I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favorite of Thiers. He had

great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating manners. Some

people accused him of Orleanism. He was a Republican, and a much more

advanced Republican than Thiers. Anyone must have known him very little

to believe him anything else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat

had a horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very

straightforward, strong character. He took no active part in politics,

except in private circles; and his advice always prevailed, even in the

Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except in the office.

The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to him a hundred times, but he

repeatedly refused it. Finally, after my repeated entreaties, he almost

allowed himself to be appointed Minister of Fine Arts, but at the last

moment he declined, and wrote me a delicious letter, from which I quote

a few passages. As the letter was not written for publication, I do not

consider that I have a right to give the whole of it, but there seems to

be no harm in publishing these few lines:

Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see better

there than in the dazzling brilliancy of men. You are grateful to me,

sometimes, for being attentive to the miseries you point out to me.

Let me keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to have the

right to relieve everyone than to be obliged to relieve no matter

whom.... In matters of art, I have made for myself an ideal of beauty

which would naturally seem too partial....

It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded man did not

allow him to accept this office. The reforms that he pointed out to me

were, and still are, very necessary ones. However, that cannot be

helped.

I also knew, and frequently saw, a great, foolish fellow full of dreams

and Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and he was tall and nice

looking. He wanted everyone to be happy and everyone to have money, and

he shot down the soldiers without reflecting that he was commencing by

making one or more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was impossible,

but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before his death. He

came to see me with a very young girl, who wanted to devote herself to

dramatic art. I promised him to help her. Two days later the poor child

came to tell me of the heroic death of Flourens. He had refused to

surrender, and, stretching out his arms, and shouted to the hesitating

soldiers: “Shoot! shoot! I would not have spared you!” And he had then

fallen under the bullets.

Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as a dangerous

madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a short time he was Prefect of

Police. He was very young and very daring, wildly ambitious, determined

to do anything to succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm

than good. That man was a real danger. He belonged to that band of

students who used to send me verses every day. I came across them

everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed in Paris “the

drivelers.” One day he brought me a little one-act play. This piece was

so stupid and the verses so insipid that I sent it back to him with a

few words, which he no doubt considered unkind, for he bore me malice

for them and attempted to avenge himself in the following way. He called

on me one day. Mme. Guérard was there when he was shown in.

“Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?” he said.

“In these days there is nothing surprising in that,” I replied.

“I have come to see you, either to make peace or declare war,” he

continued.

This way of talking did not suit me, and I sprang up. “As I can foresee

that your conditions of peace would not suit me, _cher monsieur_, I will

not give you time to declare war. You are one of the men one would

prefer, no matter how spiteful they might be, to have for enemies,

rather than for friends.” With these words I rang for my footman to show

the Prefect of Police to the door.

Mme. Guérard was in despair. “That man will do us some harm, my dear

Sarah, I assure you,” she said.

She was not mistaken in her presentiment, except that she was thinking

of me and not of herself, for his first vengeance was taken on her, by

sending away one of her relatives, who was a police commissioner, to an

inferior and dangerous post. He then began to invent a hundred miseries

for me. One day I received an order to go at once to the Prefecture of

Police, on urgent business. I took no notice. The following day a

mounted courier brought me a note from Sire Raoul Rigault, threatening

to send a prison van for me. I took no notice whatever of the threats of

this wretch, who was shot shortly after, and died without showing any

courage.

Life, however, was no longer possible in Paris, and I decided to go to

St. Germain en Laye. I asked my mother to go with me, but she went to

Switzerland with my youngest sister.

The departure from Paris was not as easy as I had hoped. Communists,

with gun on shoulder, stopped the trains and searched in all our bags

and pockets, and even under the cushions of the railway carriages. They

were afraid that the passengers were taking newspapers to Versailles.

This was monstrously stupid.

The installation at St. Germain was not easy. Nearly all Paris had taken

refuge in this little place, which is as pretty as it is dull. From the

height of the terrace, where the crowd remained morning and night, we

could see the alarming progress of the Commune. On all sides of Paris

the flames rose, proud and destructive. The wind often brought us burnt

papers, which we took to the Council House. The Seine brought quantities

along with it, and the boatmen collected these in sacks. Some days—and

these were the most distressing of any—an opaque veil of smoke enveloped

Paris. There was no breeze to allow the flames to pierce through. The

city then burned stealthily, without our anxious eyes being able to

discover what fresh homes these furious madmen had set alight.

I went for a ride every day in the forest. Sometimes I would go as far

as Versailles, but this was not without danger. We often came across

poor starving wretches in the forest, whom we joyfully helped, but

often, too, there were prisoners who had escaped from Poissy, or

Communist sharp shooters trying to shoot a Versailles soldier. One day

on the way back from Triel, where Captain O’Connor and I had been for a

gallop over all the hills, we entered the forest rather late in the

evening, as it was a shorter way. A shot wits fired from a neighboring

thicket, which made my horse bound so sharply toward the left that I was

thrown. Fortunately my horse was quiet. O’Connor hurried to me, but I

was already up and ready to mount again. “Just a second,” he said, “I

want to search that thicket.” With a short gallop he was soon at the

spot, and I then heard a shot, some branches breaking under flying feet,

then another shot, not at all like the two former ones, and my friend

appeared again with a pistol in his hand.

“It has not touched you?” I asked.

“Yes, the first shot just touched my leg, but the fellow aimed too low.

The second he fired haphazard. I fancy, though, that he has a bullet

from my revolver in his body.”

“But I heard some one running away,” I said.

“Oh,” replied the elegant captain, chuckling, “he will not go far!”

“Poor wretch!” I murmured.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed O’Connor, “do not pity them, I beg. They kill

numbers of our men every day; only yesterday five soldiers from my

regiment were found on the Versailles road, not only killed, but

mutilated,” and, gnashing his teeth, he finished his sentence with an

oath.

I turned toward him rather surprised, but he took no notice. We

continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles in the forest

would allow us. All at once, our horses stopped short, snorting and

sniffing. O’Connor took his revolver in his hand, got off and led his

horse. A few yards from us there was a man lying on the ground. “That

must be my wretch of just now,” said my companion and, bending down over

the man, he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O’Connor had not

seen his man, so he could not have recognized him. He lighted a match,

and we saw that this one had no gun. I had dismounted and was trying to

raise the unfortunate man’s head, but I withdrew my hand covered with

blood. He had opened his eyes and fixed them on O’Connor.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN RIDING HABIT.]

“Ah, it’s you, Versailles dog!” he said. “It was you who shot me! I

missed you, but—” He tried to pull out the revolver from his belt, but

the effort was too great, and his hand fell down inert. O’Connor, on his

side, had cocked his revolver, but I placed myself in front of the man

and besought him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely

recognize my friend, for this nice-looking, fair-haired man, so correct,

rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into a brute.

Leaning forward toward the unfortunate man, his under jaw advancing, he

was muttering under his teeth some inarticulate words; his clenched hand

seemed to be grasping his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter,

before flinging it away in disgust.

“O’Connor, let this man alone, please!” I said.

He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave way and seemed

to become aware of the situation again. “Good!;” he said, helping me to

mount once more. “When I have taken you back to your hotel, I will come

back with some men to pick up this wretch.” Half an hour later we were

back home, without having exchanged another word during our ride.

I kept up my friendship with O’Connor, but I could never see him again

without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when he was talking to me, the

brutelike mask, under which I had seen him for a second, would fix

itself again over his laughing face. Quite recently, in March, 1905,

General O’Connor, who was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one

evening in my dressing-room at the theater. He told me about his

difficulties with some of the great Arab chiefs.

“I fancy,” he said, laughing, “that we shall have to have a brush

together.”

The captain’s mask, for me, then fixed itself on the general’s face. I

never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards.

We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable and shameful

peace had been signed, the wretched Commune crushed. Everything was

supposed to be in order again. But what blood and ashes! what women in

mourning! what ruins!

The bitter odor of smoke was what we inhaled in Paris. All that I

touched at home left on my fingers a somewhat greasy and almost

imperceptible color. A general uneasiness beset France, and more

especially Paris. The theaters, however, opened their doors once more,

and that was a general relief.

One morning I received from the Odéon a notice of rehearsal. I shook out

my hair, stamped my feet, and sniffed the air like a young horse

snorting. The race ground was to be opened for us again. We should be

able to gallop afresh through our dreams. The lists were open. The

contest was beginning. Life was commencing again. It is truly strange

that man’s mind should have made of life a perpetual strife. When there

is no longer War there is Battle, for there are a hundred thousand of us

for the same object, God has created the earth and man for each other.

The earth is vast. What ground there is uncultivated! Miles upon miles,

acres upon acres of new land, waiting for arms that will take from its

bosom the treasures of inexhaustible nature. And we remain grouped round

each other; crowds of famishing people watching other groups, which are

also lying in wait.

The Odéon opened its doors to the public, offering them its repertory.

Some new pieces were given us to study. One of these, more particularly,

had great success. It was André Theuriet’s “Jean-Marie,” and was given

in October, 1871. This little one-act play is a veritable masterpiece,

and it took its author straight to the Academy. Porel, who played the

part of _Jean-Marie_, had huge success. He was at that time slender,

nimble, and full of youthful ardor. He needed a little more poetry, but

the joyous laughter of his thirty-two teeth made up in ardor for what

was wanting in poetic desire. It was very good, anyhow.

My rôle of the young Breton girl, submissive to the elderly husband

forced upon her, and living eternally with the memory of the _fiancé_

who was absent, perhaps dead, was pretty, poetical, and touching through

the final sacrifice. There was even a certain grandeur in the end of the

piece. It had, I must repeat, an immense success and increased my

growing reputation.

I was, however, awaiting the event which was to consecrate me a star. I

did not quite know what I was expecting, but I knew that my Messiah had

to come. And it was the greatest poet of the last century who was to

place on my head the crown of the Elect.

At the end of that year, 1871, we were told, in rather a mysterious and

solemn way, that we were going to play a piece of Victor Hugo’s. My

mind, at that time of my life, was still closed to great ideas. What

with my somewhat cosmopolitan family, their rather snobbish

acquaintances and friends, and the acquaintances and friends I had

chosen in my independent life as an _artiste_, I was living in rather a

_bourgeois_ atmosphere. I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my

childhood as a rebel and a renegade, and his works, which I had read

with passion, did not prevent my judging him with very great severity.

And I blush to-day with anger and shame, when I think of all my absurd

prejudices, nourished by the imbecile or insincere little court which

flattered me. I had a great wish, nevertheless, to play in “Ruy Blas.”

The rôle of the queen seemed so charming to me.

I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already thought of it.

Jane Essler, an _artiste_ then in vogue, but a trifle vulgar, had great

chances, though, against me. She was on very friendly terms with Paul

Meurice, Victor Hugo’s intimate friend and adviser. A friend brought

Auguste Vacquerie to my house. He was the other friend, and even a

relative of the “illustrious master.”

Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak for me to Victor Hugo, and two days

later he came again, assuring me that I had every chance in my favor.

Paul Meurice himself, a very straightforward man with a delightful mind,

had proposed me to the author. Then, too, Geffroy, the admirable

_artiste_ taken from the Comédie Française to play “Don Salluste,” had

said, it appears, that he could see only one little Queen of Spain

worthy to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know Geffroy,

and I did not know Paul Meurice, and was rather astonished that they

should know me.

The reading was to be at Victor Hugo’s the next day at two o’clock. I

was very much spoiled and very much praised and flattered, so that I

felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a man who did not condescend to

disturb himself, but asked women to go to his house, when there was

neutral ground, the theater, for the reading of plays. I told this

unheard of thing at five o’clock to my little court, and men and women

alike exclaimed: “What! That man who was only the other day an outlaw!

That man who has only just been pardoned! That nobody dares to ask the

little Idol, the Queen of Hearts, the Fairy of Fairies to inconvenience

herself!”

All my little sanctuary was in a tumult, men and women alike could not

keep still. “She must not go,” they said. “Write him this ... write him

that.” And they were composing impertinent, disdainful letters when

Marshal Canrobert was announced. He belonged at that time to my little

five o’clock court, and he was soon posted by my turbulent visitors. He

was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered against the great poet.

“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for it seems to me

that he has no reason to deviate from the regular customs. But make an

excuse of sudden illness—follow my advice, and show the respect for him

that we owe to genius.”

I followed my great friend’s counsel and sent the following letter to

the poet:

MONSIEUR: The Queen has taken a chill and her _Camerara Mayor_ forbids

her to go out. You know better than anyone else the etiquette of this

Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.

I sent the letter, and the following is the poet’s reply:

I am your valet, Madame.

VICTOR HUGO.

The next day the play was read on the stage to the _artistes_. I believe

that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the

master’s house.

I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for

a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me!

The monster was charming, so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a

gallantry that was an homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to

the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of

elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in

his way of speaking, which savored of the old French peer. He was quick

at repartee, and his observations were gentle but persistent. He recited

poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited.

He often spoke in verse when he wanted to reprimand an _artiste_. One

day, during a rehearsal, he was trying to convince poor Tallien about

his bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat

down on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience and,

getting up from the middle of the orchestra, exclaimed:

“Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable

Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table.”

I sprang from the table, slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer him

in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could not find anything to say,

and remained there, confused and in a bad temper.

One day when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was

waiting, my forehead pressed against the window pane, for the arrival of

Mme. Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the

footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor

Hugo had just crossed the road and was about to walk on. An old woman

attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down

on the ground and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of

perspiration.

In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open, as she was

panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing anxiety, as she

looked at the wide road she had to cross, with carriages and omnibuses

passing each other. Victor Hugo approached her, and after a short

conversation, he drew a piece of money from his pocket, handed it to

her, then taking off his hat he confided it to her and, with a quick

movement and a laughing face, lifted the bundle to his shoulder and

crossed the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I rushed downstairs

to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached the passage,

jostled against De Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and descended the

staircase, Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could see only the old woman’s

back, but it seemed to me that she hobbled along now more briskly.

The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate, good

deed. “Oh,” said Paul Maurice, his eyes wet with emotion, “every day

that dawns is a day of kindness for him!” I embraced Victor Hugo and we

went to the rehearsal.

Oh, those rehearsals of “Ruy Blas”! I shall never forget them, for there

was such good grace and charm about everything. When Victor Hugo arrived

everything brightened up. His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie and Paul

Maurice, scarcely ever left him, and when the master was absent they

kept up the divine fire. Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished, often

gave me advice. Then, during the intervals of rest, I posed for him in

various attitudes, for he was a painter. In the _foyer_ of the Comédie

Française there are two pictures representing the members of both sexes

for two generations. The pictures are not of very original composition,

neither are they of beautiful coloring, but they are faithful

likenesses, it appears, and rather happily grouped.

Lafontaine, who was playing _Ruy Blas_, often had long discussions with

the master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded. And I must confess that

he was always right. Lafontaine had conviction and self-assurance, but

his elocution was very bad for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they

were replaced by a set of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to

his delivery, and there was a little odd, clacking sound between his

real palate and his artificial rubber palate, which often distracted the

ear listening attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry.

As to that poor Tallien, who was playing _Don Guritan_, he made a hash

of it every minute. He had understood his rôle quite wrongly. Victor

Hugo explained it to him clearly and intelligently. Tallien was a

well-intentioned comedian, a hard worker, always conscientious, but as

stupid as a goose. What he did not understand at first, he never

understood. It was finished for life. But, as he was straightforward and

loyal, he put himself into the hands of the author, and gave himself up

then in complete self-abnegation. “That is not as I understood it,” he

would say, “but I will do as you tell me.”

He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the

inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most

painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic

pride. I often took this poor Tallien aside and tried to urge him on to

rebellion, but it was all in vain. He was tall, and his arms were too

long and his eyes tired, his nose was weary with having grown too long,

and it sank over his lips with heartrending dejection. His forehead was

covered with thick hair, and his chin seemed to be running away in a

hurry from this ill-built face. A great kindliness was diffused all over

his being, and this kindliness was just himself. Everyone was therefore

infinitely fond of him.

The 26th of January, 1872, was an artistic fête for the Odéon. The

_Tout-Paris_ of first nights and all youthful Paris were to meet in the

large, solemn, dusty theater. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance

it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe looking

in his black costume as _Don Salluste_! Mélingue rather disappointed the

public as _Don César de Bazan_, and the public was in the wrong.... The

rôle of _Don César de Bazan_ is a treacherously good rôle, which always

tempts _artistes_ by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth

act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless.

It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its

shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete.

This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me, the thin veil which

still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity.

Until that day I had remained the students’ little Fairy. I became then

the Elect of the Public.

Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to

whom to reply, in the ever-changing stream of men and women admirers.

All at once, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I

caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming toward me. In a

second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed

across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and

barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my

life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my

repentance, and to tell him of my devout gratitude.

Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and, raising my

two hands to his lips, he murmured: “Thank you! Thank you!”

And so it was he who said thank you. He, the great Victor Hugo, whose

mind was so fine, whose universal genius filled the world! He, whose

generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah, how

small I felt, how ashamed and yet how happy! He then rose, shook the

hands that were held out to him, finding for everyone the right word.

He was so handsome that night, with his wide forehead, which seemed to

retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing,

luminous eyes.

Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into

Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and burst into tears. He

took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not let yourself be

intoxicated with this great success, now,” he said. “There must be no

more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have

to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable.”

“I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,” I

answered, looking at him. “I will try to be more sociable, but that is

all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my

risky jumps—and I feel that I shall always be making jumps—the crown

will not shake off.”

Paul Maurice, who had come up to me, overheard this conversation and

reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of “Angelo,”

at the Sarah Bernhardt Theater, on the 7th of February, 1905.

CHAPTER XVI

I LEAVE THE ODÉON

On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Mme. Guérard, and

when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich

in hopes and future that I was afraid of thieves. My _petite dame_

stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o’clock we took

a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for

another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: “Le

Passant,” and “Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix”; _Anna Danby_ in “Kean,”

and “Jean-Marie,” but I felt that the “Ruy Blas” success was greater

than any of the others, and that this time I had become some one likely

to be criticised, but not to be overlooked.

I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s and he was always very

charming and kind.

When I was quite at my ease with him, I told him about my first

impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him,

about all that I had been told and all that I had believed, in my naïve

ignorance about political matters.

On this particular morning, the master took great delight in my

conversation. He sent for Mme. Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of

his glorious and rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing, but

melancholy way, about the evil work of bad people, in sowing error in

every soil, whether favorable or not. That morning is engraved forever

in my mind, for the great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me,

but for what I represented in his eyes! Was I not, as a matter of fact,

the young generation, in whom a _bourgeois_ and clerical education had

warped the intelligence, by closing the mind to every generous idea, to

every flight toward the New?

When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his

friendship.

I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some being who loved

the poet, but he was out.

I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great surprise.

Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms

of the marshal, who was coming out of his house.

“What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he asked laughing.

I did not understand and gazed at him rather bewildered. “Well, have you

forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?” he asked.

I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it. “Well, all the

better!” I said. “I very much wanted to talk to you. Come, I am going to

take you with me now.”

I then described my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine

things he had said to me, forgetting that I was constantly saying things

that were contrary to his ideas. This admirable man could admire,

though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the great

ideas which were to bring about great changes.

One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there had been a

political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a

moment that things might take a wrong turn, as Busnach was the most

witty, and at the same time the rudest man in France.... It is only fair

to say, though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well

bred, he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was

worked up by the teasing speeches of the marshal.

“I challenge you, monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about the odious

Utopias that you have just been supporting!” “Oh, M. Busnach,” replied

Canrobert, coldly, “we do not use the same steel for writing history!

You use a pen and I a sword.”

The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless a

luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching home we found

there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle. Hocquigny, and M. De Montbel, a

young attaché of the Embassy. I explained my lateness as well as I could

and the morning finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas.

I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy of

listening.

During a silence, Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the marshal and said: “Are

you not of the opinion that our young friend ought to enter the Comédie

Française?”

“Ah, no, no!” I exclaimed, “I am so happy at the Odéon. I began at the

Comédie and the short time I stayed there I was so unhappy.”

“You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend—obliged! Believe

me, it will be better early than late.”

“Well, do not spoil to-day’s pleasure for me, for I have never been

happier!”

One morning after this my maid brought me a letter. The large round

stamp, on which the words “Comédie Française” are to be read, was on the

corner of the envelope.

I remembered that just ten years ago that very day, our old servant

Marguerite had, without my mother’s permission, handed me a letter in

the same kind of envelope. My face then had flushed with joy, but this

time I felt a faint tinge of pallor touch my cheeks. When events occur

which disturb my life, I always have a movement of recoil toward the

past. I cling for a second to what is, and then I fling myself headlong

into what is to be. It is like a gymnast who clings first to his trapeze

bar in order to fling himself afterwards with full force into space. In

one second the “now” becomes for me the “has been,” and I love it with

tender emotion as something dead. But I adore what is to be without

seeking even to know about it, for what is to be is the unknown, the

mysterious attraction. I always fancy that it will be something unheard

of, and I shudder from head to foot in delicious uneasiness.

I receive quantities of letters, and it seems to me that I never receive

enough. I watch them accumulating just as I watch the waves of the sea.

What are they going to bring me, these mysterious envelopes, large,

small, pink, blue, yellow, white? What are they going to fling upon the

rock, these great wild waves, dark with seaweed? What sailor-boy’s

corpse? What remains of a wreck? What are these little brisk waves going

to leave on the beach, these reflections of a blue sky, little laughing

waves? What pink “seastar”? What mauve anemone? What pearly shell?

So I never open my letters immediately. I look at the envelopes, try to

recognize the handwriting, the seal, and it is only when I am quite

certain from whom the letter comes that I open it. The others I leave my

secretary to open or a kind friend, Suzanne Leylor. My friends know this

so well that they always put their initials in the corner of their

envelopes. At that time, I had no secretary, but my _petite dame_ served

me as such. I looked at the envelope a long time and gave it at last to

Mme. Guérard.

“It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the ‘Comédie Française,’”

she said. “He asks if you can fix a time to see him on Tuesday or

Wednesday afternoon at the ‘Comédie Française,’ or at your own house.”

“Thanks, what day is it to-day?” I asked.

“Monday,” she replied.

I then installed Mme. Guérard at my desk and asked her to reply that I

would go there the following day at three o’clock.

I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was living on

what my father had left me, that is, on the transaction made by the

Hâvre notary, and not much remained. I therefore went to see Duquesnel

and showed him the letter.

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Nothing. I have come to ask your advice.”

“Oh, well, I shall advise you to stay at the Odéon! Besides, your

engagement does not terminate for another year, and I shall not let you

leave!”

“Well, raise my salary, then,” I said. “I am offered twelve thousand

francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand here and I will

stay, for I do not want to leave.”

“Listen to me,” said the charming manager in a friendly way. “You know

that I am not free to act alone, but I will do my best, I promise you,”

and Duquesnel certainly kept his word. “Come here to-morrow before going

to the Comédie, and I will give you Chilly’s reply. But take my advice

and if he obstinately refuses to increase your salary, do not leave, we

shall find a way. And besides ... anyhow, I cannot say any more!”

I returned the following day according to arrangement. I found Duquesnel

and Chilly in the manager’s office. Chilly began at once somewhat

roughly: “And so you want to leave, Duquesnel tells me. Where are you

going? It is most stupid, for your place is here. Just consider and

think it over for yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces,

pieces for dressy plays. That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is

the same. At the Gaieté you would spoil your voice. You are too

distinguished for the Ambigu.”

I looked at him without replying and he felt awkward and mumbled:

“Well, then, you are of my opinion?”

“No,” I answered, “you have forgotten the Comédie.”

He was sitting in his big armchair and he burst out laughing.

“Ah, no, my dear girl!” he said, “you must not tell me that! They’ve had

enough of your queer character at the Comédie. I dined the other night

with Maubant and when some one said that you ought to be engaged at the

Comédie Française he nearly choked with rage. I can assure you he did

not show much affection as far as you were concerned, the great

tragedian!”

“Oh, well, you ought to have taken my part!” I exclaimed, irritated.

“You know very well that I am very reliable.”

“But I did take your part,” he said, “and I added even that it would be

a very fortunate thing for the Comédie if it could have an _artiste_

with your will power, that perhaps might relieve the monotonous tone of

the house, and I only spoke as I thought, but the poor tragedian was

beside himself. He does not consider that you have any talent. In the

first place, he maintains that you do not know how to recite poetry. He

declares that you make all your A’s too broad. Finally, when he had no

arguments left, he declared that as long as he lives you will never

enter the Comédie Française.”

I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the probable

result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision, I murmured

somewhat waveringly: “Well, then, you will not give me a higher salary?”

“No, a thousand times no!” yelled Chilly. “You will try to make me sing

when your engagement comes to an end and then we will see. But I have

your signature until then. You have mine, too, and I hold to our

engagement. The Théâtre Français is the only one that would suit you

besides ours, and I am quite easy in my mind with regard to that

theater.”

“You make a mistake, perhaps,” I answered. He got up brusquely and came

and stood opposite me, his two hands in his pockets. He then said in an

odious and familiar tone: “Ah! that’s it, is it? You think I am an

idiot, then?”

I got up, too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back: “I think you

are a triple idiot.” I then hurried away toward the staircase, and all

Duquesnel’s shouting was in vain. I ran down the stairs two at a time.

On arriving under the Odéon Arcade I was stopped by Paul Maurice, who

was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly for Victor Hugo to a

supper to celebrate the hundredth presentation of “Ruy Blas.”

“I have just come away from your house,” he said. “I have left you a few

lines from Victor Hugo.”

“Good, good, that’s all right,” I replied, getting into my carriage. “I

shall see you to-morrow, then, my friend.”

“Good heavens, what a hurry you are in!” he said.

“Yes!” I replied; and then, leaning out of the window, I said to my

coachman: “Drive to the Comédie Française.”

I looked at Paul Maurice to wish him farewell. He was standing stupefied

on the arcade steps.

On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and five minutes

later was ushered in to that icy manikin. There were two very distinct

personages in this man. The one was the man he was himself, and the

other the one he had created for the requirements of his profession.

Perrin himself was gallant, pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the

manikin was cold and somewhat given to posing.

I was first received by Perrin, the manikin. He was standing up, his

head bent to bow to a woman, his arm outstretched to indicate the

hospitable armchair. He waited, with a certain affectation, until I was

seated, before sitting down himself. He then picked up a paper knife, in

order to have something to do with his hands, and in a rather weak

voice, the voice of the manikin, he remarked:

“Have you thought it over, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, monsieur, and here I am to give my signature.”

Before he had time to give me any encouragement to dabble with the

things on his desk, I drew up my chair, picked up a pen and prepared to

sign the paper. I did not take enough ink at first, and I stretched my

arm out across the whole width of the writing table and dipped my pen

this time resolutely to the bottom of the ink pot. I took too much ink,

however, this time, and on the return journey a huge drop of it fell on

the large sheet of white paper in front of the manikin. He bent his

head, for he was slightly shortsighted, and looked for a moment like a

bird when it discovers a hempseed in its grain. He then proceeded to put

aside the blotted sheet.

“Wait a minute! oh, wait a minute!” I exclaimed, seizing the inky paper.

“I want to see whether I am doing right or not to sign. If that is a

butterfly I am right, and if anything else, no matter what, I am wrong.”

I took the sheet, doubled it in the middle of the enormous blot and

pressed it firmly together. Emile Perrin thereupon began to laugh,

giving up his manikin attitude entirely. He leaned over to examine the

paper with me, and we opened it very gently, just as one opens one’s

hand after imprisoning a fly. When the paper was spread open, in the

midst of its whiteness, a magnificent black butterfly with outspread

wings was to be seen.

“Well, then,” said Perrin, with nothing of the manikin left, “we were

quite right in signing.”

After this we talked for some time, like two friends who meet again, for

this man was charming and very fascinating in spite of his ugliness.

When I left him we were friends and delighted with each other.

I was playing “Ruy Blas” that night at the Odéon. Toward ten o’clock

Duquesnel came to my dressing-room.

“You were rather rough on that poor Chilly,” he said. “And then, too,

you really were not nice. You ought to have come back when I called you.

Is it true, as Paul Maurice tells us, that you went straight to the

Théâtre Française?”

“Here, read for yourself,” I said, handing him my engagement with the

Comédie.

Duquesnel took the paper and read it.

“Will you let me show it to Chilly?” he asked.

“Show it him, certainly,” I replied.

He came nearer and said in a grave, hurt tone:

“You ought never to have done that without telling me first. It shows a

lack of confidence, and I did not deserve that.”

He was right, but the thing was done. A moment later Chilly arrived,

furious, gesticulating, shouting, stammering in his anger.

“It is abominable!” he said. “It is treason, and you had not even the

right to do it! I shall make you pay damages!”

As I felt in a bad humor, I turned my back on him and excused myself in

as poor a way as possible to Duquesnel. He was hurt, and I was a little

ashamed, for this man had given me nothing but proofs of kindliness; and

it was he who, in spite of Chilly and many other unwilling people, had

held the door open for my future.

Chilly kept his word and brought an action against me and the Comédie. I

lost and had to pay six thousand francs damage to the managers of the

Odéon.

A few months later Victor Hugo invited the interpreters of “Ruy Blas” to

a big supper in honor of the one hundredth performance. This was a great

delight to me, as I had never been present at a supper of this kind.

[Illustration: SKULL IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S LIBRARY, WITH AUTOGRAPH

VERSES BY VICTOR HUGO.]

I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the night in

question he was placed at my right, and we had to get reconciled. I was

seated at the right of Victor Hugo, and at his left was Mme. Lambquin,

who was playing the _Camerara Mayor_. Duquesnel was next to Mme.

Lambquin. Opposite the illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile

Gautier, with his lion’s head on an elephant’s body. He had a brilliant

mind and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of his

fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by heavy lids. The

expression of them was charming, but far away. There was in this man an

Oriental nobility choked by Western fashion and customs. I knew nearly

all his poetry, and I gazed at him with affection, the fond lover of the

Beautiful.

It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental costumes. I could

see him lying down on huge cushions, his beautiful hands playing with

gems of all colors, and some of his verses came in murmurs to my lips. I

was just setting off with him in a dream that was infinite, when a word

from my neighbor, Victor Hugo, made me turn toward him. What a

difference! He was just himself, the great poet, the most ordinary of

beings, except for his luminous forehead. He was heavy looking, although

very active. His nose was common, his eyes lewd, and his mouth without

any beauty; his voice alone had nobility and charm. I liked to listen to

him while looking at Théophile Gautier.

I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across the table, for

at the side of the poet was an odious individual, Paul de Ste. Victor.

His cheeks looked like two bladders from which the oil was oozing out.

His nose was sharp and like a crow’s beak, his eyes evil looking and

hard, his arms too short, and he was too stout. He had plenty of wit and

talent, but he employed both in saying and writing more harm than good.

I knew that this man hated me, and I promptly returned him hatred for

hatred.

In the toast proposed by Victor Hugo in thanking everyone for such

zealous help on the reappearance of his work, every person raised his

glass and looked toward the poet, but the illustrious master turned

toward me and continued: “As to you, madame——” Just at this moment Paul

de St. Victor put his glass down so violently on the table that it

broke. There was an instant of stupor, and then I leaned across the

table and held my glass out toward Paul de St. Victor.

“Take mine,” I said, “monsieur, and then when you drink you will know

what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which you have just expressed so

clearly!”

The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look!

Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and cheers.

Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly. He asked me to tell

Chilly to reply, that it was his turn to speak.

“Come, get up,” I said to him. He gazed at me with a glassy look and in

a far-away voice replied:

“My legs are being held.” I looked at him more attentively, while

Duquesnel asked for silence for M. De Chilly’s speech. I saw that his

fingers were grasping a fork desperately, the tips of his fingers were

white, the rest of the hand was violet. I took his hand, and it was icy

cold, the other was hanging down inert under the table. There was

silence and all eyes turned toward Chilly.

“Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement, and his head

suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate. There was a muffled

uproar, and the few women present surrounded the poor man. Stupid,

commonplace, indifferent things were uttered in the same way that one

mutters familiar prayers. His son was sent for, and then two of the

waiters came and carried the body away, living, but inert, and placed it

in a small drawing-room.

Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet’s

guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups

had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was no

better.

“The doctor has just arrived and he cannot yet say,” I replied.

“It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (_Ruy Blas_), tossing off a glass

of liqueur brandy.

“It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Tallien (_Don Guritan_) clumsily,

for he was always losing his memory.

Victor Hugo approached and said very simply:

“It is a beautiful kind of death.”

He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying

to chase my sadness away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little

time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel returned.

He was pale, but had put on the attitude of a man of the world, and was

ready to answer all questions.

“Oh, yes, he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared.

He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been

cold during the meal.”

“Yes,” put in one of the “Ruy Blas” guests, “there certainly was a fine

draught from some chink under the table!”

“Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him.

“Yes, no doubt, there was too much heat for his head.”

“Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were nearly on fire with

that wretched gas.”

I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by

all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his

banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He

shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd said:

“It’s all over with him.”

I had had a presentiment of this, but the certainty of it now caused me

intense grief.

“I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Would you kindly tell some one to

ask for my carriage?”

I moved toward the small drawing-room which served as a cloak room for

our wraps, and there old Mme. Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly

intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Tallien.

“Ah! I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said, “I nearly knocked you

over.”

I pulled her toward me and, without reflecting, whispered to her, “Don’t

dance any more, Mamma Lambquin, Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but

her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she

did not utter a word.

“Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured, “I did not know I should make you so

wretched!”

But she was not listening to me any longer. She was putting on her

cloak.

“Are you leaving?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Will you drive me home? I will then tell you....”

She wrapped a black fichu round her head and we both went downstairs,

accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Maurice, who saw us into the carriage.

She lived in the St. Germain neighborhood and I in the Rue de Rome. On

the way the poor woman told me the following details:

“You know, my dear,” she began, “I have a mania for somnambulists, and

fortune tellers of all kinds. Well, last Friday (you see, I only consult

them on a Friday) a woman who tells fortunes by cards said to me: ‘You

will die a week after a man who is dark and not young and whose life is

connected with yours.’ Well, my dear, I thought she was just making

game, for there is no man whose life is connected with mine, as I am a

widow and have never had any _liaison_. I therefore abused her for this,

as I paid her seven francs. She charges ten francs to other people but

seven francs to _artistes_. She was furious at my not believing her, and

she seized my hands and said: ‘It’s no good yelling at me, for it is as

I say. And if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who

supports you, and even to be more exact still, there are two men who

support you, the one dark and the other fair—It’s a nice thing, that!’

She had not finished her speech before I had given her such a slap as

she had never had in her life, I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I

puzzled my head to find out what the wretched woman could have meant.

And all I could find was that the two men who support me, the one dark

and the other fair, are our two managers: Chilly and Duquesnel. And, now

you tell me that Chilly——”

She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again seized with

terror. “I feel stifled,” she murmured, and, in spite of the freezing

cold, we lowered both the windows. On arriving I helped her up her four

flights of stairs and after telling the _concierge_ to look after her,

and giving the woman a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do

so, I went home myself very much upset by all these incidents, as

dramatic as they were unexpected, in the midst of a fête.

Three days later Chilly died without ever recovering consciousness.

Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who gave her

absolution she said: “I am dying because I listened to and believed the

demon.”

CHAPTER XVII

I RETURN TO THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE

I left the Odéon with very great regret, for I adored and still adore

that theater. It always seems as though in itself it were a little

provincial town. Its hospitable arcades, under which so many poor old

_savants_ take the air and are sheltered at the same time from the sun;

the large flags all round, between the crevices of which microscopic

yellow grass grows; its tall pillars, blackened by time, by hands, and

by the dirt from the road; the uninterrupted noise going on all around,

the departure of the omnibuses, like the departure of the old coaches;

the fraternity of the people who meet there, everything, even to the

very railings of the Luxembourg, give it a quite special aspect in the

midst of Paris. Then, too, there is a kind of odor of the colleges

there, the very walls are impregnated with youthful hopes. People are

not always talking there of yesterday as they do in the other theaters.

The young _artistes_ who come there talk of to-morrow.

In short, my mind never goes back to those few years of my life without

a childish emotion, without thinking of laughter and without a dilation

of the nostrils, inhaling again the odor of little ordinary bouquets,

clumsily tied up, bouquets which had all the freshness of flowers that

grow in the open air, flowers that were the offerings of the hearts of

twenty summers, little bouquets paid for out of the purses of students.

I would not take anything away with me from the Odéon. I left the

furniture of my dressing-room to a young _artiste_. I left my costumes,

all the little toilette knickknacks. I divided them and gave them away.

I felt that my life of hopes and dreams was to cease there. I felt that

the ground was now ready for the fruition of all the dreams, that life

was about to commence, and I divined rightly.

My first experience at the Comédie Française had not been a success. I

knew that I was going into the lion’s den. I counted few friends in this

house, except Laroche, Coquelin, and Mounet-Sully; the two first my

friends of the _Conservatoire_, and the latter of the Odéon. Among the

women Marie Lloyd and Sophie Croizette, both friends of my childhood,

the disagreeable Jouassain, who was nice only to me, and the adorable

Mlle. Brohan, whose goodness delighted the soul, whose wit charmed the

mind, and whose indifference rebuffed devotion.

M. Perrin decided that I should make my début in “Mademoiselle de Belle

Isle,” according to Sarcey’s wish. The rehearsals began in the _foyer_,

which troubled me very much. Mlle. Brohan was to play the part of the

_Marquise de Prie_. At this time she was so fat as to be almost

unsightly, while I was so thin that the composers of popular and comic

verses took my meager proportions as their theme and the cartoonists as

a subject for their albums. It was therefore impossible for the _Duc de

Richelieu_ to mistake the _Marquise de Prie_ (Madeleine Brohan) for

_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_ (Sarah Bernhardt) in the inconvenient and

conclusive nocturnal _rendezvous_ given by the _Marquise_ to the _Duc_,

who thinks he embraces the chaste _Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_.

At each rehearsal, Bressant, who took the part of the _Duc de

Richelieu_, would stop, saying: “No, it is too ridiculous. I must play

the _Duc de Richelieu_ with both my arms cut off!” And Madeleine left

the rehearsal to go to the director’s room, in order to try and get rid

of the rôle.

This was exactly what Perrin wanted; he had from the earliest moment

thought of Croizette, but he wanted to have his hand forced for private

and underhand reasons which he knew and which others guessed.

At last the change took place, and the serious rehearsals commenced.

Then the first performance was announced for November 6 (1872). I have

always had, from the very beginning, and still have, a terrible fear,

especially when I know that much is expected from me. And I knew a long

time beforehand that the _Salle_ had been let; I knew that the Press

counted on a big success, and that Perrin himself was reckoning on a

succession of good takings.

Alas! all these hopes and predictions went for nothing, and my débuts at

the Comédie Française were only mediocre.

The following is an extract from the _Temps_ of November 11, 1872. It

was written by Francisque Sarcey, with whom I was not then acquainted,

but who was following my career with very great interest:

“It was a very brilliant assembly, as this début had attracted all

theater lovers. The fact is, besides the special merit of Mlle. Sarah

Bernhardt, a whole crowd of true or false stories had been circulated

about her personally, and all this had excited the curiosity of the

Parisian public. Her appearance was a disappointment. She had, by her

costume, exaggerated in a most ostentatious way a slenderness which is

elegant under the veils and ample drapery of the Grecian and Roman

heroines, but which is objectionable in modern dress. Then, too,

either powder does not suit her, or stage fright had made her terribly

pale. The effect of this long, white face emerging from a long, black

sheath was certainly unpleasant” (I looked like an ant), “particularly

as the eyes had lost their brilliancy, and all that relieved the face

were the sparkling white teeth. She went through the first three acts

with a convulsive tremor, and we recognized the Sarah of ‘Ruy Blas’

only by two couplets which she gave in her enchanting voice with the

most wonderful grace; but in all the more powerful passages she was a

failure. I doubt whether Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt will ever, with her

delicious voice, be able to render those deep, thrilling notes,

expressive of paroxysms of violent passion, which are capable of

carrying away an audience. If only nature had endowed her with this

gift, she would be a perfect _artiste_, and there are none such on the

stage. Roused by the coldness of her public, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was

entirely herself in the fifth act. This was certainly our Sarah once

more, the Sarah of ‘Ruy Blas,’ whom we had admired so much at the

Odéon,” etc., etc.

As Sarcey said, I made a complete failure of my début. My excuse,

though, was not the “stage fright” to which he attributed it, but the

terrible anxiety I felt on seeing my mother hurriedly leave her seat in

the dress circle five minutes after my appearance on the stage. I had

glanced at her on entering, and had noticed her deathlike pallor. When

she went out, I felt that she was about to have one of those attacks

which endangered her life, so that my first act seemed to me

interminable. I uttered one word after another, stammering through my

sentences haphazard, with only one idea in my head, a longing to know

what had happened. Oh, the public cannot conceive of the tortures

endured by the unfortunate comedians who are there before them in flesh

and blood on the stage, gesticulating and uttering phrases, while their

heart, all torn with anguish, is with the beloved absent one who is

suffering! As a rule, one can fling away the worries and anxieties of

everyday life, put off one’s own personality for a few hours, take on

another and, forgetting everything else, enter as it were into another

life. But that is impossible when our dear ones are suffering; anxiety

then lays hold of us, attenuating the bright side, magnifying the dark,

maddening our brain, which is living two lives at once, and tormenting

our heart, which is beating as though it would burst. These were the

sensations I experienced during that first act.

“Mamma? What has happened to mamma?” were my first words on leaving the

stage. No one could tell me anything.

Croizette came up to me and said: “What’s the matter? I hardly recognize

you, and you weren’t yourself at all just now in the play.”

In a few words I told her what I had seen, and all that I had felt.

Frédéric Febvre sent at once to get news, and the doctor came hurrying

to me.

“Your mother had a fainting fit, mademoiselle,” he said, “but they have

just taken her home.”

“It was her heart, wasn’t it?” I asked, looking at him.

“Yes,” he replied, “madame’s heart is in a very agitated state.”

“Oh, I know how ill she is!” I said, and not being able to control

myself any longer, I burst into sobs. Croizette helped me back to my

dressing-room. She was very kind, for we had known each other from

childhood, and were very fond of each other. Nothing ever estranged us,

in spite of all the malicious gossip of envious people, and all the

little miseries due to vanity.

My dear Mme. Guérard (_ma petite dame_) took a cab and hurried away to

my mother to get news for me. I put a little more powder on, but the

public, not knowing what was taking place, were annoyed with me,

thinking I was guilty of some fresh caprice, and received me still more

coldly than before. It was all the same to me, as I was thinking of

something else. I went on saying _Mademoiselle de Belle Isle’s_ words (a

most stupid and tiresome rôle), but all the time, I, Sarah, was waiting

for news about my mother. I was watching for the return of _ma petite

dame_. “Open the door on the O. P. side, just a little way,” I had said

to her, “and make a sign like this, if mamma is better, and like that,

if she is worse.” But I had forgotten which of the signs was to stand

for better, and when, at the end of the third act, I saw Mme. Guérard

opening the door and nodding her head for “yes,” I became quite idiotic.

It was in the big scene of the third act when _Mademoiselle de Belle

Isle_ reproaches the _Duc de Richelieu_ (Bressant) with doing her such

irreparable harm. The _Duc_ replies, “Why did you not say that some one

was listening, that some one was hidden?” I exclaimed: “It’s Guérard

bringing me news!” The public had not time to understand, for Bressant

went on quickly, and so saved the situation.

After an unenthusiastic recall, I heard that my mother was better, but

that she had had a very serious attack. Poor mamma, she had thought me

such a fright when I made my appearance on the stage that her superb

indifference had given way to grievous astonishment, and that, in its

turn, to rage, on hearing a lady seated near her say in a jeering tone:

“Why, she’s like a dried bone, this little Bernhardt!”

[Illustration: “OPHELIA”—SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT.]

I was greatly relieved on getting the news, and I played my last act

with confidence. The great success of the evening, though, was

Croizette’s, who was charming as the _Marquise de Prie_. My success,

nevertheless, was assured in the performances which followed, and it

became so marked that I was accused of paying for applause. I laughed

heartily at this, and never even contradicted the report, as I have a

horror of useless words.

I continued my débuts in “Junie de Britannicus,” having for hero

Mounet-Sully, who played admirably. In this delicious rôle of _Junie_ I

obtained an immense and incredible success.

Then, in 1873 I played _Chérubin_ in “Le Mariage de Figaro.” Croizette

played _Suzanne_, and it was a real treat for the public to see the

delicious creature play a part so full of gayety and charm. _Chérubin_

was for me the opportunity of a fresh success.

In the month of March, 1873, Perrin took it into his head to stage

“Dalila,” by Octave Feuillet. I was then taking the part of young girls,

young princesses, or young boys. My slight frame, my pale face, my

delicate aspect marked me out, for the time being, for the rôle of

victim. When suddenly Perrin, finding that the victims attracted the

pity of the public, and thinking that it was for this reason I pleased

them, made the most ridiculous change in the distribution of the parts;

he gave me the rôle of _Dalila_, the swarthy, wicked, and ferocious

princess, and to Sophie Croizette he gave the rôle of the fair young

dying girl.

The piece, under this strange distribution, was turned upside down. I

forced my nature in order to appear the haughty and voluptuous siren; I

stuffed my bodice with wadding, and the hips under my skirt with

horsehair; but I kept my small, thin, sorrowful face. Croizette was

obliged to repress the advantages of her bust by bands which oppressed

and suffocated her, but she kept her pretty plump face with its dimples.

I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers. In fact, it

was absurd, and the piece was only a partial success.

After that I created “L’Absent,” a pretty piece in verse by Eugène

Manuel, “Chez l’Avocat,” a very amusing thing in verse, by Paul Ferrier,

where Coquelin and I quarreled beautifully. Then, August 22d, I played

with immense success the rôle of _Andromaque_. I shall never forget the

first performance, in which Mounet-Sully obtained a delirious triumph.

Oh, how fine he was, Mounet-Sully, in his rôle of _Oreste_! His

entrance, his fury, his madness, and the plastic beauty of this

marvelous _artiste_—how fine it was! How magnificent!

After _Andromaque_ I played _Aricie_ in “Phedre”; and that evening in

this secondary rôle, it was I who obtained, in reality, the success of

the evening.

I took such a position, in a very short time, at the Comédie, that

some of the _artistes_ began to feel uneasy, and the management shared

the anxiety. M. Perrin, an extremely intelligent man, whom I have

always remembered with great affection, was horribly authoritative. I

was authoritative, also, so that there was always perpetual warfare

between us. He wanted to impose his will on me, and I would not submit

to it. He was always ready to laugh at my outbursts when they were

against the others, but he was furious when they were directed against

himself. As for me, I will own that to get Perrin in a fury was one of

my delights. He stammered so when he tried to talk quickly, he who

weighed every word on ordinary occasions; the expression of his eyes,

which was generally wavering, grew irritated and deceitful, and his

pale, distinguished-looking face became mottled with patches of color,

like the dregs of wine. His fury made him take his hat off and put it

on again fifteen times in as many minutes, and his extremely smooth

hair stood on end with this mad gallop of his headgear. Although I had

certainly arrived at the age of discretion, I delighted in my wicked

mischievousness, which I always regretted after, but which I was

always ready to recommence, and even now after all the days, weeks,

months, and years that I have lived since then, it still gives me

infinite pleasure to play a joke on anyone. All the same, life at the

Comédie began to affect my nerves.

I wanted to play _Camille_ in “On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour.” The rôle

was given to Croizette. I wanted to play _Célimène_; that rôle was

Croizette’s. Perrin was very partial to Croizette. He admired her, and

as she was very ambitious, she was most thoughtful and docile, which

charmed the authoritative old man. She always obtained everything she

wanted, and as Sophie Croizette was frank and straightforward, she often

said to me when I was grumbling: “Do as I do, be more yielding, you pass

your time in rebelling; I appear to be doing everything that Perrin

wants me to do, but in reality I make him do all I want him to. Try the

same thing.” I accordingly screwed up my courage and went to see Perrin.

He nearly always said to me when we met:

“Ah, how do you do, Mlle. Revolt? Are you calm to-day?”

“Yes, very calm,” I replied; “but be amiable and grant me what I am

going to ask you.” I tried to be charming, and spoke in my prettiest

way. He almost purred with satisfaction, and was witty (this was no

effort to him, as he was naturally so), and we got on very well together

for a quarter of an hour. I then made my petition:

“Let me play _Camille_ in ‘On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour.’”

“That’s impossible, my dear child,” he replied; “Croizette is playing

it.”

“Well, then, we’ll both play it, we’ll take it in turns.”

“But Mlle. Croizette wouldn’t like that.”

“I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would not mind.”

“You ought not to have spoken to her about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because the distribution of parts concerns the management and not the

_artistes_.”

He didn’t purr any more, he only growled. As for me, I was in a fury,

and a few minutes later, I went out of the room, banging the door after

me. All this preyed on my mind, though, and I used to cry all night. I

then decided to take a studio and devote myself to sculpture. As I was

not able to use my intelligence and my energy in creating rôles at the

theater, as I wished, I gave myself up to another art, and began working

at sculpture with frantic enthusiasm. I soon made great progress, and

started on an enormous composition: “After the Storm.” I was indifferent

now to the theater. Every morning at eight my horse was brought round

and I went for a ride, and at ten I was back in my studio, 11 Boulevard

de Clichy. I was very delicate, and my health suffered from the double

effort I was making. I used to vomit blood in the most alarming way, and

for hours together I was unconscious. I never went to the Comédie,

except when obliged to by my duties there. My friends were seriously

concerned about me, and Perrin was told what was going on. Finally,

urged on by the Press and the Department of Fine Arts, he decided to

give me a rôle to create in Octave Feuillet’s play “Le Sphinx.”

The principal rôle was for Croizette, but on hearing it read, I thought

the part destined for me charming, and I resolved that it should also be

the principal rôle. There would have to be two principal ones, that was

all. The rehearsals went along very smoothly at the start, but it soon

became evident that my rôle was more important than had been imagined,

and friction soon began.

Croizette, herself, got nervous; Perrin was annoyed, and all this

by-play had the effect of calming me. Octave Feuillet, a shrewd,

charming man, extremely well bred and slightly ironical, thoroughly

enjoyed the skirmishes that took place. War was doomed to break out,

however, and the first hostilities came from Sophie Croizette.

I always wore in my bodice three or four roses which were apt to open

under the influence of the warmth, and some of the petals naturally

fell. One day, Sophie Croizette slipped down full length on the stage,

and as she was tall and not slim, she fell rather indecently, and got up

again ungracefully. The stifled laughter of some of the subordinate

persons present stung her to the quick, and turning to me, she said:

“It’s your fault, your roses fall and make everyone slip.” I began to

laugh.

“Three petals of my roses have fallen,” I replied, “and there they all

three are by the armchair on the prompt side, and you fell on the O. P.

side. It isn’t my fault, therefore; it is just your own awkwardness.”

The discussion continued and was rather heated on both sides. Two clans

were formed, the “Croizettists,” and the “Bernhardtists,” war was

declared, not between Sophie and me, but between our respective admirers

and detractors. The rumor of these little quarrels spread in the world

outside the theater and the public, too, began to form clans. Croizette

had on her side all the bankers and all the people who were suffering

from congestion. I had all the artists, the students, dying folks, and

the failures. When once war was declared there was no drawing back from

the strife. The first, the most fierce, and the definitive battle was

fought over the moon.

We had begun the full-dress rehearsals. In the third act the scene was

laid in a forest glade. In the middle of the stage was a huge rock upon

which was _Blanche_ (Croizette) kissing _Savigny_ (Delaunay), who was

supposed to be my husband. I (_Berthe de Savigny_) had to arrive by a

little bridge over a stream of water. The glade was bathed in moonlight.

Croizette had just played her part and her kiss had been greeted with a

burst of applause by the house. This was rather daring in those days for

the Comédie Française.

Suddenly a fresh burst of applause was heard. Amazement could be read on

some faces, and Perrin stood up terrified. I was crossing the bridge, my

pale face ravaged with grief, and the _sortie de bal_ which was intended

to cover my shoulders was dragging along, just held by my limp fingers;

my arms were hanging down as though despair had taken the use out of

them. I was bathed in the white light of the moon and the effect, it

seems, was striking and deeply impressive. A nasal, aggressive voice

cried out: “One moon effect is enough. Turn it off for Mlle. Bernhardt.”

I sprang forward to the front of the stage. “Excuse me, M. Perrin,” I

exclaimed, “you had no right to take my moon away. The manuscript reads:

‘_Berthe advances, pale, convulsed with emotion, the rays of the moon

falling on her_’... I am pale and I am convulsed ... I must have my

moon!...”

“It is impossible,” roared Perrin. “Mlle. Croizette’s ‘You love me,

then!’ and her kiss must have this moonlight. She is playing the Sphinx,

that is the chief part in the play and we must leave her the principal

effect....”

“Very well, then, give Croizette a brilliant moon, and give me a less

brilliant one. I don’t mind that, but I must have my moon.” All the

_artistes_ and all the employés of the theater put their heads in at all

the doorways and openings both on the stage and in the house itself. The

“Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists” began to comment on the

discussion.

Octave Feuillet was appealed to, and got up in his turn.

“I grant that Mlle. Croizette is very beautiful in her moon effect.

Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is ideal, too, with her ray of moonlight. I want

the moon, therefore, for both of them.”

Perrin could not control his anger. There was a discussion between the

author and the director, followed by others between the _artistes_, and

between the doorkeeper and the journalists who were questioning him. The

rehearsal was interrupted; I declared that I would not play the part if

I did not have my moon. For the next two days I received no notice of

another rehearsal but through Croizette I heard that they were trying my

rôle of _Berthe_ privately. They had given it to a young woman whom we

had nicknamed “the Crocodile,” because she followed all the rehearsals

just as that animal follows boats—she was always hoping to snatch up

some rôle that might happen to be thrown overboard. Octave Feuillet

refused to accept the change of _artistes_ and he came himself to fetch

me, accompanied by Delaunay, who had negotiated matters.

“It’s all settled,” he said, kissing my hands, “there will be a moon for

both of you.”

The first night was a triumph for both Croizette and for me. The party

strife between the two clans waxed warmer and warmer, and this added to

our success and amused us both immensely, for Croizette was always a

delightful friend and a loyal comrade. She worked for her own ends, but

never against anyone else.

After the “Sphinx” I played a pretty piece in one act by a young pupil

of the Polytechnical School, Louis Denayrouse—“La Belle Paule.” This

author has now become a renowned scientific man and has renounced his

poetry.

I had begged Perrin to give me a month’s holiday, but he refused

energetically, and compelled me to take part in the rehearsal of

“Zaïre,” during the trying months of June and July, and in spite of my

reluctance, announced the first performance for the 6th of August. That

year it was fearfully hot in Paris. I believe that Perrin, who could not

tame me alive, had, without really any bad intention, but by pure

autocracy, the desire to tame me dead. Doctor Parrot went to see him and

told him that my state of weakness was such that it would be positively

dangerous for me to act during the trying heat. Perrin would hear

nothing of it. Then, furious at the obstinacy of this intellectual

_bourgeois_, I swore I would play on to the death.

Often, when I was a child, I wished to kill myself in order to vex

others. I remember once having swallowed the contents of a large ink pot

after being compelled by mamma to swallow a “_panade_”[2] because she

imagined that _panades_ were good for the health. Our nurse had told her

my dislike to this form of nourishment, adding that every morning I

emptied the _panade_ into the slop pail. I had, of course, a very bad

stomach ache, and screamed out in pain. I cried to mamma: “It is you who

have killed me”—and my poor mother wept. She never knew the truth, but

they never again made me swallow anything against my will.

Footnote 2:

Bread stewed a long time in water and flavored with a little butter

and sugar; a kind of “sops” given to children in France.

Well, after so many years had gone over my head, I experienced the same

bitter and childish sentiment. “I don’t care,” I said, “I shall

certainly fall senseless, vomiting blood, and perhaps I shall die! And

it will serve Perrin right. He will be furious!” Yes, that is what I

thought. I am, at times, very foolish. Why? I don’t know how to explain

it, but I admit it.

The 6th of August, therefore, I played, in tropical heat, the part of

_Zaïre_. The entire audience was bathed in perspiration. I saw the

spectators through a mist. The piece, badly staged as regards scenery,

but very well presented as regards costumes, was particularly well

played by Mounet-Sully, _Orosmane_, Laroche, _Nerestan_, and

myself—_Zaïre_—and obtained an immense success.

I was determined to faint, determined to vomit blood, determined to die,

in order to enrage Perrin. I gave myself entirely up to it. I had

sobbed, I had loved, I had suffered, and I had been stabbed by the

poignard of _Orosmane_, uttering a true cry of suffering, for I had felt

the steel penetrate my breast; then falling panting, dying, on the

Oriental divan, I had meant to die in reality, and dared scarcely move

my arms, convinced as I was that I was in my death agony and somewhat

afraid, I must admit, at having succeeded in playing such a nasty trick

on Perrin. But my surprise was great when the curtain fell at the close

of the piece, and I got up quickly to answer to the call and salute the

public without languor, without fainting, ready to recommence the piece.

And I marked this performance with a little white stone—for that day I

learned that my vital force was at the service of my intellect. I had

desired to follow the impulse of my brain, whose conceptions seemed to

me to be too forceful for my physical strength to carry out and I found

myself, having given out all of which I was capable—and more—in perfect

equilibrium.

Then I saw the possibility of the longed-for future.

I had fancied, and up to this performance of _Zaïre_ I had always heard,

and read in the papers that my voice was pretty, but weak; that my

gestures were gracious, but vague; that my supple movements lacked

authority, and that my glance lost in heavenward contemplation, could

not tame the lion (the public). I thought then of all that. I had

received proof that I could count on my physical strength, for I had

commenced the performance of _Zaïre_ in such a state of weakness that it

was easy to predict that I should not finish the first act without

fainting.

On the other hand, although the rôle was easy, it required two or three

shrieks which might have provoked the vomiting of blood which frequently

troubled me at that time. That evening, therefore, I acquired the

certainty that I could count on the strength of my vocal cords, for I

had uttered my shrieks with real rage and suffering, hoping to break

something in my wild desire to be revenged on Perrin.

Thus, this little comedy turned to my profit. Not being able to die at

will, I faced about and resolved to be strong, vivacious, and active, to

the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries, who had put up with me

only because they thought I would soon die, but who began to hate me as

soon as they acquired the conviction that I should perhaps live for a

long time. I will give only one example, related by Alexandre Dumas,

_fils_, who was present at the death of his intimate friend, Charles

Narrey, and heard his dying words: “I am content to die because I shall

hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the great Français” (Ferdinand de

Lesseps).

CHAPTER XVIII

A HOLIDAY AND NEW SUCCESSES

But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful to me the sort

of idleness to which Perrin condemned me. In fact, after _Zaïre_, I

remained months without anything of importance—playing here and there.

Then, discouraged and disgusted with the theater, I renewed my passion

for sculpture. After my ride I took a light repast and then fled to my

studio where I remained till the evening.

Friends came to see me, sat around me, played the piano, sang, warmly

discussed politics—for in this modest studio I received the most

illustrious men of all parties. Several ladies came to take tea, which

was abominable and badly served; but I did not care about that. I was

absorbed by that admirable art. I saw nothing, or to speak more truly. I

_would not_ see anything.

At this time I was making the bust of an adorable young girl, Mlle. Emmy

de X——. Her slow and measured conversation had an infinite charm. She

was a foreigner but spoke French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She

smoked a cigarette all the time and had a profound disdain for those who

did not understand her.

I made the sittings last as long as possible, for I felt that this

delicate spirit was imbuing me with her science of seeing into the

beyond, and often in the serious steps of my life I have said to myself:

“What would Emmy have done?... What would she have thought?...”

I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de Rothschild,

who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced the work

immediately. But I had not properly considered this admirable man—he had

nothing of the æsthetic, but the contrary. I tried, nevertheless, and I

brought all my will to bear in order to succeed in this first order of

which I was so proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on

the ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave it up,

stammering idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my model,

for he never returned to me. When we met, in our morning rides, he

saluted me with a cold and rather severe bow.

After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child, Mlle.

Multon, a delicious little American whom later on I came across in

Denmark, married and the mother of a family—but still as pretty as ever.

Then I made a bust of Mlle. Hocquigny, that admirable person who was

keeper of the linen in the hospital cars during the war and who had so

efficiently helped me and my wounded at that time.

Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who had, alas, a

weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by the hand of God! Two

leonine eyes, shaded by long brown lashes—so long that they made a

shadow on her cheeks when she lowered them—a slender nose with delicate

nostrils, a tiny mouth, a willful chin and a pearly skin, crowned by

meshes of sun rays, for I have never seen hair so blond and so pale, so

bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without charm: the

expression was hard and the mouth without smile. I tried my best to

reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it needed a great artist

and I was only a humble amateur.

When I exhibited the bust of my little sister, it was five months after

her death, which occurred after a six months’ illness full of false

hopes. I had taken her to my home, No. 4 Rue de Rome, to the little

_entresol_ which I had inhabited since the terrible fire which had

destroyed my furniture, my books, my pictures, and all my scant

possessions. This apartment in the Rue de Rome was small. My bedroom was

very tiny. The big bamboo bed took up all the room. In front of the

window was my coffin, where I frequently installed myself to learn my

parts. Therefore when I took my sister to my home I found it quite

natural to sleep every night in this little bed of white satin which was

to be my last couch, and to put my sister in the big bamboo bed under

the lace hangings. She herself found it quite natural, also, for I would

not leave her at night and it was impossible to put another bed in this

room. Besides, she was accustomed to my coffin.

Three days after this new arrangement my manicure came into the room to

do my hands and my sister asked her to enter quietly because I was still

asleep. The woman turned her head, believing that I was asleep in the

armchair, but seeing me in my coffin she rushed away, shrieking wildly.

From that moment all Paris knew that I slept in my coffin, and gossip

with its thistledown wings took flight in all directions.

I was so accustomed to the turpitudes which were written about me that I

did not trouble about this. But at the death of my poor little sister a

tragic-comic incident happened: when the undertaker’s men came to the

room to take away the body they found themselves confronted with two

coffins, and losing his wits, the master of ceremonies sent in haste for

a second hearse. I was at that moment with my mother, who had lost

consciousness, and I got back just in time to prevent the black-clothed

men taking away my coffin. The second hearse was sent back, but the

papers got hold of this incident. I was blamed, criticised, etc.

After the death of my sister I fell seriously ill. I had tended her day

and night, and this, in addition to the grief I was suffering, made me

anæmic. I was ordered to the South for two months. I promised to go to

Mentone and I turned immediately toward Bretagne, the country of my

dreams. I had with me my little boy, my butler and his wife. My poor

Guérard, who had helped me to tend my sister, was in bed ill with

phlebitis. I would have much liked to have had her with me.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN HER COFFIN.]

Oh, the lovely holiday that we had there! Thirty-five years ago Bretagne

was wild, inhospitable, but as beautiful—perhaps more beautiful than at

present, for it was not furrowed with roads, its green slopes were not

dotted with small white villas, its inhabitants—the men—were not dressed

in the abominable modern trousers, nor the women in the miserable little

hat and feathers. No, the Bretons proudly displayed their well-shaped

legs in gaiters or rough stockings, their feet shod with buckled shoes,

their long hair was brought down on the temples, hiding any awkward

ears, and giving to the face a nobility which the modern style does not

admit of. The women, with their short skirts, which showed their slender

ankles in black stockings, and with their small heads under the wings of

the headdress, resembled seagulls. I am not speaking, of course, of the

inhabitants of Pont l’Abbé or of Bourg de Batz, who have entirely

different aspects.

I visited nearly the whole of Bretagne and stayed especially at

Finistère. The Pointe du Raz enchanted me. I remained twelve days at

Audierne, in the house of the Père Batifoulé, so big and so fat that

they had been obliged to cut a piece out of the table to take in his

immense abdomen. I set out every morning at ten o’clock. My butler

Claude himself prepared my lunch, which he packed up very carefully in

three little baskets; then climbing into the comical vehicle of the Père

Batifoulé, my little boy driving, we set out for the Baie des Trépassés.

Ah, that beautiful and mysterious shore, all bristling with rocks, all

pale and sorrowful! The lighthouse keeper would be looking out for me

and would come to meet me. Claude gave him my provisions with a thousand

recommendations as to the manner of cooking the eggs, warming up the

lentils, and toasting the bread. He carried off everything, then

returned with two old sticks in which he had stuck nails to make them

into picks and we recommenced the terrifying ascension of the Pointe du

Raz, a kind of labyrinth full of disagreeable surprises; of _crevasses_

across which we had to jump, over the gaping and roaring abyss; of

arches and tunnels through which we had to crawl on all fours, having

overhead—touching even—a rock which had fallen there in unknown ages and

was only held in equilibrium by some inexplicable phenomena. Then, all

at once, the way became so narrow that it was impossible to walk

straight forward; we had to turn and put our backs against the rock and

advance with both arms spread out and fingers holding on to the few

projections of the rock.

When I think of what I did in those moments, I tremble, for I have

always been and still am, subject to fits of dizziness. I went over this

path along a steep precipitous rock, thirty meters high, in the midst of

the infernal noise of the sea, at this place eternally furious and

raging fearfully against indestructible rock. And I must have taken a

mad pleasure in it, for I accomplished this journey five times in eleven

days.

After this challenge thrown down to reason, we descended and installed

ourselves in the Baie des Trépassés. After a bath we had lunch and I

painted till sunset.

The first day there was nobody there. The second day a child came to

look at us. The third day about ten children stood around asking for

_sous_. I was foolish enough to give them some, and the following day

there was a crowd of twenty or thirty boys, some of them from sixteen to

eighteen years old.

I had the ugly band routed by Claude and the lighthouse keeper and as

they took to throwing stones at us I pointed my gun at the little troop.

They fled howling. Only two boys, of six and ten years of age, stayed.

We did not take any notice of them and I installed myself a little

farther on, sheltered by a rock which kept the wind away. The two boys

followed. Claude and the lighthouse keeper were on the lookout to see

that the boys did not come back. They were stooping down over the

extreme point of the rock which was above our heads. They seemed

peaceful, when suddenly my young maid jumped up: “Horrors! Madame!

Horrors! They are throwing lice down on us!” And, in fact, the two

little good-for-nothings had been for the last hour searching for all

the vermin they could find on themselves and throwing them on us.

I had the two little beggars seized and they got a well-deserved

correction.

There was a _crevasse_ which was called the “Enfer du Plogoff.” I had a

wild desire to go down this _crevasse_, but the guardian dissuaded me,

constantly giving as objections the danger of slipping and his fear of

responsibility in case of accident. I persisted, nevertheless, in my

intention, and after a thousand promises, in addition to a certificate

to testify that notwithstanding the supplications of the guardian and

the certainty of the danger that I ran, I had persisted all the same,

etc., and after having made a small present of ten _louis_ to the brave

man, I obtained the facilities for descending the “Enfer du

Plogoff”—that is to say a wide belt to which a strong rope was fastened.

I buckled this belt round my waist, which was then so slender

(forty-three centimeters) that it was necessary to make additional holes

in order to fasten it.

Then the guardian put on each of my hands a wooden shoe, the sole of

which was bordered with big nails jutting out two centimeters. I stared

at these wooden shoes and asked for an explanation before putting them

on.

“Well,” said the guardian Lucas, “when I let you down, as you are no

fatter than a herringbone, you will get shaken about in the _crevasse_

and will risk breaking your bones; while if you have the _sabots_ on

your hands you can protect yourself against the walls by putting out

your arms to the right and the left, according as you are shaken up

against them. I do not say that you will not have a few—bangs—but that

is your own fault, you _will_ go. Now, listen, my little lady: when you

are at the bottom, on the rock in the middle, mind you don’t slip, for

that is the most dangerous of all; if you fell in the water I might pull

the rope, for sure, but I don’t answer for anything. In that cursed

whirlpool of water you might be caught between two stones and it would

be no use for me to pull—I should break the rope and that would be all.”

Then the man grew pale and making the sign of the cross, he leaned

toward me, murmuring in a faint voice: “It is the shipwrecked ones who

are there, under the stones, down there. It is they who dance in the

moonlight on the shore of the dead (‘Trépassés’). It is they who put the

slippery seaweed on the little rock, down there, in order to make

travelers slip, and then they drag them to the bottom of the sea.” Then,

looking me in the eyes, he said: “Will you go down all the same?”

“Yes, certainly, Père Lucas, I will go down at once.”

My little boy was building forts and castles on the sand with Félicie.

Only Claude was with me. He did not say a word, knowing my unbridled

desire to meet danger. He looked to see if the belt was properly

fastened, and asked my permission to tie the tongue of the belt firmly,

then he passed a strong cord several times around to strengthen the

leather, and I was let down, suspended by the rope in the blackness of

the _crevasse_. I extended my arms to the right and the left, as the

guardian had told me to do, and even then I got my elbows scraped. At

first I thought that the noise I heard was the reverberation of the echo

of the blows of the wooden shoes against the edges of the _crevasse_ but

suddenly a frightful din filled my ears: successive firings of cannon,

strident, ringing, crackings of a whip, plaintive howlings and repeated

monotonous cries as of a hundred fishermen drawing up a net filled with

fish, seaweed, and pebbles. All the noises mingled under the mad

violence of the wind. I became furious with myself, for I was really

afraid. The lower I went, the louder the howlings became in my ears and

my brain; and my heart beat the order of retreat. The wind swept through

the narrow tunnel and blew in all directions round my legs, my body, my

neck. A horrible fear took possession of me. I descended slowly and at

each little shock I felt that the four hands holding me above had come

to a knot. I tried to remember the number of knots, for it seemed to me

that I was making no progress. Then, filled with terror, I opened my

mouth to call out to be drawn up again, but the wind, which danced in

mad folly around me, filled my mouth and drove back the words. I was

nearly suffocated. Then I shut my eyes and ceased to struggle. I would

not even put out my arms. A few moments after I pulled up my legs in

unspeakable terror. The sea had just seized them in a brutal embrace

which had wet me through. However, I recovered courage, for now I could

see clearly. I stretched out my legs and found myself upright on the

little rock. It is true it was very slippery. I took hold of a large

ring fixed in the vault which overhung the rock and looked round. The

long and narrow _crevasse_ grew suddenly larger at its base and

terminated in a large grotto which looked out over the open sea; but the

entrance of this grotto was protected by a quantity of both large and

small rocks which could be seen for a distance of a league in front on

the surface of the water—which explains the terrible noise of the sea

dashing into the labyrinth and the possibility of standing upright on a

rock with the wild dance of the waves all around.

However, I saw very plainly that a false step might be fatal in the

brutal whirl of waters which came rushing in from afar with dizzy speed

and broke against the insurmountable obstacle, and in receding dashed

against other waves which followed them. From this cause proceeded the

perpetual fusillade of waters which rushed into the _crevasse_ without

danger of drowning me.

The night commenced to fall, and I experienced a fearful anguish in

discovering on the crest of a little rock two enormous eyes which looked

fixedly at me. Then a little farther, near a tuft of seaweed, two more

large, fixed eyes. I saw no body to these beings—nothing but the eyes. I

thought for a minute that I was losing my senses, and I bit my tongue

till the blood came, then I pulled violently at the rope, as I had

agreed to do, in order to give the signal for being drawn up. I felt the

trembling joy of the four hands pulling me, and my feet lost their hold

as I was lifted up by my guardians. The eyes were lifted up also,

troubled to see me go. And while I mounted through the air I saw nothing

but eyes everywhere—eyes throwing out long feelers to reach me. I had

never seen an octopus, and I did not even know of the existence of these

horrible beasts.

During the ascension, which seemed to me interminable, I imagined I saw

these beasts along the walls, and my teeth were chattering when I was

drawn on to the green hillock.

I immediately told the guardian the cause of my terror, and he crossed

himself, saying: “Those were the eyes of the shipwrecked ones. No one

must stay there!”

I knew very well that they were not the eyes of shipwrecked ones, but I

did not know what they were. For I thought I had seen some strange

beasts that no one had ever seen before.

It was only at the hotel, with Père Batifoulé, that I learned to know

the octopus.

Only five more days of holiday were left to me, and I passed them at the

Pointe du Raz, seated in a niche of rock which has been since named

“Sarah Bernhardt’s armchair.” Many tourists have sat there since, and

many have sent me verses.

I returned to Paris when my holiday was finished. But I was still very

weak and could not take up my work until toward the month of November. I

played all the pieces of my _répertoire_, and I was annoyed at not

having any new rôles.

One day Perrin came to see me in my sculptor’s studio. He began to talk

at first about my busts; he told me that I ought to do his medallion,

and asked me, incidentally, if I knew the rôle of _Phèdre_. Up to this

time I had played only _Aricie_, and the part of _Phèdre_ seemed

formidable to me. I had, however, studied it for my own pleasure.

“Yes, I know the rôle of _Phèdre_. But I think if ever I had to play it

I should die of fright.”

He laughed with his silly little laugh and said to me, squeezing my hand

(for he was very gallant): “Work it up; I think that you will play it.”

In fact, eight days after I was called to the directorial office, and

Perrin told me that he had announced “Phèdre” for the 21st of December,

the fête of Racine, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt in the part of _Phèdre_.

I thought I should fall.

“Well, but what about Mlle. Rousseil?” I asked.

“Mlle. Rousseil wishes to have the Committee promise that she shall

become an Associate in the month of January, and the Committee, which

will without doubt appoint her, refuses to make this promise, and

declares that this demand is like a threat. But perhaps Mlle. Rousseil

will change her plans, and in that case you will play _Aricie_ and I

will change the bill.”

Coming out from Perrin’s I ran up against M. Regnier. I told him of my

conversation with the director and of my fears.

“No, no,” said the great _artiste_ to me, “you must not be afraid! I see

very well what you are going to make of this rôle. But all you have to

do is to be careful and not force your voice. Make the rôle sorrowful

rather than furious—it will be better for everyone—even Racine.”

Then, joining my hands, I said: “Dear M. Regnier, help me to work up

_Phèdre_ and I shall not be so much afraid.”

He looked at me rather surprised, for in general I was neither docile

nor apt to be guided by advice. I own that I was wrong, but I could not

help it. But the responsibility which this put upon me made me timid.

Regnier accepted and gave me a rendezvous for the following morning at

nine o’clock.

Roselia Rousseil persisted in her demand to the Committee, and “Phèdre”

was billed for the 21st of December, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt for the

first time in the rôle of _Phèdre_.

This caused quite a sensation in the artistic set and in the

theater-loving world. That evening over two hundred people were turned

away at the ticket office. And when I was told that I began to tremble

so much that my teeth chattered.

Regnier comforted me as best he could, saying: “Courage! Cheer up! Are

you not the spoiled darling of the public? They will take into

consideration your inexperience in important first parts, etc....”

These were the last words he should have said to me. I should have felt

stronger if I had known that the public were come to oppose and not to

encourage me.

I began to cry bitterly, like a child. Perrin was called and consoled me

as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting powder on my face

so awkwardly that I was blinded and suffocated.

Everybody in the theater knew about it and stood at the door of my

dressing-room wishing to comfort me. Mounet-Sully, who was playing

_Hippolyte_, told me that he had dreamed: “We were playing ‘Phèdre’ and

you were hissed, and my dreams always go by contraries—so,” he cried,

“we shall have a tremendous success!”

But what put me completely in a good humor was the arrival of the worthy

Martel, who was playing _Théramène_, and who had come so quickly,

believing me ill, that he had not had time to finish his nose. The sight

of this gray face with a wide bar of red wax commencing between the two

eyebrows, coming down to half a centimeter below his nose and leaving

behind it the end of the nose with two large black nostrils—this face

was indescribable! And everybody laughed irrepressibly. I knew that

Martel made up his nose, for I had already seen this poor nose change

shape at the second performance of “Zaïre,” under the tropical

depression of the atmosphere; but I had never realized how much he

lengthened it. This comical apparition restored all my gayety, and from

henceforth I was in full possession of my faculties.

The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press was unanimous in

praise, with the exception of the article of Paul de St. Victor, who was

on very good terms with a sister of Rachel, and could not get over my

impertinent presumption in daring to measure myself with the great dead

_artiste_; these are his own words, addressed to Girardin, who

immediately told me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had never

seen Rachel act, but I worshiped her talent, for I had surrounded myself

with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought of comparing me

with their idol.

A few days after this performance of “Phèdre,” the new piece of Bornier

was read to us—“La Fille de Roland.” The part of _Berthe_ was confided

to me, and we immediately began the rehearsals of this fine piece, whose

verses were, nevertheless, a little flat, but which had a real breath of

patriotism. There was in this piece a terrible duel, which the public

did not see, but which was related by _Berthe_, the daughter of

_Roland_, while the incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy

girl, who, from a window of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes

of the encounter. This scene was the only important one of my much

sacrificed rôle.

The piece was ready to be passed when Bornier asked that his friend,

Emile Augier, should be present at a general rehearsal. When the play

was finished Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained

air. As to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome

manner. Emile Augier followed him. “Well,” he said to me. I looked

straight at him, feeling in this moment that he was my enemy. He stopped

short and scratched his head, then turned toward Augier and said:

“I beg you, _cher Maître_, explain to mademoiselle yourself.”

Emile Augier was a broad man with wide shoulders and a common

appearance, at this time rather fat. He was in very good repute at the

Théâtre Français, of which he was, for the moment, the successful

author. He came near me: “You managed the part at the window very well,

mademoiselle, but it is ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of

the author, who has written a most improbable scene. The public would

laugh immoderately; this scene must be taken out.”

I turned toward Perrin, who was listening silently: “Are you of the same

opinion, sir?”

“I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but the author

is master of his work.”

Then addressing myself to Bornier, I said: “Well, my dear author, what

have you decided?”

Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in this beseeching

and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at having to cut out a scene

which he prized, and of fear to vex an Academician just at the time when

he was hoping to become a member of the Academy.

“Cut it out! cut it out! or you are done for!” brutally replied Augier,

and turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who resembled a Breton gnome,

came up to me. He scratched himself desperately, for the unfortunate man

had a skin disease which itched terribly. He did not speak. He looked at

us questioningly. A poignant anxiety was expressed on his face. Perrin,

who had come up to me, guessed the private little drama which was taking

place in the heart of the mild Bornier.

“Refuse energetically,” murmured Perrin to me.

I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this scene was

taken out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier seized both my hands

which he kissed ardently, and running up to Augier he cried with comical

emphasis:

“But I cannot take it out! I cannot take it out! She will not play! And

the day after to-morrow the play is to be passed!” Then as Emile Augier

made a gesture, and would have spoken—“No! No! To put back my play eight

days would be to kill it! I cannot take it out! Oh, my God!” And he

cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and stamped with his

short legs. His large hairy head went from right to left. He was at the

same time funny and pitiful. Emile Augier was irritated, and turned on

me like a hunted boar on a pursuing dog:

“You will take the responsibility, mademoiselle, of the absurd window

scene at the first presentation?”

“Certainly, monsieur, and I even promise to make of this scene, which I

find very fine, an enormous success!”

He rudely shrugged his shoulders, muttering something very disagreeable

between his teeth.

When I left the theater I met poor Bornier quite transfigured. He

thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very highly of this scene,

but dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both Perrin and myself had divined

the legitimate emotions of this poor poet, so gentle and so well brought

up, but a trifle Jesuitical.

The play was a big success. But the window scene on the night of the

first presentation was a veritable triumph.

It was a short time after the terrible war of 1870. The play contained

frequent allusions to this, and, owing to the patriotism of the public,

had an even greater success than it deserved as a play. I had Emile

Augier called. He came into my dressing-room with a surly air and called

to me from the door:

“So much the worse for the public! It only proves that the public is an

idiot to make a success of such vileness!” And he disappeared without

having even entered my dressing-room.

His outburst made me laugh, and as the triumphant Bornier had embraced

me repeatedly, I hugged myself in glee.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT PAINTING, 1878–9.]

Two months later I played “Gabrielle,” by this same Augier, and I had

incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses of this play execrable.

Coquelin, who took the part of my husband, had a grand success. As for

me, I was as mediocre as the play itself, which is saying much.

I had been admitted Associate in the month of January, and since then it

seemed to me that I was in prison, for I had undertaken the engagement

not to leave Molière’s Theater for several years. This idea made me sad.

It was Perrin who had instigated me to ask to become Associate, and now

I regretted it very much.

Almost all the latter part of the year I played only occasionally.

My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty

_hôtel_ which I was having constructed at the corner of the Avenue de

Villiers and the Rue Fontuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in

her will a nice legacy which I used to buy the ground. My great desire

was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then

realizing it. The son-in-law of M. Regnier, Félix Escalier, a

fashionable architect, was building me a ravishing _hôtel_! Nothing

amused me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished

house. Then afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on

the roofs. I forgot my worries of the theater in this new occupation.

The thing I most desired just now was to become an architect. Then, when

the building was finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent my

strength in helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings

in my bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall—Georges Clairin, the

architect Escalier, who was also a talented painter, Duez, Picard,

Butin, Jadin, Jourdain, and Parrot. I was deeply interested, and I

recollect a joke which I played on one of my relations. My Aunt Betsy

had come from Holland, her native country, to pass a few days in Paris.

She was staying with my mother. I invited her to lunch in my new,

unfinished habitation. Five of my painter friends were working, some in

one room, some in another, and everywhere lofty scaffoldings were

erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more easily I was

wearing my sculptor’s costume. My aunt, seeing me thus arrayed, was

horribly shocked and told me so. But I was preparing yet another

surprise for her. She thought these young workers were ordinary house

painters and considered I was too familiar with them. But she nearly

fainted when midday came and I rushed to the piano to play “The

Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs.” This wild melody had been improvised

by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet friends.

When the song was finished I mounted into my bedroom and made myself

into a fine lady for lunch.

My aunt had followed me: “But, my dear,” said she, “you are mad to think

I am going to eat with all these workmen. Certainly in all Paris there

is no one but yourself who would do such a thing.”

“No, no, aunt, it is all right.”

And I dragged her off, when I was dressed, to the dining-room, which was

the most habitable room of the house. Five young men solemnly bowed to

my aunt, who did not recognize them at first, for they had changed their

working clothes and looked like five respectable young men of society.

Mme. Guérard lunched with us. Suddenly, in the middle of lunch, my aunt,

cried out: “But these are the workmen!” The five young men rose and

bowed low. Then my poor aunt understood her mistake and excused herself

in every possible manner, so confused was she.

CHAPTER XIX

BUSY DAYS

One day Alexandre Dumas, _fils_, was announced. He came to bring me the

good news that he had finished his play for the Comédie Française:

“L’Etrangère,” and that my rôle, the _Duchess de Septmonts_, had come

out very well. “You can,” he said to me, “make a fine success out of

it.” I expressed my gratitude to him.

A month after this visit we were convoked to the Comédie for the reading

of this piece.

The reading was a great success, and I was delighted with my rôle:

_Catherine de Septmonts_. I also liked the rôle of Croizette: _Mistress

Clarkson_. Got gave us each our parts, and thinking that he had made a

mistake I passed on to Croizette the rôle of _l’Etrangère_, which he had

just given me, saying to her: “Here, Got has made a mistake—here is your

rôle.”

“But he is not making any mistake, it is I who am to play the _Duchess

de Septmonts_.”

I burst out into irrepressible laughter, which surprised everybody

present, and when Perrin, annoyed, asked me why I was laughing like

that, I exclaimed:

“At all of you—you, Dumas, Got, Croizette—and all of you who are in the

plot, and who are all a little afraid of the result of your cowardice.

Well, you need not alarm yourselves. I was delighted to play the

_Duchesse de Septmonts_, but I shall be ten times more delighted to play

the _Stranger_. And this time, my dear Sophie, I make no account of you;

you are not worth considering, for you have played me a little trick

which was quite unworthy of our friendship!”

The rehearsals were strained on all sides. Perrin, who was a warm

partisan of Croizette, bewailed the want of suppleness of her talent, so

much so that one day Croizette, out of all patience, burst out:

“Well, monsieur, you should have left the rôle to Sarah, she would have

taken the part in the love scenes as you wish; I cannot do any better.

You irritate me too much, I have had enough of it!” And she ran off,

sobbing, into the little _guignol_, where she had an attack of hysteria.

I followed her and consoled her as well as I could. And in the midst of

her tears she kissed me, murmuring: “It is true, it is they who

instigated me to do this nasty trick, and now they are bothering me.”

Croizette spoke broadly—very broadly—and sometimes she had quite a

provincial accent.

Then we made up our quarrel entirely.

A week before the first performance I received an anonymous letter

informing me that Perrin was trying his very best to get Dumas to change

the name of the piece. He wished—it goes without saying—to have the

piece called “La Duchesse de Septmonts.” I rushed off to the theater to

find Perrin at once. At the door I met Coquelin, who was taking the part

of the _Duc de Septmonts_, which he did marvelously well. I showed him

the letter. He shrugged his shoulders. “It is infamous! But why do you

take any notice of an anonymous letter? It is not worthy of you!” We

were talking at the foot of the staircase when the manager arrived.

“Here, show the letter to Perrin.” And he took it from my hands in order

to show it to him. Perrin reddened slightly.

“I know this writing,” he said. “It is some one from the theater who has

written this letter.”

I snatched it back from him. “Then it is some one who is well informed,

and what he says is perhaps true, is it not so? Tell me, I have the

right to know.”

“I detest anonymous letters.” And he went up the stairs with a slight

bow, without saying anything further.

“Ah, if it is true,” said Coquelin, “it is too much! Would you like me

to go to see Dumas? I will find out at once.”

“No, thank you. But you have put an idea into my head.” And shaking

hands with him I went off immediately to see Dumas, _fils_. He was just

going out.

“Well, well! What is the matter? Your eyes are blazing!”

I went with him into the drawing-room and asked my question at once. He

had kept his hat on and took it off to recover his self-possession.

Before he could speak a word I got furiously angry—one of those rages

which I sometimes have, and which are more like attacks of madness. With

all that I felt of bitterness toward this man, toward Perrin, toward all

this theatrical world who should have loved me and upheld me, and who

betrayed me on every occasion—all that I had been accumulating of hot

anger during the rehearsals, the cries of revolt against the perpetual

injustice of these two men, Perrin and Dumas—I burst out with

everything, in an avalanche of stinging words, which were both furious

and sincere. I reminded him of his promise made in former days; of his

visit to my _hôtel_ in the Avenue de Villiers; of the cowardly and

underhand manner in which he had written of me, at Perrin’s request, and

on the wishes of the friends of Sophie.... I spoke vehemently, without

allowing him to edge in a single word. And when, worn out, I was forced

to stop, I murmured, out of breath with fatigue: “What—what—what have

you to say for yourself?”

“My dear child,” he replied, much touched, “if I had examined my own

conscience I should have said to myself all that you have just said to

me so eloquently. But I can truly say, in order to excuse myself a

little, that I really believed that you did not care at all about your

theater; that you much preferred your sculpture, your painting, and your

court. We have seldom talked together, and people led me to believe all

that which I was perhaps too ready to believe. Your grief and anger have

touched me deeply. I give you my word that the play shall keep its title

of ‘L’Etrangère.’ And now, embrace me with a good grace, to show that

you are no longer angry with me.”

I embraced him, and from that day we were good friends.

That evening I told the whole tale to Croizette, and I saw that she knew

nothing about this wicked scheme. I was very pleased to know that.

The play was very successful. Coquelin, Febvre, and I carried off the

laurels of the day.

I had just commenced in my studio, in the Avenue de Clichy, a large

group, the inspiration for which I had gathered from the sad history of

an old woman whom I often saw at nightfall in the Baie des Trépassés.

One day I went up to her wishing to speak to her, but I was so terrified

by her aspect of madness that I rushed off at once, and the guardian

told me her history. She was the mother of five sons—all sailors. Two

had been killed by the Germans in 1870, and three had been drowned. She

had brought up the little son of her youngest boy, always keeping him

far from the sea and teaching him to hate the water. She had never left

the little lad; but he became so sad that he was really ill, and he said

he was dying because he wanted to see the sea. “Well, make haste and get

well,” said the grandmother tenderly, “and we will go and visit the sea

together.” Two days later the child was better, and the grandmother left

the valley in the company of her little grandson to go and see the

ocean, the grave of her three sons.

It was a November day. A low sky hung over the sea limiting the horizon.

The child jumped with joy. He ran, gamboled, and sang for happiness when

he saw all this living water. The grandmother sat on the sand and hid

her tearful eyes in her two trembling hands; then, suddenly, struck by

the silence, she looked up in terror. There, in front of her she saw a

boat drifting, and in the boat her boy, her little lad of eight years

old, who was laughing right merrily, paddling as well as he could with

one oar that he could hardly hold, and crying out: “I am going to see

what there is behind the mist and I will come back.”