the heart with gaiety. The broad English hospitality, which is
manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of
the men, which compares favourably with the wit of Frenchmen; and their
gallantry, much more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left
no regrets in me for French gallantry.
But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud, and our windows
opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows. I find also that
nothing marks more clearly the difference of character of the two
nations than their respective windows. Ours open wide; the sun enters in
our houses even to the heart of the dwelling; the air sweeps away all
the dust and all the microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply as
they open.
English windows open only half-way, either the top half or the bottom
half. One may even have the pleasure of opening them a little at the top
and a little at the bottom, but not at all in the middle. The sun cannot
enter openly, nor the air. The window keeps its selfish and perfidious
character. I hate the English windows. But now I love London and—is
there any need to add?—its inhabitants.
Since my first visit I have returned there twenty-one times, and the
public has always remained faithful and affectionate.
XXXI
A TOUR IN DENMARK—ROYAL FAMILIES—THE “TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS” OF SARAH
BERNHARDT
After this first test of my freedom I felt more sure of life than
before. Although I was very weak of constitution, the possibility of
doing as I wanted without hindrance and without control calmed my
nervous system, and my health, which had been weakened by perpetual
irritations and by excessive work, was improved. I reposed on the
laurels which I had gathered myself, and I slept better. Sleeping
better, I commenced to eat better. And great was the astonishment of my
little court when they saw their idol come back from London round and
rosy.
I remained several days in Paris; then I set out for Brussels, where I
was to play _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and _Froufrou_.
The Belgian public——by which I mean the Brussels public——is the one most
like our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am in a strange country.
Our language is the language of the country; the horses and carriages
are always in perfect taste; the fashionable women resemble our own
fashionable women; _cocottes_ abound; the hotels are as good as in
Paris; the cab-horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful.
Brussels is gossiping Paris in miniature.
I played for the first time at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, and I felt
uncomfortable in that immense and frigid house. But the benevolent
enthusiasm of the public soon warmed me, and I shall never forget the
four performances I gave there.
Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances at
the Theatre Royal.
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT
IN TRAVELLING COSTUME (1880)
]
Our arrival, which doubtless was anxiously expected, really frightened
me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled in the station
when the train came in gave a hurrah so terrible that I did not know
what was happening. But when M. de Fallesen, manager of the Theatre
Royal, and the First Chamberlain of the King entered my compartment, and
begged me to show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the
public, the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful
anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure, rise to
what was expected from me. My slender frame would inspire disdain in
those magnificent men and those splendid and healthy women. I stepped
out of the train so diminished by comparison that I had the sensation of
being nothing more than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive
to the police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a wide path for my
carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic
sight-seers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to
me. In the course of my long career I have had many triumphs,
receptions, and ovations, but my reception by the Danish people remains
one of my most cherished memories. The living hedge lasted till we
reached the Hôtel d’Angleterre, where I went in, after thanking once
more the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.
In the evening the King, the Queen, and their daughter, the Princess of
Wales, were present at the first performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_.
This is what the _Figaro_ of August 16, 1880, said:
“Sarah Bernhardt has played _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ with a tremendous
success before a magnificent audience. The royal family, the King and
the Queen of the Hellenes, as well as the Princess of Wales, were
present at the performance. The Queens threw their bouquets to the
French artiste, amidst applause. It was an unprecedented triumph. The
public was delirious. To-morrow _Froufrou_ will be played.”
The performance of _Froufrou_ was equally successful. But as I was only
playing every other day, I wanted to visit Elsinore. The King placed the
royal steamer at my disposal for this little journey.
I had invited all my company.
M. de Fallesen, the First Chamberlain, and manager of the Theatre Royal,
had ordered a magnificent lunch for us, and accompanied by the principal
notabilities of Denmark, we visited Hamlet’s tomb, the spring of
Ophelia, and the castle of Marienlyst. Then we went over the castle of
Kronborg. I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come up
to the expectation. The so-called tomb of Hamlet is represented by a
small column, ugly and mournful-looking; there is little verdure, and
the desolate sadness of deceit without beauty. They gave me a little
water from the spring of Ophelia to drink, and the Baron de Fallesen
broke the glass, without allowing any one else to drink from the spring.
I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather sad. Leaning
against the side of the vessel, I watched the water gliding past, when I
noticed a few rose petals on the surface. Carried by an invisible
current, they were borne against the sides of the boat; then the petals
increased to thousands, and in the mysterious sunset rose the melodious
chant of the sons of the North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on
the water by the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails;
a score of young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters, which
were carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing the marvellous
legends of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all
that love, all that musical poetry. And that setting sun was also for
me. And in this fleeting moment, which brought all the beauty of life
near to me, I felt myself very near to God.
The following day, at the close of the performance, the King sent for me
to come into the royal box, and he decorated me with a very pretty Order
of Merit adorned with diamonds. He kept me some time in his box, asking
me about different things. I was presented to the Queen, and I noticed
immediately that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather embarrassed, but
the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She was beautiful, but much less
so than her lovely sister the Princess of Wales. Oh, that adorable and
seductive face—with the eyes of a child of the North, and classic
features of virginal purity, a long, supple neck that seemed made for
queenly bows, a sweet and almost timid smile. The indefinable charm of
this Princess made her so radiant that I saw nothing but her, and I went
from the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a poor opinion of my
intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark and Greece.
The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand supper.
Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very charming manner for the
“French week” which we had given in Denmark.
Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the press, very
short but very sympathetic. Our Ambassador in a few courteous words
thanked Robert Walt, and then, to the general surprise, Baron Magnus,
the Prussian Minister, rose, and in a loud voice, turning to me, he
said, “I drink to France, which gives us such great artistes! To France,
la belle France, whom we all love so much!”
Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French men and women
were still suffering; their wounds were not healed.
Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had from the time of my
arrival in Copenhagen sent me flowers with his card. I had sent back the
flowers, and begged an _attaché_ of the English Embassy, Sir Francis ——,
I believe, to ask the German baron not to renew his gifts. The Baron
laughed good-naturedly, and waited for me as I came out of my hotel. He
came to me with outstretched hands, and spoke kindly and reasonable
words. Everybody was looking at us, and I was embarrassed. It was
evident that he was a kind man. I thanked him, touched in spite of
myself by his frankness, and I went away quite undecided as to what I
really felt. Twice he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but
only bowed as I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity
of this amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper, when I saw
him take the attitude of an orator, I felt myself grow pale. He had
barely finished his little speech when I jumped to my feet and cried,
“Let us drink to France, but to the whole of France, Monsieur
l’Ambassadeur de Prusse!” I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical
without intending it.
It was like a thunderbolt.
The orchestra of the court, which was placed in the upper gallery, began
playing the “Marseillaise.” At this time the Danes hated the Germans.
The supper-room was suddenly deserted as if by enchantment.
I went up to my rooms, not wishing to be questioned. I had gone too far.
Anger had made me say more than I intended. Baron Magnus did not deserve
this thrust of mine. And also my instinct forewarned me of results to
follow. I went to bed angry with myself, with the Baron, and with all
the world.
About five o’clock in the morning I commenced to doze, when I was
awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I heard some one knocking at
the door of the _salon_. I called my maid, who woke her husband, and he
went to open the door. An _attaché_ from the French Embassy was waiting
to speak to me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea-gown and went
to see the visitor.
“I beg you,” he said, “to write a note immediately to explain that the
words you said were not meant. The Baron Magnus, whom we all respect, is
in a very awkward situation and we are all upset about it. Prince
Bismarck is not to be trifled with, and it may be very serious for the
Baron.”
“Oh, I assure you, Monsieur, I am a hundredfold more unhappy about it
than you, for the Baron is a good and charming man. He lacked political
tact, and in this case it is excusable, because I am not a woman of
politics. I was lacking in coolness. I would give my right hand to
repair the ill.”
“We don’t ask you for so much as that, as it would spoil the beauty of
your gestures!” (He was French, you see.) “Here is the rough copy of a
letter. Will you take it, rewrite it, sign it, and everything will be at
an end?”
But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave twisted and
rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it, and after several attempts
to rewrite it I gave up in despair and did nothing.
Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in addition to the
royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody had heard the amiable but
awkward speech of the Baron. I had replied in a very excited manner. The
public and the Press had all been witnesses of my _algarade_; we were
the victims of our own foolishness, the Baron and myself. If such a
thing were to happen at the present time I should not care a pin for
public opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in
order to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that time I was
very nervous and uncompromisingly patriotic. And also, perhaps, I
thought I was some one of importance. Since then life has taught me that
if one is to be famous it can only really become manifest after death.
To-day I am going down the hill of life, and I regard gaily all the
pedestals on which I have been lifted up, and there have been so many,
so many of them that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had
raised them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on life,
happy with what has been and attentive to what will be.
My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant no harm, and this incident
has always left in me a feeling of remorse and chagrin.
I left Copenhagen amidst applause and the repeated cries of “Vive la
France!” From all the windows hung the French flag, fluttering in the
breeze, and I felt that this was not only _for_ me, but _against_
Germany—I was sure of it.
Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united, and I am not
certain that several Danes do not still bear me ill-will because of this
incident of the Baron Magnus.
I came back to Paris to make final preparations for my journey to
America. I was to set sail on October 15.
One day in August I was having a reception of all my friends, who came
to see me in full force, because I was about to set out for a long
journey.
Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal Canrobert,
Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the beautiful Augusta Holmes,
Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskjold, O’Connor, and other friends. I chatted
gaily, happy to be surrounded by so many kind and intellectual friends.
Girardin did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this journey
to America. He had been the friend of Rachel, and told me the sad end of
her journey.
Arthur Meyer was of opinion that I ought always to do what I thought
best. The other friends discussed the subject. That admirable man, whom
France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much he should miss and
regret those intimate _causeries_ at our five o’clock teas.
“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our affectionate
selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the
strife. She is of a combative nature.”
“Ah yes!” I cried. “Yes, I am born for strife, I feel it. Nothing
pleases me like having to master a public, perhaps hostile, who have
read and heard all that the Press has said against me. But I am sorry
that I cannot play, not only in Paris but in all France, my two big
successes, _Adrienne_ and _Froufrou_.”
“As to that, you can count on me!” exclaimed Félix Duquesnel. “My dear
Sarah, you had your first successes with me, and it is with me that you
will have your last....”
Everybody protested, and I jumped up.
“Wait one moment,” said he. “Last successes until you come back from
America! If you will consent, you can count on me for everything. I will
obtain, at any price, theatres in all the large towns, and we will give
twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to financial
arrangements, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five
performances—fifty thousand francs. To-morrow I will give you one half
of this sum, and sign a contract with you, so that you will not have
time to change your mind.”
I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged
Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, an itinerary of the tour,
for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had gained
laurels in England, Belgium, and Denmark.
Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was
settled that their visits should be drawn by lot from a little bag, and
each town marked with the date and the name of the play.
A week later Duquesnel, with whom I had signed a contract, returned with
the tour mapped out and all the company engaged. It was almost
miraculous.
The performances were to commence on Saturday, September 4, and there
were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day of
departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which
caused this tour to be called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah
Bernhardt,” like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to
accomplish his military service.
The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more
than during this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organised excursions and
_fêtes_ outside the towns.
At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the
sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates
and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, &c.,
had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections,
and the mayors had prepared visits to the churches and celebrated
buildings.
When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters,
each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked.
I hate seeing public buildings and having them explained to me. I know
most of the public sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt
inclined and with my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other
buildings, I find them very tiresome. I cannot help it—it really wearies
me to see them.
I can admire their outline in passing, or when I see them silhouetted
against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will
not go. The idea of entering these cold spaces, while some one explains
their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings
with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over
highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the
left wing that they would have done better to let crumble to ruins; to
have some one express wonder at the depth of some moat which once upon a
time used to be full of water, but is now as dry as the east wind—all
that is so tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood
I have always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all
buildings higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I
positively adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct
the horizon. I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a
hundred times rather they had never been built.
I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who
had been so obliging. We passed two hours over this task, and on
September 3, I set out, free, joyful, and content.
My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the
lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding
country from all the towns in which I played.
I came back to Paris on September 30, and had only just time to prepare
for my journey to America. I had only been a week in Paris when I had a
visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Variétés. His
brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond
Deslandes.
I did not know Eugène Bertrand, but I received him at once, for we had
mutual friends.
“What are you going to do when you come back from America?” he asked me,
after we had exchanged greetings.
“I really don’t know. Nothing. I have not thought of anything.”
“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your
reappearance in Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s, I will sign with
you at once for the Vaudeville.”
“Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond
Deslandes is the manager, and he hates me like poison because I ran away
from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play _Un
mari qui lance sa femme_. His play was ridiculous, and I was even more
ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady addicted to
dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage me!”
He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My
brother—to put it plainly—is myself. All the money put in the affair by
us is mine. I am the sole master. What salary do you want?”
“But—— I really don’t know.”
“Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?”
I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right
mind.
“But, Monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot
agree to that.”
“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will be a success—a
colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty
performances!”
“Oh no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of
Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend
on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign, and thank you for
your confidence.”
At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they
were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my
resignation (from the Comédie Française).
I was to leave Paris in three days. My heart was sore at the idea of
leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons. But in these Memoirs I have
put on one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There is one
family “me” which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows,
joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts.
But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other
skies.
I left my little boy with my uncle, who had five boys of his own. His
wife was rather a strict Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise,
their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me
to be on the watch, and to let me know at once if there was anything I
ought to know.
Up to the last moment people in Paris did not believe that I would
really go. My health was so uncertain that it seemed folly to undertake
such a journey. But when it became absolutely certain that I was going,
there was a general concert of spiteful reproaches. The hue and cry of
my enemies was in full swing. I have now under my eyes these specimens
of insanity, calumnies, lies, and stupidities; burlesque portraits,
doleful pleasantries; good-byes to the Darling, the Idol, the Star, the
Zimm! boum! boum! &c. &c. It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was
confounded. I did not read the greater part of these articles, but my
secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little note-
books, whether favourable or unfavourable. It was my godfather who had
commenced doing this when I entered the Conservatoire, and after his
death I had it continued.
Happily, I find in these thousands of lines fine and noble words—words
written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Vallès, Jules
Lemaître, &c.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed
Victor Hugo, François Coppée, Richepin, Haraucourt, Henri de Bornier,
Catulle Mendès, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.
I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies, but
I confess that the kind appreciation and praises accorded me by the
superior minds afforded me infinite joy.
XXXII
EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HÂVRE TO NEW YORK
The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and
other successes was named _L’Amérique_. It was the unlucky boat, the
boat that was haunted by the gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents,
and storms had been its lot. It had been blockaded for months with its
keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat, and
it had foundered on the shores of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set
afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Hâvre
roadstead, but no great damage was done. The poor boat had had a
celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous.
In 1876 or 1877 a new pumping system was adopted, and although this
system had been in use by the English for a long time, it was quite
unknown aboard French boats. The captain very wisely decided to have
these pumps worked by his crew, so that in case of any danger the men
should be ready to manipulate them easily.
The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of the men
came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling with
water, and no one could discover the cause of it. “Go on pumping!”
shouted the captain. “Hurry up! Pump away!” The pumps were worked
frantically, and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the
captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the passengers
safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after,
tried the pumps, which worked admirably, but in the contrary way to that
indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the Compagnie
Transatlantique £48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to run the
ship again and passengers refused to go by it, they offered my
_impresario_, Mr. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very
intelligent he was, for, in spite of all prognostications, nothing
further happened to the boat.
I had hitherto travelled very little, and I was wild with delight.