words, though they were so inappropriate, pleased me nevertheless, and I
complied with the wish of the great artist, who was one of my friends.
I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-bye to him, a trifle
ashamed of myself.
The next day he came to see me. I told him some tale to account for my
illness, and I saw no more of him except at the rehearsals of _Hernani_.
The first performance of _Hernani_ took place on November 21, 1877. It
was a triumph alike for the author and the actors. _Hernani_ had already
been played ten years earlier, but Delaunay, who then took the part of
Hernani, was the exact contrary of what this part should have been. He
was neither epic, romantic, nor poetic. He had not the style of those
grand epic poems. He was charming, graceful, and wore a perpetual smile;
of middle height, with studied movements, he was ideal in Musset,
perfect in Emile Augier, charming in Molière, but execrable in Victor
Hugo.
Bressant, who took the part of Charles Quint, was shockingly bad. His
amiable and flabby style and his weak and wandering eyes effectively
prevented all grandeur. His two enormous feet, generally half hidden
under his trousers, assumed immense proportions. I could see nothing
else. They were very large, flat, and slightly turned in at the toes.
They were a nightmare! But think of their possessor repeating the
admirable couplet of Charles Quint to the shade of Charlemagne! It was
absurd! The public coughed, wriggled, and showed that they found the
whole thing painful and ridiculous.
In our performance it was Mounet-Sully, in all the splendour of his
talent, who played Hernani. And it was Worms, that admirable artiste,
who played Charles Quint—and how well he took the part! How he rolled
out the lines! What a splendid diction he had! This performance of
November 21, 1877, was a triumph. I came in for a good share in the
general success. I played Dona Sol. Victor Hugo sent me the following
letter:
“MADAME,—You have been great and charming; you have moved me—me, the
old combatant—and at one moment, while the public whom you had
enchanted cheered you, I wept. This tear which you caused me to shed
is yours, and I place myself at your feet.
“VICTOR HUGO.”
With this letter came a small box containing a fine chain bracelet, from
which hung one diamond drop. I lost this bracelet at the house of the
rich nabob, Alfred Sassoon. He wanted to give me another, but I refused.
He could not give me back the tear of Victor Hugo.
My success at the Comédie was assured, and the public treated me as a
spoiled child. My comrades were a little jealous of me.
Perrin made trouble for me at every turn. He had a sort of friendship
for me, but he would not believe that I could get on without him, and as
he always refused to do as I wanted, I did not go to him for anything. I
used to send a letter to the Ministry, and I always won my cause.
As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now tried my hand at
painting. I knew how to draw a little, and had a well-developed sense of
colour. I first did two or three small pictures, then I undertook the
portrait of my dear Guérard.
Alfred Stevens thought it was vigorously done, and Georges Clairin
encouraged me to continue with painting. Then I launched out
courageously, boldly. I began a picture which was nearly two metres in
size, _The Young Girl and Death_.
Then came a cry of indignation against me.
Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was my career?
Why did I always want to be before the public?
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT AS DONA SOL
IN _HERNANI_
]
Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He began to preach.
“You are killing yourself, my dear child,” he said. “Why do you go in
for sculpture, painting, &c.? Is it to prove that you can do it?”
“Oh, no, no,” I answered; “it is merely to create a necessity for
staying here.”
“I don’t understand,” said Perrin, listening very attentively.
“This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something
else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are higher than ours
and trees that are bigger—something different, in short. I have
therefore had to create for myself some tasks which will hold me to my
chains. If I did not do this, I feel that my desire to see other things
in the world would win the day, and I should do something foolish.”
This conversation was destined to go against me some years later, when
the Comédie brought a law-suit against me.
The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state of
exasperation that Perrin and some of the artistes of the theatre had
conceived against me. They blamed me for everything—for my painting, my
sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible scene with Perrin, and it was
the last one, for from that time forth we did not speak to each other
again; a formal bow was the most that we exchanged afterwards.
The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored and I still
adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard’s captive balloon.
This persistency had struck the _savant_, and he asked a mutual friend
to introduce him.
“Oh, Monsieur Giffard,” I said, “how I should like to go up in a balloon
that is not captive!”
“Well, Mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like,” he replied very
kindly.
“When?” I asked.
“Any day you like.”
I should have liked to start immediately, but, as he pointed out, he
would have to fit the balloon up, and it was a great responsibility for
him to undertake. We therefore fixed upon the following Tuesday, just a
week from then. I asked M. Giffard to say nothing about it, for if the
newspapers should get hold of this piece of news my terrified family
would not allow me to go. M. Tissandier, who a little time after was
doomed, poor fellow, to be killed in a balloon accident, promised to
accompany me. Something happened, however, to prevent his going with me,
and it was young Godard who the following week accompanied me in the
“Dona Sol,” a beautiful orange-coloured balloon specially prepared for
my expedition. Prince Jerome Napoleon (Plon-Plon), who was with me when
Giffard was introduced, insisted on going with us. But he was heavy and
rather clumsy, and I did not care much about his conversation, in spite
of his marvellous wit, for he was spiteful, and rather delighted when he
could get a chance to attack the Emperor Napoleon III., whom I liked
very much.
We started alone, Georges Clairin, Godard, and I. The rumour of our
journey had spread, but too late for the Press to get hold of the news.
I had been up in the air about five minutes when one of my friends,
Comte de M——, met Perrin on the Saints-Pères Bridge.
“I say,” he began, “look up in the sky. There is your star shooting
away.”
Perrin gazed up, and, pointing to the balloon which was rising, he
asked, “Who is in that?”
“Sarah Bernhardt,” replied my friend. Perrin, it appears, turned purple,
and, clenching his teeth, he murmured, “That’s another of her freaks,
but she will pay for this.”
He hurried away without even saying good-bye to my young friend, who
stood there stupefied at this unreasonable burst of anger.
And if he had suspected my infinite joy at thus travelling through the
air, Perrin would have suffered still more.
Ah! our departure! It was half-past five. I shook hands with a few
friends. My family, whom I had kept in the most profound ignorance, was
not there. I felt my heart tighten somewhat when, after the words “Let
her go!” I found myself in about a second some fifty yards above the
earth. I still heard a few cries: “Wait! Come back! Don’t let her be
killed!” And then nothing more. Nothing. There was the sky above and the
earth beneath. Then suddenly I was in the clouds. I had left a misty
Paris. I now breathed under a blue sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us
were opaque mountains of clouds with irradiated edges. Our balloon
plunged into a milky vapour quite warm from the sun. It was splendid! It
was stupefying! Not a sound, not a breath! But the balloon was scarcely
moving at all. It was only towards six o’clock that the currents of air
caught us, and we took our flight towards the east. We were at an
altitude of about 1700 metres. The spectacle became fairy-like. Large
fleecy clouds were spread below us like a carpet. Large orange curtains
fringed with violet came down from the sun to lose themselves in our
cloudy carpet.
At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2500 metres above the earth,
and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves felt.
The dinner was copious—we had _foie gras_, fresh bread, and oranges. The
cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the clouds with a pretty, soft
noise. We raised our glasses in honour of M. Giffard.
We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her heavy dark mantle.
It became very cold. We were then at 2600 metres, and I had a singing in
my ears. My nose began to bleed. I felt very uncomfortable, and began to
get drowsy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got
anxious, and young Godard cried out loudly, to wake me up, no doubt:
“Come, come! We shall have to go down. Let us throw out the guide-rope!”
This cry woke me up. I wanted to know what a guide-rope was. I got up
feeling rather stupefied, and in order to rouse me Godard put the guide-
rope into my hands. It was a strong rope of about 120 metres long, to
which were attached at certain distances little iron hooks. Clairin and
I let out the rope, laughing, while Godard, bending over the side of the
car, was looking through a field-glass.
“Stop!” he cried suddenly. “There are a lot of trees!”
We were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in front of us there was a
little open ground suitable for our descent.
“There is no doubt about it,” cried Godard; “if we miss this plain we
shall come down in the dead of night in the wood of Ferrières, and that
will be very dangerous!” Then, turning to me, “Will you,” he said, “open
the valve?”
I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison whistling a
mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aeronaut, and we
descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the
sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of
his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn on which he
blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 metres
below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As
we were very close to a little station, we easily guessed that this man
was the station-master.
“Where are we?” cried Louis Godard through his horn.
“At—in—in—ille!” answered the station-master. It was impossible to
understand.
“Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones.
“At—in—in—ille!” shouted the station-master, with his hand curved round
his mouth.
“Where are we?” cried I in my most crystalline accents.
“At—in—in—ille!” answered the station-master and his porters.
It was impossible to get to know anything. We had to lower the balloon.
At first we descended rather too quickly, and the wind blew us towards
the wood. We had to go up again. But ten minutes later we opened the
valve again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right
of the station, and far from the amiable station-master.
“Throw out the anchor!” cried young Godard in a commanding tone. And
assisted by Georges Clairin, he threw out into space another rope, to
the end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80
metres long.
Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever
since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 metres from
earth Godard called out to them, “Where are we?”
“At Vachère!”
None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.
“Hullo! you fellows down there, take hold of the rope that’s dragging,”
cried the aeronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous
men seized hold of the rope. We were 130 metres from the ground, and the
sight was becoming interesting. Darkness began to blot out everything. I
raised my head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with
astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was
overhanging its base, all loose and baggy. It was very ugly.
We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I had hoped would
happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected.
It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.
The young owner of a neighbouring château ran up, like the peasants, to
see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella.
“Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet. I pass between the drops.”
The saying was repeated and had a great success.
“What time is there a train?” asked Godard.
“Oh, you have plenty of time,” answered an oily and heavy voice. “You
cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the station is a long way from here,
and in such weather it will take Madame two hours to walk there.”
I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with the umbrella,
which I could have used as walking-stick, as neither Clairin nor Godard
had one. But just as I was accusing him of going away and leaving us, he
jumped lightly out of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up.
“There!” said he. “There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and
another for the body of the balloon.”
“_Ma foi!_ You have saved us,” said Clairin, clasping his hand, “for it
appears the roads are in a very bad state.”
“Oh,” said the young man, “it would be impossible for the feet of
Parisians to walk even half the distance.”
Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey.
Rather more than an hour later we arrived at the station of
Emerainville. The station-master, learning who we were, received us in a
very friendly manner. He made his apologies for not having heard when we
called out an hour previously from our floating vehicle. We had a frugal
meal of bread, cheese, and cider set before us. I have always detested
cheese, and would never eat it: there is nothing poetical about it. But
I was dying with hunger.
“Taste it, taste it,” said Georges Clairin.
I bit a morsel off, and found it excellent.
We got back very late, in the middle of the night, and I found my
household in an extreme state of anxiety. Our friends who had come to
hear news of us had stayed. There was quite a crowd. I was somewhat
annoyed at this, as I was half dead with fatigue.
I sent everybody away rather sharply, and went up to my room. As my maid
was helping me to undress she told me that some one had come for me from
the Comédie Française several times.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I cried anxiously. “Could the piece have been changed?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said the maid. “But it appears that Monsieur
Perrin is furious, and that they are all in a rage with you. Here is the
note which was left for you.”
I opened the letter. I was requested to call on the manager the
following day at two o’clock.
On my arrival at Perrin’s at the time appointed I was received with
exaggerated politeness which had an undercurrent of severity.
Then commenced a series of recriminations about my fits of ill-temper,
my caprices, my eccentricities; and he finished his speech by saying
that I had incurred a fine of one thousand francs for travelling without
the consent of the management.
I burst out laughing. “The case of a balloon has not been foreseen,” I
said; “and I vow that I will pay no fine. Outside the theatre I do as I
please, and that is no business of yours, my dear Monsieur Perrin, so
long as I do nothing to interfere with my theatrical work. And besides,
you bore me to death—I will resign. Be happy.”
I left him ashamed and anxious.
The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin, and a few
hours afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister of Fine Arts. I
refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who stated that M. Perrin
had gone a step farther than he had any right to; that the fine was
annulled, and that I must cancel my resignation. So I did.
But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying for my
enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my friends. But at that
time all this stir and noise amused me vastly. I did nothing to attract
attention. My somewhat fantastic tastes, my paleness and thinness, my
peculiar way of dressing, my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in all
respects, made me a being quite apart from all others. I did not
recognise the fact.
I did not read, I never read, the newspapers. So I did not know what was
said about me, either favourable or unfavourable. Surrounded by a court
of adorers of both sexes, I lived in a sunny dream.
[Illustration:
A CORNER OF THE HALL WITH A PAINTING
BY CHARTRAN OF SARAH BERNHARDT
AS _GISMONDA_
]
All the royal personages and the notabilities who were the guests of
France during the Exhibition of 1878 came to see me. This was a constant
source of pleasure to me.
The Comédie was the first theatre to which all these illustrious
visitors went, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening. While I
was playing Amphytrion I fell seriously ill, and was sent to the south.
I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I made Cap Martin
my headquarters. I had a tent put up here on the spot that the Empress
Eugénie afterwards selected for her villa. I did not want to see
anybody, and I thought that by living in a tent so far from the town I
should not be troubled with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I
was having lunch with my little boy I heard the bells of two horses and
a carriage. The road overhung my tent, which was half hidden by the
bushes. Suddenly a voice which I knew, but could not recognise, cried in
the emphatic tone of a herald, “Does Sarah Bernhardt, Sociétaire of the
Comédie Française, reside here?”
We did not move. The question was asked again. Again the answer was
silence. But we heard the sound of breaking branches, the bushes were
pushed apart, and at two yards from the tent the unwelcome voice
recommenced.
We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed, I came out. I saw before me a man
with a large _tussore_ cloak on, a field-glass strapped on his
shoulders, a grey bowler hat, and a red, happy face, with a little
pointed beard. I looked at this commonplace-looking individual with
anything but favour. He lifted his hat.
“Madame Sarah Bernhardt is here?”
“What do you want with me, sir?”
“Here is my card, Madame.”
I read, “Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers.” I looked at him with
astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did
not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent.
“Well, you see, Madame, I came to ask you to sell me your group, _After
the Tempest_.”
I began to laugh.
“Ma foi, Monsieur, I am treating for that with the firm of Susse, and
they offer me 6000 francs. If you will give ten you may have it.”
“All right,” he said. “Here are 10,000 francs. Have you pen and ink?”
“No.”
“Ah,” said he, “allow me!” And he produced a little case in which there
were pen and ink.
I made out the receipt, and gave him an order to take the group from my
studio in Paris. He went away, and I heard the bells of the horses
ringing and then dying away in the distance. After this I was often
invited to the house of this original person.
XXVI
THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE GOES TO LONDON
Shortly after, I came back to Paris. At the theatre they were preparing
for a benefit performance for Bressant, who was about to retire from the
stage. It was agreed that Mounet-Sully and I should play an act from
_Othello_, by Jean Aicard. The theatre was well filled, and the audience
in a good humour. After the song I was in bed as Desdemona, when
suddenly I heard the public laugh, softly at first, and then
irrepressibly. Othello had just come in, in the darkness, in his shirt
or very little more, with a lantern in his hand, and gone to a door
hidden in some drapery. The public, that impersonal unity, has no
hesitation in taking part in these unseemly manifestations, but each
member of the audience, taken as a separate individual, would be ashamed
to admit that he participated in them. But the ridicule thrown on this
act by the exaggerated pantomime of the actor prevented the play being
staged again, and it was only twenty years later that _Othello_ as an
entire play was produced at the Théâtre Français. I was then no longer
there.
After having played Bérénice in _Mithridate_ successfully, I reappeared
in my _rôle_ of the Queen in _Ruy Blas_. The play was as successful at
the Théâtre Français as it had been at the Odéon, and the public was, if
anything, still more favourable to me. Mounet-Sully played Ruy Blas. He
was admirable in the part, and infinitely superior to Lafontaine, who
had played it at the Odéon. Frédéric Febvre, very well costumed,
rendered his part in a most interesting manner, but he was not so good
as Geffroy, who was the most distinguished and the most terrifying Don
Salluste that could be imagined.
My relations with Perrin were more and more strained.
He was pleased that I was successful, for the sake of the theatre; he
was happy at the magnificent receipts of _Ruy Blas_; but he would have
much preferred that it had been another than I who received all the
applause. My independence, my horror of submission, even in appearance,
annoyed him vastly.
One day my servant came to tell me that an elderly Englishman was asking
to see me so insistently that he thought it better to come and tell me,
though I had given orders I was not to be disturbed.
“Send him away, and let me work in peace.”
I was just commencing a picture which interested me very much. It
represented a little girl, on Palm Sunday, carrying branches of palm.
The little model who posed for me was a lovely Italian of eight years
old. Suddenly she said to me:
“He’s quarrelling—that Englishman!”
As a matter of fact, in the ante-room there was a noise of voices rising
higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my palette in my hand,
resolved to make the intruder flee. But just as I opened the door of my
studio a tall man came so close to me that I drew back, and he came into
the large room. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair silvery
white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses very
politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my “hall”—and this while I
was in complete ignorance of his name. When at the end of ten minutes I
begged him to sit down and tell me to what I owed the pleasure of his
visit, he replied in a stilted voice with a strong accent:
“I am Mr. Jarrett, the _impresario_. I can make your fortune. Will you
come to America?”
“Never!” I exclaimed firmly. “Never!”
“Oh well, don’t get angry. Here is my address—don’t lose it.” Then at
the moment he took leave he said:
“Ah! you are going to London with the Comédie Française. Would you like
to earn a lot of money in London?”
“Yes. How?”
“By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make a small fortune for you.”
“Oh, I would be pleased—that is if I go to London, for I have not yet
decided.”
“Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add an additional
clause?”
And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me with confidence
at first sight—a confidence which he never betrayed.
The committee and M. Perrin had made an agreement with John
Hollingshead, director of the Gaiety Theatre in London. Nobody had been
consulted, and I thought that was a little too free and easy. So when
they told me about this agreement, I said nothing.
Perrin rather anxiously took me aside:
“What are you turning over in your mind?”
“I am turning over this: That I will not go to London in a situation
inferior to anybody. For the entire term of my contract I intend to be a
Sociétaire with one entire share in the profits.”
This intention irritated the committee considerably. And the next day
Perrin told me that my proposal was rejected.
“Well, I shall not go to London. That is all! Nothing in my contract
compels me to go.”
The committee met again, and Got cried out, “Well, let her stay away!
She is a regular nuisance!”
It was therefore decided that I should not go to London. But
Hollingshead and Mayer, his partner, did not see things in this light,
and they declared that the contract would not be binding if either
Croizette, Mounet-Sully, or I did not go.
The agents, who had bought two hundred thousand francs’ worth of tickets
beforehand, also refused to regard the affair as binding on them if we
did not go. Mayer came to see me in profound despair, and told me all
about it.
“We shall have to break our contract with the Comédie if you don’t
come,” he said, “for the business cannot go through.”