I remained months without doing anything of
importance, playing only now and again. Discouraged and disgusted with
the theatre, my passion for sculpture increased. After my morning ride
and a light meal I used to rush to my studio, where I remained till the
evening.
Friends came to see me, sat round me, played the piano, sang; politics
were discussed—for in this modest studio I received the most illustrious
men of all parties. Several ladies came to take tea, which was
abominable and badly served, but I did not care about that. I was
absorbed by this admirable art. I saw nothing, or, to speak more truly,
I _would not_ see anything.
I was making the bust of an adorable young girl, Mlle. Emmy de * * *.
Her slow and measured conversation had an infinite charm. She was a
foreigner, but spoke French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She
smoked a cigarette all the time, and had a profound disdain for those
who did not understand her.
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT
IN HER COFFIN
]