and told him that after the consultation I had just had with Mayer I
understood the involuntary injury I should be causing to the Théâtre
Français and to my comrades, and I told him I was ready to go under any
conditions.
The committee was holding a meeting. Perrin asked me to wait, and
shortly after he came back to me. Croizette and I had been appointed
Sociétaires with one entire share in the profits each, not only for
London, but for always.
Everybody had done their duty. Perrin, very much touched, took both my
hands and drew me to him.
“Oh, the good and untamable little creature!”
We embraced, and peace was again concluded between us. But it could not
last long, for five days after this reconciliation, about nine o’clock
in the evening, M. Perrin was announced at my house. I had some friends
to dinner, so I went to receive him in the hall. He held out to me a
paper.
“Read that,” said he.
And I read in an English newspaper, the _Times_, this paragraph:
DRAWING-ROOM COMEDIES OF MLLE. SARAH BERNHARDT, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT
OF SIR JULIUS BENEDICT.—“The _répertoire_ of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is
composed of comedies, proverbs, one-act plays, and monologues, written
specially for her and one or two artistes of the Comédie Française.
These comedies are played without accessories or scenery, and can be
adapted both in London and Paris to the _matinées_ and _soirées_ of
the best society. For all details and conditions please communicate
with Mr. Jarrett (secretary of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt) at Her Majesty’s
Theatre.”
As I was reading the last lines it dawned on me that Jarrett, learning
that I was certainly coming to London, had begun to advertise me. I
explained this frankly to Perrin.
“What objection is there,” I said, “to my making use of my evenings to
earn money? This business has been proposed to me.”
“I am not complaining—it’s the committee.”
“That is too bad!” I cried, and calling for my secretary, I said, “Give
me Delaunay’s letter that I gave you yesterday.”
He brought it out of one of his numerous pockets and gave it to Perrin
to read.
“Would you care to come and play _La Nuit d’Octobre_ at Lady Dudley’s on
Thursday, June 5? We are offered 5000 francs for us two. Kind
regards.—DELAUNAY.”
“Let me have this letter,” said the manager, visibly annoyed.
“No, I will not. But you may tell Delaunay that I spoke to you about his
offer.”
For the next two or three days nothing was talked of in Paris but the
scandalous notice in the _Times_. The French were then almost entirely
ignorant of the habits and customs of the English. At last all this talk
annoyed me, and I begged Perrin to try and stop it, and the next day the
following appeared in the _National_ (May 29): “_Much Ado about
Nothing._—In friendly discussion it has been decided that outside the
rehearsals and the performances of the Comédie Française each artiste is
free to employ his time as he sees fit. There is therefore absolutely no
truth at all in the pretended quarrel between the Comédie Française and
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. This artiste has only acted strictly within her
rights, which nobody attempts to limit, and all our artistes intend to
benefit in the same manner. The manager of the Comédie Française asks
only that the artistes who form this company do not give performances in
a body.”
This article came from the Comédie, and the members of the committee had
taken advantage of it to advertise themselves a little, announcing that
they also were ready to play in drawing-rooms, for the article was sent
to Mayer with a request that it should appear in the English papers. It
was Mayer himself who told me this.
All disputes being at an end, we commenced our preparations for
departure.
I had been but once on the sea when it was decided that the artistes of
the Comédie Française should go to London. The determined ignorance of
the French with regard to all things foreign was much more pronounced in
those days than it is at present. Therefore I had a very warm cloak
made, as I had been assured that the crossing was icy cold even in the
very middle of summer, and I believed this. On every side I was besieged
with lozenges for sea-sickness, sedatives for headache, tissue paper to
put down my back, little compress plasters to put on my diaphragm, and
waterproof cork soles for my shoes, for it appeared that above all
things I must not have cold feet. Oh, how droll and amusing it all was!
I took everything, paid attention to all the recommendations, and
believed everything I was told.
The most inconceivable thing of all, though, was the arrival, five
minutes before the boat started, of an enormous wooden case. It was very
light, and was held by a tall young man, who to-day is a most remarkable
individual, possessing all orders and honours, a colossal fortune, and
the most outrageous vanity. At that time he was a timid inventor, young,
poor, and sad: he was always buried in books which treated of abstract
questions, whilst of life he knew absolutely nothing. He had a great
admiration for me, mingled with a trifle of awe. My little court had
surnamed him “La Quenelle.” He was long, vacillating, colourless, and
really did resemble the thin roll of forcemeat in a _vol-au-vent_.
He came up to see me, his face more wan-looking even than usual. The
boat was moving a little. My departure terrified him, and the wind
caused him to plunge from right to left. He made a mysterious sign to
me, and I followed him, accompanied by _mon petit Dame_, and leaving my
friends, who were inclined to be ironical, behind. When I was seated he
opened the case and took out an enormous life-belt invented by himself.
I was perfectly astounded, for I was new to sea voyages, and the idea
had never even occurred to me that we might be shipwrecked during one
hour’s crossing. La Quenelle was by no means disconcerted, and he put
the belt on himself in order to show me how it was used.
Nothing could have looked more foolish than this man, with his sad,
serious face, putting on this apparatus. There were a dozen egg-sized
bladders round the belt, eleven of which were filled with air and
contained a piece of sugar. In the twelfth, a very small bladder, were
ten drops of brandy. In the middle of the belt was a tiny cushion with a
few pins on it.
“You understand,” he said to me. “You fall in the water—paff!—you stay
like this.” Hereupon he pretended to sit down, rising and sinking with
the movement of the waves, his two hands in front of him laid upon the
imaginary sea, and his neck stretched like that of a tortoise in order
to keep his head above water.
“You see, you have now been in the water for two hours,” he explained,
“and you want to get back your strength. You take a pin and prick an
egg, like this. You take your lump of sugar and eat it; that is as good
as a quarter of a pound of meat.” He then threw the broken bladder
overboard, and from the packing case brought out another, which he
fastened to the life-belt. He had evidently thought of everything. I was
petrified with amazement. A few of my friends had gathered round, hoping
for one of La Quenelle’s mad freaks, but they had never expected
anything like this one.
M. Mayer, one of our _impresarii_, fearing a scandal of too absurd a
kind, dispersed the people who were gathering round us. I did not know
whether to be angry or to laugh, but the jeering, unjust speech of one
of my friends roused my pity for this poor Quenelle. I thought of the
hours he had spent in planning, combining, and then manufacturing his
ridiculous machine. I was touched by the anxiety and affection which had
prompted the invention of this life saving apparatus, and I held out my
hand to my poor Quenelle, saying, “Be off now, quickly; the boat is just
going to start.”
He kissed the hand held out to him in a friendly way, and hurried off. I
then called my steward, Claude, and I said, “As soon as we are out of
sight of land, throw that case and all it contains into the sea.”
The departure of the boat was accompanied by shouts of “Hurrah! Au
revoir! Success! Good luck!” There was a waving of hands, handkerchiefs
floating in the air, and kisses thrown haphazard to every one.
But what was really fine, and a sight I shall never forget, was our
landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people there, and it was
the first time I had ever heard the cry of “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”
I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the ideal face of
Hamlet. He presented me with a gardenia. I was destined to admire him
later on as Hamlet played by Forbes Robertson. We passed on through a
crowd offering us flowers and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was
more favoured than the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was
delighted all the same. One of my comrades who was just near, and with
whom I was not a favourite, said to me in a spiteful tone:
“They’ll make you a carpet of flowers soon.”
“Here is one!” exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful of lilies on
the ground in front of me.
I stopped short, rather confused, not daring to walk on these white
flowers, but the crowd pressing on behind compelled me to advance, and
the poor lilies had to be trodden under foot.
“Hip, hip, hurrah! A cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted the turbulent
young man.
His head was above all the other heads; he had luminous eyes and long
hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet, though,
and one of the greatest of the century, a poet who was a genius, but who
was, alas! later tortured and finally vanquished by madness. It was
Oscar Wilde.
The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached our train amidst
shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip, hip, hurrah for
the French actors!”
When the train arrived at Charing Cross towards nine o’clock we were
nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was
gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again on
our arrival in London with more hurrahs. There were plenty of people,
crowds of people, but none appeared to know us.
On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet
laid down, and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything,
as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however,
had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the
Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris.
This news disappointed me, and even annoyed me personally. I had been
told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of
the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely
indifferent. The crowd was large and even dense, but cold.
“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer.
“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,”
he replied.
“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued.
“No. The Prince has taken a box for the season, for which he has paid
four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.”
I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I
felt that everything was going wrong.
A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a
heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the
house, 77 Chester Square, I did not want to get out of my carriage.
The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly
lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth
arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the
carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six
weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me.
“Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I asked my man-
servant.
“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are
from Paris, from Madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet
from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it I read
the words, “Welcome!—Henry Irving.”
I went all through the house, and it seemed to me very dismal-looking. I
visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth
chattered when I came in again. That night when I went to sleep my heart
was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some
misfortune.
The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see
them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. That man
was a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He
had made me some very good offers for America, and although I had
refused them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account
of his intelligence, his comic humour, and my need of being piloted in
this new country.
“No,” he said; “if you receive them all together, they will all be
furious, and you will get some wretched articles. You must receive them
one after the other.”
Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my
seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation
when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of
the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them.
I remember perfectly well that all of them began with, “Well,
Mademoiselle, what do you think of London?”
I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the first of
these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had
drawn my curtain on getting up, and all I knew of London was Chester
Square, a small square of sombre verdure, in the midst of which was a
black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church.
I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared
for this, and I learnt the following morning that I was most
enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a
number of the public buildings, &c. &c.
Towards five o’clock Hortense Damain arrived. She was a charming woman,
and a favourite in London society. She had come to inform me that the
Duchess of —— and Lady —— would call on me at half-past five.
“Oh, stay with me, then,” I said to her. “You know how unsociable I am;
I feel sure that I shall be stupid.”
At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the first time I
had come into contact with any members of the English aristocracy, and I
have always had since a very pleasant memory of it.
Lady R—— was extremely beautiful, and the Duchess was so gracious, so
distinguished, and so kind that I was very much touched by her visit.
A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very well, as he had
been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert, one of my dearest friends.
He asked me if I would care to have a ride the following morning, and he
said he had a very nice lady’s horse which was entirely at my service. I
thanked him, but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row.
At seven o’clock Hortense Damain came to fetch me to dine with her at
the house of the Baroness M——. She had a very nice house in Prince’s
Gate. There were about twenty guests, among others the painter Millais.
I had been told that the _cuisine_ was very bad in England, but I
thought this dinner perfect. I had been told that the English were cold
and sedate: I found them charming and full of humour. Every one spoke
French very well, and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the English
language. After dinner there were recitations and music. I was touched
by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts in not asking me to recite any
poetry.
I was very much interested in observing the society in which I found
myself. It did not in any way resemble a French gathering. The young
girls seemed to be enjoying themselves on their own account, and
enjoying themselves thoroughly. They had not come there to find a
husband. What surprised me a little was the _décolleté_ of ladies who
were getting on in years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I
spoke of this to Hortense Damain.
“It’s frightful!” I said.
“Yes, but it’s chic.”
She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled about
nothing that was not _chic_. She sent me the “_Chic_ commandments” a few
days before I left Paris:
_Chester Square tu habiteras._ In Chester Square thou shalt live
_Rotten Row tu monteras_ In Rotten Row thou shalt ride
_Le Parlement visiteras_ Parliament thou shalt visit
_Garden-parties fréquenteras_ Garden parties thou shalt frequent,
_Chaque visite tu rendras_ Every visit thou shalt return
_A chaque lettre tu repondras_ Every letter thou shalt answer
_Photographies tu signeras_ Photographs thou shalt sign
_Hortense Damain tu écouteras_ To Hortense Damain thou shalt
listen
_Et tous ses conseils, les And all her counsels thou shalt
suivras._ follow.
I laughed at these “commandments,” but I soon realised that under this
jocular form she considered them as very serious and important. Alas! my
poor friend had hit upon the wrong person for her counsels. I detested
paying visits, writing letters, signing photographs, or following any
one’s advice. I adore having people come to see me, and I detest going
to see them. I adore receiving letters, reading them, commenting on
them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and driving in
frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary places. I adore
giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I never follow at once any
wise advice that is given me. It always requires an effort of my will to
recognise the justice of any counsel, and then an effort of my intellect
to be grateful for it: at first, it simply annoys me.
Consequently, I paid no attention to Hortense Damain’s counsels, nor yet
to Jarrett’s; and in this I made a great mistake, for many people were
vexed with me (in any other country I should have made enemies). On that
first visit to London what a quantity of letters of invitation I
received to which I never replied! How many charming women called upon
me and I never returned their calls. Then, too, how many times accepted
invitations to dinner and never went after all, nor did I even send a
line of excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know; and yet I always accept
with pleasure and intend to go, but when the day comes I am tired
perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from any
obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or another, the time
has gone by and it is too late to send word and too late to go. And so I
stay at home, dissatisfied with myself, with every one else and with
everything.
XXVII
LONDON LIFE—MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE
Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique
grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable people on
earth, and they are hospitable simply and munificently. When an
Englishman has opened his door to you he never closes it again. He
excuses your faults and accepts your peculiarities. It is thanks to this
broadness of ideas that I have been for twenty-five years the beloved
and pampered artiste.
I was delighted with my first _soirée_ in London, and I returned home
very gay and very much “anglomaniaised.” I found some of my friends
there—Parisians who had just arrived—and they were furious. My
enthusiasm exasperated them, and we sat up arguing until two in the
morning.
The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather, and all Hyde
Park seemed to be strewn with enormous bouquets. There were the flower-
beds wonderfully arranged by the gardeners; then there were the clusters
of sunshades, blue, pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the
light hats covered with flowers under which shone the pretty faces of
children and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop
of graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds of horsewomen,
slender, supple, and courageous; then there were men and children, the
latter mounted on big Irish ponies. There were other children, too,
galloping along on Scotch ponies with long, shaggy manes, the children’s
hair and the manes of the horses streaming in the wind of their own
speed.
The carriage road between the riding-track and the foot passengers was
filled with dog-carts, open carriages of various kinds, mail-coaches,
and very smart cabs. There were powdered footmen, horses decorated with
flowers, sportsmen driving, ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All
this elegance, this essence of luxury, and this joy of life brought back
to my memory the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so
animated a few years before, when Napoleon III. used to drive through on
his _daumont_, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how beautiful it was in those
days—our Bois de Boulogne, with the officers caracoling in the Avenue
des Acacias, admired by our beautiful society women!
The joy of life was everywhere—the love of love enveloping life with an
infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt a pang at my heart as the
awful recollections of 1870 crowded to my brain. He was dead, our gentle
Emperor, with his shrewd smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed
by fortune, crushed with grief.
The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its
intenseness, but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still
shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed since the war had
struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory.
Three Presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little
Thiers, with his perverse _bourgeois_ soul, had worn his teeth out with
nibbling at every kind of Government—royalty under Louis Philippe,
Empire under Napoleon III., and the executive power of the French
Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up
again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had
been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had
succeeded the Marshal, but he was miserly, and considered all outlay
unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so
Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had
communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de
Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the national defence
had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted.
I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their
mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which
surrounded me.
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT
IN RIDING COSTUME
]
I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the
first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were
several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not
want to see any one. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theatre,
where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew
already that I had been elected the favourite, and the idea of this
chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a _traqueuse_. I am
subject to the _trac_ or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I
first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this _trac_. I
used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some
spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent
people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I had no feeling
of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of _trac_ or stage
fright was in the month of January 1869, at the seventh or perhaps the
eighth performance of _Le Passant_. The success of this little
masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part of
Zanetto had delighted the public, and particularly the students. When I
went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole house.
I turned towards the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had just
entered. But no; the box was empty, and I realised then that all the
bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, and my
eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I had five
curtain calls, and on leaving the theatre the students ranged on each
side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into the arms
of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me.
“What’s the matter with you, my dear?” she asked.
“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said. “They want to make a
‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that. You’ll see they’ll
drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos.”
My grandmother took my head in her hands, and I met the vacant look in
her large light eyes fixed on me.