it was my first one. It had lasted seven months. The voyages I have
since undertaken were always from eleven to sixteen months.
From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy,
Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an
admirable city, but one which at that time had a sadness about it that
affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited.
After two admirable performances there and a supper at the Embassy, we
left for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to
come to a close. In that city I gave a grand professional _matinée_ at
the general demand of the actors and actresses of New York. The piece
chosen was _La Princesse Georges_.
Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was
applauded by the artistes. Nothing escaped the particular state of mind
of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and
sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair-comb was handed to me, on
which were engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From
Salvini I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at
that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal
bearing a forget-me-not in turquoises. In my dressing-room I counted one
hundred and thirty bouquets.
That evening we gave our last performance with _La Dame aux Camélias_. I
had to return and bow to the public fourteen times.
Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and
bravos I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths, which I did
not in the least understand. After each “call” I asked in the wings what
the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful
sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and
enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him,
abashed. “Yes, they want you to make a little speech.”
“Ah no!” I exclaimed, as I again went on the stage to make a bow. “No.”
And in making my bow to the public I murmured, “I cannot speak. But I
can tell you: Thank you, with all my heart!”
It was in the midst of a thunder of applause, underscored with “Hip,
hip, hurrah! _Vive la France!_” that I left the theatre.
On Wednesday, May 4, I embarked on the same Trans-atlantic steamer, the
_America_, the phantom vessel to which my journey had brought good luck.
But it had no longer the same commander. The new one’s name was
Santelli. He was as little and fair-complexioned as his predecessor was
big and dark. But he was as charming, and a nice conversationist.
Commander Jowclas blew his brains out after losing heavily at play.
My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the wood-work had been
covered in sky-blue material. On boarding the steamer I turned towards
the friendly crowd and threw them a last adieu. “_Au revoir!_” they
shouted back.
I then went towards my cabin. Standing at the door, in an elegant iron-
grey suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest style, and dog-skin
gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman of whales. I gave a cry like that
of a wild beast. He kept his joyful smile, and held out a jewel casket,
which I took with the object of throwing it into the sea through the
open port-hole. But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took possession of
the casket, which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he exclaimed, but I
had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out to the man, “Go
away! you knave! you brute! Go away! I hope you will die under atrocious
suffering! Go away!”
I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to talk to me about
the present. I would not hear anything about it.
“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since this jewel is so
fine, give it to your daughter, and do not speak to me about it any
more.” And he did so.
The evening before my departure from America I had received a long
cablegram, signed Grosos, president of the Life Saving Society at Hâvre,
asking me to give upon my arrival a performance, the proceeds of which
would be distributed among the families of the society of Life Savers. I
accepted with unspeakable joy.
On regaining my native land, I should assist in drying tears.
After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship moved slowly
off, and we left New York on Thursday the 5th of May.
Detesting sea travelling as I usually do, I set out this time with a
light heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible discomfort
caused by the voyage.
We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the vessel stopped. I
sprang out of my berth, and was soon on deck, fearing some accident to
our _Phantom_, as we had nick-named the ship. In front of us a French
boat had raised, lowered, and again raised its small flags. The captain,
who had given the replies to these signals, sent for me, and explained
to me the working and the orthography of the signals. I could not
remember anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A small boat
was lowered from the ship opposite us, and two sailors and a young man
very poorly dressed and with a pale face embarked. Our captain had the
steps lowered, the small boat was hailed, and the young man, escorted by
two sailors, came on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer
who was waiting at the top of the steps. He read it, and looking at the
young man he said quietly, “Follow me!” The small boat and the sailors
returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the whistle shrieked, and
after the usual salute the two ships continued their way. The
unfortunate young man was brought before the captain. I went away, after
asking the captain to tell me later on what was the meaning of it all,
unless it should prove to be something which had to be kept secret.
The captain came himself and told me the little story. The young man was
a poor artist, a wood-engraver, who had managed to slip on to a steamer
bound for New York. He had not a sou of money for his passage, as he had
not even been able to pay for an emigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to get
through without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various kinds.
He had, however, been taken ill, and it was this illness which had
betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish, he had talked aloud in
his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words. He was taken into the
infirmary, and when there he had confessed everything. The captain
undertook to make him accept what I sent him for his journey to America.
The story soon spread, and other passengers made a collection, so that
the young engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune of
twelve hundred francs. Three days later he brought me a little wooden
box, manufactured, carved, and engraved by him. This little box is now
nearly full of petals of flowers, for every year on May 7 I received a
small bouquet of flowers with these words, always the same ones, year
after year, “Gratitude and devotion.” I always put the petals of the
flowers into the little box, but for the last seven years I have not
received any. Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist
to discontinue this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea,
but the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness, as
forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions of the human
being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode in our mind, in our heart, while
death is always present laying traps for us, watching all we do, and
jeering gaily when sleep closes our eyes, for we give it then the
illusion of what it knows will some day be a reality.
Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened during the
voyage. I spent every night on deck gazing at the horizon, hoping to
draw towards me that land on which were my loved ones. I turned in
towards morning, and slept all day to kill the time.
The steamers in those days did not perform the crossing with the same
speed as they do nowadays. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly long. I
was so impatient to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to
send me to sleep for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours sleep with
a strong dose of chloral, and I felt stronger and calmer for affronting
the shock of happiness.
Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th.
I was ready, and had been walking up and down distractedly for an hour
when an officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with
the commander, who was waiting for me.
With my sister I went up in haste, and soon understood from the
embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we were too far
off to hope to make the harbour that night.
I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined that the
sprite was going to triumph, and I wept those tears that were like a
brook that runs on and on without ceasing.
The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational state of mind.
I descended from the bridge with both body and soul like limp rags.
I lay down on a deck-chair, and when dawn came was benumbed and sleepy.
It was five in the morning. We were still twenty miles from land. The
sun, however, began joyously to brighten up the small white clouds,
light as snowflakes. The remembrance of my young beloved one gave me
courage again. I ran towards my cabin. I spent a long while over my
toilet in order to kill time.
At seven o’clock I made inquiries of the captain.
“We are twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours we shall land.”
“You swear to it?”
“Yes, I swear.” I returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark, I
scanned the distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw it
without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear a cry from over
there, over there....
All at once I noticed masses of little white flags being waved on the
small steamer. I got my glasses—and then let them fall with a joyous cry
that left me without any strength, without breath. I wanted to speak: I
could not. My face, it appears, became so pale that it frightened the
people who were about me. My sister Jeanne wept as she waved her arms
towards the distance.
They wanted to make me sit down. I would not. Hanging on to the
bulwarks, I smell the salts that are thrust under my nose. I allow
friendly hands to wipe my temples, but I am gazing over there whence the
vessel is coming. Over there lies my happiness! my joy! my life! my
everything! dearer than everything!
The _Diamond_ (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge of love is formed
between the small and the large ship, a bridge formed of the beatings of
our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for
so many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears,
when the small boats, coming up to the large vessel, allow the impatient
ones to climb up the rope ladders and throw themselves into outstretched
arms.
The _America_ is invaded. Every one is there, my dear and faithful
friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice. Ah, what a
delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions. Laughter is mingled with
tears. Hands are pressed, lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One
is never tired of this repetition of tender affection. During this time
our ship is moving. The _Diamond_ has disappeared, carrying away the
mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats we meet; they are
decked with flags, ploughing the sea. There are a hundred of them. And
more are coming....
“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of
the _Figaro_, who with some friends had come to meet me.
“Oh yes, Madame, a great _fête_ day to-day at Hâvre, for they are
expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months ago.”
“Is it really in my honour that all these pretty boats have spread their
wings and be-flagged their masts? Ah, how happy I am!” We are now
alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there, who
cry out, “_Vive_ Sarah Bernhardt!”
I was dumfounded. I did not expect any triumphant return. I was well
aware that the performance to be given for the Life Saving Society had
won the hearts of the people of Hâvre, but now I learnt that trains had
come from Paris, packed with people, to welcome my return....
I feel my pulse. It is me. I am not dreaming.
The boat stops opposite a red velvet tent, and an invisible orchestra
strikes up an air from _Le Châlet_, “_Arrêtons-nous ici_.”
I smile at this quite French childishness. I get off and walk through
the midst of a hedge of smiling, kind faces of sailors, who offer me
flowers.
Within the tent all the life-savers are waiting for me, wearing on their
broad chests the medals they have so well deserved.
M. Grosos, the president, reads to me the following address:
“MADAME,—As President, I have the honour to present to you a
delegation from the Life Saving Society of Hâvre, come to welcome you
and express their gratitude for the sympathy you have so warmly worded
in your transatlantic despatch.
“We have also come to congratulate you on the immense success that you
have met with at every place you have visited during your adventurous
journey. You have now achieved in two worlds an incontestable
popularity and artistic celebrity; and your marvellous talent, added
to your personal charms, has affirmed abroad that France is always the
land of art and the birthplace of elegance and beauty.
“A distant echo of the words you spoke in Denmark, evoking a deep and
sad memory, still strikes on our ears. It repeats that your heart is
as French as your talent, for in the midst of the feverish and burning
successes on the stage you have never forgotten to unite your
patriotism to your artistic triumphs.
“Our life-savers have charged me with expressing to you their
admiration for the charming benefactress whose generous hand has
spontaneously stretched itself out towards their poor but noble
society. They wish to offer you these flowers, gathered from the soil
of the mother-country, on the land of France, where you will find them
everywhere under your feet. They are worthy that you should accept
them with favour, for they are presented to you by the bravest and
most loyal of our life-savers.”
It is said that my reply was very eloquent, but I cannot affirm that
that reply was really made by me. I had lived for several hours in a
state of over-excitement from successive emotions. I had taken no food,
had no sleep. My heart had not ceased to beat a moving and joyous
refrain. My brain had been filled with a thousand facts that had been
piled up for seven months and narrated in two hours. This triumphant
reception, which I was far from expecting after what had happened just
before my departure, after having been so badly treated by the Paris
Press, after the incidents of my journey, which had been always badly
interpreted by several French papers—all these coincidences were of such
different proportions that they seemed hardly credible.
The performance furnished a fruitful harvest for the life-savers. As for
me, I played _La Dame aux Camélias_ for the first time in France.
I was really inspired. I affirm that those who were present at that
performance experienced the quintessence of what my personal art can
give.
I spent the night at my place at Ste. Adresse. The day following I left
for Paris.
A most flattering ovation was waiting for me on my arrival. Then, three
days afterwards, installed in my little mansion in the Avenue de
Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou, in order to hear him read his
magnificent piece, _Fédora_.
What a great artiste! What an admirable actor! What a marvellous author!
He read that play to me right off, playing every _rôle_, giving me in
one second the vision of what I should do.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, after the reading was over. “Ah, dear Master! Thanks
for this beautiful part! Thanks for the fine lesson you have just given
me.”
That night left me without sleep, for I wished to catch a glimpse in the
darkness of the small star in which I had faith.
I saw it as dawn was breaking, and fell asleep thinking over the new era
that it was going to light up.
* * * * *
My artistic journey had lasted seven months. I had visited fifty cities,
and given 156 performances, as follows:
La Dame aux Camélias 65 performances
Adrienne Lecouvreur 17 „
Froufrou 41 „
La Princesse Georges 3 „
Hernani 14 „
L’Etrangère 3 „
Phèdre 6 „
Le Sphinx 7 „
Total receipts 2,667,600 francs
Average receipts 17,100 „
[Illustration:
BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU
BY SARAH BERNHARDT
]
I conclude the first volume of my souvenirs here, for this is really the
first halting-place of my life, the real starting-point of my physical
and moral being.
I had run away from the Comédie Française, from Paris, from France, from
my family, and from my friends.
I had thought of having a wild ride across mountains, seas, and space,
and I came back in love with the vast horizon, but calmed down by the
feeling of responsibility which for seven months had been weighing on my
shoulders.
The terrible Jarrett, with his implacable and cruel wisdom, had tamed my
wild nature by a constant appeal to my probity.
In those few months my mind had matured and the brusqueness of my will
was softened.
My life, which I thought at first was to be so short, seemed now likely
to be very, very long, and that gave me a great mischievous delight
whenever I thought of the infernal displeasure of my enemies.
I resolved to live. I resolved to be the great artiste that I longed to
be.
And from the time of this return I gave myself entirely up to my life.
[Illustration:
[_Facsimile of Sarah Bernhardt’s handwriting._]
]
INDEX
Abbema, Louisa, 317
Abbey, Henry, American impresario—
The American tour, 335, 368;
in New York, 370, 373, 374;
visit to Edison, 376;
travelling arrangements, 380;
in Montreal, 388;
letter of, to the Bishop of Chicago, 401–2;
the American receipts, 402;
the attempted train robbery, 405–8;
the crossing to New Orleans, 414–16;
journey to Chicago, 421–22;
the visit to Niagara, 427–32
_Adrienne Lecouvreur_, 335, 339, 342, 343, 373, 393, 440
Agar, Mme.—
Description, 131–32;
interest in Coppée, 132–34;
commanded to the Tuileries in _Le Passant_, 135–39
Aicard, Jean, _Othello_, 291
Albany, 433
Albemarle Hotel, New York, 364, 374, 376
Alicante, Sarah Bernhardt’s visit to, 113–15
Allou, Maître, advocate of the Comédie Française, 334, 336
Ambre, Emilie, 416
Ambigu Theatre, the, 120, 236
American Falls, the, 428
Amiens, 195
_Amphytrion_, first visit of Sarah Bernhardt to, 57–58
Anderson, Mary, 433
_Andromaque_, 249, 337
Angelo, artiste, 393, 415, 432
Annette, Aunt, 157
Antoine, M., comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 330
_Aricie_, 62
Arville, Renée d’, 28
_Athalie_, 126
Atlanta, 420
Auber, M., director of the Conservatoire, 59–60, 68–69
Audierne in Brittany, 260
Augier, Emile—
_La Fille de Roland_, the discussion regarding, 267–68;
_Gabrielle_, 269;
_L’Aventurière_, 331–34
Auteuil, 6–11, 127
_Aventurière, L’_, by E. Augier, 331–34
Avenue des Acacias, 304
Baden-Baden, 183
Baie des Trépassés, Brittany, 260
Baltimore, 433;
Sarah Bernhardt’s impressions, 399
Barbédienne, clock-maker, 72
Barboux, Maître, advocate, 334, 336
Baretta, Blanche, 96
—— Rose, 96, 102, 104, 141–42
Baron, Messrs., dresses from, for the American tour, 335
Barrett, tragedian, 419
Bartet, comments of Sarah Bernhardt, 329
Batifoulé, Father, of Audierne, 260, 264
Bazaine, treachery of, 154
Beauvallet, M.—
Conservatoire examination, at the, 68–69;
his style of teaching, 80;
remark to Sarah Bernhardt, 93;
as a comrade, 126
Benedict, Sir Julius, 294
Berendt, Aunt Rosine—
Visits to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 15–20;
at the family council, 48–55;
decides to take Sarah Bernhardt to the Théâtre Français, 55–56;
saying of, repeated to M. Doucet by Régina, 76–77;
proposes the fencing-lessons, 79;
lends dress to Sarah Bernhardt, 91;
and carriage, 92;
dinner given by, 93;
present of the ponies, 127–28;
gambling propensities, 183;
return to Paris, 216;
_otherwise mentioned_, 3–6, 11–12, 35–36, 44
Bernhardt, Jeanne—
Characteristics, 48, 89;
reception of Sarah Bernhardt on her return from Spain, 116;
her mother’s love for her, 118–19;
faces the crowd in New York, 376;
visit to Edison, 376;
in Boston, 383;
in Montreal, 391–92;
visit to the Iroquois, 393;
escapade on the St. Lawrence, 396–97;
the crossing to New Orleans, 415–16;
journey to Chicago, 421–22;
at Niagara, 432;
the return from America, 437;
_otherwise mentioned_, 35, 37, 50, 72, 338
—— Mme.—
Visits to Sarah Bernhardt in childhood, 1–5;
takes her to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 16–20;
announces death of her father to Sarah Bernhardt, 35–36;
at Cauterets, 38;
friendship of Mme. Croizette for, 40;
the family council, 47–55;
takes Sarah Bernhardt to the Française, 55–58;
sends her to the Conservatoire with Mme. Guérard, 59–60;
receives her on her return, 71–72;
favours suit of M. Bed——, 74;
moved by the recital of “L’Ame du Purgatoire,” 93;
attends the Comédie Française, 98;
anger of, at Sarcey’s article, 100;
the arrangements for Sarah Bernhardt’s engagement at the Gymnase,
107–8;
illness of, 115–17;
her love for Jeanne, 118–19;
visit to the Odéon, 128;
visit to the Rue Auber flat, 140–41;
note to Sarah Bernhardt during the siege, 172;
return to Paris, 216;
her fainting fit at the Odéon, 247–48;
_otherwise mentioned_, 6, 15, 44
—— Mme., grandmother, 49, 74, 116
—— M., 11, 12;
takes Sarah Bernhardt to the Convent of Grand-Champs, 15–20;
death of, 35, 49
—— Régina—
Personality as a child, 35, 71–72;
visit to M. Doucet, 76–77;
the trouble with Mme. Nathalie, 101;
reception of Sarah Bernhardt on her return from Spain, 116;
takes up her abode in the Rue Duphot, 118–19;
return to Paris, 216;
bust of, 257;
death of, 257–58