profession, and when the opportunity comes to you, why, you are
frightened. It seems to me that you are a very bad soldier.”
I drove back my tears, and declared that I would bear up courageously
against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity,
my heedlessness, and my “don’t care-ism.” But from that time forth fear
took possession of me, and stage fright martyrised me.
It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of
_Phèdre_, in which I was to appear for the first time before the English
public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes,
and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I
looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not so
tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is “_le
bal_,” which I pronounce low down with the open _a_, “_le bâââl_,” or
take high by dwelling on the _l_—“_le balll_.” Ah, but there was no
doubt about it; my “_le bal_” neither sounded high nor low, my voice was
hoarse in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage,
and just then I was informed that the second act of _Phèdre_ was about
to commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and
my cameo belt was not fastened.
I began to murmur:
“_Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire.
J’oublie en le voyant...._”
That word “_j’oublie_” struck me with a new idea. What if I did forget
the words I had to say? Why, yes. What was it I had to say? I did not
know—I could not remember. What was I to say after “_en le voyant_”?
No one answered me. Every one was alarmed at my nervous state. I heard
Got mumble, “She’s going mad!”
Mlle. Thénard, who was playing Œnone, my old nurse, said to me, “Calm
yourself. All the English have gone to Paris; there’s no one in the
house but Belgians.”
This foolishly comic speech turned my thoughts in another direction.
“How stupid you are!” I said. “You know how frightened I was at
Brussels!”
“Oh, all for nothing,” she answered calmly. “There were only English
people in the theatre that day.”
I had to go on the stage at once, and I could not even answer her, but
she had changed the current of my ideas. I still had stage fright, but
not the fright that paralyses, only the kind that drives one wild. This
is bad enough, but it is preferable to the other sort. It makes one do
too much, but at any rate one does something.
The whole house had applauded my arrival on the stage for a few seconds,
and as I bent my head in acknowledgment I said within myself,
“Yes—yes—you shall see. I’m going to give you my very blood—my life
itself—my soul.”
When I began my part, as I had lost my self-possession, I started on
rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I could not get
lower again—I simply could not stop. I suffered, I wept, I implored, I
cried out; and it was all real. My suffering was horrible; my tears were
flowing, scorching and bitter. I implored Hippolyte for the love which
was killing me, and my arms stretched out to Mounet-Sully were the arms
of Phèdre writhing in the cruel longing for his embrace. The inspiration
had come.
When the curtain fell Mounet-Sully lifted me up inanimate and carried me
to my dressing-room.
The public, unaware of what was happening, wanted me to appear again and
bow. I too wanted to return and thank the public for its attention, its
kindliness, and its emotion. I returned.
The following is what John Murray said in the _Gaulois_ of June 5, 1879:
“When, recalled with loud cries, Mlle. Bernhardt appeared, exhausted by
her efforts and supported by Mounet-Sully, she received an ovation which
I think is unique in the annals of the theatre in England.”
The following morning the _Daily Telegraph_ terminated its admirable
criticism with these lines:
“Clearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and fibre, and her
passion grew with the excitement of the spectators, for when, after a
recall that could not be resisted, the curtain drew up, M. Mounet-Sully
was seen supporting the exhausted figure of the actress, who had won her
triumph only after tremendous physical exertion—and triumph it was,
however short and sudden.”
The _Standard_ finished its article with these words:
“The subdued passion, repressed for a time, until at length it burst its
bonds, and the despairing, heart-broken woman is revealed to Hippolyte,
was shown with so vivid a reality that a scene of enthusiasm such as is
rarely witnessed in a theatre followed the fall of the curtain. Mlle.
Sarah Bernhardt in the few minutes she was upon the stage (and coming
on, it must be remembered, to plunge into the middle of a stirring
tragedy) yet contrived to make an impression which will not soon be
effaced from those who were present.”
The _Morning Post_ said:
“Very brief are the words spoken before Phèdre rushes into the room to
commence tremblingly and nervously, with struggles which rend and tear
and convulse the system, the secret of her shameful love. As her passion
mastered what remained of modesty or reserve in her nature, the woman
sprang forward and recoiled again, with the movements of a panther,
striving, as it seemed, to tear from her bosom the heart which stifled
her with its unholy longings, until in the end, when, terrified at the
horror her breathings have provoked in Hippolyte, she strove to pull his
sword from its sheath and plunge it in her own breast, she fell back in
complete and absolute collapse. This exhibition, marvellous in beauty of
pose, in febrile force, in intensity, and in purity of delivery, is the
more remarkable as the passion had to be reached, so to speak, at a
bound, no performance of the first act having roused the actress to the
requisite heat. It proved Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt worthy of her
reputation, and shows what may be expected from her by the public which
has eagerly expected her coming.”
This London first night was decisive for my future.
XXVIII
MY PERFORMANCES IN LONDON—MY EXHIBITION—MY WILD ANIMALS—TROUBLE WITH THE
COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
My intense desire to win over the English public had caused me to
overtax my strength. I had done my utmost at the first performance, and
had not spared myself in the least. The consequence was in the night I
vomited blood in such an alarming way that a messenger was despatched to
the French Embassy in search of a physician. Dr. Vintras, who was at the
head of the French Hospital in London, found me lying on my bed,
exhausted and looking more dead than alive. He was afraid that I should
not recover, and requested that my family be sent for. I made a gesture
with my hand to the effect that it was not necessary. As I could not
speak, I wrote down with a pencil, “Send for Dr. Parrot.”
Dr. Vintras remained with me part of the night, putting crushed ice
between my lips every five minutes. At length towards five in the
morning the blood vomiting ceased, and, thanks to a potion that the
doctor gave me, I fell asleep.
We were to play _L’Etrangère_ that night at the Gaiety, and, as my
_rôle_ was not a very fatiguing one, I wanted to perform my part _quand-
même_.
Dr. Parrot arrived by the four o’clock boat, and refused categorically
to give his consent. He had attended me from my childhood. I really felt
much better, and the feverishness had left me. I wanted to get up, but
to this Dr. Parrot objected.
Presently Dr. Vintras and Mr. Mayer, the impresario of the Comédie
Française, were announced. Mr. Hollingshead, the director of the Gaiety
Theatre, was waiting in a carriage at the door to know whether I was
going to play in _L’Etrangère_, the piece announced on the bills. I
asked Dr. Parrot to rejoin Dr. Vintras in the drawing-room, and I gave
instructions for Mr. Mayer to be introduced into my room.
“I feel much better,” I said to him very quickly. “I’m very weak still,
but I will play. Hush!—don’t say a word here. Tell Hollingshead, and
wait for me in the smoking-room, but don’t let any one else know.”
I then got up and dressed very quickly. My maid helped me, and as she
had guessed what my plan was, she was highly amused.
Wrapped in my cloak, with a lace fichu over my head, I joined Mayer in
the smoking-room, and then we both got into his hansom.
“Come to me in an hour’s time,” I said in a low voice to my maid.
“Where are you going?” asked Mayer, perfectly stupefied.
“To the theatre! Quick—quick!” I answered.
The cab started, and I then explained to him that if I had stayed at
home, neither Dr. Parrot nor Dr. Vintras would have allowed me to
perform.
“The die is cast now,” I added, “and we shall see what happens.”
When once I was at the theatre I took refuge in the manager’s private
office, in order to avoid Dr. Parrot’s anger. I was very fond of him,
and I knew how wrongly I was acting with regard to him, considering the
inconvenience to which he had put himself in making the journey
specially for me in response to my summons. I knew, though, how
impossible it would have been to have made him understand that I felt
really better, and that in risking my life I was really only risking
what was my own to dispose of as I pleased.
Half an hour later my maid joined me. She brought with her a letter from
Dr. Parrot, full of gentle reproaches and furious advice, finishing with
a prescription in case of a relapse. He was leaving an hour later, and
would not even come and shake hands with me. I felt quite sure, though,
that we should make it all up again on my return. I then began to
prepare for my _rôle_ in _L’Etrangère_. While dressing I fainted three
times, but I was determined to play _quand-même_.
The opium that I had taken in my potion made my head rather heavy. I
arrived on the stage in a semi-conscious state, delighted with the
applause I received. I walked along as though I were in a dream, and
could scarcely distinguish my surroundings. The house itself I only saw
through a luminous mist. My feet glided along without any effort on the
carpet, and my voice sounded to me far away, very far away. I was in
that delicious stupor that one experiences after chloroform, morphine,
opium, or hasheesh.
The first act went off very well, but in the third act, just when I was
about to tell the Duchesse de Septmonts (Croizette) all the troubles
that I, Mrs. Clarkson, had gone through during my life, just as I should
have commenced my interminable story, I could not remember anything.
Croizette murmured my first phrase for me, but I could only see her lips
move without hearing a word. I then said quite calmly:
“The reason I sent for you here, Madame, is because I wanted to tell you
my reasons for acting as I have done. I have thought it over and have
decided not to tell you them to-day.”
Sophie Croizette gazed at me with a terrified look in her eyes. She then
rose and left the stage, her lips trembling, and her eyes fixed on me
all the time.
“What’s the matter?” every one asked when she sank almost breathless
into an arm-chair.
“Sarah has gone mad!” she exclaimed. “I assure you she has gone quite
mad. She has cut out the whole of her scene with me.”
“But how?” every one asked.
“She has cut out two hundred lines,” said Croizette.
“But what for?” was the eager question.
“I don’t know. She looks quite calm.”
The whole of this conversation, which was repeated to me later on, took
much less time than it does now to write it down. Coquelin had been
told, and he now came on to the stage to finish the act. The curtain
fell. I was stupefied and desperate afterwards on hearing all that
people told me. I had not noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed
to me that I had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really
under the influence of the opium. There was very little for me to say in
the fifth act, and I went through that perfectly well. The following day
the accounts in the papers sounded the praises of our company, but the
piece itself was criticised. I was afraid at first that my involuntary
omission of the important scene in the third act was one of the causes
of the severity of the Press. This was not so, though, as all the
critics had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself,
and did not mention my slip of memory.
The _Figaro_, which was in a very bad humour with me just then, had an
article from which I quote the following extract:
“_L’Etrangère_ is not a piece in accordance with the English taste.
Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically, and so were
Coquelin and Febvre. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, nervous as usual, lost her
memory.” (_Figaro_, June 3rd.)
He knew perfectly well, this worthy Mr. Johnson,[3] that I was very ill.
He had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot; consequently he was aware
that I was acting in spite of the Faculty in the interests of the
Comédie Française. The English public had given me such proofs of
appreciation that the Comédie was rather affected by it, and the
_Figaro_, which was at that time the organ of the Théâtre Français,
requested Johnson to modify his praises of me. This he did the whole
time that we were in London.
Footnote 3:
T. Johnson, London correspondent of _Le Figaro_.
My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was quite an
unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to authors how
unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining the characters of
their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly anxious to give us the
reasons which caused Mrs. Clarkson to act as strangely as she did. He
had created a person who was extremely interesting and full of action as
the play proceeds. She reveals herself to the public, in the first act,
by the lines which Mrs. Clarkson says to Madame de Septmonts:
“I should be very glad, Madame, if you would call on me. We could talk
about one of your friends, Monsieur Gérard, whom I love perhaps as much
as you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as he does for you.”
That was quite enough to interest the public in these two women. It was
the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat between vice and
virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace to Dumas, ancient
history, in fact, and he wanted to rejuvenate the old theme by trying to
arrange for an orchestra with organ and banjo. The result he obtained
was a fearful cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been
a beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his ideas,
and the brutality of his humour sufficed for rejuvenating old ideas
which, in reality, are the eternal basis of tragedies, comedies, novels,
pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was love between vice and virtue.
Among the spectators who saw the first performance of _L’Etrangère_ in
London, and there were quite as many French as English present, not one
remarked that there was something wanting, and not one of them said that
he had not understood the character.
I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman.
“Did you notice the gap in the third act?” I asked him.
“No,” he replied.
“In my big scene with Croizette?”
“No.”
“Well then, read what I left out,” I insisted.
When he had read this he exclaimed:
“So much the better. It’s very dull, all that story, and quite useless.
I understand the character without all that rigmarole and that romantic
history.”
Later on, when I apologised to Dumas _fils_ for the way in which I had
cut down his play, he answered, “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play
I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when
any one tells it to me I think it is perfect, as the person always
forgets half of it.”
The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to
the Gaiety Theatre, and I remained the favourite. I mention this now
with pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful
for my success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of
it, and hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.
Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able
to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had
therefore taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I
had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a
hundred in all.
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales let me know that he would come
with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities
of London came to the inauguration. I had only sent out a hundred
invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived and were introduced to
me. I was delighted, and enjoyed it all immensely.
Mr. Gladstone did me the great honour of talking to me for about ten
minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly
gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain
clergymen on the Comédie Française and the damnable profession of
dramatic artistes had made on me. I answered that I considered our art
quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and Protestant
preachers.
“But will you tell me, Mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what moral lesson
you can draw from _Phèdre_?”
“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me. _Phèdre_ is an ancient
tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to perspective
quite different from ours and different from the morality of our present
society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old nurse Œnone,
who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent person. The love
of Phèdre is excusable on account of the fatality which hangs over her
family and descends pitilessly upon her. In our times we should call
that fatality atavism, for Phèdre was the daughter of Minos and
Pasiphaë. As to Theseus, his verdict, against which there could be no
appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and was punished by the
death of that beloved son of his, who was the sole and last hope of his
life. We ought never to do what is irreparable.”
“Ah,” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital punishment?”
“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.”
“And quite right, Mademoiselle.”
Frederic Leighton then joined us, and with great kindness complimented
me on one of my pictures, representing a young girl holding some palms.
This picture was bought by Prince Leopold.
My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought that it
was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many cowardly side-
thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with the Comédie Française.
[Illustration:
“OPHELIA,” SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT
]
I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptress, and I
exhibited my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to buy two
little lions, and had not money enough. I sold the pictures for what
they were worth—that is to say, at very modest prices.
Lady H—— bought my group _After the Storm_. It was smaller than the
large group I had exhibited two years previously at the Paris Salon, and
for which I had received a prize. The smaller group was in marble, and I
had worked at it with the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for £160,
but Lady H—— sent me £400, together with a charming note, which I
venture to quote. It ran as follows:
“Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed £400 for your
admirable group, _After the Storm_. Will you also do me the honour of
coming to lunch with me, and afterwards you shall choose for yourself
the place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.—ETHEL
H.”
This was Tuesday, and I was playing in Zaïre that evening, but
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting. I had money enough now
to buy my lions, so without saying a word at the theatre I started for
Liverpool. I knew there was a big menagerie there, Cross’s Zoo, and that
I should find some lions for sale.
The journey was most amusing, as although I was travelling incognito, I
was recognised all along the route and was made a great deal of.
Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with me, and it was a
very lively little trip. I knew that I was not shirking my duties at the
Comédie, as I was not to play again before Saturday, and this was only
Wednesday.
We started in the morning at 10.30, and arrived at Liverpool about 2.30.
We went at once to Cross’s, but could not find the entrance to the
house. We asked a shopkeeper at the corner of the street, and he pointed
to a little door which we had already opened and closed twice, as we
could not believe that was the entrance.
I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond, and we
were in front of a little door leading into quite a small, bare-looking
room, where we found a little man.
“Mr. Cross?” we said.
“That’s my name,” he replied.
“I want to buy some lions,” I then said.
He began to laugh, and then he asked:
“Do you really, Mademoiselle? Are you so fond of animals? I went to
London last week to see the Comédie Française, and I saw you in
_Hernani_.”
“It wasn’t from that you discovered that I like animals?” I said to him.
“No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew’s Street who told me. He
said you had bought two dogs from him, and that if it had not been for a
gentleman who was with you, you would have bought five.”
He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal of humour.
“Well, Mr. Cross,” I said, “I want two lions to-day.”
“I’ll show you what I have,” he replied, leading the way into the
courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what magnificent creatures
they were! There were two superb African lions with shining coats and
powerful-looking tails, which were beating the air. They had only just
arrived and they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for
rebellion. They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating
stigma of civilised beings.
“Oh, Mr. Cross,” I said, “these are too big. I want some young lions!”
“I haven’t any, Mademoiselle.”
“Well, then, show me all your animals.”
I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the cheetahs, the pumas,
and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore them, and I
should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That has always been one of
my dreams, and perhaps some day I shall be able to realise it.
Cross had not any, though, so I bought a cheetah. It was quite young and
very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some castle of the Middle Ages.
I also bought a dog-wolf, all white with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and
spear-like teeth. He was terrifying to look at. Mr. Cross made me a
present of six chameleons which belonged to a small breed and looked
like lizards. He also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric,
fabulous sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity, and
changed colour from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute slender and
long like a lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out and thick-set
like a toad. Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a lobster, were quite
independent of each other. With its right eye it would look ahead and
with its left eye it looked backwards. I was delighted and quite
enthusiastic over this present. I named my chameleon “Cross-ci Cross-
ça,” in honour of Mr. Cross.
We returned to London with the cheetah in a cage, the dog-wolf in a
leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and Cross-ci Cross-ça on my
shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had bought at a jeweller’s.
I had not found any lions, but I was delighted all the same.
My servants were not as pleased as I was. There were already three dogs
in the house: Minniccio, who had accompanied me from Paris; Bull and
Fly, bought in London. Then there was my parrot Bizibouzou, and my
monkey Darwin.