“La Grande Sarah” had now become an extraordinary figure in the
contemporary life of Paris. There were two camps, one composed of her
friends, the other of her enemies, and at one time it was difficult to
know which group was the more numerous.
The friends of Sarah were called the “Saradoteurs,” and cartoons of
the great actress surrounded by her court became commonplaces in
the metropolitan press. The weeklies were full of real or imagined
escapades of the triumphant artiste of the Comédie Française.
It was said that she bathed in milk; that she had made the circuit
of the Champs Elysées in the snow, with neither shoes nor stockings
on; that she had entered the cage of a lion at the St. Cloud fête,
and subsequently purchased the lion; that she had a regular menagerie
chained up in her flat and that in consequence the neighbours had
complained and that she was to be forced to move; that she had been
twice seen on the boulevards with the young Prince Napoleon, who was
supposed to be in exile; that she was at heart a Bonapartist, and
was secretly working for the restoration of the monarchy; that she
had an enormous appetite for strong drink; that she had ordered a
coach-and-four in gold and ebony that was to cost two hundred thousand
francs; that she had slapped the face of Perrin, the director of
the Théâtre Français; that she was not a woman at all, but a boy
masquerading in woman’s clothes (this was doubtless owing to Sarah’s
startling success in young male parts); that Gambetta himself had
called upon her, and had been received in the actress’s _cabinet de
toilette_, where she happened to be washing herself; that she had given
five hundred francs to a blind beggar, because she thought he resembled
a former lover; that she dressed up as a man and frequented public
balls in disguise, challenging men friends to duels and then revealing
herself to them.
I have no way of verifying any of these tales. From what I myself know
of Sarah and her way of living, I expect that parts of them, at any
rate, were true.
It was a saying that there were three celebrated hours in Paris: One
o’clock, Gambetta smokes his second cigar; four o’clock, prices fall at
the Bourse; five o’clock, Sarah receives for tea.
Every afternoon her flat was filled with a motley assembly of the great
and the nearly great. Sarah used to receive them in her sculptor’s
clothes, a kind of pyjama costume, designed by herself and made of
silk. She would stand at the entrance of her workroom, imperious as a
queen receiving homage from her people.
The first thing guests perceived on entering was a gigantic dog on a
short chain, which growled and sprang at everyone who came in. Many
people could not be persuaded to visit Sarah on account of this dog. My
aunt was one--I never got her past the door, where she would sit and
wait for me patiently, while telling the growling animal, from a safe
distance, what she thought of him.
This dog was a great friend of mine, and not the brute which sprang
at my throat in the manner related in a preceding chapter. He never
growled at me, though I was in and out of Sarah’s home at all hours of
the day. I used to help her to mix her clay, and several times posed
for an effect that she wanted to get perfect.
A flight of five or six stairs led up to the first reception room,
where champagne cup usually stood on a small table; and in the hall
outside this room a disagreeable surprise awaited the unwary visitor.
This was a full-sized monkey, which was fastened by one leg to a chair,
but was otherwise free to move about--which he did, with a great
chattering and gnashing of teeth.
The little drawing-room had in it two birdcages and a great tank of
goldfish, while cats and small dogs roamed about in a most casual way.
Philippe, an old waiter whom Sarah had persuaded to leave the Café du
Foyer (?) and enter her service, was in perpetual terror of all these
animals and eventually left Sarah’s service, after he had been bitten
in the hand by the monkey.
Sarah usually had something new in the way of statuary to show her
guests. I remember well when she did her “Médée,” a piece almost as big
as she was herself; and once, when I entered unannounced, I found her
starting the bust of the famous Adolphe de Rothschild, for which he had
promised her ten thousand francs.
Sarah had a lot of trouble with this piece of work. She said it was
because the Baron continually changed his expression. At any rate, when
the bust was finally achieved, all Rothschild’s comment, after looking
at it, was to say drily:
“Is that me?”
Then he turned to a writing-table to draw up an order on his bank for
the ten thousand francs, only to be arrested by a crash.
Sarah stood in the centre of the floor panting, her eyes flashing and
her breast heaving. On the floor lay the bust, smashed to a thousand
pieces.
Baron de Rothschild, without a word, turned and left the room. The next
day he received his bust--in a thousand pieces--“with Sarah Bernhardt’s
compliments.”
The story became common property and Rothschild never spoke to her
again. She remained friends with others of the same family, however,
and there came a day when she was grateful for their help.
Sarah fitted up a magnificent studio near the Place de Clichy, in the
avenue now chiefly distinguished for the number of night establishments
which grace--or disgrace--it. It was a large, bare place, with immense
windows, several step-ladders, and a divan covered with skins. For
principal adornment it had a single, magnificent, white bear skin,
which was the first present Sarah received from Georges Clairin, the
painter and mural decorator--of whom more anon. He had been her admirer
for years but it was not until 1879 that she yielded to his persistent
pleadings and became really intimate with him.
The place was littered with scraps of plaster, old frames, cross-trees,
brushes, supports, mallets, chisels and other paraphernalia of the
sculptor and painter.
An old man who had once been an actor of repute, but who had been
reduced to poverty and disgrace by morphine, was employed as a sort of
general factotum. He would be an exemplary servant for a month or so,
and then the drug passion would seize him and he would disappear for a
week, during which the studio became littered with all kinds of refuse,
from broken statues--which had been thrown violently to the floor by
Sarah in fits of dissatisfaction, despondency or rage--to empty bottles
of champagne and liqueurs, with which she was wont to entertain her
guests.
About this time, if my memory serves me right, occurred the famous duel
fought by Richard O’Monroy, the writer in _La Vie Parisienne_, and
Edouard de Lagrenée, a distinguished young diplomat, whose infatuation
for Sarah was like that of so many other men--terrific while it lasted,
but of brief duration.
Sarah was in the habit of giving “soirées amusantes” in her atelier on
nights when she was not billed to act at the Comédie.
These soirées consisted for the most part of conversation, recitals
by poetic friends of the actress, gossip, and sometimes dancing. They
were, in the word of Paris, “_très à la mode_.”
Sarah’s invitations were much sought after, but she never sent a formal
one. It was understood that friends of hers were always welcome,
and welcome also to bring any friends of their own. Thus Sophie
Croizette--who, despite her rivalry with Sarah, had remained a friend
outside of theatrical hours--appeared about nine o’clock one night,
dragging by the hand a pale, anæmic-looking youngster, who appeared to
be extremely bashful and intensely desirous of being elsewhere.
“See what I have caught!” cried Sophie, advancing into the atelier and
dragging her young man after her. But the “catch” suddenly twisted his
hand from hers and, without a word, turned tail and ran away. They
rushed after him, to see his coat tails flying down the street fifty
yards away.
“Who,” demanded Sarah, when she had finished laughing, “was that
extraordinary person?”
[Illustration: Sarah Bernhardt in _Théodora_.]
“That,” answered Sophie Croizette, “was a Consul of France--and he is
madly in love with you!”
Sarah looked at her, astonished.
“But,” she said, “I have never seen him before!”
“He has seen every performance you have given for nearly six months,
since he returned from Rome,” explained Sophie.
“But who is he?” demanded Sarah, enormously intrigued, but uncertain
whether to be pleased or to be angry.
“He is a young Republican, a _protégé_ of MacMahon, and was made a
consul. His family is a very distinguished one; you will find it in the
_Liste des Familles_,” explained Mlle. Croizette. “He is also a poet,
and has written some fine verses about you, which he has been afraid to
send. He is the most bashful man in all Paris!”
This was enough to excite the interest of Sarah Bernhardt!
A few nights later she perceived the bashful one in the back seat of a
box near the stage. She smiled at him, but the poor young man was too
timid to smile back. Sarah determined that, by hook or by crook, she
would get to know him. He had, she decided, a face of singular beauty.
From inquiries she made here and there among her friends, she found
that he had served in the war, and that he had an enviable record for
bravery. It is thus with many timid, unassuming men.
De Lagrenée was a man of noble artistic temperament, very much
the idealist and the passionate lover--but so far he had done his
passionate loving at a distance.
“Who is the remarkable-looking man with the decoration in that box?”
she asked Mounet-Sully, who was playing with her.
“That is Edouard de Lagrenée,” answered Mounet-Sully. “He is very
distinguished in the diplomatic service.”
During the first _entr’acte_, through a hole in the curtain, she
pointed out de Lagrenée to a call-boy.
“You see that man?” she said. “Send him to me!”
But her messenger returned without him.
“Monsieur thanks Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt for her courtesy, but begs to
state that he is a worshipper on a lower plane, and would not dare
to approach the altar of his goddess!” was the quaint reply of the
diplomat.
Sarah did not know whether to be offended or pleased. In any case she
was immensely interested, and determined at once to bring about an
occasion on which de Lagrenée would be obliged to meet her.
Accordingly she made inquiries and found that he was in the habit
of frequenting the Salon held by Madame Lobligeois in her house in
the Avenue des Champs Elysées--a villa set back in what were then
woods--which had become a rendezvous of the intellectual set. Through
her old friend Duquesnel, still director of the Odéon, she arranged to
be invited to one of these exclusive affairs, and that her intention to
be present should be kept a secret.
The afternoon came. De Lagrenée, according to his custom, was
entertaining the company at the house of Mme. Lobligeois with his views
on artistic subjects, when the door opened without warning and Sarah
swept in, followed by that cohort of faithful, gay young idolators whom
she termed her “performing seals.”
As had been arranged beforehand, Duquesnel hastened forward and, on
seeing de Lagrenée, cried:
“Ah, my dear fellow, allow me to present you to Her Majesty the Queen
of Paris!”
There being no avenue of escape, de Lagrenée, who, although genuinely
timid and embarassed, was none the less a gentleman, found himself
pushed forward into the presence of the woman whom he had, for so long
and from such a distance, adored.
Sarah at once drew him aside and began an animated, if one-sided,
conversation. De Lagrenée was too reticent or too bashful to say much;
but under Sarah’s friendly smile he gradually gained courage, with
the result that when she gave him an invitation to visit her in her
dressing-room and afterwards to sup alone with her at her flat, he
stammered his acceptance, overwhelmed with a mixture of confusion and
joy.
From then on the affair followed the customary course. Sarah made
excessive demands on de Lagrenée. She insisted that he should take her
everywhere and be seen with her in public restaurants and in society.
From a distant worshipper, he became her abject slave. People called
him “Sarah’s messenger boy,” and “Sarah’s little dog.” Never a day
passed without a mass of fresh flowers being sent to her dressing-room
by the young diplomat.
At length the scandalous rumour that he was Sarah’s latest conquest
reached the ears of his aristocratic parents, who belonged to a set
which severely disapproved of the stage and everyone connected with
it. Aghast, they sent for their son and commanded him to sever his
connection with the actress at once.
By nature a dutiful son, he agreed, although not without considerable
heart-pangs, as may be imagined. When Sarah heard about his pledge,
however, and the arguments that had exacted it, she went to the house
of his parents in a fury, insisted on admittance, created a terrible
scene, and frightened and astonished them both beyond measure. Finally
when de Lagrenée appeared, she overwhelmed his halting objections and
carried him off with her in her carriage.
A week later de Lagrenée was directed to join the French consular
staff at St. Petersburg, that being the city the farthest away from
Sarah that his parents could think of. And the romance was effectually
stopped. Before he left for Russia, however, an incident occurred which
nearly cost de Lagrenée his life.
Richard O’Monroy, besides writing his weekly chronicles in _La Vie
Parisienne_, was one of those society hangers-on who love to boast of
their conquests of women. He used to do this, not only in allegedly
witty conversation, but, in veiled terms, in the salacious weekly to
which he contributed.
He chose this moment to relate--using assumed names, of course, but
with descriptions which revealed better than mere names could have
done--how, in a quarter of an hour, he had made the conquest of Sarah
Bernhardt!
Sarah was terribly offended, not so much at the way the article was
written, but at the idea that any man could dare to claim that he had
“conquered” her--and in fifteen minutes at that!
Hurrying to de Lagrenée, she laid the article before him. The young
consular official was furious, and sent an immediate challenge to
O’Monroy, despite the fact that the chronicler was a notoriously expert
swordsman, while de Lagrenée was small, physically weak, and no fencer
at all.
The duel was arranged according to the code, and was fixed to take
place in the Bois de Boulogne one morning at five o’clock. Sarah
watched it from the closed windows of her coach. Neither antagonist
knew that she was there, the coach being hidden behind some trees in an
_allée_ usually reserved for riders.
As was to be expected, de Lagrenée was overwhelmed from the outset, and
in less than two minutes he was severely wounded in the thigh.
Seeing him lying bleeding on the ground, Sarah would have run to him
and covered him with caresses, but she was prevented by her companions.
During his convalescence, she was barred from the sick-room and had to
content herself with daily letters and flowers.
As soon as he recovered, he was ordered to his post at St. Petersburg,
and the short-lived romance was over.
Sarah never forgot de Lagrenée, and for several years she kept up a
correspondence with him. His letters which, according to her custom,
she destroyed---were full of tender, poetic messages, pleading love of
and faith in her, A man less fitted to be a diplomat probably never
existed. Sarah always spoke of him to me in terms of genuine affection.