This meeting of Sarah Bernhardt, then the greatest feminine personality
in Europe, and Damala, who was to be the central figure of the most
tragic episode of her life, will remain in my memory for ever.
They were introduced by a mutual friend.
“Damala?” said Sarah, raising her eyebrows, and affecting an ignorance
of his name which was in the circumstances really insulting.
“Bernhardt?” replied Damala, in similar accents.
It was flint on stone.
“Sir!” exclaimed the dismayed hostess, “you are addressing the greatest
actress in France!”
“And I,” said Damala, in a sceptically belittling manner, “am therefore
the greatest man in France!”
Bernhardt shrugged her shoulders at this insolence.
“You do not interest me, monsieur!” she said, turning away.
“Wait,” said Damala, “you have not heard all. I am also the wickedest
man in Paris.”
“You sound to me,” replied Sarah, “a fool, and the poorest boaster I
have ever met!” And she left him.
He laughed, and the laughter reached her. It struck straight at her
most vulnerable trait--her vanity.
A man had laughed at Sarah Bernhardt! More, he was laughing still! It
was incredible!
Yet it was so, and the memory of that laugh, and of the passage of arms
which had preceded it, lingered with her. She was piqued. For the first
time in her experience she had met a man who would not humble himself
before her.
Sarah was now negotiating for the purchase of the Porte St. Martin
theatre, which she proposed to place under the direction of her young
son, Maurice Bernhardt. In this capacity, as a possible purchaser, she
came face to face with Damala, who had been waiting for her in the
theatre.
Sarah would have swept by him, but he stepped in front.
“I have brought you a present!” he said, and held out a bouquet of
beautiful lilies-of-the-valley--for it was Springtime, the fête
of _muguet_. This flower is supposed in France to be a symbol of
good fortune, and many a forlorn lover makes up a quarrel with his
sweetheart, on the first of May, by presenting her with a tiny bundle
of _muguet_.
Sarah looked at him, astonished. Here was a new Damala!
But the Greek quickly disillusioned her.
“I give it to you,” he said, “because you will need it--with me!”
This was even greater insolence than he had shown before. Sarah was
angry, mortified--and interested. Within a week she confounded her
friends by accepting an invitation to dine with Damala alone.
Although his family in Athens had destined him for the diplomatic
service, his own private ambition was to be an actor. As I have
said, he was an amateur comedian of no small merit, and when Sarah
discovered this she invited him to become a member of her company.
He accepted at once, but his family intervened and--a curious case
of history repeating itself--had him sent on a diplomatic mission to
Russia, whither young de Lagrenée had gone a few years before.
Sarah was now all ready to depart on her Grand Tour of Europe, during
which she was to visit all the principal capitals and was to give
performances literally before “all the crowned heads.” In fact, many
of those crowned heads were destined before long seriously to feel her
powers of attraction.
She had already included in her itinerary Spain, Italy, Austria,
Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Sweden and Norway. It was an enormous
undertaking, having regard to difficulties of transport at that time,
when the train services in many countries were the worst imaginable. On
this tour, I was again included in her company.
When Damala went to Russia, he begged her to follow, and as her
itinerary included Denmark, it was not difficult for her to arrange to
go from there to Reval, and thence to St. Petersburg. Russia had always
possessed an enormous attraction for her.
Voluminous descriptions of this tour have already been given, and
I shall not therefore say much about it, except as regards Sarah
personally.
In Lisbon, the actor Décori jumped into the first place in Sarah’s
affections, and Décori was extremely jealous of another actor named
Dumeny, because he had a better part in the piece.
During the rehearsals for _L’Aveu_, however, Décori pretended to be a
great friend of Dumeny’s, and carried him off every day on fishing
trips. As a consequence, Dumeny did not properly learn his part, and
his performance on the opening night was farcical.
Sarah called him into her dressing-room for an hour, and gave him one
of the most frightful reprimands I have ever heard. It was devastating.
When Dumeny came out, he was pale and trembling like a leaf.
That night the company were the guests of the well-known de Rosas at
a formal banquet, and one of the hosts proposed a toast to the French
artistes.
Sarah sprang to her feet and pointed a shaking finger at her
unfortunate subordinate Dumeny, who was sitting quietly at one end of
the table with his wife.
“Ah, no!” she cried, “I will not drink your toast if it includes that
pig there! When I play with him, I never have any applause!”
There was a dead silence for a few moments, and then Dumeny, very pale
and with tears in his eyes, rose and left the room, followed by his
wife. We drank the toast.
The next day Sarah bore down on Dumeny in the middle of rehearsals and
exclaimed heartily: “Ah, my little cabbage!”--and kissed him on the
cheek!
In Madrid I was asked to play the part of Nanine in _La Dame aux
Camélias_. The Théâtre de l’Opéra at Madrid is an immense building, and
the area at the back of the stage is a perfect wilderness of gangways,
passages, and turnings between the different sets. It was difficult
even for the habitués of the theatre to find their way about. As for
myself, I never did learn the quickest way from one side of the stage
to the other, when a scene was being played. The distance seemed
tremendous, and one was always tripping over something.
I was supposed to make my exit by one door and to re-appear at another
one, where I was to knock and say a certain line loudly--I have
forgotten the exact words.
I made my exit safely enough, but in running round to the other door
I lost my way, missed my cue, and, rendered nervous at the prospect
of Sarah’s wrath, entered without saying the line. As I did so, Sarah
darted a furious look at me, and I realised that she had already
explained my absence in such a way that my appearance created a comic
situation. The audience was laughing.
In the last act Sarah “died” and it was my duty to pass a garment over
her. This was the first time I had been close to her since my _faux
pas_ of the third act.
Suddenly, as she sank with glazing eyes on her couch, I was amazed
to hear her launch into a perfect stream of low-toned vituperation,
directed at myself.
Her breast heaved, her breath came in short gasps. Sarah Bernhardt was
“dying” in one of the most magnificent scenes she ever played. Her lips
moved--and it is fortunate that the audience could not hear what they
said!
They said, in fact: “You ugly cow! You have spoiled everything by your
clumsiness! This is not the proper garment!”
And, in truth, I discovered to my horror that it wasn’t! I was in such
a nervous state that I had chosen the wrong robe. However, I am certain
that nobody except Sarah, not even the others in the company, noticed
the fact. But, added to my previous grave fault, this error was enough
for her.
She kept up her great death scene, taking twice as long as usual,
because she kept on thinking of new reproaches to hurl at me. What
reproaches they were, too! My ears burned. My cheeks were tingling with
indignation.
Finally, when she uttered a really outrageous insult--it was with her
supposedly last breath that she said it--I leaned down, and, making the
motions of intense and tearful grief, hissed between my sobs:
“You say another word and I’ll smack your face here on the stage!”
I meant it, too, and Sarah must have seen that I did, for she “died”
properly this time, and never pronounced another word.
And all this while there was the audience out in the mistiness beyond,
tense and grief-stricken, held by the marvellous acting of the great
_tragédienne_ on her stage death-bed!
In Vienna the Archduke Frederick put one of his palaces at Sarah’s
disposal, and in appreciation of his act of courtesy we gave a special
performance for him, to which all the ladies of the Court were invited.
The Emperor was away, or ill--I forget which.
The last act in _La Dame aux Camélias_, the very one which I have just
been describing, made such an impression on one of these ladies, a
beautiful Hungarian, that she fainted dead away and had to be carried
out of the theatre.
“Had I been a woman I would have fainted too!” said the Archduke, when
Sarah expressed her regret at the occurrence.
He gave her an emerald pendant, set in natural gold which had been
obtained from a mine on his estate near Bugany in Hungary. For a long
time Sarah wore this emerald more prominently than any other jewel.
Finally it went the way of most of her precious possessions. Sarah gave
out that it had been “lost.” Perhaps it had been, but I think I know
the man who found it--and who paid Sarah handsomely for the privilege!
We were asked to play in Prague, but Sarah had refused to go there,
as she had refused to go to Berlin. A few years later, in fact, she
declined an offer of one million marks to play in Berlin. “Never among
those swine!” she would say.
Eventually however--some sixteen years later I believe--Sarah appeared
in Berlin and secured triumph. Germany, as I have stated in an earlier
chapter, acclaimed her as one of the Fatherland’s own children.
Finally, after returning to France through Switzerland, we went to
Holland, and from there to the Baltic states. We played in Stockholm,
Christiania and Copenhagen. Our greatest reception was in Stockholm,
where Sarah became an idol of the people. I have always thought that
the Swedes understand dramatic art better than any other nation except
the French.
We passed through Finland, but did not play there. Sarah was anxious to
get to St. Petersburg, where a grandiose demonstration and welcome, not
to mention Damala, awaited her.
Word came that the Tsar was to command a performance in the Winter
Garden, and the whole company was tremendously excited. None of us
had ever seen the Tsar. But so many stories had reached us about him
that, in our imaginations, he had become a sort of god. Tales of the
munificence of his entertainments, the sumptuousness of his Court, the
power that he wielded, had combined to weave about his person a truly
romantic glamour. And we were to play before this mighty personage!
But Sarah was not thrilled--at least, not in anticipation of playing
before the Tsar. She might have been, and probably was, thrilled at
the prospect of again meeting Damala, the one man who had met and
vanquished her with her own weapons.
And, when we actually saw the Great White Tsar, we felt the edge taken
off our thrill, too. He was the most insignificant looking monarch in
all Europe!