We made our entry into St. Petersburg under the most propitious
conditions. The sun was smiling, and the effect on the towers, domes
and spires of Russia’s wonderful city was indescribably lovely. The
Nevski Prospekt was a never-to-be-forgotten sight, with its splendid
shops, its magnificent palaces, and its succession of fashionable
people in their smart turnouts.
Rooms had been reserved for us at the Hotel du Nord, but on arriving
there we found that it had not sufficient accommodation for all of us,
so a part of the company, amongst them myself, went on to the European.
Being extremely tired after the long journey, I went straight to
my room to get some sleep, though it was only four o’clock in the
afternoon. I was awakened by a knock on the door. I lit the gas, and
found that the clock said midnight. Who could be knocking on the door
at that unearthly hour?
It was a maid, with a message from Hugette Duflos, one of the women
members of the company, who had remained at the Hotel du Nord.
“Sarah is ill and wants you,” the message said.
I dressed at once, and asked the maid whether a conveyance could be
found to take a very young girl in safety through the streets at night.
The maid laughed.
“Oh, yes!” she answered. “Evidently madame is not acquainted with our
customs! This is tea-time!”
“Tea-time!” At midnight! I must have looked incredulous, for the maid
went on to explain:
“Fashionable people do not rise until twelve o’clock in St. Petersburg,
and the shops and restaurants therefore keep open very late. When you
are having your supper in Paris, we in Russia are taking our tea!”
Going out into the brilliantly-lighted streets I saw that she was
right. They were alive with people, and most, if not all, the shops and
of course the restaurants were open. It was a novel scene that amused
and enchanted me.
We arrived in a few minutes at the Hotel du Nord, and there another
surprise awaited me. Sarah Bernhardt herself, accompanied by none other
than Jacques Damala, advanced to meet me. Right and left were other
members of the company, arriving in a similar state of bewilderment.
“We are going to have a real Russian party!” announced Sarah.
“But--I thought you were ill?” I said.
“Just an excuse--to get you out of bed, _ma petite_!” she said, to my
astonishment. “I knew all of you were so tired that you would never get
up for a mere invitation to a party, so I invented the excuse that I
was ill!”
Some of the party, especially the men, were very angry and returned to
their beds, after telling Sarah what they thought of her. Sarah only
laughed. I myself felt nervous and annoyed, and Sarah must have seen
this, for she passed her arm round me and led me to a buffet, where she
gave me a little hot tea with cognac and lemon in it. This warmed and
strengthened me, and I decided to stay.
The party kept on till four o’clock, with Sarah and Damala behaving
like two children in their teens. There was a fearfully fascinating
Prince there--Dimitri something, his name was--and he devoted himself
to me, as the youngest and therefore the most innocent of the party.
I was sixteen or seventeen--I forget which. At any rate, it was all
perfectly wonderful to me.
People kept arriving and departing as casually as they had come. All
St. Petersburg seemed determined to make the acquaintance of Sarah
Bernhardt, and the throng round her was tremendous, with the result
that many who wanted to talk to her had to content themselves with the
other members of the company.
My Prince was courtesy itself. He was quite young, and very
distinguished-looking; and I heard it stated that he was related to the
Royal family. But I never found out the exact relationship ... in fact,
Russia was such a whirl for me that I carried away very few facts and
decidedly mixed impressions. Everyone was charming.
We were fêted night after night in the most gorgeous way. The Grand
Duke Michael--I think it was he--opened up his palace, which looked
like a fortress, to us one night and we gave a brief performance there.
After that we danced. Several of the Grand Dukes were there, and so was
my Prince, who presented me to his wife, a gracious lady with that air
of innate breeding which only the Russians, the English and the Danes
seem to possess. The fact that Prince Dimitri had his wife there did
not prevent him paying attention to me, and I had a wonderful time.
I could have stayed in Russia for ever.
[Illustration: Sarah Bernhardt in _Les Bouffons_, 1906.
_Photo. Henri Manuel._]
]
We did not play in the Winter Palace, but gave a gala performance for
their Imperial Majesties at the National Theatre. It was private, in
that no seats were sold and could be obtained only through invitations
sent out by the Court Chamberlain; but when we saw the vast throng
crowding the theatre it looked as if all Russia was there. And all
wealthy and titled Russia probably was, for we heard that special
trains had been made up to bring “Sarah Bernhardt sightseers” from
Moscow and other famous cities. We were not to visit Moscow on this
trip.
I have heard many people say that anyone who has visited Russia can
talk of nothing else and always longs to return there. I can testify
that this is true in my case; and I know also that it was true in the
case of Sarah Bernhardt who returned to Russia three times and always
spoke of the land of the Tsars with the warmest affection and feeling.
I remember a gracious remark made by the Empress, a woman of no great
stature and with evident marks of trouble on her sweet and modest face.
When Sarah was presented and dropped her curtsey before her, she said:
“I think, my dear, that I should be the one to bow!”
I thought it one of the most exquisite tributes I had ever heard.
We played François Coppée’s _Le Passant_, _La Dame aux Camélias_,
_Hernani_, and _L’Aventurière_. The Emperor chose _Le Passant_ for the
Command Performance, and Sarah greatly appreciated his choice.
“He must be a poet himself! He looks like one!” she said.
This observation came to the Emperor’s ears, and after the command
performance was over he came down from his box on to the stage and
shook hands with Sarah warmly.
“You are the most wonderful actress we have ever seen in Russia,
mademoiselle!” he said, “and one does not need to be a poet to
appreciate you!”
Alexander II. presented her with a magnificent brooch, set with
diamonds and emeralds, as a remembrance of the occasion. She “lost” it
on one of her trips to South America.
What jewels that woman lost or sold! The total would have staggered
belief, had it ever become known. I suppose no actress ever possessed,
at varying times, such wonderful jewels as did Sarah Bernhardt. Yet
when her collection of gems was sold by auction in Paris after her
death, most of the articles were found to be paste, and the whole
collection fetched only a few thousand francs, and that chiefly for
sentimental reasons.
Damala and Sarah were seen together everywhere. He took her about,
introduced her into that class of society to which he belonged by
virtue of his official position, and seemed wildly infatuated with her.
Whether it was really infatuation, or simply the desire to capture the
love and be seen in the company of the most famous woman of her epoch,
I shall leave to my readers to judge.
To me Damala was the most cold-blooded, cynical and worthless
individual whom I had ever met. I could not bear the sight of him. His
very touch revolted me. And my feelings were shared by most of the
company, so that when Sarah casually announced one day that Damala had
resigned his official position in order to join her company, we were
all more indignant than astonished. It had been evident from the first
that he meant leaving St. Petersburg when she did.
What Sarah saw in him I am at a loss to imagine. He was still extremely
handsome--“beautiful” would be a better description. He affected
extreme dandyism in dress, and was eccentric in many of his habits.
He was still coolly nonchalant in his dealings with Sarah and in this
he was wise, for it was this cynical attitude of his, this disdain of
her greatness and success, which had first attracted her to him and
which continued to hold her interest and pique her curiosity.
Once get a woman curious about a man, to the extent of wishing to seek
his company, and the rest follows as night the day....
To other people, Damala would praise Sarah wildly.
“She is the sun, the moon and the stars!” he would exclaim. “She is
Queen of the World! She is divine!”
Sometimes these verbal extravagances reached Sarah’s ears, but she
never believed he had uttered them! This was comprehensible enough, for
when he was with her his attitude was as different as possible.
On some occasions he actually treated her as an inferior! He would
criticise her dress, her manner of doing her hair, her acting, her
views on any subject, her deportment, her speech. He was always finding
fault with her, and Sarah would fly into the most frightful rages when
he carried his sarcasms too far.
A hundred times she would cast him from her, with stormy admonitions
never to come near her again, a hundred times she declared violently
that she could not bear the sight of him, despised him, and refused
to take such treatment from anybody, let alone a “Greek Gypsy.” This
was her pet piece of invective, for, as she was aware, it had the merit
of piercing Damala’s thick hide. As a matter of fact, Damala was every
inch an aristocrat, even though he was a particularly degenerate one.
In reply to these wild outbreaks on Sarah’s part, Damala would adopt a
peculiarly irritating attitude. He would take her at her word, leave
her, and then send a note to the effect that he was glad to have rid
himself at last of such an incubus!
Then he would stay away from her until she came to him and begged to
be forgiven. That was what he wished and liked; that was the pleasure
his liaison with Sarah Bernhardt gave him--the idea of a proud and
beautiful creature, idolised by two continents, crawling to him,
Damala, on her knees, for forgiveness!
He would let people know about it, too.
“I had my proud Sarah on her knees last night,” he would say, “but I
refused to forgive her; she has not yet been punished enough!”
What a brute the man was--but how well he knew women!
The worse he treated her, the more she became his slave. The more
sarcastic he became, the humbler was she. It had from the first been a
struggle between two arrogant natures, and Damala had won--for the time
being. There came a day, however, when his victory seemed empty enough.
St. Petersburg talked much of Sarah’s affair with Damala, as may be
supposed. The two were so open about it. The Court, and the gentle
little Empress, were shocked. There were no more command performances.
Russian high society was beginning to look askance at this beautiful
genius, who was so scornful of convention.
The code in Russia was that a man could do what he liked. If his rank
was high enough, he could commit murder without losing caste. But a
woman had to walk within a strictly defined circle, which was drawn
by the Empress herself. Once she stepped beyond that circle she could
never get a footing inside it again. Sarah had stepped outside, and she
did not care.
Soon after this we left St. Petersburg, but not before an incident
occurred which will bear relating, even though Sarah was not directly
concerned in it.
We were playing one night when, during the third _entr’acte_, I
received a message from a call-boy who looked very awed and yet very
important.
“The Grand Duke V---- desires that you will go to his box,” was the
message.
Grand Dukes counted for little in my life and I, a Republican to the
backbone, was vexed at the peremptory fashion in which the request was
framed.
“Tell His Imperial Highness that I am not in the habit of going to
private boxes during a performance!” I said.
The boy looked a little startled, but took my reply. In a few minutes
he was back.
This time there was no mistaking the character of the message.
“His Imperial Highness presents his compliments to Mademoiselle
Thérèse, and wishes to inform her that he will await her for supper,
after the performance.”
In consternation I went to see Sarah.
“What shall I do? I asked. “I can’t go to supper with the man!”
“Tell him to go away, then!” suggested Sarah, who had not taken much
interest in my story. But another member of the company, who knew
Russia well, held up his hands in horror.
“You can’t do that--it would be disobeying a Royal command!” he
exclaimed. “When a Grand Duke puts a message in that form, it admits of
but one reply. You will have to go to supper with him!”
“I won’t!” I replied, obstinately decided.
“Then you will be thrown into prison!”
“What! Thrown into prison because I refuse to sup with a Grand Duke?
What a ridiculous idea!”
“It’s true, none the less. These men wield an enormous power. A mere
word from them, and you would disappear and never be heard of again,
and Grand Duke V---- is the worst of the lot. You must remember that
this is Russia!”
I was now terribly frightened. I looked for Sarah again, but she had
disappeared.
“What shall I do?” I inquired of Pierre Berton, who had always been
most kind to me.
“I will go to His Highness and tell him you are ill,” he suggested. But
I would not hear of Pierre getting himself into trouble over me.
So, after the performance, I waited in fear and trembling in my
dressing-room. Several other members of the company were there also,
curious and disturbed as to the outcome, while Pierre Berton had a
positively ferocious expression on his face. He looked as though he
would like to eat all the Grand Dukes in Russia.
This was the first intimation I had had regarding the true state of
Berton’s feelings towards me. His declaration of love and our marriage
did not come until years later.
Finally the Grand Duke came in. He was in full evening dress, and when
seen near at hand appeared a most amiable gentleman.
He bowed to the company, and when one of the ladies dropped a curtsey,
his eyes twinkled. I was thoroughly frightened, but when he held
out his arm to me, I stepped forward in spite of myself. He was so
thoroughly courteous! Berton blurted out something indistinguishable,
but fortunately did not interfere. I went out with my Grand Duke.
Well, the story has not the ending the reader may have been led to
expect. The supper was a gay one, but all the men present behaved
themselves quite properly and the Grand Duke was more like a father
to me than a lover. Afterwards, he took me for a ride in his open
barouche, and then accompanied me home.
At the hotel, when they saw who had brought me back, they received me
with open mouths. It was the Hotel Demouth, a little place but very
smart, opposite the statue of Catherine the Great. I had moved there
because the European was too noisy.
The manager himself escorted me upstairs to my room and bowed me in. I
had become a personage!
I told Sarah about it the next day, and she complimented me.
“However,” she said, “nothing would have happened to you if you had not
gone! That same Grand Duke wanted me to dine with him the other night,
and I said I would if I could bring Damala, and that finished it!”