He never came back. And the following day they found the poor old woman

talking low to the waves which came and bathed her feet. She came every

day to the water’s edge, throwing in the bread which kindly folk gave

her and saying to the waves: “You must carry that to the little lad.”

This touching narrative had remained in my memory. I can still see the

tall old woman with her brown cape and hood. I worked feverishly at the

group. It seemed to me now that I was destined to be a sculptor and I

began to despise my theater. I went there only when I was compelled by

my duties and I left it as soon as possible.

I had made several designs, none of which pleased me. Just when I was

going to throw down the last one in discouragement, the painter Georges

Clairin, who came to see me, begged me not to do so. And my good friend,

Mathieu Mensiner, who was a man of talent, also joined his voice against

the destruction of my design.

Excited by their encouragement I decided to push on with the work and to

make a large group. I asked Lourdier if he knew any tall, bony old

woman, and he sent me two, but neither of them suited me. Then I asked

all my painter and sculptor friends, and during eight days all sorts of

old and infirm women came for my inspection. I fixed at last on a

charwoman who was about sixty years old. She was very tall and had very

sharply cut features. When she came in I felt a slight sentiment of

fear. The idea of remaining alone with this female _gendarme_ for hours

together made me feel uneasy. But when I heard her speak I was more

comfortable. Her timid, gentle voice and frightened gestures, like a shy

young girl, contrasted strangely with the build of the poor woman. When

I showed her the design she was stupefied: “Do you want me to have my

neck and shoulders bare? I really cannot.” I told her that nobody ever

came in when I worked and I asked to see her neck immediately.

Oh, that neck! I clapped my hands with joy when I saw it. It was long,

emaciated, terrible. The bones literally stood out almost bare of flesh,

the Adam’s apple looked as if it would come through the skin. It was

just what I wanted. I went up to her and gently bared her shoulder. What

a treasure I had found! the bones of the shoulder were entirely visible

under the skin and she had two immense “salt cellars.” The woman was

ideal for my work. She seemed destined for it. She blushed when I told

her so. I asked to see her feet. She took off her thick boots and showed

a dirty foot which had no character. “No,” I said, “thank you. Your feet

are too small, I will take only your head and shoulders.”

After having fixed the price I engaged her for three months. At the idea

of earning so much money for three months the poor woman began to cry

and I felt so sorry for her that I told her she would not have to seek

for work that winter, because she had already told me that she generally

passed six months of the year in the country, at Sologne, near her

grandchildren.

Having found the grandmother I now needed the grandchild. I then had

passed in review before me a whole army of little Italians, professional

models. There were some lovely children, real little _Jupins_. The

mothers undressed their children in one moment and the children posed

quite naturally and took attitudes which showed off their muscles and

the development of the torso. I chose a fine little boy of seven years,

but who looked more like nine. I had already had the workmen in to put

up the scaffolding required to make it sufficiently stable to sustain

the necessary weight. Enormous iron supports were fixed into the plaster

by bolts, and pillars of wood and iron wherever needed. The skeleton of

a large piece of sculpture looks like a giant trap put up to catch rats

and mice by the thousand.

I gave myself up to this enormous work with the courage of ignorance.

Nothing discouraged me. Often I worked on till midnight, sometimes till

four o’clock in the morning. And as one, humble gas burner was totally

insufficient for working by, I had a crown or rather a silver circlet

made, each bud of which was a candlestick with a candle burning, those

of the back row a little higher than those of the front; and with this

help I was able to work almost without ceasing. I had no watch or clock

in the room, as I wished to ignore time altogether. Then my maid would

come to seek me. How many times I have gone without lunch or dinner!

Then I would perhaps faint and so be compelled to send for something to

eat to restore my strength.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT WORK ON HER “MÊDÉE.”]

I had almost finished my group, but I had done neither the feet nor the

hands of the grandmother. She was holding her little dead grandson on

her knees, but her arms had no hands and her legs had no feet. I looked

in vain for the hands and the feet of my ideal, large and bony. One day

when my friend Martel came to see me at my studio and to look at this

group which was much talked of, I had an inspiration: Martel was big,

and thin enough to make Death jealous. I watched him walking round my

work. He was looking at it as a connoisseur. But _I_ was looking at

_him_. Suddenly I said:

“My dear Martel, I beg you ... I beseech you ... to pose for the hands

and feet of my grandmother.”

He burst out laughing, and with perfectly good grace took off his shoes

and took the place of my model.

He came ten days running and gave me three hours each day. Thanks to him

I was able to finish my group. I had it molded and sent to the Salon

(1876) where it had a veritable success. Is there any need to say that I

was accused of having got some one else to make this group for me? I

asked one critic to meet me. This was no other than Jules Claretie, who

had declared that this work, which was very interesting, could not have

been done by me. Jules Claretie excused himself very politely and that

was the end of it.

The jury, after being fully informed on the subject, awarded me

“honorable mention,” and I was wild with joy.

I was very much criticised, but also very much praised. Nearly all the

criticisms were directed to the neck of my old Breton woman—that neck on

which I had worked with such eagerness.

The following is from an article by Réné Delorme:

“The work of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt deserves to be studied in detail. The

head of the grandmother, well worked out as to the profound wrinkles it

bears, expresses that intense sorrow in which everything else counts as

nothing. The only reproach I have to bring against this artist is that

she has brought too much into prominence the muscles of the neck of the

old grandmother. This shows a lack of experience. She is pleased with

herself for having studied anatomy so well and is not sorry for the

opportunity of showing it. It is,” etc., etc....

Certainly this gentleman was right—I had studied anatomy eagerly and in

a very amusing manner. I had had lessons from Doctor Parrot who was so

good to me. I had continually with me a book of anatomical designs, and

when I was at home I stood before the glass and said suddenly to myself,

putting my finger on some part of my body: “Now, then, what is that?” I

had to answer immediately, without hesitation, and when I hesitated I

compelled myself to learn by heart the muscles of the head or the arm

and did not sleep till this was done.

A month after the exhibition there was a reading of Parodi’s play, “Rome

Vaincue,” at the Comédie Française. I refused the rôle of the young

vestal _Opïmia_, which had been allotted to me, and energetically

demanded that of _Posthumia_, an old blind Roman woman with a superb and

noble face. No doubt there was some connection in my mind between my old

Breton weeping over her son, and the august patrician claiming pardon

for her granddaughter.

Perrin was at first astounded. Afterwards he acceded to my request. But

his order-loving mind, and his taste for symmetry made him anxious about

Mounet-Sully, who was also playing in the piece. He was accustomed to

seeing Mounet-Sully and me playing the two heroes, the two lovers, the

two victims. How was he to arrange matters so that we should still be

the two ... together? Eureka! There was in the play an old idiot named

_Vastaepor_, who was quite unnecessary for the action of the piece, but

had been brought in to satisfy Perrin. “Eureka!” cried the director of

the Comédie, “Mounet-Sully shall play _Vestaepor_!” Equilibrium was

restored. The God of the _bourgeois_ was content.

The piece, which was really quite mediocre, obtained a big success at

the first presentation (27th September, 1876), and personally I was very

successful in the fourth act. The crowd was decidedly in my favor in

spite of everything and everybody.

The performance of “Hernani” made me more the favorite of the public

than ever. I had already gone through it with Victor Hugo and it was a

real pleasure to me to visit the great poet each day. I had never

discontinued my visits to him, but I was never able to have any

conversation with him in his own house. There were always men in red

ties gesticulating, or women in tears reciting. He was very good; he

listened to me with half-closed eyes and I thought he was asleep. Then

when I stopped he roused up at the silence and said a consoling word,

for Victor Hugo would not have promised to hear me without keeping his

word. He was not like me; I promise everything with the firm intention

of keeping my promises, and two hours after I have forgotten all about

them. If anybody reminds me of what I have promised I tear my hair and

to make up for my forgetfulness I say anything, I buy presents, in fact

I complicate my life with useless worries. It has always been so and

always will.

As I was grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a

chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after

lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to

which Paul Maurice the poet, Léon Gladel, Gustave Doré and the Cummunard

X— (a Russian lady whose name I do not remember) were also invited. In

front of Victor Hugo sat Mme. Drouet, the friend of his unlucky days.

But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly served. My

feet were frozen by the draughts from the three doors, which fitted

badly, and one could positively _hear_ the wind blowing under the table.

Near me was Mr. X——, the German architect, who is to-day a very

successful man. This man had such dirty hands and ate so badly that he

made me feel sick. I met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean

and proper, and I believe an Imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling

this uncongenial neighbor inspired in me, the cold draughts blowing on

my feet, the boredom I was afflicted with—all reduced me to a state of

positive suffering and I lost consciousness. When I recovered I found

myself on a couch, my hand in that of Mme. Drouet and in front of me,

sketching me, Gustave Doré.

“Oh, don’t move,” he cried, “you are so pretty like that!” These words,

though they were so inappropriate, pleased me, nevertheless, and I

complied with the wish of the great artist. From that day we were the

best of friends.

I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-by to him, a trifle

ashamed of myself. The next day he came to see me. I told him some tale

to account for my illness and I saw no more of him except at the

rehearsals of “Hernani.”

The first performance of “Hernani” took place on the 21st November,

1877. It was a triumph alike for the author and the actors. “Hernani”

had already been played ten years earlier, but Delaunay, who then took

the part of _Hernani_, was the exact contrary of what this part should

have been. He was neither epic, romantic, nor poetic. He had not the

style of these grand times. He was charming, gracious, and with a

perpetual smile, of middle height, with studied movements, ideal in

Musset, perfect in Emile Augier, charming in Molière, but execrable in

Victor Hugo.

Bressant, who took the part of _Charles-Quint_, was worst of all. His

amiable and flabby style and his weak and wandering eyes effectively

prevented all grandeur. His two enormous feet, generally half hidden

under his trousers, took on immense proportions. I could see nothing

else. They were very large, flat, and slightly turned in at the toes.

They were a nightmare! But think of their possessor repeating the

admirable couplet of _Charles-Quint_ to the shade of Charlemagne! It was

absurd! The public coughed, wriggled, and showed that they found the

whole thing painful and ridiculous.

In our performance (in 1877) it was Mounet-Sully in all the splendor of

his talent who played _Hernani_. And it was Worms, that admirable

_artiste_ who played _Charles-Quint_—and how well he took the part! How

he rolled out the lines! What a splendid diction he had! This

performance of the 21st of November, 1877, was a triumph. The public

received me very well in my rôle. I played _Doña Sol_. Victor Hugo sent

me this letter:

MADAME: You have been great and charming; you have moved me—me, the

old man, and at one part, while the public whom you had enchanted

cheered you, I wept. This tear which I shed for you, and through you,

is at your feet, where I place myself.

VICTOR HUGO.

With this letter came a small box containing a fine chain bracelet, from

which hung one diamond drop. I lost this bracelet at the rich nabob’s,

Alfred Sassoon. He would have given me another, but I refused. He could

not give me back the tear of Victor Hugo.

My success at the Comédie was assured, and the public treated me as a

spoiled child. My friends were a little jealous of me. Perrin made

trouble for me at every turn. He had a sort of friendship for me, but he

could not believe that I could get on without him, and as he always

refused to do as I wanted I did not go to him for anything. I sent a

letter to the Ministère and I always won my cause.

CHAPTER XX

A BALLOON ASCENSION

As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now tried my hand at

painting. I knew how to draw a little and had a well-developed sense of

color. I first did two or three small pictures—then I undertook the

portrait of my dear Guérard. Alfred Stevens thought it was vigorously

done, and Georges Clairin encouraged me to continue with painting. Then

I launched out courageously, boldly. I began a picture which was nearly

two meters in size: “The Young Girl and Death.”

Then there was a cry of indignation against me.

Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was my career?

Why did I always want to be before the public?

Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He began to preach.

“You are killing yourself, my dear child,” he said. “Why do you go in

for sculpture, painting, etc.? Is it to prove that you can do it?”

“Oh, no, no,” I answered; “it is merely to create a necessity for

staying here!”

“I don’t understand,” said Perrin, listening very attentively.

“This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something

else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are higher than ours

and trees that are bigger; something different, in short. I have

therefore had to create for myself some tasks which will hold me to my

chains. If I did not do this, I feel that my desire to see other things

in the world would win the day and I should do something foolish.”

This conversation was destined to go against me some years later when

the Comédie brought an action against me.

The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state of

exasperation that Perrin and some of the _artistes_ of the theater were

in with regard to me. They blamed me for everything, for my painting, my

sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible scene with Perrin and it was

the last one, for from that time forth we did not speak to each other

again; a formal bow was the most that we exchanged afterwards.

The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored and I still

adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard’s captive balloon.

This persistency had struck the _savant_ and he asked a mutual friend to

introduce him.

“Oh, M. Giffard,” I said, “how I should like to go up in a balloon that

is not captive!”

“Well, mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like,” he replied very

kindly.

“When?” I asked.

“Any day you like.”

I should have liked to start immediately, but as he pointed out he would

have to fit the balloon up and it was a great responsibility for him to

undertake. We therefore fixed upon the following Tuesday, just a week

from then. I asked M. Giffard to say nothing about it, for if the

newspapers should get hold of this piece of news, my terrified family

would not allow me to go. M. Tissandier, who a little time after was

doomed, poor fellow, to be killed in an aërial accident, promised to

accompany me. Something happened, however, to prevent his going with me,

and it was young Godard who the following week accompanied me in the

_Doña Sol_—a beautiful orange-colored balloon specially prepared for my

expedition. Prince Jerome Napoleon (Plon-Plon), who was with me when

Giffard was introduced, insisted on going with us. But he was heavy and

rather clumsy and I did not care much about his conversation, in spite

of his marvelous wit, for he was spiteful and rather delighted when he

could get a chance to attack the Emperor Napoleon III, whom I liked very

much.

We started alone, Georges Clairin, Godard, and I. The rumor of our

journey had nevertheless spread, but too late for the Press to get hold

of it. I had been up in the air about five minutes when one of my

friends, Count de M——, met Perrin on the Pont des Saints-Pères.

“I say,” he began, “look up in the sky! There is your star shooting

away.”

Perrin looked up, and pointing to the balloon which was rising he asked:

“Who is in that?”

“Sarah Bernhardt,” replied my friend. Perrin, it appears, turned purple,

and clenching his teeth, he murmured: “That’s another of her freaks, but

she will pay for this.”

He hurried away without even saying good-by to my young friend, who

stood there stupefied at this unreasonable burst of anger.

And if he had suspected my infinite joy at thus traveling through the

air, Perrin would have suffered still more.

Ah, our departure! It was half past five. I shook hands with a few

friends. My family, whom I had kept in the most profound ignorance, was

not there. I felt my heart tighten somewhat when after the words “Loose

all” I found myself in one instant fifty yards above the earth. I still

heard a few cries: “Attention! Come back! Don’t let her be killed!” And

then nothing more.... Nothing.... There was the sky above and the earth

beneath.... Then, suddenly, I was in the clouds. I had left a misty

Paris. I now breathed under a blue sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us

were opaque mountains of clouds with irradiated edges. Our balloon

plunged into a milky vapor all warm with the sun. It was splendid! It

was stupefying! Not a sound, not a breath! But the balloon was scarcely

moving at all. It was only toward six o’clock that the currents of air

caught us and we took our flight toward the East. We were at an altitude

of about 1,700 yards. The spectacle became fairylike. Large fleecy

clouds were spread below us. Large orange curtains fringed with violet

came down from the sun to lose themselves in our cloudy carpet.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, PORTRAIT BY PARROTT, 1875, IN THE

COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE, PARIS.]

At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2,500 yards above the earth,

and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves felt.

The dinner was copious—we had _foie gras_—fresh bread and oranges. The

cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the clouds with a pretty, soft

noise. We raised our glasses in honor of M. Giffard.

We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her heavy dark mantle.

It became very cold. We were then at 2,600 meters and I had a singing in

my ears. My nose began to bleed. I felt very uncomfortable and began to

feel drowsy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got

anxious and young Godard cried out loudly—to wake me up, no

doubt—“Alloa! Alloa! we shall have to go down. Let us throw out the

guide rope!” This cry woke me up properly. I wanted to know what was the

guide rope. I got up feeling rather stupefied, and in order to rouse me

Godard put the guide rope into my hands. It was a strong rope, about 130

meters long, to which were attached at certain distances little iron

hooks. Clairin and I let out the rope, laughing, while Godard bending

over the side of the car was looking through a field glass.

“Stop!” cried he suddenly. “There are a lot of trees!”

In fact, we were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in front of us

there was a little open ground suitable for our descent.

“There is no doubt about it,” cried Godard, “if we miss this plain we

shall come down in the black night in the wood of Ferrières, and that

would be very dangerous!” Then, turning to me, “Will you,” he said,

“open the valve?”

I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison, whistling a

mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aëronaut, and we

descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the

sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of

his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn, on which

he blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 meters

below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As

we were very close to a little station we easily guessed that this man

was the station master.

“Where are we?” cried Louis Godard, with his horn.

“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master. It was impossible to

understand.

“Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones.

“At—in—in—ille,” shouted the station master with his hand curved round

his mouth.

“Where are we?” called I in my most crystalline accents.

“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master—and his porters.

It was impossible to find out anything. We had to lower the balloon. At

first we descended rather too quickly and the wind blew us toward the

wood. We had to mount again. But ten minutes later we opened the valve

again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right of the

station, and far from the amiable station master.

“Throw out the anchor!” cried in a commanding tone young Godard. And

helped by Georges Clairin he threw out into space another rope, to the

end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80 meters

long.

Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever

since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 yards from

the earth, Godard called out to them: “Where are we?”

“At Vachère!”

None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.

“Alloa! You down below there—take hold of the guide rope,” cried the

aëronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too hard!” Five vigorous men seized

hold of the rope. We were 130 meters from the ground, and the spectacle

became interesting. The night began to blot out everything. I raised my

head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with

astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was

overhanging its base all loose and baggy. It was very ugly.

We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I hoped would

happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected.

It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.

The young owner of a neighboring _château_ ran up, like the peasants, to

see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella.

“Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet! I pass between the drops.”

The word was repeated, and has become almost a proverb.

“What time is there a train?” asked Godard.

“Oh, you have plenty of time!” answered an oily and heavy voice. “You

cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the station is a long way from here,

and in such weather it will take the young lady two hours to walk

there.”

I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with the umbrella,

which I could have used as a walking stick, as neither Clairin nor

Godard had one. But just as I was accusing him of going away and leaving

us, he jumped lightly out of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up.

“There!” said he. “There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and

another for the body of the balloon.”

“_Ma foi!_ You have saved us,” said Clairin, clasping his hand, “for it

appears the roads are in a very bad state.”

“Oh,” said the young man, “it would be impossible for the feet of

Parisians to walk even half the distance.”

Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey.

Rather more than an hour later we arrived at the station of

Emerainville. The station master, learning who we were, received us in a

very friendly manner. He made his apologies for not having heard when we

called out. He had a frugal meal of bread, cheese, and cider set before

us. I have always detested cheese, and would never eat it—there is

nothing poetical about it—but I was dying with hunger.

“Taste it, taste it,” said Georges Clairin.

I bit a morsel off and found it excellent.

We got back very late, in the middle of the night, and I found my

household in an extreme state of anxiety. Our friends, who had come to

hear news of us, had stayed. There was quite a crowd. I was somewhat

annoyed at this, as I was half dead with fatigue.

I sent everybody away rather sharply and went up to my room. As my maid

was helping me to undress she told me that some one had come for me from

the Comédie Française several times.

“Oh, _mon Dieu_!” I cried anxiously. “Could the piece have been

changed?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the maid. “But it appears that M. Perrin is

furious, and that they are all against you. There is the note which was

left for you.”

I opened the letter. I was requested to appear before the Administration

the following day at two o’clock.

On my arrival at Perrin’s at the time appointed, I was received with an

exaggerated politeness which had an undercurrent of severity.

Then commenced a series of onslaughts on my fits of ill temper, my

caprices, my eccentricities; and he finished his speech by saying that I

had incurred a fine of £40 for traveling without the consent of the

manager.

I burst out laughing: “The case of a balloon has not been foreseen,” I

said, “and I can promise you I shall pay no fine. Outside the theater I

do as I please, and that is no business of yours, my dear M. Perrin, so

long as I am not doing anything that would injure my theatrical work!

And, besides—you bore me to death!—I will resign!—Be happy!”

I left him ashamed and anxious.

The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin, and shortly

afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister of Fine Arts. I

refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who stated that M. Perrin

had gone further than he had any right, that the fine was remitted, and

that I must take back my resignation. So I did.

But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying for my

enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my friends. But at this

time all this stir and noise amused me vastly. I did nothing to attract

attention; but my fantastic tastes, my paleness and thinness, my

particular way of dressing, my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in

all respects, made me a being set apart. I did not recognize this fact.

I did not read—I never read—the newspapers. So I did not know what was

said about me, either favorable or unfavorable. Surrounded by a court of

adorers of both sexes, I lived in a sunny dream. All the royal

personages and the notabilities who were the guests of France during the

Exhibition of 1878 came to see me. This was a constant source of

pleasure to me.

The Comédie was the first theatrical stage of all these illustrious

visitors, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening. While I was

playing _Amphytrion_ I fell seriously ill, and was sent to the South.

I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I made Cap Martin

my headquarters. I had a tent put up on the spot that the Empress

Eugénie afterwards selected to build her villa. I did not want to see

anybody, and I thought that by living in a tent, so far from the town, I

should not be troubled with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I

was having lunch with my little boy, I heard the bells of two horses

which had come with a carriage. The road overhung my tent, which was

half hidden by the bushes. Suddenly a voice which I knew, but could not

recognize, cried in the emphatic tone of a herald:

“Does Sarah Bernhardt, Associate of the Comédie Française, live here?”

We did not move. The question was asked again. Again the answer was

silence. But we heard the sound of breaking branches, the bushes were

pushed apart, and at two yards from the tent the teasing voice

recommenced.

We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed I came out. I saw before me a man

with a large tussore cloak on, a field glass strapped on his shoulders,

a gray bowler hat, and a red, happy face with a little pointed beard. I

glanced at this commonplace-looking individual with anything but favor.

He lifted his hat:

“Mme. Sarah Bernhardt is here?”

“What do you want with me, sir?”

“Here is my card, madame.”

I read: “Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers.” I looked at him with

astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did

not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent.

“Well, you see, madame, I come to ask you to sell us your group, ‘After

the Tempest.’”

I began to laugh.

“_Ma foi_, monsieur, I am treating for that with the firm of Susse, and

they offer me 6000 francs. If you will give ten, you may have it.”

“Quite right,” he said. “Here are 10,000 francs. Have you pen and ink?”

“No.”

“Ah,” said he, “allow me.” And he produced a little case in which there

was pen and ink.

I made out the receipt, and gave him an order to go and take the group

at Paris, in my studio. He went away, and I heard the bells of the

horses ringing and then dying away in the distance. After this I was

often invited to the house of this original person, who was one of the

negro kings of Nice.

Shortly after I came back to Paris. At the theater they were preparing

for the benefit night of Bressant, who was about to leave the stage. It

was agreed that Mounet-Sully and I should play an act from “Othello,” by

Jean Aicard. The theater was well filled, and the audience in a good

humor. After the song of _Saule_, I was in bed as _Desdemona_, when

suddenly I heard the public laugh, softly at first, and then

irrepressibly. _Othello_ had just come in, in the darkness, in his shirt

or very little more, with a lantern in his hand, and gone to a door

hidden in some drapery. The public, that impersonal unity, has no

hesitation in taking part in a manifestation of unseemly mirth that each

member of the audience, taken as a separate individual, would be ashamed

to admit. But the ridicule thrown on this act by the exaggerated

pantomime of the actor prevented the play being staged again, and it was

only twenty years later that “Othello,” as an entire play, was produced

at the Théâtre Français. I was then no longer there.

After having played _Berenice_, in “Mithridate,” successfully, I took up

again my rôle of the _Queen_ in “Ruy Blas.” The play was as successful

at the Théâtre Français as at the Odéon, and the public was, if

anything, still more favorable to me. Mounet-Sully played _Ruy Blas_. He

took the part admirably, and was infinitely better than Lafontaine, who

played it at the Odéon. Frédéric Febvre, very well dressed, represented

his part very well, but he was not so good as Geffroy, who was the most

distinguished and the most frightful _Don Salluste_ that could be

imagined.

My relations with Perrin were more and more strained.

He was pleased that I was successful, for the sake of the theater; he

was happy at the magnificent receipts of “Ruy Blas”; but he would have

much preferred that it had been another than I who received all the

applause. My independence, my horror of submission, even in appearance,

annoyed him vastly.

One day my servant came to tell me that an elderly Englishman was asking

to see me so insistently that he thought it better to come and tell me,

though I had given orders I was not to be disturbed.

“Send him away and let me work in peace.”

I was just commencing a picture which interested me very much. It

represented a little girl on Palm Sunday, carrying branches of palm. The

little model who posed for me was a lovely Italian of eight years old.

Suddenly she said to me:

“He’s quarreling—that Englishman!”

As a matter of fact, in the anteroom there was a noise of voices rising

higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my palette in my hand,

resolved to make the intruder flee. But just at the moment when I opened

the door of my studio, a tall man came so close to me that I drew back,

and he came into my hall. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair

silvery white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses very

politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my hall—and this while I

was in complete ignorance of his name. When at the end of ten minutes I

begged him to sit down and tell me to what I owed the pleasure of his

visit, he replied in a stilted voice with a strong accent:

“I am Mr. Jarrett, the _impresario_. I can make your fortune. Will you

come to America?”

“Never!” I exclaimed firmly. “Never!”

“Oh, well, don’t get angry! Here is my address—don’t lose it.” Then, at

the moment he took leave, he said:

“Ah! you are going to London with the Comédie Française. Would you like

to earn a lot of money in London?”

“Yes. How?”

“By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make you a small fortune.”

“Oh, I would be pleased to do that—that is, if I go to London, for I

have not yet decided.”

“Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add an additional

clause?”

And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me with confidence

at first sight—a confidence which he never betrayed.

The Committee and M. Perrin had made an agreement with John

Hollingshead, director of the Gaiety Theater, in London. Nobody had been

consulted and I thought that was a little too free and easy. So when

they told me about this agreement, I said nothing. Perrin rather

anxiously took me aside:

“What are you turning over in your mind?”

“I am turning over this: that I will not go to London in a situation

inferior to anybody. For the entire term of my contract I intend to be

Associate _à part entière_ (with full benefit).”

This intention excited the Committee highly. And the next day Perrin

told me that my proposal was rejected.

“Well, I shall not go to London. That is all! Nothing in my contract

obliges me to go.”

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, PORTRAIT BY CLAIRIN.]

The Committee met again, and Got cried out: “Well, let her stay away!

She is a regular nuisance!”

It was therefore decided that I should not go to London. But

Hollingshead and Mayer, his partner, did not see it in this light, and

they declared that the contract would not be binding if either

Croizette, Mounet-Sully, or I did not go.

The agents, who had bought two hundred thousand francs’ worth of tickets

beforehand, also refused to regard the affair as binding on them if we

did not go. Mayer came to see me in profound despair and told me all

about it.

“We shall have to break our contract with the Comédie if you don’t

come,” he said, “for the business cannot go through.”

Frightened at the consequences of my bad temper, I ran to see Perrin,

and told him that after the consultation I had just had with Mayer, I

understood the involuntary injury I should be causing to the Théâtre

Français and to my comrades, and I told him I was ready to go under any

conditions.

The Committee was holding a meeting. Perrin asked me to wait and shortly

after he returned: Croizette and I had been appointed Associates with

full benefit (_Sociétaires à part entière_), not only for London, but

for always.

Everybody had done his duty. Perrin, very much touched, took both my

hands and drew me to him:

“Oh, the good and untamable little creature!”

We embraced and peace was again concluded between us. But it could not

last long, for five days after this reconciliation, about nine o’clock

in the evening, M. Perrin was announced at my house. I had company for

dinner. Nevertheless, I was about to receive him in the hall. He held

out to me a paper.

“Read that,” said he.

And I read in an English newspaper, the _Times_, this paragraph:

“_Drawing-room Comedies of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, under the management

of Sir Benedict:_

“The _répertoire_ of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is composed of comedies,

proverbs, one-act plays and monologues, written especially for her and

one or two _artistes_ of the Comédie Française. These comedies are

played without accessories or scenery, and can be adapted both in London

and Paris to the _matinées_ and _soirées_ of the best society. For all

details and conditions please communicate with Mr. Jarrett (Secretary of

Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt) at His Majesty’s Theatre.”

As I was reading the last lines it dawned on me that Jarrett, learning

that I was certainly coming to London, had begun to advertise me. I

frankly explained this to Perrin.

“What objection is there,” I said, “to my making use of my evenings to

earn money, as the thing has been offered me?”

“That has nothing to do with me—it is the business of the Committee.”

“That is too much!” I cried, and calling for my secretary I said: “Give

me Delaunay’s letter that I gave you yesterday.”

He brought it out of one of his numerous pockets and gave it to Perrin

to read:

Would you care to come and play “La Nuit d’Octobre” at Lady Dudley’s

on Thursday, June 5th? They will give us each 5,000 francs. Kind

regards,

DELAUNAY.

“Let me have this letter,” said the manager, visibly annoyed.

“No, I will not. But you may tell Delaunay that I have told you of his

offer.”

For the next two or three days nothing was talked of in Paris but the

scandalous announcement of the _Times_. The French were then almost

entirely ignorant of the habits and customs of the English. At last all

this talk annoyed me, and I begged Perrin to try and stop it, and the

following day there appeared in the _National_ of the 29th of May:

“_Much Ado About Nothing._ In friendly discussion it has been decided

that outside the rehearsals and the performances of the Comédie

Française, each artist is free to employ his time as he sees fit. There

is therefore absolutely no truth at all in the pretended quarrel between

the Comédie Française and Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. This _artiste_ has only

acted strictly within her rights, which nobody attempts to limit, and

all our _artistes_ intend to benefit in the same manner. The manager of

the Comédie Française asks only that the _artistes_ who form this

‘corps’ do not give performances in a body.”

This article came from the Comédie, and the members of the Committee had

taken advantage of it to advertise a little for themselves, announcing

that they also were ready to play in drawing-rooms, for the article was

sent to Mayer with a request that it should appear in the English

papers. It was Mayer himself who told me this.

All disputes being at an end, we commenced our preparations for

departure.

CHAPTER XXI

MY LONDON DÉBUT

I had never been on the sea when it was decided that the _artistes_ of

the Comédie Française should go to London. The determined ignorance of

the French concerning all things foreign was much more pronounced in

those days than it is at present. As for me, my ignorance was quite

pathetic. I had a very warm cloak made, as I had been assured that the

crossing was icy cold, even in the very middle of summer, and I believed

this. On every side I was besieged with lozenges for seasickness,

sedative for headache, tissue paper to put down my back, little compress

plasters to put on my diaphragm, and waterproof cork soles for my shoes,

for it appeared that above all things I must not have cold feet. Oh, how

droll and amusing it all was! I took everything, paid attention to all

the recommendations and believed everything I was told.

The most inconceivable thing of all, though, was the arrival, five

minutes before the boat started, of an enormous wooden case. It was very

light and was held by a tall young man, who to-day is a most remarkable

individual, with all the crosses, all the honors, an immense fortune,

and the most outrageous vanity. At that time he was a shy inventor,

young, poor, and sad; he was always buried in books which treated of

abstract questions, while of life he knew absolutely nothing. He had a

great admiration for me, mingled with a trifle of awe. My little court

had surnamed him “La Quenelle.” He was long, vacillating, colorless, and

really did resemble the thin roll of forcemeat in a _vol-au-vent_.

He came up to me, his face more wan looking even than usual. The boat

was moving a little, my departure terrified him, and the wind caused him

to plunge from right to left. He made a mysterious sign to me and I

followed him, accompanied by _ma petite dame_ and leaving my friends,

who were inclined to be ironical, behind. When I was seated, he opened

the case and took out an enormous life belt invented by himself. I was

perfectly astounded, for I was unused to sea voyages, and the idea had

never even occurred to me that we might be shipwrecked during one hour’s

crossing. “La Quenelle” was by no means disconcerted, and he put the

belt on himself in order to show me how it was used.

Nothing could have looked more foolish than this man with his sad,

serious face, putting on this apparatus. There were a dozen egg-sized

bladders round the belt, eleven of which were filled with air and

contained a lump of sugar each. In the twelfth, a very small bladder,

were ten drops of brandy. In the middle of the belt was a tiny cushion

with a few pins on it.

“You understand,” he said to me. “You fall in the water _paff_—you stay

like this.” Hereupon he pretended to sit down, rising and sinking with

the movement of the waves, his two hands in front of him laid upon the

imaginary sea, and his neck stretched like that of a tortoise in order

to keep his head above water.

“You see, you have now been in the water for two hours,” he explained,

“and you want to get back your strength. You take a pin and prick an

egg, like this. You take your lump of sugar and eat it, that is as good

as a quarter of a pound of meat.” He then threw the broken bladder

overboard, and from the packing case brought out another, which he

fastened to the life belt. He had evidently thought of everything. I was

petrified with amazement. A few of my friends had gathered round, hoping

for one of “La Quenelle’s” mad freaks, but they had never expected

anything like this one.

M. Mayer, one of our _impresarios_, fearing a scandal of too absurd a

kind, dispersed the people who were gathering round us. I did not know

whether to be angry or to laugh, but the jeering, unjust speech of one

of my friends roused my pity for this poor “Quenelle.” I thought of the

hours he had spent in planning, combining, and then manufacturing his

ridiculous machine. I was touched by the anxiety and affection which had

prompted the invention of this life-saving apparatus, and I held out my

hand to my poor “Quenelle,” saying: “Be off, now, quickly, the boat is

just going to start.”

He kissed the hand held out to him in a friendly way, and hurried off. I

then called my steward Claude, and I said, “As soon as we are out of

sight of land throw that case and all it contains into the sea.”

The departure of the boat was accompanied by shouts of “Hurrah! _Au

revoir!_ Success! Good luck!” There was a waving of hands, handkerchiefs

floating in the air, and kisses thrown haphazard to everyone.

But what was really fine and a sight I shall never forget, was our

landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people there, and it was

the first time I had ever heard the cry of “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”

I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the ideal face of

_Hamlet_. He presented me with a gardenia. I was destined to admire him

later on as _Hamlet_. He was Forbes-Robertson. We passed on through a

crowd offering us flowers and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was

more favored than the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was

delighted all the same. One of my comrades, who was just near, and with

whom I was not a favorite, said to me, in a spiteful tone: “They’ll make

you a carpet of flowers soon.”

“Here is one!” exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful of lilies on

the ground in front of me. I stopped short, rather confused, not daring

to walk on these white flowers, but the crowd pressing on behind

compelled me to advance, and the poor lilies had to be trodden under

foot.

“Hip, hip, hurrah! a cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted the turbulent

young man. His head was above all the other heads, he had luminous eyes

and long hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet,

though, and one of the greatest of this century, a poet who was a

genius, but who was, alas! tortured and finally vanquished by madness.

It was Oscar Wilde. The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached

our train amid shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah, for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip,

hip, hurrah, for the French _artistes_!”

When the train arrived at Charing Cross toward nine o’clock, we were

nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was

gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again upon

our arrival in London with more “hurrahs!...” There were plenty of

people, crowds of people, but none appeared to know us.

On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet

laid down and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything,

as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however,

had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the

Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris.

This news disappointed me and even annoyed me personally. I had been

told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of

the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely

indifferent. The crowd was large and very compact, but cold.

“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer.

“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,”

he replied.

“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued.

“No, the Prince has taken a box for the season for which he has paid

four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.”

I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I

felt that everything was going wrong.

A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a

heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the

house—77, Chester Square—I did not want to get out of my carriage.

The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly

lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth

arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the

carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six

weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me.

“Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I asked my

manservant.

“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are

from Paris, from madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet

from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it, I

read the words: “Welcome!—Henry Irving.”

I went all through the house and it seemed to me very dismal looking. I

visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth

chattered when I came in again. That night, when I went to sleep, my

heart was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some

misfortune.

The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see

them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. The man was

a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He had

made me some very good offers for America, and although I had refused

them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account of his

intelligence, his comic humor, and my need of being piloted in this new

country.

“No,” he said, “if you receive them all together, they will all be

furious, and you will get some wretched articles; you must receive them

one after the other.”

Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my

seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation

when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of

the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them.

I remember perfectly well that all of them began with: “Well,

mademoiselle, what do you think of London?”

I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the first of

these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had

drawn my curtain back on getting up, and all I knew of London was

Chester Square, a small square of somber verdure, in the midst of which

was a black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church.

I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared

for this, and I learned the following morning that “I was most

enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a

number of the public buildings,” etc., etc.

Toward five o’clock, Hortense Damian arrived. She was a charming woman,

and a favorite in London society. She had come to inform me that the

Duchess of —— and Lady R—— would call on me at half past five.

“Oh, stay with me, then!” I said to her. “You know how unsociable I am;

I feel sure that I shall be stupid.”

At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the first time I

had come into contact with any members of the English aristocracy, and I

have always had since a very pleasant memory of it.

Lady R—— was extremely beautiful, and the Duchess was so gracious, so

distinguished and so kind that I was very much touched by her visit.

A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very well, as he had

been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert, one of my dearest friends.

He asked me if I would care to have a ride the following morning, and

said he had a very nice lady’s horse which was entirely at my service. I

thanked him, but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row.

At seven o’clock Hortense Damian came to fetch me to dine with her at

the house of the Baroness M——. She had a very nice home in Prince’s

Gate. There were about twenty guests, among others the painter, Millais.

I had been told that the _cuisine_ was very bad in England, but I

thought this dinner perfect. I had been told that the English were cold

and sedate. I found them charming and full of humor. Everyone spoke

French very well and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the English

language. After dinner there were recitations and music. I was touched

by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts in not asking me to say any

poetry.

I was very much interested in observing the society in which I found

myself. It did not in any way resemble a French gathering. The young

girls seemed to be enjoying themselves on their own account and enjoying

themselves thoroughly. They had not come there to find a husband. What

surprised me a little was the _décolleté_ of ladies who were getting on

in years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I spoke of this to

Hortense Damian.

“It’s frightful!” I said.

“Yes, but it’s _chic_!”

She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled about

nothing that was not _chic_. She sent me the “_Chic_ commandments” a few

days before I left Paris.

Chester Square, tu habiteras.

Rotten Row, tu monteras.

Le Parlement visiteras.

Garden-parties fréquenteras.

Chaque visite, tu rendras.

A chaque lettre, tu repondras.

Photographies, tu signeras.

Hortense Damain, tu écouteras,

Et tous ses conseils, les suivras.

(In Chester Square thou shalt live.

In Rotten Row thou shalt ride.

Parliament thou shalt visit.

Garden parties thou shalt frequent.

Every visit thou shalt return.

Every letter thou shalt answer.

Photographs thou shalt sign.

To Hortense Damian thou shalt listen,

And all her counsels thou shalt follow.)

I laughed at these “commandments,” but I soon realized that, under this

jocular form, she considered them as very serious and important. Alas!

my poor friend had hit upon the wrong person for her counsels. I

detested paying visits, writing letters, signing photographs, or

following anyone’s advice. I adore having people come to see me, and I

detest going to see them. I adore receiving letters, reading them,

commenting on them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and

driving in frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary

places. I adore giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I never

follow at once any wise advice that is given me. It always requires an

effort of my will to recognize the justice of any counsel, and then an

effort of my intellect to be grateful for it; at first it simply annoys

me. Consequently, I paid no attention to Hortense Damian’s counsels, nor

yet to Jarrett’s, and in this I made a great mistake, for many people

were vexed with me—and, in any other country, I should have made

enemies. On that first visit to London what a quantity of letters of

invitation I received to which I never replied! How many charming women

called upon me and I never returned their calls! Then, too, how many

times I accepted invitations to dinner and never went after all, nor did

I even send a line of excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know, and yet I

always accept with pleasure and intend to go; but when the day comes I

am tired, perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from any

obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or another, the time

has gone by, and it is too late to send word and too late to go. And so

I stay at home, dissatisfied with myself, with everyone else, and with

everything.

Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique

grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable people on

earth, and they are hospitable simply and munificently. When an

Englishman has opened his door to you he never closes it again. He

excuses your faults and accepts your peculiarities. It is thanks to this

broadness of ideas that I have been for twenty-five years the beloved

and pampered _artiste_.

I was delighted with my first _soirée_ in London, and I returned home

very gay and very much “anglomaniaized.” I found some of my friends

there—Parisians who had just arrived, and they were furious. My

enthusiasm exasperated them, and we sat up arguing until two in the

morning.

The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather, and all Hyde

Park seemed to be strewn with enormous bouquets. There were the flower

beds wonderfully arranged by the gardeners, then there were the clusters

of sunshades, blue, pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the

light hats covered with flowers, under which shone the pretty faces of

babies and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop of

graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds of horsewomen,

slender, supple, and courageous; there were men and children, the latter

mounted on big Irish ponies. There were other children, too, galloping

along on Scotch ponies with long, shaggy manes, and the children’s hair

and the manes of the horses blew about with the wind caused by the ride.

The carriage road between the riding track and the foot passengers was

filled with dogcarts, open carriages of various kinds, mail coaches, and

very smart cabs. There were powdered footmen, horses decorated with

flowers, sportsmen driving, ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All

this elegance, this essence of luxury and this joy of life, brought back

to my memory the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so

animated a few years before, when Napoleon III used to drive through in

his _daumont_, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how beautiful it was in those

days—our Bois de Boulogne! with the officers caracoling in the Avenue

des Acacias, admired by our beautiful society women!

The joy of life was everywhere—the love of Love enveloping life with an

infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt a pang at my heart as the

awful recollections of 1870 crowded to my brain. He was dead, our gentle

Emperor with his shrewd smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed

by fortune, crushed with grief!

The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its

intenseness; but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still

shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed since the war had

struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory.

Three presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little

Thiers, with his perverse, _bourgeois_ soul, had worn his teeth out with

nibbling at every kind of government: royalty under Louis Philippe,

empire under Napoleon III, and the executive power of the French

Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up

again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had

been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had

succeeded the marshal, but he was miserly and considered all outlay

unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so

Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had

communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de

Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the National Defense

had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted.

I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their

mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which

surrounded me.

I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the

first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were

several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not

want to see anyone. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theater,

where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew

already that I had been elected the favorite, and the idea of this

chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a _traqueuse_. I am

subject to the _trac_ or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I

first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this _trac_. I

used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some

spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent

people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I found no

feeling of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of _trac_

or stage fright, was in the month of January, 1869, at the seventh or

perhaps the eighth performance of “Le Passant.” The success of this

little masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part

of _Zanetto_ had delighted the public, and particularly the students.

When I went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole

house. I turned toward the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had

just entered. But no, the box was empty, and I realized then that all

the bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling,

and my eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I were

called back five times and, on leaving the theater, the students ranged

on each side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into

the arms of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me.

“What’s the matter with you, my dear?” she asked.

“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said, “they want to make a

‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that. You’ll see they’ll

drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos.”

My grandmother took my head in her hands and I met the vacant look in

her large, light eyes fixed on me. “You told me, my child, that you

wanted to be the first in your profession, and when the opportunity

comes to you, why, you are frightened. It seems to me that you are a

very bad soldier.”

I drove back my tears and declared that I would bear up courageously

against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity,

my heedlessness and my “don’t-careism.” But, from that time forth, fear

took possession of me, and stage fright martyrized me.

It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of

“Phèdre,” in which I was to appear for the first time before the English

public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes,

and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I

looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not as

tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is _le

bal_, which I pronounced low down with the open a, _le bâââl_, or that I

take high by dwelling on the l—_le balll_. Ah! but there was no doubt

about it, my _le bal_ neither sounded high nor low, my voice was hoarse

in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage, and

just then I was informed that the second act of “Phèdre” was about to

commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and my

cameo belt was not fastened.

I began to murmur:

“Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire.

J’oublie en le voyant....”

That word _j’oublie_ struck me with a new idea. What if I did forget the

words I had to say? Why, yes.... What was it I had to say? I did not

know.... I could not remember.... What was I to say after _en le

voyant_...?

No one answered me. Everyone was alarmed at my nervous state. I heard

Got mumble, “She’s going mad!” Mlle. Thénard, who was playing _Œnone_,

my old nurse, said to me: “Calm yourself, all the English have gone to

Paris, there’s no one in the house but Belgians.”

This foolishly comic speech turned my thoughts in another direction.

“How stupid you are!” I said. “You know how frightened I was at

Brussels!”

“Oh, all for nothing!” she answered calmly. “There were only English

people in the theater that day.”

I had to go on the stage at once, and I could not even answer her, but

she had changed the current of my ideas. I still had stage fright, but

not the fright that paralyzes, only the kind that drives one wild. This

is bad enough, but it is preferable to the other sort. It makes one do

too much, but at any rate, one does something.

The whole house had applauded my arrival on the stage for a few seconds,

and as I bent my head in acknowledgment, I said within myself: “Yes ...

yes ... you shall see. I’m going to give you my very blood ... my life

itself ... my soul....”

When I began my part, as I had lost my self-possession, I started on

rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I could not get

lower again, I simply could not stop. I suffered, I wept, I implored, I

cried out, and it was all real. My suffering was horrible, my tears were

flowing—scorching and bitter. I implored _Hippolyte_ for the love which

was killing me, and my arms stretched out to Mounet-Sully were the arms

of _Phèdre_ writhing in the cruel longing for his embrace.... God was

within me——

When the curtain fell, Mounet-Sully lifted me up inanimate and carried

me to my dressing-room.

The public, unaware of what was happening, wanted me to appear again and

bow. I, too, wanted to return and thank the public for its attention,

its kindliness, and its emotion.

I went back, and the following is what John Murray said in the _Gaulois_

of June 5, 1879:

“When recalled with loud cries, Mlle. Bernhardt appeared, exhausted by

her efforts and supported by Mounet-Sully; she received an ovation

which I think is unique in the annals of the theater in England.”

The following morning the _Daily Telegraph_ terminated its admirable

criticism with these lines:

“Clearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and fiber and her

passion grew with the excitement of the spectators, for when after a

recall that could not be resisted the curtain drew up, Mr.

Mounet-Sully was seen supporting the exhausted figure of the actress,

who had won her triumph only after tremendous physical exertion, and

triumph it was, however short and sudden.”

The _Standard_ finished its article with these words:

“The subdued passion, repressed for a time, until at length it burst

its bonds, and the despairing, heartbroken woman is revealed to

_Hippolyte_, was shown with so vivid a reality that a scene of

enthusiasm such as is rarely witnessed in a theater followed the fall

of the curtain. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, in the few minutes she was upon

the stage (and coming on it must be remembered to plunge into the

middle of a stirring tragedy) yet contrived to make an impression

which will not soon be effaced from those who were present.”

The _Morning Post_ said:

“Very brief are the words spoken before _Phèdre_ rushes into the room

to commence tremblingly and nervously, with struggles which rend and

tear and convulse the system, the secret of her shameful love. As her

passion mastered what remained of modesty or reserve in her nature,

the woman sprang forward and recoiled again, with the movements of a

panther, striving, as it seemed, to tear from her bosom the heart

which stifled her with its unholy longings, until in the end, when,

terrified at the horror her breathings have provoked in _Hippolyte_,

she strove to pull his sword from its sheath and plunge it in her own

breast, she fell back in complete and absolute collapse. This

exhibition, marvelous in beauty of pose, in febrile force, in

intensity, and in purity of delivery, is the more remarkable as the

passion had to be reached, so to speak, at a bound, no performance of

the first act having roused the actress to the requisite heat. It

proved Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt worthy of her reputation, and shows what

may be expected from her by the public which has eagerly expected her

coming.”

This London first night was definitive for my future.

CHAPTER XXII

MY STAY IN ENGLAND

My intense desire to win over the English public had caused me to

overtax my strength. I had done my utmost at the first performance and

had not spared myself in the least. The consequence was that in the

night I vomited blood in such an alarming way that a messenger was

despatched to the French Embassy in search of a physician. Dr. Vintras,

who was at the head of the French Hospital in London, found me lying on

my bed, exhausted and looking more dead than alive. He was afraid that I

should not recover and requested that my family be sent for. I made a

gesture with my hand to the effect that it was not necessary. As I could

not speak, I wrote down with a pencil: “Send for Dr. Parrot.”

Dr. Vintras remained with me part of the night, putting crushed ice

between my lips every five minutes. At length toward five in the morning

the blood vomiting ceased, and thanks to a potion that the doctor gave

me, I fell asleep.

We were to play “L’Etrangère” that night at the Gaiety and, as my rôle

was not a very fatiguing one, I wanted to perform my part _quand-même_.

Dr. Parrot arrived by the four o’clock boat and refused categorically to

give his consent. He had attended me from my childhood. I really felt

much better, and the feverishness had left me. I wanted to get up, but

to this Dr. Parrot objected.

Presently, Dr. Vintras and Mr. Mayer, the _impresario_ of the Comédie

Française, were announced. Mr. Hollingshead, the director of the Gaiety

Theater, was waiting in a carriage at the door to know whether I was

going to play in “L’Etrangère,” the piece announced on the bills. I

asked Dr. Parrot to rejoin Dr. Vintras in the drawing-room and I gave

instructions for Mr. Mayer to be introduced into my room.

“I feel much better,” I said to him, very quickly. “I’m very weak still,

but I will play. Ssh! ... don’t say a word here. Tell Hollingshead and

wait for me in the smoking room, but don’t let anyone else know.”

I then got up and dressed very quickly. My maid helped me and, as she

had guessed what my plan was, she was highly amused.

Wrapped in my cloak, with a lace fichu over my head, I joined Mayer in

the smoking room and then we both got into his hansom.

“Come to me in an hour’s time,” I said in a low voice to my maid.

“Where are you going?” asked Mayer, perfectly stupefied.

“To the theater ... quick ... quick...!” I answered.

The cab started and I then explained to him that if I had stayed at

home, neither Dr. Parrot nor Dr. Vintras would have let me act upon any

account.

“The die is cast now,” I added, “and we shall see what happens.”

When once I was at the theater I took refuge in the manager’s private

office, in order to avoid Dr. Parrot’s anger. I was very fond of him and

I knew how wrongly I was acting toward him, considering the

inconvenience to which he had put himself in making the journey

specially for me in response to my summons. I knew, though, how

impossible it would have been to have made him understand that I felt

really better, and that in risking my life I was really only risking

what was my own to dispose of as I pleased.

Half an hour later my maid joined me. She brought with her a letter from

Dr. Parrot, full of gentle reproaches and furious advice, finishing with

a prescription, in case of a relapse. He was leaving an hour later and

would not even come and shake hands with me. I felt quite sure, though,

that we should make it all up again on my return. I then began to

prepare for my rôle in “L’Etrangère.” While dressing, I fainted three

times, but I was determined to play _quand-même_.

The opium that I had taken in my potion made my head rather heavy. I

arrived on the stage in a semiconscious state, delighted with the

applause I received. I walked along as though I were in a dream and

could scarcely distinguish my surroundings. The house itself I saw only

through a luminous mist. My feet glided along on the carpet without any

effort, and my voice sounded to me far away, very far away. I was in

that delicious stupor that one experiences after chloroform, morphine,

opium, or hasheesh.

The first act went off very well, but in the third act, just when I was

to tell the _Duchess de Septmonts_ (Croizette) all the troubles that I,

_Mrs. Clarkson_, had gone through during my life, just as I should have

commenced my interminable story I could not remember anything. Croizette

murmured my first phrase for me, but I could only see her lips move

without hearing a word. I then said quite calmly:

“The reason I sent for you here, madame, is because I wanted to tell you

my reasons for acting as I have done, but I have thought it over and

have decided not to tell you them to-day.”

Sophie Croizette gazed at me with a terrified look in her eyes, she then

rose and left the stage, her lips trembling, and her eyes fixed on me

all the time.

“What’s the matter?” everyone asked when she sank almost breathless into

an armchair.

“Sarah has gone mad!” she exclaimed. “I assure you she has gone quite

mad. She has cut out the whole of her scene with me.”

“But how?” everyone asked.

“She has cut out two hundred lines,” said Croizette.

“But what for?” was the eager question.

“I don’t know. She looks quite calm.”

The whole of this conversation which was repeated to me later on took

much less time than it does now to write it down. Coquelin had been told

and he now came on to the stage to finish the act. The curtain fell. I

was stupefied and desperate afterwards on hearing all that people told

me. I had not noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed to me that

I had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really under the

influence of the opium. There was very little for me to say in the fifth

act, and I went through that perfectly well. The following day the

accounts in the papers sounded the praises of our company but the piece

itself was criticised. I was afraid at first that my involuntary

omission of the important part in the third act was one of the causes of

the severity of the press. This was not so, though, as all the critics

had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself, and did

not mention my slip of memory.

The _Figaro_, which was in a very bad humor with me just then, had an

article from which I quote the following extract:

“‘L’Etrangère’ is not a piece in accordance with the English taste.

Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically and so were

Coquelin and Febvre. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, nervous as usual, lost her

memory.”

He knew perfectly well, worthy Mr. Johnson,[3] that I was very ill. He

had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot, consequently he was aware that

I was acting in spite of the faculty in the interests of the Comédie

Française. The English public had given me such proofs of appreciation

that the Comédie was rather affected by it, and the _Figaro_, which was

at that time the organ of the Théâtre Française, requested Johnson to

modify his praises of me. This he did the whole time that we were in

London.

Footnote 3:

T. Johnson, London correspondent of _Le Figaro_.

My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was quite an

unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to authors how

unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining the characters of

their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly anxious to give us the

reasons which caused _Mrs. Clarkson_ to act as strangely as she did. He

had created a person who was extremely interesting and full of action as

the play proceeds. She reveals herself to the public, in the first act,

by the lines which _Mrs. Clarkson_ says to _Mme. de Septmonts_. “I

should be very glad, madame, if you would call on me. We could talk

about one of your friends, M. Gérard, whom I love perhaps, as much as

you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as he does for you.”

That was quite enough to interest the public in these two women. It was

the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat between Vice and

Virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace to Dumas, ancient

history, in fact, and he wanted to rejuvenate the old theme by trying to

arrange for an orchestra with organ and banjo. The result he obtained

was a fearful cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been

a beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his ideas,

and the brutality of his humor sufficed for rejuvenating old ideas,

which, in reality, are the eternal basis of all tragedies, comedies,

novels, pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was Love between Vice and

Virtue. Among the spectators who saw the first performance of

“L’Etrangère” in London, and there were quite as many French as English

present, not one remarked that there was something wanting, and not one

of them said that he had not understood the character.

I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman.

“Did you notice the gap in the third act?” I asked him.

“No,” he replied.

“In my big scene with Croizette?”

“No.”

“Well, then, read what I left out,” I insisted.

When he had read this he exclaimed: “So much the better. It’s very dull,

all that story, and quite useless. I understand the character without

all that rigmarole and that romantic history.”

Later on, when I apologized to Dumas _fils_ for the way in which I had

cut down his play, he answered: “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play

I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when

any anyone tells it to me, I think it is perfect, as the person always

forgets half of it.”

The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to

the Gaiety Theater, and I remained the favorite. I mention this now with

pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful for my

success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of it, and

hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.

Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able

to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had,

therefore, taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I

had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a

hundred in all.

His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, let me know that he would come

with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities

of London came to the inauguration. I had sent out only a hundred

invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived, and were introduced to

me. I was delighted and enjoyed it all immensely.

Mr. Gladstone did me the great honor of talking to me for about ten

minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly

gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain

clergymen on the Comédie Française and the damnable profession of

dramatic _artistes_, had made on me. I answered that I considered our

art quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and

Protestant preachers.

“But will you tell me, mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what moral lesson

you can draw from ‘Phèdre’?”

“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me! ‘Phèdre’ is an ancient

tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to a perspective

quite different from ours, and different from the morality of our

present society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old

nurse _Œnone_, who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent

person. The love of _Phèdre_ is excusable on account of the fatality

which hangs over her family, and descends pitilessly upon her. In our

times we should call that fatality atavism, for _Phèdre_ was the

daughter of _Minos_ and _Pasiphæ_. As to _Theseus_, his verdict, against

which there could be no appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and

was punished by the death of that beloved son of his who was the sole

and last hope of his life. We ought never to cause what is irreparable.”

“Ah!” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital punishment?”

“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.”

“And quite right, mademoiselle.”

Frederic Leighton then joined us and with great kindness complimented me

on one of my pictures, representing a young girl holding some palms.

This picture was bought by Prince Leopold.

My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought that it

was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many cowardly side

thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with the Comédie Française.

I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptor, and I exhibited

my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to buy two little

lions and had not money enough. I sold the pictures for what they were

worth, that is to say, at very modest prices.

Lady H—— bought my group “After the Storm.” It was smaller than the

large group I had exhibited two years previously at the Paris Salon, and

for which I had received a prize. The smaller group was in marble, and I

had worked at it with the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for £160,

but Lady H—— sent me £400 together with a charming note, which I venture

to quote. It ran as follows:

Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed £400 for your

admirable group “After the Storm.” Will you also do me the honour of

coming to lunch with me and afterwards you shall choose for yourself

the place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.

ETHEL H——.

This was Tuesday and I was playing in “Zaïre” that evening, but

Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting. I had money enough now

to buy my lions, so without saying a word at the theater, I started for

Liverpool. I knew there was a big menagerie there, Cross’s Zoo, and that

I should find some lions for sale.

The journey was most amusing, as although I was traveling incognito, I

was recognized all along the route and was made a great deal of.

Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with me, and it was a

very lively little trip. I know that I was not shirking my duties at the

Comédie, as I was not to play again before Saturday, and this was only

Wednesday.

We started in the morning at 10.30 A.M. and arrived in Liverpool about

2.30. We went at once to Cross’s, but could not find the entrance to the

house. We asked a shopkeeper at the corner of the street, and he pointed

to a little door which we had already opened and closed twice, as we

could not believe that was the entrance.

I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond, and we

were in front of a little door leading into quite a small, bare-looking

room, where we found a little man.

“Mr. Cross?” we said.

“That’s my name,” he replied.

“I want to buy some lions,” I then said.

He began to laugh, and he asked,

“Do you really, mademoiselle? Are you so fond of animals? I went to

London last week to see the Comédie Française, and I saw you in

‘Hernani’ ...”

“It wasn’t from that you discovered that I liked animals?” I said to

him.

“No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew’s Street who told me; he

said you had bought two dogs from him and that if it had not been for

the gentleman who was with you, you would have bought five.”

He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal of humor.

“Well, Mr. Cross,” I said, “I want two lions to-day.”

“I’ll show you what I have,” he replied, leading the way into the

courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what magnificent creatures

they were! There were two superb African lions with shining coats and

powerful-looking tails which were beating the air. They had only just

arrived and they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for

rebellion. They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating

stigma of civilized beings.

“Oh, Mr. Cross,” I said, “these are too big, I want some young lions.”

“I haven’t any, mademoiselle.”

“Well, then, show me all your animals.”

I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the chetahs, and the pumas,

and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore them, and I

should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That has always been one of

my dreams, and perhaps some day I shall be able to realize it.

Cross had not any, though, so I bought a chetah. It was quite young and

very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some castle of the Middle Ages.

I also bought a dog wolf, all white with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and

spearlike teeth. He was terrifying to look at. Mr. Cross made me a

present of six chameleons which belonged to a small race and looked like

lizards. He also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric, fabulous

sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity and changed color

from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute slender and long like a

lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out and thick-set like a toad.

Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a lobster, were quite independent of

each other. With its right eye it would look ahead, and with its left

eye it looked backward. I was delighted and quite enthusiastic over this

present. I named my chameleon “Cross-ci Cross-ça,” in honor of Mr.

Cross.

We returned to London with the chetah in a cage, the dog wolf in a

leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and “Cross-ci Cross-ça” on my

shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had bought at a jeweler’s. I had

not found any lions but I was delighted all the same. My domestics were

not as pleased as I was. There were already three dogs in the house:

Minniccio who had accompanied me from Paris, Bull and Fly, bought in

London. Then there was my parrot, Bizibouzon, and my monkey, Darwin.

Mme. Guérard screamed when she saw these new guests arrive. My butler

hesitated to approach the dog wolf, and it was all in vain that I

assured them that my chetah was not dangerous. No one would open the

cage, and it was carried out into the garden. I asked for a hammer in

order to open the door of the cage that had been nailed down, thus

keeping the poor chetah a prisoner. When my domestics heard me ask for

the hammer, they decided to open it themselves. Mme. Guérard and the

women servants watched from the windows. Presently the door burst open,

and the chetah, beside himself with joy, sprang like a tiger out of his

cage, wild with liberty. He rushed at the trees, made straight for the

dogs, who all four began to howl with terror. The parrot was excited,

and uttered shrill cries and the monkey, shaking his cage about, gnashed

his teeth to distraction. This concert in the silent square made the

most prodigious effect. All the windows were opened and more than twenty

faces appeared above my garden wall, all of them inquisitive, alarmed,

or furious. I was seized with a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and my

friend Louise Abbéma; Nittis, the painter, who had come to call on me,

was in the same state, and Gustave Doré, who had been waiting for me

ever since two o’clock. Georges Deschamp, an amateur musician, with a

great deal of talent, tried to note down this Hoffmanesque harmony,

while my friend, Georges Clairin, his back shaking with laughter,

sketched the never-to-be-forgotten scene.

The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was the Bedlam

that had been let loose at 77, Chester Square. So much was made of it

that our dean, M. Got, came to beg me not to make such a scandal, as it

reflected on the Comédie Française. I listened to him in silence and

when he had finished I took his hands.

“Come with me and I will show you the scandal,” I said. I conducted him

into the garden.

“Let the chetah out!” I said, standing on the steps like a captain

ordering his men to take in a reef.

When the chetah was free the same mad scene occurred again as on the

previous day.

“You see, M. le Doyen,” I said, “this is my Bedlam.”

“You are mad,” he said, kissing me, “but it certainly is irresistibly

comic,” and he laughed until the tears came when he saw all the heads

appearing above the garden wall.

The hostilities continued, though by means of scraps of gossip retailed

by one person to another and from one set to another. The French Press

took it up and so did the English Press. In spite of my happy

disposition and my contempt for ill-natured tales, I began to feel

irritated. Injustice has always roused me to revolt, and injustice was

certainly having its fling. I could not do a thing that was not watched

and blamed.

One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan, whom I loved

dearly. That adorable _artiste_ took my face in her hands, and looking

into my eyes, said: “My poor dear, you can’t do anything to prevent it.

You are original without trying to be so. You have a dreadful head of

hair that is naturally curly and rebellious, your slenderness is

exaggerated, you have a natural harp in your throat, and all this makes

of you a creature apart, which is a crime of high treason against all

that is commonplace. That is what is the matter with you physically. Now

for your moral defects. You cannot hide your thoughts, you cannot stoop

to anything, you never accept any compromise, you will not lend yourself

to any hypocrisy, and all that is a crime of high treason against

society. How can you expect under these conditions not to arouse

jealousy, not to wound people’s susceptibilities, and not to make them

spiteful? If you are discouraged because of these attacks, it will be

all over with you, as you will have no strength left to withstand them.

In that case I advise you to brush your hair, to put oil on it, and so

make it lie as sleek as that of the famous Corsican, but even that would

never do, for Napoleon had such sleek hair that it was quite original.

Well, you might try to brush your hair as smooth as Prudhon’s,[4] then

there would be no risk for you. I would advise you,” she continued, “to

get a little stouter and to let your voice break occasionally, then you

would not annoy anyone. But if you wish to remain _yourself_, my dear,

prepare to mount on a little pedestal made of calumny, scandal,

injustice, adulation, flattery, lies, and truths. When you are once upon

it, though, do the right thing, and cement it by your talent, your work,

and your kindness. All the spiteful people who have unintentionally

provided the first materials for the edifice will kick it, then, in

hopes of destroying it. They will be powerless to do this, though, if

you choose to prevent them; and that is just what I hope for you, my

dear Sarah, as you have an ambitious thirst for glory. I cannot

understand that, myself, as I like only rest and shade.”

Footnote 4:

Prudhon was one of the _artistes_ of the Théâtre Français.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, FROM AN OIL PAINTING BY MLLE. LOUISE

ABBÉMA.]

I looked at her with envy, she was so beautiful with her liquid eyes,

her face with its pure, restful lines and her weary smile. I wondered in

an uneasy way if happiness were not rather in this calm tranquillity, in

the disdain of all things. I asked her gently if this were so, for I

wanted to know, and she told me that the theater bored her, that she had

had so many disappointments. She shuddered when she spoke of her

marriage, and as to her motherhood, that had only caused her sorrow. Her

love affairs had left her affections crushed and physically disabled.

The light seemed doomed to fade from her beautiful eyes, her legs were

swollen, and could scarcely carry her. She told me all this in the same

calm, half weary tone.

What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me to the heart

now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the weakness of her eyes

and her legs, and her delight in the shade was only the love of that

peace which was so necessary to her, wounded as she was by the life she

had lived.

The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently than

ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her advice. I armed

myself for the struggle, preferring to die in the midst of the battle

rather than to end my life regretting that it had been a failure. I made

up my mind not to weep over the base things that were said about me, and

not to suffer any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on

the defensive and very soon an occasion presented itself.

“L’Etrangère” was to be played for the second time at a matinée, June

21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to Mayer that I was not well

and that as I was playing in “Hernani” at night, I should be glad if he

could change the play announced for the afternoon if possible. The

receipts, however, were more than £400 and the Committee would not hear

of it.

“Oh, well,” Got said to Mr. Mayer, “we must give the rôle to some one

else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will be Croizette, Madeleine

Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself in the cast, and, hang it all, it

seems to me that all of us together will make up for Mlle. Bernhardt.”

Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as she had played

this rôle at the Comédie when I was ill. Lloyd was afraid to undertake

it, though, and refused. It was decided to change the play, and

“Tartuffe” was given instead of “L’Etrangère.” Nearly all of the public,

however, asked to have their money refunded, and the receipts, which

would have been about £500, only amounted to £84.

All the spite and jealousy now broke loose, and the whole company of the

Comédie, more particularly the men, with the exception of Mr. Worms,

started a campaign against me. Francisque Sarcey, as drum major, beat

the measure with his terrible pen in his hand. The most foolish,

slanderous, and stupid inventions and the most odious lies took their

flight like a cloud of wild ducks and swooped suddenly down upon all the

newspapers that were against me. It was said that for a shilling anyone

might see me dressed as a man; that I smoked huge cigars leaning on the

balcony of my house; that at the various receptions where I gave one-act

plays, I took my maid with me for the dialogue; that I practiced fencing

in my garden, dressed as a _pierrot_ in white, and that when taking

boxing lessons, I had broken two teeth for my unfortunate professor.

Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these turpitudes,

assuring me that the public could not possibly believe them. They were

mistaken, though, for the public likes to believe bad things about

anyone, as these are always more amusing than the good things. I soon

had a proof that the English public was beginning to believe what the

French papers said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I

would consent to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine

attire, and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but he was

willing to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it. This man was

quite an ill-bred person, but he was sincere. I received several boxes

of cigars, and the boxing and fencing professors wrote to offer their

services gratuitously. All this annoyed me to such a degree that I

resolved to put an end to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris

_Figaro_ caused me to take steps to cut matters short.

And I wrote in reply to it as follows:

ALBERT WOLFF, FIGARO, PARIS:

And you, too, my dear M. Wolff—you believe in such insanities? Who can

have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my friend,

though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told you have

still a little indulgence left. Well, then, I give you my word of

honor that I have never dressed as a man here in London. I did not

even bring my sculptor costume with me. I give the most emphatic

denial to this misrepresentation. I only went once to the exhibition

which I organized, and that was on the opening day, for which I had

only sent out a few private invitations, so that no one paid a

shilling to see me. It is true that I have accepted some private

engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the most poorly paid

members of the Comédie Française. I certainly have the right,

therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten pictures and

eight pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is quite true, but

as I brought them over here to sell I really must show them. As to the

respect due to the House of Molière, dear M. Wolff, I lay claim to

keeping that in mind more than anyone else, for I am absolutely

incapable of inventing such calumnies for the sake of slaying one of

its standard-bearers. And now, if the stupidities invented about me

have annoyed the Parisians and if they have decided to receive me

ungraciously on my return, I do not wish anyone to be guilty of such

baseness on my account, so I will send in my resignation to the

Comédie Française. If the London public is tired of all this fuss and

should be inclined to show me ill-will instead of the indulgence

hitherto accorded me, I shall ask the Comédie to allow me to leave

England in order to spare our company the annoyance of seeing one of

its members hooted at and hissed. I am sending you this letter by

wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives me the

right to commit such folly, and I beg you, dear M. Wolff, to accord to

my letter the same honor as you did to the calumnies of my enemies.

With very kind regards,

Yours sincerely,

SARAH BERNHARDT.

This telegram caused much ink to flow. While treating me as a spoiled

child, people generally agreed that I was quite right. The Comédie was

most amiable, Perrin, the manager, wrote me an affectionate letter

begging me to give up my idea of leaving the company. The women were

most friendly. Croizette came to see me and putting her arms round me

said: “Tell me you won’t do such a thing, my dear, foolish child. You

won’t really send in your resignation? In the first place it would not

be accepted, I can answer for that.”

Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His whole speech

savored of Protestantism. There are several Protestant pastors in his

family and this influenced him unconsciously. Delaunay, surnamed Father

Candor, came solemnly to inform me of the bad impression my telegram had

made. He told me that the Comédie Française was a ministry; that there

was the minister, the secretary, the subchiefs and the employés, and

that each one must conform to the rules and bring in his share either of

talent or work, and so on and so on.... I saw Coquelin at the theater in

the evening. He came to me with outstretched hands.

“You know I can’t compliment you,” he said, “on your rash action, but

fortunately we shall make you change your mind. When one has the good

fortune and the honor of belonging to the Comédie Française one must

remain there until the end of one’s career.”

Frédéric Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with the Comédie

because it would save money for me and I was quite incapable of doing

that myself.

“Believe me,” he said, “when we are with the Comédie we must not leave,

it means our bread provided for us later on.”

Got, our dean, then approached me.

“Do you know what you are doing in sending in your resignation?” he

asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Deserting.”

“You are mistaken,” I answered, “I am not deserting; I am changing

barracks.”

Others then came to me and they all gave me advice tinged by their own

personality, Mounet, as a seer or believer, Delaunay prompted by his

bureaucratic soul, Coquelin as a politician blaming another person’s

idea now, but extolling it later on and putting it into practice for his

own profit—Febvre, a lover of respectability—Got, as a selfish old

growler, understanding nothing but the orders of the powers that be and

advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said to me in his

melancholy way:

“Will people be better elsewhere?”

Worms had the most dreamy soul and the most frank, straightforward

character of any member of our illustrious company. I liked him

immensely.

We were about to return to Paris and I wanted to forget all these things

for a time. I was in a hesitating mood. I postponed taking a definite

decision.

CHAPTER XXIII

I AGAIN LEAVE THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE

The stir that had been made about me, the good that had been said in my

favor, and the bad things written against me, all this combined had

created in the artistic world an atmosphere of battle. When on the point

of leaving for Paris, some of my friends felt very anxious about the

reception which I should get there. The public is very much mistaken in

imagining that the agitation made about celebrated _artistes_ is in

reality instigated by the persons concerned and that they do it

purposely. Irritated at seeing the same name constantly appearing on

every occasion the public declares that the _artiste_ who is either

being slandered or pampered is an ardent lover of publicity. Alas! three

times over alas! We are victims of the said advertisement. Those who

know the joys and miseries of celebrity when they have passed the age of

forty know how to defend themselves. They are at the beginning of a

series of small worries, thunderbolts hidden under flowers, but they

know how to hold in check that monster advertisement. It is a sort of

octopus with innumerable tentacles. It throws out its clammy arms on the

right and on the left, in front and behind, and gathers in through its

thousand little inhaling organs, all the gossip and slander and praise

afloat to spit out again at the public when it is vomiting its black

gall. But those who are caught in the clutches of celebrity at the age

of twenty know nothing. I remember that the first time a reporter came

to me I drew myself up straight and was as red as a coxcomb with joy. I

was just seventeen years old—I had been acting in a private house and

had taken the part of _Richelieu_ with immense success. This gentleman

came to call on me at home and asked me first one question and then

another, and then another—I answered and chattered and was wild with

pride and excitement. He took notes and I kept looking at my mother. It

seemed to me that I was getting taller. I had to kiss my mother by way

of keeping my composure and I hid my face on her shoulder to hide my

delight. Finally, the gentleman rose, shook hands with me, and then took

his departure. I skipped about in the room and began to turn round

singing, “_Trois petits pâtés, ma chemise brûle_,” when suddenly the

door opened and the gentleman said to mamma, “Oh, madame, I forgot, this

is the receipt for the subscription to the journal! It is a mere

nothing, only sixteen francs a year.” Mamma did not understand at first.

As for me, I stood still with my mouth open, unable to digest my _petits

pâtés_. Mamma then paid the sixteen francs and in her pity for me, as I

was crying by that time, she stroked my hair gently. Since then I have

been delivered over to the monster, bound hand and foot, and I have been

and still am accused of adoring advertisement. And to think that my

first claims to celebrity were my extraordinary thinness and delicate

health. I had scarcely made my début when epigrams, puns, jokes, and

caricatures concerning me were indulged in by everyone to their heart’s

content. Was it really for the sake of advertising myself that I was so

thin, so small, so weak, and was it for this, too, that I remained in

bed six months of the year, laid low by illness? My name became

celebrated before I was, myself. At the first night of Louis Bouilhet’s

piece “Mlle. Aïssé” at the Odéon, Flaubert, who was an intimate friend

of the author, introduced an attaché of the British Embassy to me.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AS THE _DUC DE RICHELIEU_.]

“Oh, I have known you for some time, mademoiselle,” he said, “you are

the little stick with the sponge on the top!”

This caricature of me had just appeared and had been the delight of idle

folks. I was quite a young girl at that time and nothing of that kind

hurt me or troubled me. In the first place all the doctors had given me

up, so that I was indifferent about things, but all the doctors were

mistaken and twenty years later I had to fight against the monster.

The return of the Comédie to their homes was an event, but an event that

was kept quiet. Our departure from Paris had been very lively and gay

and quite a public event. Our return was clandestine for many of the

members, and for me among the number. It was a doleful return for those

who had not been appreciated and those who had been failures were

furious. I had not been back home an hour when Perrin, the manager, was

announced. He began to reproach me gently about the little care I took

of my health. He said I caused too much fuss to be made about me.

“But,” I exclaimed, “is it my fault if I am thin? Is it my fault, too,

that my hair is too curly and that I don’t think just as other people

do? Supposing that I took arsenic enough, for a whole month, to make me

swell out like a barrel and supposing I were to shave my head like an

Arab and only answer ‘Yes’ to everything you said. People would declare

I did it for advertisement.”

“But, my dear child,” answered Perrin, “there are people who are neither

fat nor thin, neither close shaven nor with shocks of hair, and who

answer yes and no.”

I was simply petrified by the justice and reason of the remark and I

understand the “because” of all the “whys” I had been asking myself for

some years. There was no happy medium about me. I was “too much” and

“too little” and I felt that there was nothing to be done for it. I

owned it to Perrin and told him that he was quite right. He took

advantage of my mood for lecturing me and for advising me not to put in

an appearance at the opening ceremony that was to take place at the

Comédie. He feared a cabal against me. “Some people were rather excited,

rightly or wrongly, a little of both,” he added, in that shrewd and

courteous way which was peculiar to him. I listened to him without

interrupting, which slightly embarrassed him, for Perrin was an arguer

but not an orator.

When he had finished I said: “You have told me too many things that

excite me, M. Perrin. I love a battle and I shall appear at the

ceremony. You see I have already been warned about it. Here are three

anonymous letters. Read this one, it is the nicest.”

He unfolded the letter, which was perfumed with amber, and read as

follows:

My poor skeleton, you will do well not to show your horrible Jewish

nose at the opening ceremony the day after to-morrow. I fear that it

would serve as a target for all the potatoes that are now being cooked

specially for you in your kind city of Paris. Have some paragraphs put

in the papers to the effect that you have been spitting blood and

remain in bed and think over the consequences of excessive

advertisement.

A SUBSCRIBER

Perrin pushed the letter away from him in disgust.

“Here are two more,” I said, “but they are so coarse that I will spare

you. I shall go to the opening ceremony.”

“Good!” replied Perrin. “They are rehearsing to-morrow, shall you come?”

“I shall come,” I answered.

The next day at the rehearsal the _artistes_, men and women, did not

care about going on to the stage to make their bow with me. I must say,

though, that they all nevertheless showed much good grace. But I

declared that I wished to go on alone, although it was against the rule,

but I thought I ought to face the ill humor and the cabal alone.

The house was crowded when the curtain rose. The ceremony commenced in

the midst of “Bravos!” The public was delighted to see its beloved

_artistes_ again. They advanced two by two, one on the right and the

other on the left, holding the palm and the crown to place on the

pedestal of Molière’s bust. My turn came and I advanced alone. I felt

that I was pale and then livid, with a will that was determined to

conquer. I went forward slowly toward the footlights, but instead of

bowing as my comrades had done I stood up erect and gazed with my two

eyes into all the eyes turning toward me. I had been warned of the

battle and did not wish to provoke it, but I would not fly from it. I

waited a second and felt the thrill and the emotion that ran through the

house, and then, suddenly stirred by an impulse of generous kindliness,

the whole house burst into wild applause and shouts. The public, so

beloved and so loving, was intoxicated with joy. That was certainly one

of the finest triumphs of my whole career. Some of the _artistes_ were

very delighted, especially the women, for there is one thing to remark

with regard to our art, the men are more jealous of the women than the

women are among themselves. I have met with many enemies among the men

comedians and with very few among the women. I think that the dramatic

art is essentially feminine. To paint one’s face, to hide one’s real

feelings, to try to please and to endeavor to attract attention, these

are all faults for which we blame women and for which great indulgence

is shown. These same defects seem odious in a man. And yet the actor

must endeavor to be as attractive as possible, even if he is obliged to

have recourse to paint and to false beard and hair. He may be a

Republican and he must uphold with warmth and conviction royalist

theories. He may be a Conservative and must maintain anarchist

principles, if such be the good pleasure of the author.

At the Théâtre Français poor Maubant was a most advanced Radical and his

stature and handsome face doomed him to play the parts of kings,

emperors, and tyrants. As long as the rehearsals went on, Charlemagne or

Cæsar could be heard swearing at tyrants, cursing the conquerors, and

claiming the hardest punishments for them. I thoroughly enjoyed this

struggle between the man and the actor. Perhaps this perpetual

abstraction from himself gives the comedian a more feminine nature.

However that may be, it is certain that the actor is jealous of the

actress. The courtesy of the well-educated man vanishes before the

footlights, and the comedian, who in private life would render a service

to a woman in any difficulty, will pick a quarrel with her on the stage.

He would risk his life to save her from any danger in the road, on the

railway, or on a boat, but when once on the boards he will not do

anything to help her out of a difficulty. If her memory should fail, or

if she should make a false step, he would not hesitate to push her—I am

going a long way, perhaps, but not so far as people may think. I have

performed with some celebrated comedians who have played me some bad

tricks. On the other hand, there are some actors who are admirable and

who are more men than comedians when on the stage. Pierre Berton, Worms,

and Guitry are, and always will be, the most perfect models of friendly

and protecting courtesy toward the woman comedian. I have played in a

number of pieces with each of them and, subject as I am to stage fright,

I have always felt perfect confidence when acting with these three

_artistes_. I knew that their intelligence was of a high order, that

they had pity on me for my fright, and that they would be prepared for

any nervous weaknesses caused by it. Pierre Berton and Worms, both of

them very great _artistes_, left the stage in full artistic vigor and

vital strength, Pierre Berton to devote himself to literature, and

Worms—no one knows why. As to Guitry, much the youngest of the three, he

is now the first _artiste_ on the French stage, for he is an admirable

comedian and at the same time an artist, a very rare thing in a man. I

know very few _artistes_ in France or in other countries with these two

qualities combined. Henry Irving is an admirable _artiste_ but not a

comedian; Coquelin is an admirable comedian, but he is not an _artiste_.

Mounet-Sully has genius which he sometimes places at the service of the

_artiste_ and sometimes at the service of the comedian, but on the other

hand, he sometimes gives us exaggerations as _artiste_ and comedian

which make lovers of Beauty and Truth gnash their teeth. Bartet is a

perfect _comedienne_ with a very delicate artistic sense. Réjane is the

most comedian of comedians and an _artiste_ when she wishes to be.

Eleonora Duse is more a comedian than an _artiste_. She walks in paths

that have been traced out by others. She does not imitate them,

certainly not, for she plants flowers where there were trees and trees

where there were flowers, but she has never by her art made a single

personage stand out identified by her name; she has not created a being

or a vision which reminds one of herself. She has put on other people’s

gloves, but she has put them on inside out. And all this she has done

with infinite grace and with careless unconsciousness. She is a great

comedienne, a very great comedienne, but not a great _artiste_. Novelli

is a comedian of the old school which did not trouble much about the

artistic side. He is perfect in laughter and tears. Beatrice Patrick

Campbell is especially an _artiste_ and her talent is that of charm and

thought; she execrates beaten paths, she wants to create and she

creates. Antoine is often betrayed by his own powers, for his voice is

heavy and his general appearance rather ordinary. As a comedian there is

therefore often much to be desired, but he is always an _artiste_

without equal and our art owes much to him in its evolution in the

direction of truth. Antoine, too, is not jealous of the woman comedian.

The days which followed the return of the Comédie to its own home were

very trying for me. Our manager wanted to subdue me and he tortured me

with a thousand little pin pricks which were much more painful for a

nature like mine than so many stabs with a knife. I became irritable,

bad tempered, on the slightest provocation and was, in fact, ill. I had

always been gay and now I was sad. My health, which had ever been

feeble, was endangered by this state of chaos.