Sarah communicated to Francisque Sarcey her desire to return to the
Comédie Française. Not that she was unhappy at the Odéon! On the
contrary, she had been gloriously happy there and owed everything to
the staff of that theatre. It was simply that in those days, unless one
had become the great star of the Comédie Française, one was not the
great star of France. It was the criterion by which a dramatic career
succeeded or failed--a sort of Royal Academy of the stage. And Sarah’s
engagement at the Comédie as a star would be a double triumph, since it
would mean that those who disliked her and were embittered against her
by personal quarrels had been forced to engage her because her genius
would not let them do otherwise.
It was not an unheard-of thing for an actress to be taken from another
theatre to the Comédie and starred; but it was rare. Generally, the
stars of the Comédie were _sociétaires_--actresses who had entered the
institution as apprentices, and had remained there throughout their
careers. It is so even now. For an actress to be invited from another
theatre meant a signal honour and a public acknowledgment that she was
pre-eminent in her art.
[Illustration:
Sarah a constant victim to writ-servers.
Exhibited at the _Exposition des Incohérents_, 1880.
Sarah and Sarcey.
By Caran d’Ache, 1880.
The Manifold Vocations of Sarah.
By Moloch, in _La Silhouette_, 1880.
Sarah and Damala in _Les Mères Ennemies_, by Grimm, 1882.
Sarah Bernhardt in Caricature.]
It is likely that Sarcey did not have to use much persuasion with the
directors of the Comédie. His influence was unlimited there, and the
mere fact that the great Sarcey had changed his opinion of Sarah--even
though a majority of Paris suspected the cause--was enough to stamp her
with the precious hall-mark of genius.
But Sarah had enemies enough in the House of Molière. Maubant the
tragedian, for one, had sworn that she should enter the theatre only
over his dead body! Madame Nathalie was still there, together with her
group of powerful friends. She had not forgotten the time that Sarah
had slapped her face, nor would she ever forget it. The mere rumour
that Sarah was to be invited back to the Comédie would send this group
into transports of rage.
After _Le Passant_, Sarah’s salary at the Odéon had been increased to
four hundred francs a month, and following her triumph in _Ruy Blas_
she was given a further increase of two hundred francs, making six
hundred in all. This salary, about six pounds a week, was considered
excellent in those days--and it was not bad, even considering the
somewhat depreciated buying-power of money in Paris due to the war and
the Commune.
But it was not nearly sufficient for Sarah, who lived in lavish style
in her new apartment in the Boulevard Malesherbes. There she had a
suite of nine large rooms, all of them exquisitely furnished, and she
maintained a staff of five servants. She had two coaches--one for
ordinary driving to and from the theatre, and the other for special
occasions, such as Sunday mornings in the Champs Elysées and the Bois,
when all fashionable Paris turned out in their smartest equipages to
stare and be stared at.
She was constantly buying things and as constantly signing I.O.U.’s
and _traites_ (a species of acknowledgment of debt which authorises its
collection by a bank). She never knew to a certainty how much money she
owed, and was constantly surrounded by a horde of creditors eager to
collect.
Among these creditors was a Jew, one François Cohen, a dealer in
furniture and one of the most astute business men in Paris. He was not
only a good business man; he was an extraordinary judge of dramatic
talent, and in fact edited a column of dramatic comment for _Le
Monde et La Ville_, a monthly sheet distinguished for its accurate
information. He did this, of course, merely as a recreation.
Sarah’s attention was first attracted to him by the number of _Le Monde
et La Ville_ issued after her first performance in François Coppée’s
_Le Passant_--the charity performance, I mean, before the play became
a definite part of the Odéon _répertoire_. In his column Cohen had
written:
“It is worth while to report the discovery, on Sunday night, of
a new celestial body in the firmament of drama. We have found
a poet, you will say; yes, but that is the least of it. Coppée
is a master--a master in swaddling clothes--but even he, with
his intricate verse, of which one understands only the beauty
without comprehending the sense, would have been lost but for the
outstanding magnificence of the most promising young actress on the
stage in Paris. I am speaking of Mlle. Bernhardt.
“Who is she? I have asked, and nobody seems to know. There are
stories of royal favour, of noble blood, of powerful protection;
let us trust that they are untrue, for Mlle. Bernhardt must have
the incentive to work which only the necessity to live can give
her. But that she is something new in the heavens is, as I have
said, undoubted.
“The question only remains: Will she be a comet, like so many
others, flashing for but a brief instant in our bewildered
and astonished consciousness, or will she develop into a
new astronomical marvel, a brilliant seventh of the Odéon
Constellation, destined to shine with increasing brilliance, to
dazzle us with her art and to warm us with her voice, until she
becomes a fixed sun in the celestial firmament of France?
“No one who saw her performance last night can doubt that the
genius is there; it remains but to know whether she also possesses
the great gift of ambition and the necessary determination to work
which alone can make her success a permanent thing. It is, perhaps,
fortunate that she is not too beautiful....”
It was the most keenly analytical criticism that had appeared--I have
quoted only a small part of the article--and, despite Sarah’s distaste
for the last sentence, she realised that the author of the commentary
knew what he was talking about. This was shown by his skilful
delineation of the play. She carried the paper to Berton and asked:
“Who is ‘F. C.’ who signs this article?”
“I don’t know,” said Berton, “and nobody else does either. It seems to
be a sort of secret. But he is clever.”
Sarah sent a note to the paper asking the editor to communicate with
“F. C.” and ask him if he would call upon Sarah Bernhardt, who wished
to thank him. She named a day and a time.
At the appointed hour a call-boy came to her dressing-room with a card,
on which was printed: “François Cohen.”
Ah! So this was “F. C.” Sarah’s eyes brightened in anticipation. She
knew of a question that she meant to ask him.
The door opened and a little, round-shouldered man, with a hooked nose
and beady, sparkling eyes came in. He was dressed in a suit of clothes
two sizes too big for him; one of his shoes was unlaced and he kept his
hat on.
Without preamble he advanced into the room with a short, mincing gait,
trotted over to where Sarah sat regarding him with astonishment and
suspicion, seized her hand, which he pecked at with his lips, and then
thrust a large book on the table in front of her and began to turn over
the pages.
“I understand that you are very busy, mademoiselle,” he said, with a
strong accent, “and so I have brought the catalogue that is likely to
interest you, and I think we can agree very quickly. The prices are
marked, but perhaps----”
Finally Sarah Bernhardt found her voice.
“Who,” she demanded, struggling with mingled surprise and indignation,
“are you?”
The little Jew looked up, astonished.
“Why,” he answered, “I am François Cohen! Did not they give you my
card? I was told to come up----”
“B--but, I thought that you had come from a paper----”
Cohen’s little eyes sparkled. “I am François Cohen, and I sell very
fine furniture,” he said.
“I do not want to buy furniture!” exclaimed Sarah testily. “I wanted to
see a man who signs himself ‘F. C.’ in _Le Monde et La Ville_, and I
thought, when I saw your card----”
“You are sure you do not want to buy any furniture?”
“Of course I am sure!”
“Then, mademoiselle, we may talk of the other matter. I--I am also
‘F. C.’”
Sarah regarded him incredulously.
“You are ‘F. C.’ who writes the theatrical article in _Le Monde et La
Ville_?” she demanded, with frank disbelief. “I don’t believe it! You
are trying to lie to me, so that I will buy your furniture.”
“I will prove it to you, if you like.”
“How?”
“Well, you know what I said in my article--that you would one day be a
great star if only you worked hard and had ambition?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ambition?” he asked her.
“Yes,” returned the actress, wonderingly. “I have--ambition.”
“Will you give me your promise to study and work hard?” the
extraordinary little man then asked her.
“I mean to do that--yes!” replied Sarah.
“Then I will prove my faith in you by making this agreement: If you
will buy from me the furniture that you need in furnishing your new
flat” (her old one had been burned out a few nights before), “I will
give you credit for six years!”
Sarah could not believe her ears.
“Credit for six years!” she cried. “But that is a long time!”
“Six years!” repeated the Jew impassively.
“But why six? Why not ten--or two?”
“Because I believe that you will be famous within six years and will be
well able to pay me,” he answered.
The deal was struck. Six years later Sarah Bernhardt’s name was
the most celebrated in all Paris, and Cohen came to collect his
bill--eleven thousand francs, including interest. It took all Sarah’s
spare cash, and all she could borrow on her salary, but she paid him.
It was the only debt I ever knew her to be scrupulous about.
Sarah was in bed one morning when Madame Guérard, who had become a sort
of secretary to her, entered the bedroom with a letter in her hand and
a mysterious look on her face. Closing the door behind her, she went
silently to the bed, and stood looking at Sarah.
Then she handed her the letter. It was in a large, square envelope, and
on the back of it was printed “Comédie Française.”
Sarah uttered a cry of exultation. It was her summons! She felt morally
certain of it before the envelope was opened.
“Open it, Madame Guérard!” she cried, “and tell me what it says!”
The old lady carefully broke the seal, withdrew the letter, adjusted
her spectacles and commenced to read:
“Monsieur Perrin, administrator of the Comédie Française, requests
from Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt the honour of an appointment as soon as
possible.”
Sarah jumped out of bed, seized the letter, and did a dance of triumph
on the floor. “Tell him” she said breathlessly, “that I will go to see
him to-day, at once----”
“It is Monday, and the offices are closed,” reminded Madame Guérard.
“That is so. I had forgotten. Well, tell him I will go to see him
to-morrow afternoon.”
The next day she saw Perrin, who took her hands in his and said to her
earnestly: “My child, I know that you are very much attached to the
Odéon, but your future belongs to France--and this is the National
Theatre of France.”
“When Perrin said that,” Sarah related to me long afterwards, “I felt
that my great moment had come. I was vindicated! My art had triumphed!
I had compelled the Comédie Française, my enemies, to admit that I was
the greatest artiste in Paris!”
She dictated harsh terms to Perrin, who promised to consider them. In
two days came his reply: the administration had met and considered her
case, and had instructed him to say that they would pay her an annual
_traitement_ of 12,000 francs.
With this letter in her hand she sought Duquesnel. That admirable man
had long suspected that Sarah was eager to return to the Comédie.
But he only looked at her reproachfully and said: “Our little Sarah
wishes to leave us? After all we have done for her? She does not love
us any more!”
Sarah burst into a flood of tears, and flung herself into the
director’s arms.
“It is not true! I do not want to leave you! I love you all! I would
like to stay. But you see----”
She could not explain that she felt her glory incomplete as long as she
remained only the star of the Odéon.
“Well?” prompted Duquesnel. “Let me say it for you--it is the money!”
Sarah gave a sigh of relief. She had been afraid he would divine
her real reason. And, anyway, the money played no small part in her
determination to return to the Comédie.
“Yes,” she admitted, “of course, it is the money. Perrin offers me
twelve thousand francs a year. Give me fifteen thousand and I will
remain here.”
The largest salary hitherto paid by the Odéon to an artist was the
10,000 francs a year which had been earned by Mounet-Sully before he,
too, was taken by the Comédie Française. Sarah and Duquesnel both knew
that it was impossible that she should be given fifteen.
“I will talk to Chilly,” said he at last, “but I do not think he will
agree.”
The next day Chilly sent for her. His manner was abrupt, rude. But
Sarah understood the man by this time. She knew that his brusque manner
was only his way of concealing emotion.
“So,” he said, “you want to leave us--idiot!”
“I do not want to leave,” answered Sarah, “but I am offered more money!”
“Your place is here! There is not a theatre in Paris which can offer
you more than the Odéon, except the Comédie, and of course you will
never----”
Sarah tendered him the envelope she had received from Perrin, and
Chilly started as he saw the inscription on the back.
“Ah!” he exclaimed.
Sarah waited.
“What do they offer?”
“Twelve thousand.”
“I will give you twelve----”
“No, you must give me fifteen.”
Chilly rose from his chair, red with anger. “So, mademoiselle, that
is the way you treat your friends! Fifteen thousand francs! It is
ridiculous--absurd.... Do you then take me for an imbecile?”
His attitude enraged Sarah.
“Yes,” she snapped, “I take you for just that--an imbecile!”
And she left the room, banging the door, leaving Chilly wearily staring
after her.
Half an hour later she was back in his office. Advancing, she held out
her arms to Chilly and embraced him.
“So,” he exclaimed joyfully. “You will stay?”
“No,” returned Sarah. “I am going! But I want to--to thank you....” And
she burst into tears again.
Sarah signed her contract with the Comédie Française the same day.
A week later Victor Hugo gave a banquet to celebrate the 100th
performance of _Ruy Blas_.
It was in many ways a notable dinner. Not only did it commemorate
the triumph of his greatest play, but it was Sarah’s farewell to the
company at the Odéon, her adieu to the stage on which she had achieved
renown.
And it was the last supper of Chilly, the director who had helped to
mould her fame. He died of heart failure at the table, at the very
moment when he was about to reply to the toast of his health.