his stature and handsome face doomed him to play the parts of kings,
emperors, and tyrants. As long as the rehearsals went on Charlemagne or
Cæsar could be heard swearing at tyrants, cursing the conquerors, and
claiming the hardest punishments for them. I thoroughly enjoyed this
struggle between the man and the actor. Perhaps this perpetual
abstraction from himself gives the comedian a more feminine nature.
However that may be, it is certain that the actor is jealous of the
actress. The courtesy of the well-educated man vanishes before the
footlights, and the comedian who in private life would render a service
to a woman in any difficulty will pick a quarrel with her on the stage.
He would risk his life to save her from any danger in the road, on the
railway, or in a boat, but when once on the boards he will not do
anything to help her out of a difficulty. If her memory should fail, or
if she should make a false step, he would not hesitate to push her. I am
going a long way, perhaps, but not so far as people may think. I have
performed with some celebrated comedians who have played me some bad
tricks. On the other hand, there are some actors who are admirable, and
who are more men than comedians when on the stage. Pierre Berton, Worms,
and Guitry are, and always will be, the most perfect models of friendly
and protecting courtesy towards the woman comedian. I have played in a
number of pieces with each of them, and, subject as I am to stage
fright, I have always felt perfect confidence when acting with these
three artistes. I knew that their intelligence was of a high order, that
they had pity on me for my fright, and that they would be prepared for
any nervous weaknesses caused by it. Pierre Berton and Worms, both of
them very great artistes, left the stage in full artistic vigour and
vital strength, Pierre Berton to devote himself to literature, and
Worms—no one knows why. As to Guitry, much the youngest of the three, he
is now the first artist on the French stage, for he is an admirable
comedian and at the same time an artist, a very rare thing. I know very
few artistes in France or in other countries with these two qualities
combined. Henry Irving was an admirable artist, but not a comedian.
Coquelin is an admirable comedian, but he is not an artist. Mounet-Sully
has genius, which he sometimes places at the service of the artist and
sometimes at the service of the comedian; but, on the other hand, he
sometimes gives us exaggerations as artist and comedian which make
lovers of beauty and truth gnash their teeth. Bartet is a perfect
_comédienne_ with a very delicate artistic sense. Réjane is the most
comedian of comedians, and an artist when she wishes to be.
Eleonora Duse is more a comedian than an artist; she walks in paths that
have been traced out by others; she does not imitate them, certainly
not, for she plants flowers where there were trees, and trees where
there were flowers; but she has never by her art made a single personage
stand out identified by her name; she has not created a being or a
vision which reminds one of herself. She puts on other people’s gloves,
but she puts them on inside out. And all this she has done with infinite
grace and with careless unconsciousness. She is a great comedian, a very
great comedian, but not a great artist.
Novelli is a comedian of the old school which did not trouble much about
the artistic side. He is perfect in laughter and tears. Beatrice Patrick
Campbell is especially an artist, and her talent is that of charm and
thought: she execrates beaten paths; she wants to create, and she
creates. Antoine is often betrayed by his own powers, for his voice is
heavy and his general appearance rather ordinary. As a comedian there is
therefore often much to be desired, but he is always an artist without
equal, and our art owes much to him in its evolution in the direction of
truth. Antoine, too, is not jealous of the actress.
XXX
MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANAÇISE—PREPARATIONS FOR MY FIRST
AMERICAN TOUR—ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON
The days which followed the return of the Comédie to its own home were
very trying for me. Our manager wanted to subdue me, and he tortured me
with a thousand little pin-pricks which were much more painful for a
nature like mine than so many stabs with a knife. (At least I imagine
so, as I have never had any.) I became irritable, bad-tempered on the
slightest provocation, and was in fact ill. I had always been gay, and
now I was sad. My health, which had ever been feeble, was endangered by
this state of chaos.
Perrin gave me the _rôle_ of the _Aventurière_ to study. I detested the
piece, and did not like the part, and I considered the lines of
_L’Aventurière_ very bad poetry indeed. As I cannot dissimulate well, in
a fit of temper I said this straight out to Emile Augier, and he avenged
himself in a most discourteous way on the first opportunity that
presented itself. This was on the occasion of my definite rupture with
the Comédie Française, the day after the first performance of
_L’Aventurière_ on Saturday, April 17, 1880. I was not ready to play my
part, and the proof of this was a letter I wrote to M. Perrin on April
14, 1880.
“I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin,” I said, “but I have
such a sore throat that I cannot speak, and am obliged to stay in bed.
Will you kindly excuse me? It was at that wretched Trocadéro that I
took cold on Sunday. I am very much worried, as I know it will cause
you inconvenience. Anyhow, I will be ready for Saturday, whatever
happens. A thousand excuses and kind regards.
“SARAH BERNHARDT.”
I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat, but I had
not studied my part during the three days, as I could not speak. I had
not been able to try on my costumes either, as I had been in bed all the
time. On Friday I went to ask Perrin to put off the performance of
_L’Aventurière_ until the next week. He replied that it was impossible;
that every seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the
following Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be persuaded
to act, as I had confidence in my star.
“Oh,” I said to myself, “I shall get through it all right.”
I did not get through it, though, or rather I came through it very
badly. My costume was a failure; it did not fit me. They had always
jeered at me for my thinness, and in this dress I looked like an English
tea-pot. My voice was still rather hoarse, which very much disconcerted
me. I played the first part of the _rôle_ very badly, and the second
part rather better. At a certain moment during the scene of violence I
was standing up resting my two hands on the table, on which there was a
lighted candelabra. There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair was
very near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said that,
as I felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on fire
so that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely. That
was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The Press did not praise me,
and the Press was quite right. I had played badly, looked ugly, and been
in a bad temper, but I considered that there was nevertheless a want of
courtesy and indulgence with regard to me. Auguste Vitu, in the _Figaro_
of April 18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase: “The new
Clorinde (the Adventuress) in the last two acts made some gestures with
her arms and movements of her body which one regrets to see taken from
Virginie of _L’Assommoir_ and introduced at the Comédie Française.” The
only fault which I never have had, which I never shall have, is
vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination to hurt my
feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood from this way of
attacking me that petty hatreds were lifting up their rattlesnake heads.
All the low-down, little viper world was crawling about under my flowers
and my laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and
sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted to have the
enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together, and so I threw my laurels
and my flowers to the four winds of heaven. In the most abrupt way I
broke the contract which bound me to the Comédie Française, and through
that to Paris.
I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions with
myself I decided to send in my resignation to the Comédie. I therefore
wrote to M. Perrin this letter:
“TO THE DIRECTOR.
“You have compelled me to play when I was not ready. You have only
allowed me eight rehearsals on the stage, and the play has been
rehearsed in its entirety only three times. I was unwilling to appear
before the public. You insisted absolutely. What I foresaw has
happened. The result of the performance has surpassed my
anticipations. A critic pretended that I played Virginie of
_L’Assommoir_ instead of Dona Clorinde of _L’Aventurière_. May Emile
Augier and Zola absolve me! It is my first rebuff at the Comédie; it
shall be my last. I warned you on the day of the dress rehearsal. You
have gone too far. I keep my word. By the time you receive this letter
I shall have left Paris. Will you kindly accept my immediate
resignation, and believe me
“Yours sincerely,
“SARAH BERNHARDT.”
In order that this resignation might not be refused at the committee
meeting, I sent copies of my letter to the _Gaulois_ and the _Figaro_,
and it was published at the same time as M. Perrin received it.
Then, quite decided not to be influenced by anybody, I set off at once
with my maid for Hâvre. I had left orders that no one was to be told
where I was, and the first evening I was there I passed in strict
incognito. But the next morning I was recognised, and telegrams were
sent to Paris to that effect. I was besieged by reporters.
I took refuge at La Hêve, where I spent the whole day on the beach, in
spite of the cold rain which fell unceasingly.
I went back to the Hôtel Frascati frozen, and in the night I was so
feverish that Dr. Gibert was requested to call. Madame Guérard, who was
sent for by my alarmed maid, came at once. I was feverish for two days.
During this time the newspapers continued to pour out a flood of ink on
paper. This turned to bitterness, and I was accused of the worst
misdeeds. The committee sent a _huissier_ to my hotel in the Avenue de
Villiers, and this man declared that after having knocked three times at
the door and having received no answer, he had left copy, &c. &c.
This man was lying. In the hotel there were my son and his tutor, my
steward, the husband of my maid, my butler, the cook, the kitchen-maid,
the second lady’s maid, and five dogs; but it was all in vain that I
protested against this minion of the law; it was useless.
The Comédie must, according to the rules, send me three summonses. This
was not done, and a law-suit was commenced against me. It was lost in
advance.
Maître Allou, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented wicked
little histories about me. He took pleasure in trying to make me
ridiculous. He had a big file of letters from me to Perrin, letters
which I had written in softer moments or in anger. Perrin had kept them
all, even the shortest notes. I had kept none of his. The few letters
from Perrin to myself which have been published were given by him from
his letter-copy book. Of course, he only showed those which could
inspire the public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me, &c. &c.
The pleading of Maître Allou was very, successful: he claimed three
hundred thousand francs damages, in addition to the confiscation for the
benefit of the Comédie Française of the forty-three thousand francs
which that theatre owed me.
Maître Barboux was my advocate. He was an intimate friend of Perrin. He
defended me very indifferently. I was condemned to pay a hundred
thousand francs to the Comédie Française and to lose the forty-three
thousand francs which I had left with the management. I may say that I
did not trouble much about this law-suit.
Three days after my resignation Jarrett called upon me. He proposed to
me, for the third time, to make a contract for America. This time I lent
an ear to his propositions. We had never spoken about terms, and this is
what he proposed:
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT (1879)
]
Five thousand francs for each performance and one-half of the receipts
above fifteen thousand francs; that is to say, the day the receipts
reached the sum of twenty thousand francs I should receive seven
thousand five hundred francs. In addition, one thousand francs per week
for my hotel bill; also a special Pullman car, on all railway journeys,
containing a bedroom, a drawing-room with a piano, four beds for my
staff, and two cooks to cook for me on the way. Mr. Jarrett was to have
ten per cent. on all sums received by me.
I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett immediately
sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American _impresario_, and he
landed on this side thirteen days later. I signed the contract made by
Jarrett, which was discussed clause by clause with the American manager.
I was given, on signing the contract, one hundred thousand francs as
advance payment for my expenses before departure. I was to play eight
pieces: _Hernani_, _Phèdre_, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame
aux Camélias_, _Le Sphinx_, _L’Etrangère_, and _La Princesse Georges_.
I ordered twenty-five modern dresses at Laferrière’s, of whom I was then
a customer.
At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and four
costumes for _Hernani_. I ordered from a young theatre _costumier_ named
Lepaul my costume for _Phèdre_. These thirty-six costumes cost me sixty-
one thousand francs; but out of this my costume for _Phèdre_ alone cost
four thousand francs. The poor _artist-costumier_ had embroidered it
himself. It was a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my
departure, and I cannot think of this moment without emotion. Irritated
by long waiting, I was writing an angry letter to the _costumier_ when
he was announced. At first I received him very badly, but I found him
looking so unwell, the poor man, that I made him sit down and asked how
he came to be so ill.
“Yes, I am not at all well,” he said in such a weak voice that I was
quite upset. “I wanted to finish this dress, and I have worked at it
three days and nights. But look how nice your costume is!” And he spread
it out with loving respect before me.
“Look!” remarked Guérard, “a little spot!”
“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor artist quickly.
But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his
lips. He wiped it quickly away, so that it should not fall on the pretty
costume as the other little spot had done. I gave the artist the four
thousand francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some
unintelligible words and withdrew.
“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to _mon petit Dame_ and
my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccoughs all the evening.
Nobody understood why I was crying. But I reproached myself bitterly for
having worried the poor man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the
force of circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the
chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of twenty-
two—this artist with a future before him.
I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box, yellowed with
age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and the little spot of
blood has slightly eaten away the stuff. As to the poor artist, I learnt
of his death during my stay in London in the month of May, for before
leaving for America I signed with Hollingshead and Mayer, the
_impresarii_ of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from May
24 to June 24 (1880).
It was during this period that the law-suit which the Comédie Française
brought against me was decided.
Maître Barboux did not consult me about anything, and my success in
London, which was achieved without the help of the Comédie, irritated
the committee, the Press, and the public.
Maître Allou in his pleadings pretended that the London public had tired
of me very quickly, and did not care to come to the performances of the
Comédie in which I appeared.
The following list gives the best possible denial to the assertions of
Maître Allou:
PERFORMANCES GIVEN BY THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE
(The * indicates the pieces in which I appeared.)
1879. Plays. Receipts
in
Francs.
June 2. Le Misanthrope (Prologue); Phèdre (Acte II.); Les
Précieuses Ridicules *13,080
„ 3. L’Etrangère *12,565
„ 4. Le Fils naturel 9,300
„ 5. Les Caprices de Marianne; La Joie fait Peur 10,100
„ 6. Le Menteur; Le Médecin malgré lui 9,530
„ 7. Le Marquis de Villemer 9,960
„ 7. Tartufe (matinée); La Joie fait Peur 8,700
„ 9. Hernani *13,600
„ 10. Le Demi-monde 11,525
„ 11. Mlle. de Belle-Isle; Il faut qu’une porte soit
ouverte ou fermée 10,420
„ 12. Le Post-Scriptum; Le Gendre de M. Poirier 10,445
„ 13. Phèdre *13,920
„ 14. Le Luthier de Crémône; Le Sphinx *13,350
„ 14. Le Misanthrope (matinée); Les Plaideurs 8,800
„ 16. L’Ami Fritz 9,375
„ 17. Zaïre; Les Précieuses Ridicules *13,075
„ 18. Le Jeu de l’amour et du hasard; Il ne faut jurer de
rien 11,550
„ 18. Le Demi-monde 12,160
„ 20. Les Fourchambault 11,200
„ 21. Hernani *13,375
„ 21. Tartufe (matinée); Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte
ou fermée 2,115
„ 23. Gringoire; On ne badine pas avec l’amour 11,080
„ 24. Chez l’avocat; Mlle. de la Seiglière 9,660
„ 25. L’Etrangère (matinée) *11,710
„ 25. Le Barbier de Seville 9,180
„ 26. Andromaque; Les Plaideurs *13,350
„ 27. L’Avare; L’Etincelle 11,775
„ 28. Le Sphinx; Le Dépit amoureux *12,860
„ 28. Hernani (matinée) *13,730
„ 30. Ruy Blas *13,660
July 1. Mercadet; L’Eté de la St. Martin 9,850
„ 2. Ruy Blas *13,160
„ 3. Le Mariage de Victorine; Les Fourberies de Scapin 10,165
„ 4. Les Femmes savantes; L’Etincelle 11,960
„ 5. Les Fourchambault 10,700
„ 5. Phèdre (matinée); La Joie fait Peur *14,265
„ 7. Le Marquis de Villemer 10,565
„ 8. L’Ami Fritz 11,005
„ 9. Hernani *14,275
„ 10. Le Sphinx *13,775
„ 11. Philiberte; L’Etourdi 11,500
„ 12. Ruy Blas *12,660
„ 12. Gringoire (matinée); Hernani (Acte V.);La
Bénédiction; Davenant; L’Etincelle *13,725
Total receipts 492,150 francs
The average of the receipts was about 11,715 francs. These figures show
that, out of the forty-three performances given by the Comédie
Française, the eighteen performances in which I took part gave an
average of 13,350 francs each, while the twenty-five other performances
gave an average of 10,000 francs.
* * * * *
While I was in London I learned that I had lost my law-suit. “The
Court—with its ‘Inasmuch as,’ ‘Nevertheless,’ &c.—declares hereby that
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt loses all the rights, privileges, and advantages,
resulting to her profit from the engagement which she contracted with
the company by authentic decree of March 24, 1875, and condemns her to
pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality the sum of one hundred
thousand francs damages.”
I gave my last performance in London the very day that the papers
published this unjust verdict. I was applauded, and the public
overwhelmed me with flowers.
I had taken with me Madame Devoyod, Mary Jullien, Kalb, my sister
Jeanne, Pierre Berton, Train, Talbot, Dieudonnée—all artistes of great
repute.
I played all the pieces which I was to play in America.
Vitu, Sarcey, Lapommeraye had said so much against me that I was
stupefied to learn from Mayer that they had arrived in London to be
present at my performances.
I could no longer understand what it all meant. I thought that the
Parisian journalists were leaving me in peace at last, and here were my
worst enemies coming across the sea to see and hear me. Perhaps they
were hoping—like the Englishman who followed the lion-tamer to see him
devoured by his lions!
Vitu in the _Figaro_ had finished one of his bitter articles with these
words:
“But we have heard enough, surely, of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt! Let her go
abroad with her monotonous voice and her funereal fantasies! Here we
have nothing new to learn from her talents or her caprices....”
Sarcey, in an equally bitter article, _à propos_ of my resignation at
the Comédie, had finished in these terms:
“There comes a time when naughty children must go to bed.”
As to the amiable Lapommeraye, he had showered on my devoted head all
the rumours that he had collected from all sides. But as they said he
had no originality, he tried to show that he also could dip his pen in
venom, and he had cried, “Pleasant journey!” And here they all came,
these three, and others with them. And the day following my first
performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, Auguste Vitu telegraphed to the
_Figaro_ a long article, in which he criticised me in certain scenes,
regretting that I had not followed the example of Rachel, whom I had
never seen. And he finished his article thus:
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT AS “ANDROMAQUE”
BY WALTER SPINDLER
]
“The sincerity of my admiration cannot be doubted when I avow that in
the fifth act Sarah Bernhardt rose to a height of dramatic power, to a
force of expression which could not be surpassed. She played the long
and cruel scene in which Adrienne, poisoned by the Duchesse de Bouillon,
struggles against death in her fearful agony, not only with immense
talent, but with a science of art which up to the present she has never
revealed. If the Parisian public had heard, or ever hears, Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt cry out with the piercing accent which she put into her words
that evening, ‘I will not die, I will not die!’ it would weep with her.”
Sarcey finished an admirable critique with these words:
“She is prodigious!”
And Lapommeraye, who had once more become amiable begged me to go back
to the Comédie, which was waiting for me, which would kill the fatted
calf on the return of its prodigal child.
Sarcey, in his article in the _Temps_, consecrated five columns of
praises to me, and finished his article with these words:
“Nothing, nothing can ever take the place of this last act of _Adrienne
Lecouvreur_ at the Comédie. Ah! she should have stayed at the Comédie.
Yes, I come back to my litany! I cannot help it! We shall lose as much
as she will. Yes, I know that we can say Mlle. Dudlay is left to us. Oh,
she will always stay with us! I cannot help saying it. What a pity! What
a pity!”
And eight days after, on June 7, he wrote in his theatrical
_feuilleton_, on the first performance of _Froufrou_:
“I do not think that the emotion at any theatre has ever been so
profound. There are, in the dramatic art, exceptional times when the
artistes are transported out of themselves, carried above themselves,
and compelled to obey this inward ‘demon’ (I should have said ‘god’),
who whispered to Corneille his immortal verses.
“‘Well,’” said I to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, after the play: “this is an
evening which will open to you, if you wish, the doors of the Comédie
Française. ‘Do not speak of it,’ said she, ‘to me. We will not speak of
it.’ But what a pity! What a pity!”
My success in _Froufrou_ was so marked that it filled the void left by
Coquelin, who, after having signed, with the consent of Perrin, with
Messrs. Mayer and Hollingshead, declared that he could not keep his
engagements. It was a nasty _coup de Jarnac_ by which Perrin hoped to
injure my London performances. He had previously sent Got to me to ask
officially if I would not come back to the Comédie. He said I should be
permitted to make my American tour, and that everything would be
arranged on my return. But he should not have sent Got. He should have
sent Worms or _le petit père Franchise_—Delaunay. The one might have
persuaded me by his affectionate reasoning and the other by the falsity
of arguments presented with such grace that it would have been difficult
to refuse.
Got declared that I should be only too happy to come back to the Comédie
on my return to America, “For you know,” he added, “you know, my little
one, that you will die in that country. And if you come back you will
perhaps be only too glad to return to the Comédie Française, for you
will be in a bad state of health, and it will take some time before you
are right again. Believe me, sign, and it is not we who will benefit by
it, but you!”
“I thank you,” I answered, “but I prefer to choose my hospital myself on
my return. And now you can go and leave me in peace.” I fancy I said,
“Get out!”
That evening he was present at a performance of _Froufrou_; he came to
my dressing-room and said:
“You had better sign, believe me! And come back to commence with
_Froufrou_! I promise you a happy return!”
I refused, and finished my performances in London without Coquelin.
The average of the receipts was nine thousand francs, and I left London
with regret—I who had left it with so much pleasure the first time. But
London is a city apart; its charm unveils little by little. The first
impression for a Frenchman or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal
_ennui_. Those tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those
ugly monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime and black and
greasy dirt; those flower-sellers at the corners of all the streets,
with faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in their hats and
lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets; the low sky; the
funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on to men just as drunken; the
wild dancing of dishevelled children round the street organs, as
numerous as the omnibuses—all that caused twenty-five years ago an
indefinite suffering to a Parisian. But little by little one finds that
the profusion of the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of
the aristocratic ladies effaces the image of the flower-sellers....