day after to-morrow the play is to be performed.” Then, as Emile Augier
made a gesture and would have spoken: “No! No! To put back my play eight
days would be to kill it! I cannot cut it out! Oh, mon Dieu!” And he
cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and he stamped with his
short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He was at the
same time funny and pitiable. Emile Augier was irritated, and turned on
me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog:
“Will you take the responsibility, Mademoiselle, of the absurd window
scene on the first performance?”
“Certainly, Monsieur; and I even promise to make of this scene, which I
find very beautiful, an enormous success!”
He shrugged his shoulders rudely, muttering something very disagreeable
between his teeth.
When I left the theatre I found poor Bornier quite transfigured. He
thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very highly of this scene,
and he dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both Perrin and myself had divined
the legitimate emotions of this poor poet, so gentle and so well bred,
but a trifle Jesuitical.
The play was an immense success. But the window scene on the first night
was a veritable triumph.
It was a short time after the terrible war of 1870. The play contained
frequent allusions to it, and owing to the patriotism of the public made
an even greater success than it deserved as a play. I sent for Emile
Augier. He came to my dressing-room with a surly air, and said to me
from the door:
“So much the worse for the public! It only proves that the public is
idiotic to make a success of such vileness!” And he disappeared without
having even entered my dressing-room.
[Illustration:
LIBRARY IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S HOUSE, PARIS
]
His outburst made me laugh, and as the triumphant Bornier had embraced
me repeatedly, I scratched myself all over.
Two months later I played _Gabrielle_, by this same Augier, and I had
incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses of this play execrable.
Coquelin, who took the part of my husband, made a great success. As for
me, I was as mediocre as the play itself, which is saying a great deal.
I had been appointed a Sociétaire in the month of January, and since
then it seemed to me that I was in prison, for I had undertaken an
engagement not to leave the House of Molière for many years. This idea
made me sad. It was at Perrin’s instigation that I had asked to become a
Sociétaire, and now I regretted it very much.
During all the latter part of the year I only played occasionally.
My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty
little mansion which I was having erected at the corner of the Avenue de
Villiers and the Rue Fortuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in
her will a nice legacy, which I used to buy the ground. My great desire
was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then
realising it. The son-in-law of M. Régnier, Félix Escalier, a
fashionable architect, was building me a charming place. Nothing amused
me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished house.
Afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on the roofs. I
forgot my worries of the theatre in this new occupation. The thing I
most desired just then was to become an architect. When the building was
finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent much time in
helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings in my
bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall: Georges Clairin; the architect
Escalier, who was also a talented painter; Duez, Picard, Butin, Jadin,
and Parrot. I was deeply interested. And I recollect a joke which I
played on one of my relations.
My aunt Betsy had come from Holland, her native country, in order to
spend a few days in Paris. She was staying with my mother. I invited her
to lunch in my new unfinished habitation. Five of my painter friends
were working, some in one room, some in another, and everywhere lofty
scaffoldings were erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more
easily I was wearing my sculptor’s costume. My aunt, seeing me thus
arrayed, was horribly shocked, and told me so. But I was preparing yet
another surprise for her. She thought these young workers were ordinary
house-painters, and considered I was too familiar with them. But she
nearly fainted when mid-day came and I rushed to the piano to play “The
Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs.” This wild melody had been improvised
by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet friends.
Here it is:
Oh! Peintres de la Dam’ jolie,
De vos pinceaux arrêtez la folie!
Il faut descendr’ des escabeaux,
Vous nettoyer et vous faire très beaux!
Digue, dingue, donne!
L’heure sonne.
Digue, dingue, di....
C’est midi!
Sur les grils et dans les cass’roles
Sautent le veau, et les œufs et les soles.
Le bon vin rouge et l’Saint-Marceaux
Feront gaiment galoper nos pinceaux!
Digue, dingue, donne!
L’heure sonne.
Digue, dingue, di....
C’est midi!
Voici vos peintres, Dam’ jolie
Qui vont pour vous débiter leur folie.
Ils ont tous lâché l’escabeau
Sont frais, sont fiers, sont propres et très beaux!
Digue, dingue, donne
L’heure sonne.
Digue, dingue, di....
C’est midi.
When the song was finished I went into my bedroom and made myself into a
_belle dame_ for lunch.
My aunt had followed me. “But, my dear,” said she, “you are mad to think
I am going to eat with all these workmen. Certainly in all Paris there
is no one but yourself who would do such a thing.”
“No, no, Aunt; it is all right.”
And I dragged her off, when I was dressed, to the dining-room, which was
the most habitable room of the house. Five young men solemnly bowed to
my aunt, who did not recognise them at first, for they had changed their
working clothes and looked like five nice young society swells. Madame
Guérard lunched with us. Suddenly in the middle of lunch my aunt cried
out, “But these are the workmen!” The five young men rose and bowed low.
Then my poor aunt understood her mistake and excused herself in every
possible manner, so confused was she.
XXIV
ALEXANDRE DUMAS—L’ETRANGÈRE—MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON
One day Alexandre Dumas, junior, was announced. He came to bring me the
good news that he had finished his play for the Comédie Française,
_L’Etrangère_, and that my _rôle_, the Duchesse de Septmonts, had come
out very well. “You can,” he said to me, “make a fine success out of
it.” I expressed my gratitude to him.
A month after this visit we were requested to attend the reading of this
piece at the Comédie.
The reading was a great success, and I was delighted with my _rôle_,
Catherine de Septmonts. I also liked the _rôle_ of Croizette, Mrs.
Clarkson.
Got gave us each copies of our parts, and thinking that he had made a
mistake, I passed on to Croizette the _rôle_ of l’Etrangère which he had
just given me, saying to her, “Here, Got has made a mistake—here is your
_rôle_.”
“But he is not making any mistake. It is I who am to play the Duchesse
de Septmonts.”
I burst out into irrepressible laughter, which surprised everybody
present, and when Perrin, annoyed, asked me at whom I was laughing like
that, I exclaimed:
“At all of you—you, Dumas, Got, Croizette, and all of you who are in the
plot, and who are all a little afraid of the result of your cowardice.
Well, you need not alarm yourselves. I was delighted to play the
Duchesse de Septmonts, but I shall be ten times more delighted to play
l’Etrangère. And this time, my dear Sophie, I’ll be quits with you; no
ceremony, I tell you; for you have played me a little trick which was
quite unworthy of our friendship!”
The rehearsals were strained on all sides. Perrin, who was a warm
partisan of Croizette, bewailed the want of suppleness of her talent, so
much so that one day Croizette, losing all patience, burst out:
“Well, Monsieur, you should have left the _rôle_ to Sarah; she would
have played it with the voice you wish in the love scenes; I cannot do
any better. You irritate me too much: I have had enough of it!” And she
ran off, sobbing, into the little _guignol_, where she had an attack of
hysteria.
I followed her and consoled her as well as I could. And in the midst of
her tears she kissed me, murmuring, “It is true. It is they who
instigated me to play this nasty trick, and now they are annoying me.”
Croizette used vulgar expressions, very vulgar ones, and at times
uttered many a Gallic joke.
That day we made up our quarrel entirely.
A week before the first performance I received an anonymous letter
informing me that Perrin was trying his very best to get Dumas to change
the name of the play. He wished—it goes without saying—to have the piece
called _La Duchesse de Septmonts_.
I rushed off to the theatre to find Perrin at once.
At the entrance door I met Coquelin, who was playing the part of the Duc
de Septmonts, which he did marvellously well. I showed him the letter.
He shrugged his shoulders. “It is infamous! But why do you take any
notice of an anonymous letter? It is not worthy of you!”
We were talking at the foot of the staircase when the manager arrived.
“Here, show the letter to Perrin!” And he took it from my hands in order
to show it to him. Perrin blushed slightly.
“I know this writing,” he said. “Some one from the theatre has written
this letter.”
I snatched it back from him. “Then it is some one who is well informed,
and what he says is perhaps true. Is it not so? Tell me. I have the
right to know.”
“I detest anonymous letters.” And he went up the stairs, bowing
slightly, but without saying anything further.
“Ah, if it is true,” said Coquelin, “it is too much. Would you like me
to go and see Dumas, and I will get to know at once?”
“No, thank you. But you have put an idea into my head. I’ll go there.”
And shaking hands with him, I went off to see the younger Dumas. He was
just going out.
“Well, well? What is the matter? Your eyes are blazing!”
I went with him into the drawing-room and asked my question at once. He
had kept his hat on, and took it off to recover his self-possession. And
before he could speak a word I got furiously angry; I fell into one of
those rages which I sometimes have, and which are more like attacks of
madness. And in fact, all that I felt of bitterness towards this man,
towards Perrin, towards all this theatrical world that should have loved
me and upheld me, but which betrayed me on every occasion—all the hot
anger that I had been accumulating during the rehearsals, the cries of
revolt against the perpetual injustice of these two men, Perrin and
Dumas—I burst out with everything in an avalanche of stinging words
which were both furious and sincere. I reminded him of his promise made
in former days; of his visit to my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers; of
the cowardly and underhand manner in which he had sacrificed me, at
Perrin’s request and on the wishes of the friends of Sophie. I spoke
vehemently, without allowing him to edge in a single word. And when,
worn out, I was forced to stop, I murmured, out of breath with fatigue,
“What—what—what have you to say for yourself?”
“My dear child,” he replied, much touched, “if I had examined my own
conscience I should have said to myself all that you have just said to
me so eloquently! But I can truly say, in order to excuse myself a
little, that I really believed that you did not care at all about the
stage; that you much preferred your sculpture, your painting, and your
court. We have seldom talked together, and people led me to believe all
that I was perhaps too ready to believe. Your grief and anger have
touched me deeply. I give you my word that the play shall keep its title
of _L’Etrangère_. And now embrace me with good grace, to show that you
are no longer angry with me.”
I embraced him, and from that day we were good friends.
That evening I told the whole tale to Croizette, and I saw that she knew
nothing about this wicked scheme. I was very pleased to know that. The
play was very successful. Coquelin, Febvre, and I carried off the
laurels of the day.
I had just commenced in my studio in the Avenue de Clichy a large group,
the inspiration for which I had gathered from the sad history of an old
woman whom I often saw at nightfall in the Baie des Trépassés.
One day I went up to her, wishing to speak to her, but I was so
terrified by her aspect of madness that I rushed off at once, and the
guardian told me her history.
She was the mother of five sons, all sailors. Two had been killed by the
Germans in 1870, and three had been drowned. She had brought up the
little son of her youngest boy, always keeping him far from the sea and
teaching him to hate the water. She had never left the little lad, but
he became so sad that he was really ill, and he said he was dying
because he wanted to see the sea. “Well, make haste and get well,” said
the grandmother tenderly, “and we will go to see it together.”
Two days later the child was better, and the grandmother left the valley
in the company of her little grandson to go and see the ocean, the grave
of her three sons.
It was a November day; a low sky hung over the ocean, narrowing the
horizon. The child jumped with joy. He ran, gambolled, and sang for
happiness when he saw all this living water.
The grandmother sat on the sand, and hid her tearful eyes in her two
trembling hands; then suddenly, struck by the silence, she looked up in
terror. There in front of her she saw a boat drifting, and in the boat
her boy, her little lad of eight years old, who was laughing right
merrily, paddling as well as he could with one oar that he could hardly
hold, and crying out, “I am going to see what there is behind the mist,
and I will come back.”
He never came back. And the following day they found the poor old woman
talking low to the waves which came and bathed her feet. She came every
day to the water’s edge, throwing in the bread which kind folks gave
her, and saying to the waves, “You must carry that to the little lad.”
This touching narrative had remained in my memory. I can still see the
tall old woman, with her brown cape and hood.
I worked feverishly at this group. It seemed to me now that I was
destined to be a sculptor, and I began to despise the stage. I only went
to the theatre when I was compelled by my duties, and I left as soon as
possible.
I had made several designs, none of which pleased me. Just when I was
going to throw down the last one in discouragement, the painter Georges
Clairin, who came in just at that moment to see me, begged me not to do
so. And my good friend Mathieu Meusnier, who was a man of talent, also
added his voice against the destruction of my design.
Excited by their encouragement, I decided to hurry on with the work and
to make a large group. I asked Meusnier if he knew any tall, bony old
woman, and he sent me two, neither of whom suited me. Then I asked all
my painter and sculptor friends, and during eight days all sorts of old
and infirm women came for my inspection. I fixed at last on a charwoman
who was about sixty years old. She was very tall, and had very sharp-cut
features. When she came in I felt a slight sentiment of fear. The idea
of remaining alone with this female _gendarme_ for hours together made
me feel uneasy. But when I heard her speak I was more comfortable. Her
timid, gentle voice and frightened gestures, like a shy young girl,
contrasted strangely with the build of the poor woman. When I showed her
the design she was stupefied. “Do you want me to have my neck and
shoulders bare? I really cannot.” I told her that nobody ever came in
when I worked, and I asked to see her neck immediately.
Oh, that neck! I clapped my hands with joy when I saw it. It was long,
emaciated, terrible. The bones literally stood out almost bare of flesh;
the sterno-cleido-mastoid was remarkable—it was just what I wanted. I
went up to her and gently bared her shoulder. What a treasure I had
found! The shoulder bone was visible under the skin, and she had two
immense “salt-cellars”! The woman was ideal for my work. She seemed
destined for it. She blushed when I told her so. I asked to see her
feet. She took off her thick boots and showed a dirty foot which had no
character. “No,” I said, “thank you. Your feet are too small; I will
take only your head and shoulders.”
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT AT HOME
_From the painting by Walter Spindler_
]
After having fixed the price I engaged her for three months. At the idea
of earning so much money for three months the poor woman began to cry,
and I felt so sorry for her that I told her she would not have to seek
for work that winter, because she had already told me that she generally
spent six months of the year in the country, in Sologne, near her
grandchildren.
Having found the grandmother, I now needed the child.
I passed a review of a whole army of professional Italian models. There
were some lovely children, real little Jupins. The mothers undressed
their children in a second, and the children posed quite naturally and
took attitudes which showed off their muscles and the development of the
torso. I chose a fine little boy of seven years old, but who looked more
like nine. I had already had in the workmen, who had followed out my
design and put up the scaffolding necessary to make my work sufficiently
stable and to support the weight. Enormous iron supports were fixed into
the plaster by bolts and pillars of wood and iron wherever necessary.
The skeleton of a large piece of sculpture looks like a giant trap put
up to catch rats and mice by the thousand.
I gave myself up to this enormous work with the courage of ignorance.
Nothing discouraged me.
Often I worked on till midnight, sometimes till four o’clock in the
morning. And as one humble gas-burner was totally insufficient to work
by, I had a crown or rather a silver circlet made, each bud of which was
a candlestick, and each had its candle burning, and those of the back
row were a little higher than those of the front. And with this help I
was able to work almost without ceasing. I had no watch or clock in the
room, as I wished to ignore time altogether, except on the days I had to
perform at the theatre. Then my maid would come and call for me. How
many times have I gone without lunch or dinner. Then I would perhaps
faint, and so be compelled to send for something to eat to restore my
strength.
I had almost finished my group, but I had done neither the feet nor the
hands of the grandmother. She was holding her little dead grandson on
her knees, but her arms had no hands and her legs had no feet. I looked
in vain for the hands and feet of my ideal, large and bony. One day,
when my friend Martel came to see me at my studio and to look at this
group, which was much talked of, I had an inspiration. Martel was big,
and thin enough to make Death jealous. I watched him walking round my
work. He was looking at it as a _connoisseur_. But I was looking at
_him_. Suddenly I said:
“My dear Martel, I beg you—I beseech you—to pose for the hands and feet
of my grandmother!”
He burst out laughing, and with perfectly good grace he took off his
shoes and took the place of my model.
He came ten days in succession, and gave me three hours each day.
Thanks to him, I was able to finish my group. I had it moulded and sent
to the Salon (1876), where it met with genuine success.
Is there any need to say that I was accused of having got some one else
to make this group for me? I sent a summons to one critic. He was no
other than Jules Claretie, who had declared that this work, which was
very interesting, could not have been done by me. Jules Claretie
apologised very politely, and that was the end of it.
The Jury, after a full investigation, awarded me an “honourable
mention,” and I was wild with joy.
I was very much criticised, but also very much praised. Nearly all the
criticisms referred to the neck of my old Breton woman, that neck on
which I had worked with such eagerness.
The following is from an article by René Delorme:
“The work of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt deserves to be studied in detail. The
head of the grandmother, well worked out as to the profound wrinkles it
bears, expresses that intense sorrow in which everything else counts as
nothing.
“The only reproach I have to make against this artist is that she has
brought too much into prominence the muscles of the neck of the old
grandmother. This shows a lack of experience. She is pleased with
herself for having studied anatomy so well, and is not sorry for the
opportunity of showing it. It is,” &c. &c.
Certainly this gentleman was right. I had studied anatomy eagerly and in
a very amusing manner. I had had lessons from Doctor Parrot, who was so
good to me. I had continually with me a book of anatomical designs, and
when I was at home I stood before the glass and said suddenly to myself,
putting my finger on some part of my body, “Now then, what is that?” I
had to answer immediately, without hesitation, and when I hesitated I
compelled myself to learn by heart the muscles of the head or the arm,
and did not sleep till this was done.
A month after the exhibition there was a reading of Parodi’s play, _Rome
Vaincue_, at the Comédie Française. I refused the _rôle_ of the young
vestal Opimia, which had been allotted to me, and energetically demanded
that of Posthumia, an old, blind Roman woman with a superb and noble
face.
No doubt there was some connection in my mind between my old Breton
weeping over her grandson and the august patrician claiming forgiveness
for her grand-daughter.
Perrin was at first astounded. Afterwards he acceded to my request. But
his order-loving mind and his taste for symmetry made him anxious about
Mounet-Sully, who was also playing in the piece. He was accustomed to
seeing Mounet-Sully and me playing the two heroes, the two lovers, the
two victims. How was he to arrange matters so that we should still be
the two——something or other? _Eureka!_ There was in the play an old
idiot named Vestæpor, who was quite unnecessary for the action of the
piece, but had been brought in to satisfy Perrin. “Eureka!” cried the
director of the Comédie; “Mounet-Sully shall play Vestæpor!” Equilibrium
was restored. The god of the _bourgeois_ was content.
The piece, which was really quite mediocre, obtained a great success at
the first performance (September 27, 1876), and personally I was very
successful in the fourth act. The public was decidedly in my favour, in
spite of everything and everybody.
XXV
“HERNANI”—A TRIP IN A BALLOON
The performances of _Hernani_ made me a still greater favourite with the
public.
I had already rehearsed with Victor Hugo, and it was a real pleasure to
me to see the great poet almost each day. I had never discontinued my
visits, but I was never able to have any conversation with him in his
own house. There were always men in red ties gesticulating, or women in
tears reciting. He was very good; he used to listen with half-closed
eyes, and I thought he was asleep. Then, roused by the silence, he would
say a consoling word, for Victor Hugo could not promise without keeping
his word. He was not like me: I promise everything with the firm
intention of keeping my promises, and two hours after I have forgotten
all about them. If any one reminds me of what I have promised, I tear my
hair, and to make up for my forgetfulness I say anything, I buy
presents—in fact, I complicate my life with useless worries. It has
always been thus, and always will be so.
As was I grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a
chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after
lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to
which Paul Meurice, the poet Léon Cladel, the Communard Dupuis, a
Russian lady whose name I do not remember and Gustave Doré were also
invited. In front of Victor Hugo sat Madame Drouet, the friend of his
unlucky days.
But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly served. My
feet were frozen by the draughts from the three doors, which fitted
badly, and one could positively _hear_ the wind blowing under the table.
Near me was Mr. X., a German socialist, who is to-day a very successful
man. This man had such dirty hands and ate in such a way that he made me
feel sick. I met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean and
proper, and, I believe, an imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling
this uncongenial neighbour inspired in me, the cold draughts blowing on
my feet, mortal boredom—all this reduced me to a state of positive
suffering, and I lost consciousness.
When I recovered I found myself on a couch, my hand in that of Madame
Drouet, and in front of me, sketching me, Gustave Doré.