Perrin gave me the rôle of the _Aventurière_ to study. I detested the

piece and did not like the part, and I considered the lines of

“L’Aventurière” very bad poetry indeed. As I cannot dissimulate well, in

a fit of temper I said this straight out to Emile Augier, and he avenged

himself in a most discourteous way on the first opportunity that

presented itself. This was on the occasion of my definite rupture with

the Comédie Française, the day after the first performance of

“L’Aventurière” on Saturday, April 17, 1880. I was not ready to play my

part and the proof of this was a letter I wrote to M. Perrin, April 14,

1880.

I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin, but I have such a sore

throat that I cannot speak and am obliged to stay in bed. Will you

kindly excuse me? It was at that wretched Trocadéro that I took cold

on Sunday. I am very much worried, as I know it will cause you

inconvenience. Anyhow, I will be ready for Saturday, whatever happens.

A thousand excuses and kind regards.

SARAH BERNHARDT.

I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat, but I had

not studied my part during the three days, as I could not speak. I had

not been able to try on my costumes, either, as I had been in bed all

the time. On Friday I went to ask Perrin to put off the performance of

“L’Aventurière” until the next week. He replied that it was impossible,

that every seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the

following Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be persuaded

to act, as I had confidence in my star.

“Oh!” I said to myself, “I shall get through it all right.”

I did not get through it, though, or rather I came through it very

badly. My costume was a failure: it did not fit me. They had always

jeered at me for my thinness and in this dress I looked like an English

teapot. My voice was still rather hoarse, which very much disconcerted

me. I played the first part of the rôle very badly and the second part

rather better. At a certain moment during the scene of violence I was

standing up, resting my two hands on the table on which there was a

lighted candelabrum. There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair

was very near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said

that, as I felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on

fire so that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely.

That was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The press did not

praise me and the press was quite right. I had played badly, looked

ugly, and been in a bad temper, but I considered that there was

nevertheless a want of courtesy and indulgence toward me. Auguste Vitu,

in the _Figaro_ of April 18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase:

“The new _Clorinde_ (the _Adventuress_) in the last two acts made some

gestures with her arms and movements of her body which one regrets to

see taken from _Virginie_ of “L’Assommoir” and introduced at the Comédie

Française.”

The only fault which I never have had, which I never shall have, is

vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination to hurt my

feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood from this way of

attacking me that petty hatreds were lifting up their rattlesnake heads.

All the low-down little viper world was crawling about under my flowers

and my laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and

sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted to have the

enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together and so I threw my laurels

and my flowers to the four winds of heaven. In the most abrupt way I

broke the contract which bound me to the Comédie Française, and through

that to Paris.

I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions with

myself, I decided to send in my resignation to the Comédie. I therefore

wrote to M. Perrin, this letter:

TO THE DIRECTOR:

You have compelled me to play when I was not ready. You have accorded

me only eight rehearsals on the stage and the play has been rehearsed

entirely only three times. I was very unwilling to appear before the

public. You insisted absolutely. What I foresaw has happened. The

result of the performance has surpassed my anticipations. A critic

pretended that I played _Virginie de l’Assommoir_ instead of _Doña

Clorinde de “l’Aventurière.”_ May Emile Augier and Zola absolve me! It

is my first rebuff at the Comédie and shall be my last. I warned you

the day of the general rehearsal. You have gone too far. I keep my

word. By the time you receive this letter I shall have left Paris.

Will you kindly accept my immediate resignation and believe me, yours

sincerely,

SARAH BERNHARDT.

In order that this resignation might not be refused at the Committee

meeting I sent copies of my letter to the _Gaulois_ and the _Figaro_,

and it was published at the same time as M. Perrin received it.

Then, quite decided not to be influenced by anybody, I set off at once,

with my maid, for Hâvre. I had left orders that no one was to be told

where I was, and the first evening I was there I passed in strict

incognito. But the next morning I was recognized and telegrams were sent

to Paris to that effect. I was besieged by reporters.

I took refuge at La Hêve where I spent the whole day on the beach in

spite of the cold rain which fell without ceasing.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, 1879.]

I went back to the Hotel Frascati, frozen, and in the night I was so

feverish that the doctor was summoned. Mme. Guérard, who was sent for by

my alarmed maid, came at once, and I was feverish for two days. During

this time the newspapers continued to pour out a flood of ink on paper.

This turned to bitterness and I was accused of the worst misdeeds. The

Committee sent a _huissier_ to my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers, and

this man declared that after having knocked three times at the door and

having received no answer he had left copy, etc., etc....

The man was lying. In the hotel there were my son and his tutor, my

steward, the husband of my maid, my butler, the cook, the kitchenmaid,

the second lady’s maid, and five dogs; but it was all in vain that I

protested against the minion of the law; it was useless.

The Comédie must, according to the rules, send me three summonses; this

was not done and a lawsuit was commenced against me. It was lost in

advance.

Maître Allon, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented wicked

little histories about me. He took a pleasure in trying to make me

ridiculous. He had a big file of letters from me to Perrin, letters

which I had written in softer moments or in anger. Perrin had kept them

all, even the shortest notes. I had kept none of his. The few letters to

myself from Perrin which have been published were given by him from his

letter-copy book. Of course he gave only those which could inspire the

public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me etc., etc....

The pleading of Maître Allon was very successful; he claimed three

hundred thousand francs damages, in addition to the confiscation for the

benefit of the Comédie Française, of the 43,000 francs which that

theater owed me.

Maître Barboux was my advocate. He was an intimate friend of Perrin. He

defended me very indifferently. I was condemned to pay a hundred

thousand francs to the Comédie Française and to lose the 43,000 francs

which I had left with the management. I may say that I did not trouble

much about this law suit.

Three days after my resignation Jarrett called upon me. He proposed to

me for the third time to make a contract for America. This time I lent

an ear to his propositions. We had never spoken about prices and this is

what he proposed:

Five thousand francs for each performance and the half of the takings

above 15,000 francs; that is to say, if the day the receipts reached the

sum of 20,000 francs, I should receive 7,500 francs. In addition: 1,000

francs per week for my hotel bill; also, a special Pullman for my

journeys, containing my bedroom, a drawing-room with a piano, four beds

for my staff, and two cooks to cook for me on the way. Mr. Jarrett was

to have ten per cent. on all sums received by me.

I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett immediately

sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American _impresario_, and he

landed on this side thirteen days later. I signed the contract made by

Jarrett, which was discussed clause by clause with the American manager.

I was given, on signing the contract, 100,000 francs as advance payment

for the expenses of departure. I was to play eight pieces: “Hernani,”

“Phèdre,” “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “La Dame aux Camélias,” “Le

Sphinx,” “L’Etrangère,” and “La Princesse George.”

I ordered twenty-five costumes for town wear at Laferrière’s, with whom

I then dealt.

At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” and four

costumes for “Hernani.” I ordered from a young theater _costumier_ named

Lepaul, my costume for “Phèdre.” These thirty-six costumes cost me

61,000 francs; but out of this my costume for “Phèdre” alone cost 4,000

francs. The poor _artiste-costumier_ had embroidered it himself. It was

a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my departure and I cannot

think of this moment without emotion. Irritated by long waiting, I was

writing an angry letter to the _costumier_ when he was announced. At

first I received him very badly, but I found him looking so ill, the

poor man, that I made him sit down and asked how he came to be so ill.

“Yes, I am not at all well,” he said in such a weak voice, that I was

quite upset. “I wanted to finish this dress and I have worked at it

three days and nights. But look how nice it is, your costume!” And he

spread it out with loving respect before me.

“Look!” remarked Guérard, “a little spot!”

“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor _artiste_ quickly.

But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his

lips. He wiped it quickly away so that it should not fall on the pretty

costume as the other little spot had done. I gave the _artiste_ the

4,000 francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some

unintelligible words and withdrew.

“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to my _petite dame_ and

my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccough all the evening.

Nobody understood why I was crying. But I reproached myself bitterly for

having worried the poor man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the

force of circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the

chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of

twenty-two—this _artiste_ with a future before him.

I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box yellowed with

age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and the little spot of

blood has slightly reddened the stuff. As to the poor _artiste_, I

learned of his death during my stay in London in the month of May, for

before leaving for America I signed with Hollingshead and Mayer, the

_impresarios_ of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from the

24th May to the 24th June (1880).

It was during this period that the lawsuit which the Comédie Française

brought against me was judged.

Maître Barboux did not consult me about anything, and my success in

London, which was achieved without the help of the Comédie, irritated

the Committee, the press, and the public.

Maître Allon, in his pleadings, pretended that the London public, which

was quickly tired of me, would not now come to those performances of the

Comédie in which I appeared.

The following list gives the best possible denial to the assertions of

Maître Allon:

_Performances given by the Comédie Française at the Gaiety Theatre. The

crosses indicate the pieces in which I appeared._

1879 PLAYS Receipts

in

francs

June 2 Prologue “Le Misanthrope;” “Phèdre,” Acte II

of

“Les Précieuses Ridicules” X 13.080

„ 3 “L’Etrangère” X 12.565

„ 4 “Le Fils Naturel” 9.300

„ 5 “Les Caprices de Marianne”

“La Joie Fait Peur” 10.100

„ 6 “Le Menteur”

“Le Médecin Malgré Lui” 9.530

„ 7 “Le Marquis de Ville Mer” 9.960

„ 7 (Matinée) “Tartuffe”

“La Joie Fait Peur” 8.700

„ 9 “Hernani” X 13.600

„ 10 “Le Demi-monde” 11.425

„ 11 “Mlle. de Belle Isle”

“Il Faut qu’une Porte Soit Ouverte ou

Fermée” 10.420

„ 12 “Le Post-scriptum”

“Le Gendre de M. Poirier” 10.445

„ 13 “Phèdre” 13.920

„ 14 “Le Luthier de Crémône”

“Le Sphinx” X 13.350

„ 14 (Matinée) “Le Misanthrope”

“Les Plaideurs” 8.800

„ 16 “L’ami Fritz” 9.375

„ 17 “Zaïre”

“Les Précieuses Ridicules” X 13.075

„ 18 (Matinée) “Le Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard”

“Il ne Faut Jurer de Rien” 11.550

„ 18 “Le Demi-monde” 12.160

„ 20 “Les Fourchambault” 11.200

„ 21 “Hernani” X 13.375

„ 21 (Matinée) “Tartuffe”

“Il Faut qu’une Porte Soit Ouverte ou

Fermée” 2.115

„ 23 “Gringoire”

“On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour” 11.080

„ 24 “Chez l’Avocat”

“Mlle. de la Seiglière” 9.660

„ 25 (Matinée) “L’Etrangère” X 11.710

„ 25 “Le Barbier de Seville” 9.180

„ 26 “Andromaque”

“Les Plaideurs” X 13.350

„ 27 “L’Avare”

“L’Etincelle” 11.775

„ 28 “Le Sphinx”

“Le Dépit Amoureux” X 12.860

„ 28 (Matinée) “Hernani” X 13.730

„ 30 “Ruy Blas” X 13.660

July 1 “Mercadet”

“L’été de la St. Martin” 9.850

„ 2 “Ruy Blas” X 13.160

„ 3 “Le Mariage de Victorine”

“Les Fourberies de Scapin” 10.165

„ 4 “Les Femmes Savantes;”

“L’Etincelle” 11.960

„ 5 “Les Fourchambault” 10.700

„ 5 (Matinée) “Phèdre;”

“La Joie Fait Peur” X 14.265

„ 7 “Le Marquis de Villemer” 10.565

„ 8 “L’ami Fritz” 11.005

„ 9 “Hernani” X 14.275

„ 10 “Le Sphinx” X 13.775

„ 11 “Philiberte”

“L’Etourdi” 11.500

„ 12 “Ruy Blas” X 12.660

„ 12 (Matinée) “Gringoire”

“Hernani,” Acte V

“La Bénédiction”

“Davenant”

“L’Etincelle” X 13.725

———————

Total receipts in francs 492.150

The average of the receipts was about 11,715 francs. These figures show

that out of the forty-three performances given by the Comédie Française,

the eighteen performances in which I took part gave an average of 13,350

francs each; while the twenty-five other performances gave an average of

10,000 francs.

* * * * *

While I was in London I learned that I had lost my lawsuit, with its ...

“Inasmuch as” ... “Nevertheless” ... etc. ... “declares hereby that

Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt loses all the rights, privileges, and advantages

resulting to her profit, from the engagement which she contracted with

the company, by authentic decree of the 24th March, 1875, which condemns

her to pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality, the sum of 100,000

francs damages....”

I gave my last performance in London the very day that the papers

published the result of this unjust verdict. I was applauded and the

public overwhelmed me with flowers.

I had taken with me, as _artistes_, Mme. Devoyod, Mary Jullien, Kalb, my

sister Jeanne, Pierre Berton, Train, Talbot, Dieudonné—all _artistes_ of

worth. I played all the pieces which I was to play in America.

Vitu, Sarcey, and Lapommeraye had said so much against me that I was

stupefied to learn from Mayer that they had arrived in London to be

present at my performances. I did not understand it at all. I thought

that the Parisian journalists were leaving me in peace at last, and here

were my worst enemies coming across the sea to see and hear me. Perhaps

they were hoping, like the Englishman who followed the lion-tamer, to

see him devoured by his lions.

Vitu, in the _Figaro_, had finished one of his bitter articles in these

words:

“But we have heard enough surely, of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt!

Let her go abroad with her monotonous voice and her funereal

fantasies!

Here, we have nothing new to learn from her talents or her

caprices ...”

Sarcey, in an equally bitter article, apropos of my resignation at the

Comédie, finished with these words:

“... There comes a time when naughty children must go to bed ...”

[Illustration: THE CELEBRATED PORTRAIT OF SARAH BERNHARDT, PAINTED BY

JULES BASTIEN-LEPAGE.]

As to the amiable Lapommeraye, he had showered on my devoted head all

the rumors that he had collected from all sides. But as they said he had

no originality, he tried to show that he also could dip his pen in venom

and he had cried: “Pleasant journey!” And here they all came, these

three, and others with them.... And the day following my first

performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” Auguste Vitu telegraphed to the

_Figaro_ a long article, in which he criticised me in certain scenes,

regretting that I had not followed the example of Rachel, whom I had

never seen. And he finished his article with these words:

“The sincerity of my admiration cannot be doubted when I avow that in

the fifth act Sarah Bernhardt rose to a height of dramatic power, to a

force of expression which could not be surpassed. She played the long

and cruel scene in which _Adrienne_, poisoned by the _Duchesse de

Bouillon_, struggles against death in her fearful agony, not only with

immense talent, but with a science of art which up to the present she

has never revealed. If the Parisian public had heard ... or ever

hears, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt cry out with the piercing accent which

she put into her words that evening: ‘I will not die, I will not die!’

it would weep with her.”

Sarcey finished an admirable critique with these words:

“She is prodigious!...”

And Lapommeraye, who had once more become amiable, begged me to go back

to the Comédie which was waiting for me, which would kill the fatted

calf on the return of its prodigal child.

Sarcey, in his article in the _Temps_, consecrated five columns of

praises to me and finished his article with these words:

“Nothing—nothing can ever take the place of this last act of ‘Adrienne

Lecouvreur’ at the Comédie. Ah, she should have stayed at the Comédie!

Yes, I come back to my litany! I cannot help it! We shall lose as much

as she will. Yes, I know that we can say Mlle. Dudlay is left to us.

Oh, she will always stay with us! I cannot help saying it—What a pity!

What a pity!”

And eight days after, on the 7th June, he wrote in his theatrical

chronicle, on the first performance of “Froufrou”:

“I do not think that the emotion at the theater has ever been so

profound. There are, in the dramatic art, exceptional times when the

_artistes_ are transported out of themselves, carried above themselves

and compelled to obey this inward ‘demon,’ (_I_ should have said god,)

who whispered to Corneille his immortal verses.

“‘Well,’ said I to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, after the play, ‘this is an

evening which will open to you, if you wish, the doors of the Comédie

Française!’ ‘Do not speak of it,’ said she to me! We will not speak of

it. But what a pity! What a pity!”

CHAPTER XXIV

PREPARATIONS FOR AMERICA

My success in “Froufrou” was so marked that it filled the void left by

Coquelin, who, after having signed, with the consent of Perrin, with

Messrs. Mayer and Hollingshead, declared that he could not keep his

engagements. It was a nasty trick of Jarnac’s by which Perrin hoped to

injure my London performances. He had previously sent Got to me to ask

officially if I would not come back to the Comédie. He said I should be

permitted to make my American tour and that everything would be arranged

on my return. But he should not have sent Got. He should have sent Worms

or _Le petit père Franchise_—Delaunay. The one might have persuaded me

by his affectionate reasoning, and the other by the falsity of arguments

presented with such grace that it would have been difficult to refuse.

Got declared that I should be only too happy to come back to the Comédie

on my return from America; “for you know,” he added, “you know, my

little one, that you will die in that country. And if you come back you

will perhaps be only too glad to return to the Comédie Française, for

you will be in a bad state of health, and it will take some time before

you are right again. Believe me, sign, and it is not we who will benefit

by that, but you!”

“I thank you,” answered I, “but I prefer to choose my hospital myself on

my return. And now you can go and leave me in peace.” I fancy I said:

“Get out!”

That evening he was present at a performance of “Froufrou” and came to

my dressing-room and said:

“You had better sign, believe me! And come back to commence with

‘Froufrou’! I will promise you a happy return!”

I refused and finished my performances in London without Coquelin.

The average of the receipts was 9,000 francs, and I left London with

regret—I who had left it with so much pleasure the first time. But

London is a city apart; its charm unveils little by little. The first

impression for a Frenchman or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal

_ennui_. Those tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those

ugly monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime, and black with

greasy dirt; those flower sellers at the corners of all the streets with

faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in their hats and

lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets; the low sky; the

funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on to men just as drunk; the

wild dancing of disheveled children round the street organs, as numerous

as the omnibuses—all that caused, twenty-five years ago, an indefinite

suffering to a Parisian. But little by little one finds that the

profusion of the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of the

aristocratic ladies effaces the image of the flower sellers.

The constant movement of Hyde Park, and especially of Rotten Row, fills

the heart with gayety. The broad English hospitality which was

manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of

the men, which compares favorably with the wit of Frenchmen; and their

gallantry, much more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left

no regrets in me for French gallantry.

But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud; and our windows

opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows. I find also that

nothing marks more clearly the difference of character of the two

nations than their respective windows. Ours open wide, the sun enters

into our houses even to the heart of the dwelling, the air sweeps away

all the dust and all the microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply,

as they open.

English windows open only halfway, either the top half or the bottom

half. One may even have the pleasure of opening them a little at the top

and a little at the bottom, but not at all in the middle. The sun cannot

enter openly, nor the air. The window keeps its selfish and perfidious

character. I hate the English windows. But now I love London, and—is

there any need to add?—its inhabitants. Since my first visit I have

returned there twenty-one times, and the public has always remained

faithful and affectionate.

After this first test of my freedom, I felt more sure of life than

before. Although I was very weakly of constitution, the possibility of

doing as I wanted without let or hindrance and without control, calmed

my nerves; and with a strengthened nervous system, my health, which had

been weakened by perpetual irritations and by excessive work, recovered

its tone. I reposed on the laurels which I had gathered myself—and I

slept better. Sleeping better I commenced to eat better. And great was

the astonishment of my little court when they saw their idol come back

from London round and rosy.

I remained several days in Paris, then I set out for Brussels, where I

was to play “Adrienne Lecouvreur” and “Froufrou.”

The Belgian public—by which I mean the Brussels public—is the most like

our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am in a strange country. Our

language is the language of the country; the horses and carriages are

always in perfect taste; the fashionable women resemble our own

fashionable women; _cocottes_ abound; the hotels are as good as in

Paris; the cab horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful.

Brussels is gossiping Paris in miniature.

I played, for the first time, at the Monnaie and I felt uncomfortable in

this immense and frigid theater. But the benevolent enthusiasm of the

public soon warmed me and I shall never forget the four evenings I gave

there.

Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances at

the Theater Royal.

Our arrival, which was anxiously expected, doubtless, really frightened

me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled in the station

when the train came in, gave a hurrah so terrible that I did not know

what was happening. But when M. De Fallesen, manager of the Theater

Royal, and the first chamberlain of the king, entered my compartment and

begged me to show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the

public, the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful

anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure, rise to

what was expected from me. My slender frame would inspire disdain in

those magnificent men and those splendid and healthy women. I stepped

out of the train so diminished by comparison that I had the sensation of

being nothing more than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive

to the police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a large way for my

carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic

sightseers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to me.

I have had afterwards, in the course of my long career, many triumphs,

receptions and ovations; but my reception by the Danish people remains

one of my most cherished souvenirs. The living hedge lasted till we

reached the Hotel d’Angleterre where I went in, after once more thanking

the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.

In the evening, the King and Queen and their daughter, the Princess of

Wales, were present at the first performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur.”

This is what the _Figaro_ of the 16th August, 1880, said:

“Sarah Bernhardt has played ‘Adrienne Lecouvreur’ with a tremendous

success before a magnificent public. The royal family, the King and

the Queen of the Hellènes, as well as the Princess of Wales, were

present at the performance. The Queens threw their bouquets to the

French artiste, midst applause. It was an unprecedented triumph. The

public was delirious. To-morrow ‘Froufrou’ will be played.”

The performances of “Froufrou” were equally successful. But as I was

playing only every other day I wanted to visit Elsinore. The King placed

the royal steamer at my disposal for this little journey.

I had invited all my company.

M. De Fallesen, the first chamberlain and manager of the Theater Royal,

caused a magnificent lunch to be served for us, and accompanied by the

principal notabilities of Denmark we visited Hamlet’s tomb, the Spring

of Ophelia, and the Castle of Marienlyst. Then we went over the Castle

of Cronburg. I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come

up to the expectation. The so-called Tomb of Hamlet is represented by a

small column, ugly and mournful looking; there is little verdure and the

desolate sadness of deceit without beauty. They gave me a little water

from the Spring of Ophelia to drink and the Baron de Fallesen broke the

glass without allowing anyone else to drink from the spring.

I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather sad. Leaning

against the side of the vessel I watched the water gliding past, when I

noticed a few rose petals emerge, which carried by an invisible current

were borne against the sides of the boat; then the petals increased to

thousands and in the mysterious sunset rose the melodious chant of the

sons of the North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on the water by

the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails: a score of

young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters, which were

carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing the marvelous legends

of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all that

love, all that musical poetry. And the setting sun—it was also for me.

And in this fleeting moment which brought near me all the beauty of

life, I felt myself very near to God.

The following day, at the close of the performance, the King had called

me before him into the royal box and he decorated me with a very pretty

Order of Merit adorned with diamonds. He kept me some time in his box

asking me about a lot of things. I was presented to the Queen and I

noticed immediately that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather

embarrassed, but the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She was

beautiful, but much less so than her lovely sister, the Princess of

Wales. Oh, that adorable and seductive face! with the eyes of a child of

the North and classic features of virginal purity, a long supple neck

that seemed made for queenly bows, a sweet and almost timid smile. The

indefinable charm of this princess made her so radiant that I saw

nothing but her, and I left the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a

doubtful opinion of my intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark

and Greece.

The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand supper.

Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very well-turned manner for

the French week which we had given in Denmark.

Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the Press, very

short but very sympathetic. Our ambassador, in a few courteous words,

thanked Robert Walt, and then to the general surprise, Baron Magnus, the

Prussian Minister, rose, and in a loud voice, turning to me, he said: “I

drink to France, which gives us such great _artistes_! to France, _la

belle France_, whom we all love so much!”

Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French men and women

were still suffering; their wounds were not healed.

Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had, from the time of

my arrival in Copenhagen, sent me flowers with his card. I had sent back

the flowers and begged an attaché of the English Embassy, Sir Francis, I

believe, to ask the German baron not to renew his gifts. The baron

laughed good-naturedly and waited for me as I came out of my hotel. He

came to me with outstretched hands and spoke kindly and reasonable

words. Everybody was looking at us and I was embarrassed. It was evident

that he was a kind man. I thanked him, touched in spite of myself, by

his frankness, and I went away quite undecided as to what I really felt.

Twice he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but only bowed as

I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity of this

amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper, when I saw him take

the attitude of an orator, I felt myself grow pale. He had barely

finished his little speech, when I jumped to my feet and cried: “Let us

drink to France—but to the whole of France, _Monsieur l’Embassadeur de

Prusse_!” I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical, without intending

it.

It was like a bolt from the blue.

The orchestra of the court which was placed in the upper gallery began

playing the “Marseillaise.” At this time the Danes hated the Germans.

The supper room was suddenly deserted as if by enchantment.

I went up to my rooms not wishing to be questioned. I had gone too far.

Anger had made me say more than I intended. Baron Magnus did not deserve

this tirade. And also my instinct forewarned me of results to follow. I

went to bed angry with myself, with the baron, and with all the world.

About five o’clock in the morning I commenced to doze, when I was

awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I heard some one knocking at

the door of the salon. I called my maid, who woke her husband, and he

went to open the door. An attaché from the French Embassy was waiting to

speak to me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea gown and went to

see the visitor.

“I beg you,” he said, “to write a note immediately, to explain that the

words you said were not meant.... The Baron Magnus, whom we all respect,

is in a very awkward situation and we are all unhappy about it. Prince

Bismarck is not to be trifled with and it may be very serious for the

baron.”

“Oh! I assure you, monsieur, I am a hundredfold more unhappy about it

than you, for the baron is a good and charming man; he is short of

political tact, and in this case it is excusable because I am not a

woman of politics. I was lacking in coolness. I would give my right hand

to repair the ill.”

“We don’t ask you for so much as that. And that would spoil the beauty

of your gestures!” (He was French, you see). “Here is the rough copy of

a letter; will you take it, rewrite it, sign it and everything will be

at an end.”

But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave twisted and

rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it and after several attempts

to rewrite it, I gave up in despair and did nothing.

Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in addition to the

royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody had heard the amiable but

awkward speech of the baron. I had replied in a very excited manner. The

public and the Press had all been witnesses of my tirade; we were the

victims of our own foolishness, the baron and myself. If such a thing

were to happen at the present time I should not care a pin for public

opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in order

to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that time I was very

nervous, and uncompromisingly patriotic. And also, perhaps, I thought I

was some one of importance. Since then life has taught me that if one

has to be famous it can only be after Death has set his seal to life.

To-day I am going down the hill of life and I regard gaily all the

pedestals on which I have been lifted up, and there have been so many of

them that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had raised

them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on life, happy

with the past and expectant of the future.

My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant me well, and this incident

has always left in me a feeling of remorse and chagrin.

I left Copenhagen in the midst of applause and repeated cries of _Vive

la France_! From all the windows hung the French flag, fluttering in the

breeze, and I felt that this was not only _for_ me, but _against_

Germany—I was sure of it.

Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united and I am not

certain that several Danes do not still bear me malice because of this

incident of the Baron Magnus.

I came back to Paris to make my final preparations for my journey to

America. I was to set sail the 15th of October.

One day in August, I was having a reception of all my friends, who came

to see me in full force because I was about to set out for a long

journey.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AND MEMBERS OF HER COMPANY OUT SHOOTING.]

Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal Canrobert,

Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the beautiful Augusta Holmes,

Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskyjold, O’Connor, and other friends. I

chatted gaily, happy to be surrounded by so many tender and intellectual

friends. Girardin did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this

journey to America. He had been the friend of Rachel and told me the sad

end of her journey. Arthur Mayer was of opinion that I ought always to

do what I thought best. The other friends discussed the affair. That

admirable man, whom France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much

he should miss and regret these intimate _causeries_ at our five o’clock

teas.

“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our affectionate

selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the

strife. She is of a combative nature.”

“Ah, yes!” I cried, “I am born for the strife, I feel it. Nothing

pleases me like having to master a public—perhaps hostile—who have read

and heard all that the Press have to say against me. But I am sorry that

I cannot play, not only in Paris, but in all France, my two big

successes, ‘Adrienne’ and ‘Froufrou.’”

“As to that, you can count on me,” cried Félix Duquesnel. “My dear

Sarah, you had your first successes with me and it is with me that you

will have your last.”

Everybody exclaimed and I jumped up.

“Why wait,” said he, “for the last successes until you come back from

America? If you will consent you can count on me for everything. I

will obtain, at any price, theaters in all the large towns and we will

give twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to the

money conditions, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five

performances—50,000 francs. To-morrow I will give you the half of this

sum and you shall sign the contract, so that you will not have time to

change your mind.”

I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged

Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, a plan of the tour, for

they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had carried off

the laurels in England and Belgium and Denmark.

Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was

settled that their visits would be drawn by lot from a little bag and

each town marked with the date and the name of the play.

A week later, Duquesnel, with whom I had signed the contract, returned

with the entire tour planned out and all the company engaged. It was

almost miraculous.

The performances were to commence on Saturday the 4th of September, and

there were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day

of departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which

caused this tour to be called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah

Bernhardt,” like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to

undertake his military service.

The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more

than in this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organized excursions and

fêtes outside the towns.

At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the

sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates

and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, etc.,

had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections

and the mayors had prepared the visits to the churches and celebrated

buildings.

When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters,

each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked. I hate seeing public

buildings, and having them explained to me. I know most of the public

sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt inclined and with

my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other buildings, I find

them very tiresome. I cannot help it—it really wearies me to see them. I

can admire their outline in passing, or when I see them silhouetted

against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will

not go. The idea of entering these cold spaces, while some one explains

their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings

with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over

highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the

left wing, (that they would have done better by letting crumble to

ruins,) to have to wonder at the depth of some moat which once used to

be full of water but is now dry as the east wind ... all that is so

tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood I have

always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all buildings

higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I positively

adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct the horizon.

I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a hundred times

rather they had never been built.

I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who

had been so obliging. We passed two hours over this task and the 3rd of

September I set out, free, joyful, and content.

My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the

lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding

country in all the towns in which I played.

I came back to Paris on the 30th of September, and had only just time to

prepare for my journey to America. I had been only a week at Paris when

I had a visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Variétés.

His brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond

Deslandes. I did not know Eugène Bertrand, but I received him at once,

for we had mutual friends.

“What are you going to do when you come back from America?” he asked me,

after we had exchanged greetings.

“I really don’t know.... Nothing. I have not thought of anything.”

“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your

return to Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s, I will sign with you at

once for the Vaudeville.”

“Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond

Deslandes is the manager and he hates me like poison because I ran away

from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play:

‘Un Mari qui Lance sa Femme.’ His play was ridiculous, and I was even

more ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady

addicted to dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage

me!”

He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My

brother ... to put it plainly, is myself. All the money brought by us is

mine! I am the sole master! What do you want to earn?”

“But...? I really don’t know.”

“Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?”

I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right

mind.

“But, monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot

agree to that.”

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will be a success—a

colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty

performances!”

“Oh, no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of

Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend

on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign and thank you for

your confidence.”

At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they

were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my

resignation.

Only three days remained to me in Paris. My heart was sore at the idea

of leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons.... But in these memoirs I

have put to one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There

is one “I” which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows,

joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts.

But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other

skies.

I left my little boy with my uncle who had five boys of his own. His

wife was a rigid Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise, their

eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me to be

on the lookout and to let me know at once if there was anything I ought

to know.

[Illustration: BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU, BY SARAH BERNHARDT.]

Up to the last moment, people in Paris did not believe that I would

really go. I had such uncertain health that it seemed folly to undertake

such a journey. But when it was quite certain that I was going, there

was a general outburst from my enemies and the hue and cry after me was

in full swing. I have now under my eyes the specimens of insanity,

calumnies, lies, and stupidities, burlesque portraits, doleful

pleasantries, good-bys to the darling, the idol, the star, the zimm!

boum! boum! etc., etc.... It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was

confounded. I had not read the greater part of these articles, but my

secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little notebooks,

whether favorable or unfavorable. It was my godfather who had commenced

doing this when I entered the _Conservatoire_ and after his death I had

it continued.

Happily I find, in these thousands of lines, fine and noble words—words

written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Vallés, Jules

Lemaître, etc.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed

Victor Hugo, Francois Coppée, Richemin, Haroucourt, Henri de Bornier,

Catulle Mendès, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.

I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies; but

I confess that the kindly appreciation and praises accorded me by the

superior spirits afforded me infinite joy.

CHAPTER XXV

MY ARRIVAL IN AMERICA

The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and

other successes was named _L’Amérique_. It was the unlucky boat, the

boat that was haunted by the Gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents,

and storms had been its lot. It had been stranded for months with its

keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat and

it had foundered on the shoals of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set

afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Hâvre

roadstead, but no great damage was done, and the poor boat had had a

celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous. In 1876 or 1877 a new

pumping system was adopted and although this system had been in use by

the English for a long time it was quite unknown aboard French boats.

The captain very wisely decided to have these pumps worked by his crew

so that in case of any danger the men would be ready to manipulate them

easily. The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of

the men came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling

with water, and no one could discover the cause of it. “Go on pumping!”

shouted the captain. “Hurry up! Pump away!” The pumps were worked

frantically and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the

captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the passengers

safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after,

tried the pumps which worked admirably but in the contrary way to that

indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the _Compagnie

Transatlantique_ £48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to start

the ship again and passengers refused to go by it they offered my

_impresario_, M. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very

intelligent he was, for in spite of all prognostications the boat had

paid her tribute.

I had hitherto traveled very little and I was wild with delight.

On the 15th of October, 1880, at six o’clock in the morning, I entered

my cabin. It was a large one and hung with light red rep embroidered

with my initials. What a profusion of the letters S. B.! Then there was

a large brass bedstead brightly polished, and flowers everywhere.

Adjoining mine was a very comfortable cabin for my _petite dame_, and

leading out of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other

persons I employed were at the other end of the ship. The sky was misty,

and the sea gray, with no horizon. I was on my way over there, beyond

that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a mysterious

rampart. The clearing of the deck for the departure upset everyone and

everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain’s call, the

bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the

shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in

time to catch the boat, the “Halloo!” “Look out!” of the men who were

pitching the packages from the port into the hold, the sound of the

laughing waves breaking over the side of the boat, all this mingled

together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its

own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who, up

to the last moment enjoyed the “Good-bys,” the handshakings, the plans

about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over

flung themselves sobbing on their bed.

For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping bitter tears,

tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to get calm again, my will

power triumphed over my grief. On the fourth day I dressed at seven

o’clock and went on deck to have some fresh air. It was icy cold and as

I walked up and down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad, resigned

face. The sea looked gloomy and colorless and there were no waves.

Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against our boat that we were

both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold of the leg of one of the

benches, but the unfortunate lady was flung forward. Springing to my

feet with a bound I was just in time to seize hold of the skirt of her

dress, and with the help of my maid and a sailor, we managed to prevent

the poor woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much

hurt, though, she was, and a trifle confused; she thanked me in such a

gentle, dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with emotion.

“You might have been killed, madame,” I said, “down that horrible

staircase.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a sigh of regret, “but it was not God’s will.

Are you not Madame Hessler?” she continued, looking earnestly at me.

“No, madame,” I answered, “my name is Sarah Bernhardt.”

She stepped back and drawing herself up, her face very pale and her

brows knitted, she said in a mournful voice, a voice that was scarcely

audible: “I am the widow of President Lincoln.”

I, too, stepped back, and a thrill of anguish ran through me, for I had

just done this unhappy woman the only service that I ought not to have

done her—I had saved her from death. Her husband had been assassinated

by an actor, Booth, and it was an actress who had now prevented her from

joining her beloved husband. I went back again to my cabin and stayed

there two days, for I had not the courage to meet that woman for whom I

felt such sympathy, and to whom I should never dare to speak again.

On the 22d we were surprised by an abominable snowstorm. I was called up

hurriedly by Captain Jonclas. I threw on a long ermine cloak and went on

to the bridge. It was perfectly stupefying and at the same time

fairylike. The heavy flakes met each other with a hiss in their mad

waltzing provoked by the wind. The sky was suddenly veiled from us by

all this whiteness which fell round us in avalanches, completely hiding

the horizon. I was facing the sea and, as Captain Jonclas pointed out to

me, we could not see a hundred yards in front of us. I then turned round

and saw that the boat was as white as a seagull; the ropes, the cordage,

the nettings, the portholes, the shrouds, the whalers, the deck, the

sails, the ladders, the funnels, the airholes—everything was white. The

sea was black and the sky was black. The boat alone was white, floating

along in this immensity. There was a contest between the high funnel,

sputtering forth with difficulty its smoke through the wind which was

rushing wildly into its great mouth, and the prolonged shrieks of the

siren. The contrast was so extraordinary between the virgin whiteness of

this boat and the infernal uproar it made that it seemed to me as if I

had before me an angel in a fit of hysterics.

In the evening of that strange day the doctor came to tell me of the

birth of a child among the immigrants, in whom I was deeply interested.

I went at once to the mother and did all I could for the poor little

creature who had just come into the world. Oh, the dismal moans in that

dismal night in the midst of all that misery! Oh, that first strident

cry of the child affirming its will to live in the midst of all these

sufferings, of all these hardships, and of all these hopes! Everything

was there mingled together in that human medley—men, women, children,

rags and preserves, oranges and basins, heads of hair and bald pates,

half-open lips of young girls and tightly closed mouths of shrewish

women, white caps and red handkerchiefs, hands stretched out in hope and

fists clenched against adversity. I saw revolvers half concealed under

the rags, knives in the men’s belts. A sudden roll of the boat showed us

the contents of a parcel that had fallen from the hands of a rascally

looking fellow with a very decided expression on his face, and a hatchet

and a tomahawk fell to the ground. One of the sailors immediately seized

the two weapons to take them to the purser. I shall never forget the

scrutinizing glance of the man. He had evidently made a mental note of

the features of the sailor, and I breathed a fervent prayer that the two

might never meet in a solitary place.

I remember now with remorse the horrible disgust that took possession of

me when the doctor handed the child over to me to wash. That dirty

little red, moving, sticky object was a human being. It had a soul and

would have thoughts. I felt quite sick and I could never again look at

that child—although I was afterwards its godmother—without living over

again that first impression. When the young mother had fallen asleep I

wanted to go back to my cabin. The doctor helped me, but the sea was so

rough that we could scarcely walk at all among the packages and

immigrants. Some of them who were crouching on the floor watched us

silently as we tottered and stumbled along like drunkards. I was annoyed

at being watched by those malevolent, mocking eyes. “I say, doctor,” one

of the men called out, “the sea water gets in the head like wine. You

and your lady look as though you were coming back from a spree!” An old

woman clung to me as we passed. “Oh, madame!” she said, “shall we be

shipwrecked with the boats rolling like this? Oh, God! oh, God!” A tall

fellow with red hair and beard came forward and laid the poor old woman

down again gently. “You can sleep in peace, mother,” he said; “if we are

shipwrecked I swear there shall be more, saved down here than up on the

top.” He then came closer to me and continued in a defiant tone: “The

rich folks ... first class, into the sea! ... the immigrants—seconds, in

the boats!” As he uttered these words I heard a sly, stifled laugh from

everywhere, in front of me, behind, at the side, and even from under my

feet. It seemed to echo in the distance like the laughing behind the

scenes on the stage. I drew nearer to the doctor and he saw that I was

uneasy.

“Nonsense,” he said, laughing, “we should defend ourselves.”

“But how many _could_ be saved,” I asked, “in case we were really in

danger?”

“Two hundred—two hundred and fifty at the most with all the boats out,

if all arrived safely.”

“But the purser told me that there were seven hundred and sixty

immigrants,” I insisted, “and there are only a hundred and twenty

passengers. How many do you reckon are the officers, the crew, and the

servants?”

“A hundred and seventy,” the doctor answered.

“Then there are a thousand and fifty on board and you can save only two

hundred and fifty?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I can understand the hatred of these immigrants whom you

take on board like cattle and treat like negroes. They are absolutely

certain that in case of danger they would be sacrificed.”

“But we should save them when their turn came.”

I glanced with horror at the man who was talking to me. He looked honest

and straightforward and he evidently meant what he said. And so all

these poor creatures who had been disappointed in life, and badly

treated by society, would have no right to life until after _we_ were

saved, we the more favored ones! Oh, how I understood now the rascally

looking fellow, with his hatchet and tomahawk! How thoroughly I approved

at that moment of the revolvers and the knives hidden in the belts. Yes,

he was quite right, the tall, red-haired fellow. We want the first

places, always the first places ... and so we might have the first

places! Into the water with us!

“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the captain who was just coming out of

his cabin. “Has it gone off all right?”

“Yes, captain,” I answered, “but I am horrified.”

Jonclas stepped back in surprise....

“Good heavens, what has horrified you?” he asked.

“The way in which you treat your passengers ...”

He tried to put in a word, but I continued: “Why ... you expose us in

case of a shipwreck....”

“We never have a shipwreck....”

“Good ... in case of a fire, then....”

“Good ... in case of submersion....”

“We never have a fire....”

“I give in,” he said, laughing. “To what do we expose you, madame?”

“To the very worst of deaths ... to a blow on the head with an ax, to a

dagger thrust in our back, or merely to be flung into the water....”

He attempted to speak, but again I continued: “There are seven hundred

and fifty immigrants below and there are scarcely three hundred of us,

counting first-class passengers and the crew.... You have boats which

might save two hundred persons and even that is doubtful....”

“Well?”

“Well, what about the immigrants?”

“We should save them before the crew.”

“But after us?”

“Yes, after you.”

“And you fancy that they would let you do it?”

“We have guns with which to keep them in order.”

“Guns ... guns for women and children.”

“No ... the women and children would take their turn first.”

“But that is idiotic,” I exclaimed, “it is perfectly absurd! Why save

women and children if you are going to make widows and orphans of them?

And do you believe that all those young men would resign themselves to

their fate because of your guns? There are more of them than there are

of you, and they are armed. Life owes them their revenge, and they have

the same right that we have to defend the supreme moment. They have the

courage of those who have nothing to lose and everything to gain in the

struggle. In my opinion it is iniquitous and infamous that you should

expose us to certain death and them to an obligatory and perfectly

justified crime.”

The captain tried to speak, but again I persisted. “Without going as far

as a shipwreck only fancy if we were to be tossed and bandied about for

months on a raging sea. This has happened and might happen again.... You

cannot possibly have food enough on board for a thousand people during

two or three months.”

“No, certainly not,” put in the purser dryly. He was a very amiable man,

but very touchy.

“Well, then, what should you do?” I asked.

“What would _you_ do?” asked the captain, highly amused at the annoyed

expression on the purser’s face.

“I ... oh! I should have a boat for immigrants and a boat for

passengers, and I think that would be only just.”

“Yes, but it would be ruinous.”

“No, the one for wealthy people would be a steamer like this, and the

one for emigrants a sailing vessel.”

“But that, too, would be unjust, madame, for the steamer would go more

quickly than the sailing boat.”

“That would not matter at all,” I argued. “Wealthy people are always in

a hurry and the poor never are. And then, considering what is awaiting

them in the land to which they are going....”

“It is the Promised Land.”

“Oh! poor things ... poor things ... with their Promised Land—Dakota or

Colorado! In the daytime they have the sun which makes their brains

boil, scorches the ground, dries up the springs, and brings forth

endless numbers of mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their

patience. The Promised Land! At night they have the terrible cold to

make their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints, and ruin their lungs.

The Promised Land! It is just death in some out-of-the-world place after

fruitless appeals to the justice of their fellow countrymen. They will

breathe their life out in a sob or in a terrible curse of hatred. God

will have mercy on all of them, though, for it is piteous to think that

all these poor creatures are delivered over with their feet bound by

suffering, and their hands bound by hope, to the slave drivers who trade

in white slaves. And when I think that the money is in the purser’s cash

box which the slave driver has paid for the transport of all these poor

creatures! Money that has been collected by rough hands or trembling

fingers. Poor money economized, copper by copper, tear by tear. When I

think of all this it makes me wish that we could be shipwrecked, that

_we_ could be all killed, and all of those saved.”

With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a good cry, for I

was seized with a great love for humanity and intense grief that I could

do nothing, absolutely nothing!...

The following morning I awoke late, as I had not fallen asleep until

near dawn. My cabin was full of visitors and they were all holding small

parcels half concealed. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and could not quite

understand the meaning of their invasion.

“My dear Sarah,” said Mme. Guérard, coming to me and kissing me, “don’t

imagine that this day, your fête day, could be forgotten by those who

love you.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “is it the 23d?”

“Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the absent ones.”

My eyes filled with tears and it was through a mist that I saw the

portrait of that young being more precious to me than anything else in

the world, with a few words in his own hand writing.... Then there were

some presents from friends ... pieces of work from humble admirers. My

little godson of the previous evening was brought to me in a basket,

with oranges, apples, and tangerines all round him. He had a golden star

on his forehead, a star cut out of some gold paper in which chocolate

had been wrapped. My maid Félicie, and Claude, her husband, who were

most devoted to me, had prepared some very ingenious little surprises.

Presently there was a knock at my door and on calling out “Come in,” I

saw, to my surprise, three sailors carrying a superb bouquet which they

presented to me in the name of the whole crew. I was wild with

admiration and wanted to know how they had managed to keep the flowers

in such good condition. It was an enormous bouquet, but when I took it

in my hands I let it fall to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of

laughter. The flowers were all cut out of vegetables, but so perfectly

done that the illusion was complete at a little distance. Magnificent

roses were cut out of carrots, camellias out of turnips, small radishes

had furnished sprays of rosebuds stuck on to long leeks dyed green, and

all these relieved by carrot leaves artistically arranged to imitate the

grassy plants used for elegant bouquets. The stalks were tied together

with a bow of tri-colored ribbon. One of the sailors made a very

touching little speech on behalf of his comrades, who wished to thank me

for a trifling service rendered. I shook hands cordially and thanked

them heartily and this was the signal for a little concert that had been

organized in the cabin of my _petite dame_. There had been a private

rehearsal with two violins and a flute, so that for the next hour I was

lulled by the most delightful music, which transported me to my own dear

ones, to my hall which seemed so distant to me at that moment, and for

the first time since my departure I regretted having set out. This

little fête, which was almost a domestic one, together with the music,

had evoked the tender and restful side of my life, and the tears that

all this called forth fell without grief, bitterness, or regret. I wept

simply because I was deeply moved, and I was tired, nervous, and weary,

and had a longing for rest and peace. I fell asleep in the midst of my

tears, sighs, and sobs.

Finally, the boat stopped on the 27th of October, at half past six in

the morning. I was asleep, worn out by three days and nights of wild

storms. My maid had some difficulty in rousing me. I could not believe

that we had arrived, and I wanted to go on sleeping until the last

minute. I had to give in to the evidence, however, as the boat had

stopped. This sudden arrival delighted me and everything seemed to be

transformed in a minute. I forgot all my discomforts, and the weariness

of the eleven days’ crossing. The sun was rising, pale but rose tinted,

dispersing the mists and shining over the river. I had entered the New

World in the midst of a display of sunshine. This seemed to me a good

omen. I am so superstitious that if I had arrived when there was no

sunshine I should have been wretched, and most anxious until after my

first performance. It is a perfect torture to be superstitious to this

degree and, unfortunately for me, I am ten times more so now than I was

in those days, for besides the superstitions of my own country I have,

thanks to my travels, added to my stock all the superstitions of the

other countries. I know them all now and in any critical moment of my

life they all rise up in armed legions, for or against me. I cannot walk

a single step, or make any movement or gesture, sit down, go out, look

at the sky or the ground, without finding some reason for hope or for

despair until at last, exasperated by the trammels put upon my actions

by my thought, I defy all my superstitions and just act as I want to.

Delighted, then, with what seemed to me to be a good omen I began to

dress gleefully. Mr. Jarrett had just knocked at my door.

“Do please be ready as soon as possible, madame,” he said, “for there

are several boats, with the French colors flying that have come out to

meet you.”

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT IN TRAVELLING COSTUME, 1880.]

I glanced in the direction of my porthole and saw a small steamer, black

with people, and then two other small boats no less laden than the first

one. The sun lighted up all these French flags and my heart began to

beat more quickly. I had been without any news for twelve days, as, in

spite of all the efforts of our good captain, _L’Amérique_ had taken

twelve days for the journey. A man had just come on deck, and I rushed

toward him with outstretched hands unable to utter a single word. He

gave me a packet of telegrams. I did not see anyone present, and I heard

no sound. I wanted to know something. And among all the telegrams I was

searching first for one, just one name. At last I had it, the telegram I

had waited for, feared and hoped to receive. Here it was at last. I

closed my eyes for a second, and during that time I saw all that was

dear to me and felt the infinite sweetness of it all. When I opened my

eyes again I was slightly embarrassed for I was surrounded by a crowd of

unknown people, all of them silent and indulgent, but evidently very

curious. Wishing to go away I took Mr. Jarrett’s arm and went to the

salon. As soon as I entered, the first notes of the “Marseillaise” rang

out, and our consul spoke a few words of welcome and handed me some

flowers. A group representing the French colony presented me with a

friendly address. Then M. Mercier, the editor of the _Courrier des

Etats-Unis_, made a speech, as witty as it was kindly. It was a

thoroughly French speech. Then came the terrible moment of

introductions. Oh, what a tiring time that was! My mind was kept at a

tension to catch the names. Mr. Pemb ... Madame Harth ... with the _h_

aspirated. With great difficulty I grasped the first syllable, and the

second finished in a confusion of muffled vowels and hissing consonants.

By the time the twentieth name was pronounced I had given up listening,

I simply kept on with my little _risorius de Santorini_, half closed my

eyes, held out mechanically the arm, at the end of which was the hand

that had to shake and be shaken. I replied all the time: “_Combien je

suis charmée, madame.... Oh, certainement!... Oh, oui!... Oh, non!...

Ah!... Oh! Oh!..._” I was getting dazed, idiotic—worn out with standing.

I had only one idea, and that was to get my rings off the fingers that

were swelling with the repeated grips they were having. My eyes were

getting larger and larger with terror, as they gazed at the door through

which the crowd continued to stream in my direction ... there to

shake.... My _risorius de Santorini_ must still go on working more than

fifty times ... I could feel the beads of perspiration standing out

under my hair—and I began to get terribly nervous. My teeth chattered

and I commenced stammering. “_Oh, madame!... Oh!... Je suis

cha—cha_....” I really could not go on any longer. I felt that I should

get angry or burst out crying ... in fact that I was about to make

myself ridiculous. I decided therefore to faint.... I made a movement

with my hand as though it wanted to continue but could not.... I opened

my mouth, closed my eyes and fell gently into Jarrett’s arms. “Quick!

air!... A doctor.... Poor thing.... How pale she is! Take her hat

off.... Loosen her corset.... She doesn’t wear one. Unfasten her

dress....” I was terrified, but Félicie was called up in haste and my

_petite dame_ would not allow any _déshabillage_. The doctor came back

with a bottle of ether. Félicie seized the bottle.

“Oh, no, doctor ... not ether! When madame is quite well the odor of

ether will make her faint.”

This was quite true and I thought, it was time to come to my senses

again. The reporters were arriving and there were more than twenty of

them, but Jarrett, who was very much affected, asked them to go to the

Albemarle Hotel, where I was to put up. I saw each of the reporters take

Jarrett aside, and when I asked him what the secret was of all these

“asides” he answered phlegmatically: “I have made an appointment with

them from one o’clock. There will be a fresh one every ten minutes.” I

looked at him petrified with astonishment. He met my anxious gaze and

said:

“_Oh, oui, il était nécessaire!_”

On arriving at the Albemarle Hotel I felt tired and nervous, and wanted

to be left quite alone. I hurried away at once to my room in the suite

that had been engaged for me and fastened the doors. There was neither

lock nor bolt on one of them, but I pushed a piece of furniture against

it and then refused emphatically to open it. There were about fifty

people waiting in the drawing-room, but I had that feeling of awful

weariness which makes one ready to go to the most violent extremes for

the sake of an hour’s repose. I wanted to lie down on the rug, cross my

arms, throw my head back, and close my eyes. I did not want to talk any

more, and I did not want to have to smile or look at anyone. I threw

myself down on the floor and was deaf to the knocks on my door, and to

Jarrett’s supplications. I did not want to argue the matter, so I did

not utter a word. I heard the murmur of grumbling voices and Jarrett’s

words tactfully persuading the visitors to stay. I heard the rustle of

paper being pushed under the door and Mme. Guérard whispering to

Jarrett, who was furious.

“You don’t know her, M. Jarrett,” I heard her say: “if she thought you

were forcing the door open, against which she has pushed the furniture,

she would jump out of the window!”

Then I heard Félicie talking to a French lady who was insisting on

seeing me. “It is quite impossible,” she was saying. “Madame would be

quite hysterical. She needs an hour’s rest and everyone must wait!” For

some little time I could hear a confused murmur which seemed to get

farther away, and then I fell into a delicious sleep, laughing to myself

as I went off, for my good temper returned as I pictured the angry,

nonplused expression on the faces of my visitors.

I woke in an hour’s time, for I have the precious gift of being able to

sleep ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or an hour, just as I like, and

I then wake quite peacefully without any start, at the time I have

decided upon. Nothing does me so much good as this rest to body and

mind, decided upon and regulated merely by my will. Very often in my own

family I have lain down on the bearskin hearth rug in front of the fire,

telling everyone to go on talking and take no notice of me. I have then

slept, perhaps for an hour, and on waking have found two or three

newcomers in the room who, not wishing to disturb me, have taken part in

the general conversation, while waiting until I should wake up to

present their respects to me. Even now I lie down on the huge, wide sofa

in the little Empire _salon_ which leads into my _loge_ and I sleep

while waiting for the friends and _artistes_, with whom I have made

appointments, to be ushered in. When I open my eyes I see the faces of

my kind friends, who shake hands cordially, delighted that I should have

had some rest. My mind is then tranquil and I am ready to listen to all

the beautiful ideas proposed to me or to decline the absurdities

submitted to me, without being ungracious.

I woke up, then, at the Albemarle Hotel an hour later and found myself

lying on the rug. I opened the door of my room and discovered my dear

Guérard and my faithful Félicie seated on a trunk.

“Are there any people there still?” I asked.

“Oh, madame! there are about a hundred now,” answered Félicie.

“Help me take my things off then, quickly,” I said, “and find me a white

dress.”

In about five minutes I was ready, and I felt that I looked nice from

head to foot. I went into the drawing-room, where all these unknown

persons were waiting. Jarrett came forward to meet me, but on seeing me

well dressed and with a smiling face, he postponed the sermon that he

wanted to preach me.

I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was a most

extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or seventy years of age.

He was tall with a face like King Agamemnon, framed by the most

beautiful silver-white hair I have even seen on a man’s head. His eyes

were of so pale a blue that when they lighted up with anger he looked as

though he were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature,

his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his upper lip

showed his teeth, and curled up in a most ferocious sniff, and his grin

seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his pointed ears which were

always moving as though on the watch for prey. He was a terrible man,

extremely intelligent, but from childhood he must have been fighting

with the world, and he had the most profound contempt for all mankind.

Although he must have suffered a great deal himself, he had no pity for

those who suffered. He always said that every man was armed for his own

defense. He pitied women, did not care for them, but was always ready to

help them. He was very rich, and very economical, but not miserly. “I

made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two weapons:

honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most terrible weapon

a man can use against rascals and crafty people—the former don’t know

what it is, and the latter do not believe in it—while the revolver is an

admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep their word.” He

used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures. He had a deep

scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion about a contract

to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer, Jarrett said to his

interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right eye: “Look at that

eye, sir, it is now reading in your mind all that you are not saying.”

“It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the

other firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye. “A bad shot, sir,”

replied Jarrett, “this is the way to take aim for effectually closing an

eye,” and he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell

down dead. When Jarrett told this story, his lip curled up and his two

incisors appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts

of stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an

upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and like what I

remember of him.

My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my hands with

delight as I entered the drawing-room which I had not yet seen. The

busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo were on pedestals surrounded

with flowers. All around the large room were sofas laden with cushions

and to remind me of my home in Paris there were tall palms stretching

out their branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler to me,

who had suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very charming man. I

shook hands with him and we were friends from that time forth. The

visitors soon went away, but the reporters remained. They were all

seated, some of them on the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions.

One of them had crouched down tailor fashion on a bearskin and was

leaning back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin and coughed

a great deal. I went toward him and had just opened my lips to speak to

him, although I was rather horrified that he did not rise, when he

addressed me in a bass voice:

“Which is your favorite rôle, madame?” he asked.

“That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my back on him. In

doing so I knocked against another reporter, who was more polite.

“What do you eat as soon as you wake in the morning, madame?” he

inquired.

I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one, but Jarrett,

who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of the crouching man,

answered quickly for me: “Oatmeal.” I did not know what that dish was,

but the ferocious reporter continued his questions:

“And what do you eat during the day?”

“Mussels.”

He wrote down phlegmatically: “Mussels through the day.” I moved

toward the door and a reporter in a tailor-made skirt, with her hair

cut short, asked me in a clear, sweet voice: “Are you a

Jewcatholicprotestantmahometanbuddhistatheistzoroastertheistordeist?”

I stood still, rooted to the spot in bewilderment. She had said all

that in a breath, accenting the syllables haphazard, and making of the

whole one word, so wildly incoherent that my impression was it was not

safe to remain near this strange, gentle person. I must have looked

uneasy, and as my eyes fell on an elderly lady who was talking gayly

to a little group of people she came to my rescue, saying in very good

French: “This young lady is asking you, madame, whether you are of the

Jewish religion or whether you are a Catholic, a Protestant, a

Mahometan, a Buddhist, an atheist, a Zoroaster, a theist, or a deist?”

I sank down on a couch. “Oh, heavens!” I exclaimed, “will it be like

this in all the cities I visit?”

“Oh, no,” answered Jarrett, placidly, “your interviews will be wired

throughout America.”

“What about the mussels?” I thought to myself, and then in an

absent-minded way I answered, “I am a Catholic, mademoiselle.”

“A Roman Catholic, or do you belong to the Orthodox church?” she asked.

I jumped up from my seat, for she bored me beyond endurance, and a very

young man then approached timidly.

“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, madame?” he asked.

I remained standing, my profile turned toward him at his request. When

he had finished I asked to see what he had done and, perfectly

unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing of a skeleton with a curly

wig. I tore the sketch up and threw it at him, but the following day

that horror appeared in the papers, with a disagreeable inscription

underneath it. Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art

with a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years ago

reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious

articles, and the public, very much less literary then than at present,

always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes invented by reporters hard up

for copy. I should think that no creature in the world, since the

invention of _reportage_, has ever had as much to endure as I had during

that first tour. The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long

before I arrived in America; there was all the treachery of the friends

of the Comédie and even of my own admirers, who hoped that I should not

succeed on my tour so that I might return more quickly to the fold,

humiliated, calmed down, and subdued. Then there were the exaggerated

announcements invented by my _impresario_, Abbey, and my representative,

Jarrett. These announcements were often outrageous and always

ridiculous, but I did not know their real source until long afterwards

when it was too late, much too late, to undeceive the public, who were

fully persuaded that I was the instigator of all these inventions. I

therefore did not attempt to undeceive them. It matters very little to

me whether people believe one thing or another. Life is short, even for

those who live a long time, and we must live for the few who know and

appreciate us, who judge and absolve us, and for whom we have the same

affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as a mere crowd, lively

or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is nothing to be expected but

fleeting emotions, either pleasant or unpleasant, which leave no trace

behind them. We ought to hate very rarely, as it is too fatiguing,

remain indifferent to a great deal, forgive often and never forget.

Forgiving does not mean forgetting, at least it does not with me. I will

not mention here any of the outrageous and infamous attacks that were

made upon me, as it would be doing too great an honor to the wretched

people who were responsible for them from beginning to end, dipping

their pen in the gall of their own soul. All I can say is that nothing

kills but death, and that anyone who wishes to defend himself or herself

from slander can do it. For that one must live. It is not given to

everyone to be able to do it, but it depends on the will of God who sees

and judges.

CHAPTER XXVI

NEW YORK AND BOSTON

I TOOK two days’ rest before going to the theater, for I could feel the

movement of the boat all the time, my head was dizzy, and it seemed to

me as though the ceiling moved up and down. The twelve days on the sea

had quite upset my health. I sent a line to the stage manager telling

him that we would rehearse on Wednesday, and on that day as soon as

luncheon was over I went to the Booth Theater, where our performances

were to take place. At the door reserved for the _artistes_ I saw a

compact, swaying crowd, very much animated and gesticulating. These

strange-looking individuals did not belong to the _artiste_ world. They

were not reporters, either, for I knew them too well, alas! to be

mistaken in them. They were not there out of curiosity, either, these

people, for they seemed too much occupied and then, too, there were only

men. When my carriage drew up one of them rushed forward to the door of

it and then returned to the swaying crowd. “Here she is, here she is!” I

heard, and then all these common men with their white neckties and

questionable-looking hands, with their coats flying open and trousers

whose knees were worn and dirty looking, crowded behind me into the

narrow passage leading to the staircase. I did not feel very easy in my

mind, and I mounted the stairs rapidly. Several persons were waiting for

me at the top, Mr. Abbey, Jarrett, and also some reporters, two

gentlemen, and a charming and most distinguished woman whose friendship

I have kept ever since, although she does not care much for French

people. I saw Mr. Abbey, who was usually very dignified and cold,

advance in the most gracious and courteous way to one of the men who

were following me. They raised their hats to each other and, followed by

the strange and brutal-looking regiment, they advanced toward the center

of the stage. I then saw the strangest of sights. In the middle of the

stage were my forty-two trunks. In obedience to a sign twenty of the men

came forward and placing themselves, each one between two trunks, with a

quick movement with their right and left hands they lifted the lids of

the trunks on the right and left of them. Jarrett with frowns and an

unpleasant grin held out my keys to them. He had asked me that morning

for my keys for the customs. “Oh, it’s nothing!” he said, “don’t be

uneasy,” and the way in which my luggage had always been respected in

other countries had given me perfect confidence about it. The principal

personage of the ugly group came toward me accompanied by Abbey, and

Jarrett explained things to me. The man was an official from the

American customhouse. The custom office is an abominable institution in

every country, but worse in America than anywhere else. I was prepared

for all this and was most affable to the tormenter of a traveler’s

patience. He raised the melon which served him for a hat and, without

taking his cigar out of his mouth made some incomprehensible remark to

me. He then turned to his regiment of men, made an abrupt sign with his

hand, and uttered some word of command, whereupon the forty dirty hands

of these twenty men proceeded to forage among my velvets, satins, and

laces. I rushed forward to save my poor dresses from such outrageous

violations, and I ordered our costume maker to lift my gowns out one at

a time, which she accordingly did, aided by my maid, who was in tears at

the small amount of respect shown by these boors to all my beautiful,

fragile things. Two ladies had just arrived, very noisy and

businesslike. One of them was short and stout, her nose seemed to begin

at the roots of her hair; she had round, placid-looking eyes and a mouth

like a snout; her arms she was hiding timidly behind her heavy, flabby

bust and her ungainly knees seemed to come straight out of her groin.

She looked like a seated cow. Her companion was like a terrapin, with

her little, black, evil-looking head at the end of a neck which was too

long, and very stringy. She kept shooting it out of her boa and drawing

it back with the most incredible rapidity. The rest of her body bulged

out.... These two delightful persons were the dressmakers sent for by

the customhouse to estimate my costumes. They glanced at me in a furtive

way and gave a little bow, full of bitterness and jealous rage at the

sight of my dresses, and I was quite aware that two more enemies had now

come upon the scene. These two odious shrews began to chatter and argue,

pawing and crumpling my dresses and cloaks at the same time. They kept

exclaiming in the most emphatic way: “Oh, how beautiful! What

magnificence! What luxury! All our customers will want gowns like these

and we shall never be able to make them! It will be the ruin of all the

American dressmakers.” They were working up the judges into a state of

excitement for this “chiffon court martial.” They kept lamenting, then

going into raptures and asking for “justice” against foreign invasion.

The ugly band of men nodded their heads in approval and spat on the

ground to affirm their independence. Suddenly the Terrapin turned on one

of the inquisitors:

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful! Show it them, show it them!” she exclaimed,

seizing on a dress all embroidered with pearls, which I wore in “La Dame

aux Camélias.”

“This dress is worth at least $10,000,” she said and then, coming up to

me she asked: “How much did you pay for that dress, madame?”

I ground my teeth together and would not answer, for just at that moment

I should have enjoyed seeing the Terrapin in one of the saucepans in the

Albemarle Hotel kitchen. It was nearly half past five and my feet were

frozen. I was half dead, too, with fatigue and suppressed anger. The

rest of the examination was postponed until the next day, and the ugly

band of men offered to put everything back in the trunk, but I objected

to that. I sent out for five hundred yards of blue tarlatan to cover

over the mountain of dresses, hats, cloaks, shoes, laces, linen,

stockings, furs, gloves, etc., etc. They then made me take my oath to

remove nothing, for they had such charming confidence in me, and I left

my butler there in charge. He was the husband of Félicie, my maid, and a

bed was put up for him on the stage. I was so nervous and upset that I

wanted to go somewhere far away, to have some fresh air, and to stay out

for a long time. A friend offered to take me to see the Brooklyn Bridge.

“That masterpiece of American genius will make you forget the petty

miseries of our red-tape affairs,” he said gently, and so we set out for

Brooklyn Bridge.

Oh, that bridge! It is insane, admirable, imposing, and it makes one

feel proud. Yes, one is proud to be a human being when one realizes that

a human brain has created and suspended in the air, fifty yards from the

ground, that fearful thing which bears a dozen trains filled with

passengers, ten or twelve tram cars, a hundred cabs, carriages, and

carts, and thousands of foot passengers, and all that moving along

together amidst the uproar of the music of the metals, clanging,

clashing, grating, and groaning under the enormous weight of people and

things. The movement of the air caused by this frightful, tempestuous

coming and going, caused me to feel giddy and stopped my breath. I made

a sign for the carriage to stand still and I closed my eyes. I then had

a strange indefinable sensation of universal chaos. I opened my eyes

again when my brain was a little more tranquil and I saw New York

stretching out along the river, wearing its night ornaments, which

glittered as much through its dress with thousands of electric lights as

the firmament with its tunic of stars. I returned to the hotel

reconciled with this great nation. I went to sleep tired in body but

rested in mind, and had such delightful dreams that I was in a good

humor the following day. I adore dreams, and my sad, unhappy days are

those which follow dreamless nights. My great grief is that I cannot

choose my dreams. How many times I have done all in my power at the end

of a happy day to make myself dream a continuation of it! How many times

I have called up the faces of those I love just before falling asleep!

but my thoughts wander and carry me off elsewhere, and I prefer that or

even a disagreeable dream to none at all. When I am asleep my body has

an infinite sense of enjoyment, but it is torture to me for my thoughts

to slumber. My vital forces rebel against such negation of life. I am

quite willing to die once for all, but I object to slight deaths such as

those of which one has the sensation on dreamless nights. When I awoke,

my maid told me that Jarrett was waiting for me to go to the theater, so

that the valuation of my costumes could be terminated. I sent word to

Jarrett that I had seen quite enough of the regiment from the

customhouse, and I asked him to finish everything without me, as Mme.

Guérard would be there. During the next two days the Terrapin, the

Seated Cow and the Black Band made notes for the customhouse, took

sketches for the papers and patterns of my dresses for customers. I

began to get impatient, as we ought to have been rehearsing. Finally, I

was told on Thursday morning that the business was over, and that I

could not have my trunks until I had paid 28,000 francs for duty. I was

seized with such a violent fit of laughing that poor Abbey, who had been

terrified, caught it from me and even Jarrett showed his cruel teeth.

“My dear Abbey,” I exclaimed, “arrange as you like about it, but I must

make my début on Monday, the 8th of November, and to-day is Thursday. I

shall be at the theater on Monday to dress. See that I have my trunks,

for there was nothing about the customhouse in my contract. I will pay

half, though, of what you have to give.” The 28,000 francs were handed

over to an attorney who made a claim in my name on the Board of Customs.

My trunks were left with me, thanks to this deposit, and the rehearsals

commenced at Booth’s Theater.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AT HOME, BY WALTER SPINDLER.]

On Monday evening, November 8th, at 8.30, the curtain rose for the first

performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur.” The house was crowded and the

seats, which had been sold to the highest bidders and then sold by them

again, had fetched exorbitant prices. I was awaited with impatience and

curiosity, but not with any sympathy. There were no young girls present,

as the piece was too immoral. (Poor _Adrienne Lecouvreur_!) The audience

was very polite to the _artistes_ of my company, but rather impatient to

see the strange person who had been announced to them. The curtain fell

at the end of the first act and Adrienne had not appeared. One of the

audience, very much annoyed, asked to see Mr. Henry Abbey. “I want my

money back,” he said, “as _la Bernhardt_ is not in every act.” Abbey

refused to return the money to the extraordinary individual and as the

curtain was going up he hurried back to take possession of his seat

again. My appearance was greeted by several rounds of applause, which I

believe had been paid for in advance by Abbey and Jarrett. I commenced

and the sweetness of my voice as in the fable of the “Two Pigeons”

worked the miracle. The whole house this time burst out into hurrahs. A

current of sympathy was established between my public and myself.

Instead of the hysterical skeleton that had been announced to them, they

had before them a very frail-looking creature with a sweet voice. The

fourth act was applauded and _Adrienne’s_ rebellion against the

_Princesse de Bouillon_ stirred the whole house. Finally, in the fifth

act, when the unfortunate _artiste_ is dying, poisoned by her rival,

there was quite a manifestation and everyone was deeply moved.

At the end of the third act all the young men were sent off by the

ladies to find all the musicians they could get together, and to my

surprise and delight on arriving at my hotel a charming serenade was

played for me while I was at supper. The crowd had assembled under my

windows at the Albemarle Hotel and I was obliged to go out on to the

balcony several times to bow and to thank this public, which I had been

told I should find cold and prejudiced against me. From the bottom of my

heart I also thanked all my detractors and slanderers, as it was through

them that I had had the pleasure of fighting, with the certainty of

conquering. The victory was all the more enjoyable as I had not dared to

hope for it.

I gave twenty-seven performances in New York. The plays were “Adrienne

Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “Hernani,” “La Dame aux Camélias,” “Le Sphinx,”

“L’Etrangère.” The average receipts were 20,342 francs for each

performance, including matinées. The last performance was given on

Saturday, December 4th, as a matinée, for my company had to leave that

night for Boston and I had reserved the evening to go to Mr. Edison, at

Menlo Park, where I had a reception worthy of fairyland.

Oh, that matinée of Saturday, December 4th! I can never forget it! When

I got to the theater to dress it was midday, for the matinée was to

commence at half past one. My carriage stopped, not being able to get

along, for the street was filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they

had borrowed from the neighboring shops, or on folding seats which they

had brought themselves. The play was “La Dame aux Camélias.” I had to

get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five yards on foot in order

to get to the stage door. It took me twenty-five minutes to do it.

People shook my hands and begged me to come back. One lady took off her

brooch and pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts

surrounded by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch had

its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled out her notebook

and begged me to write my name. The idea took like lightning. Small boys

under the care of their parents wanted me to write my name on their

cuffs. My arms were full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my

hands. I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I

turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in her hand had

tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she had only succeeded in

cutting the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett signalled and

shouted—I could not get along. They sent for the police, who delivered

me, but without any ceremony, either for my admirers or for myself. They

were real brutes, those policemen, and made me very angry. I played “La

Dame aux Camélias” and I counted seventeen calls after the third act and

twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of the cheering and calls

the play had lasted an hour longer than usual and I was half dead with

fatigue. I was just about to go to my carriage to get back to my hotel

when Jarrett came to tell me that there were more than 50,000 people

waiting outside. I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened.

“Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed! I am tired out. I can do

no more.”

But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius.

“Stay,” said he to my sister, “put on madame’s hat and boa and take my

arm. And take also these bouquets—give me what you cannot carry. And now

we will go to your sister’s carriage and make our bow.”

He said all this in English and Jarrett translated it to my sister who

lent herself to this little comedy very willingly. During this time

Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which was stationed in front of

the theater where no one was waiting. And it was fortunate we took this

course, for my sister only got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour

later, very tired, but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my

hat, my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices of the

little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic public.

We had to set out at nine o’clock for Menlo Park. We had to dress in

traveling costume, for the following day we were to leave for Boston and

my trunks had gone that day with my company, which preceded me by

several hours.

The dinner was, as usual, very bad, for in those days in America the

food was unspeakably awful. At ten o’clock we took the train—a pretty,

special train all decorated with flowers and banners, which they had

been kind enough to prepare for me. But it was a painful journey, all

the same, for at each instant we had to pull up to allow another train

to pass, or an engine to maneuver, or to wait to pass over the points.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the train at last reached the

station of Menlo Park, the residence of Thomas Edison.

It was a very dark night and the snow was falling silently in heavy

flakes. A carriage was waiting and the one lamp of this carriage served

to light up the whole station, for orders had been given that the

electric lights should be put out. I found my way with the help of

Jarrett and some of my friends who had accompanied us from New York. The

intense cold froze the snow as it fell, and we walked over veritable

blocks of sharp, jagged ice, which crackled under our feet. Behind the

first carriage was another heavier one, with only one horse and no lamp.

There was room for five or six persons to crowd into this. We were ten

in all; Jarrett, Abbey, my sister, and I took our places in the first

one, leaving the others to get into the second. We looked like a band of

conspirators, the dark night, the two mysterious carriages, the silence

caused by the icy coldness, the way in which we were muffled in our

furs, and our anxious expressions as we glanced around us—all this made

our visit to the celebrated Edison resemble a scene out of an operetta.

The carriage rolled along, sinking deep into the snow and jolting

terribly; the jolts made us dread every instant some tragi-comic

accident. I cannot tell how long we had been rolling along for, lulled

by the movement of the carriage and buried in my warm furs, I was

quietly dozing when a formidable “Hip-hip-hurrah!” made us all jump, my

traveling companions, the coachman, the horse, and I. As quick as

thought the whole country was suddenly illuminated. Under the trees, on

the trees, among the bushes, along the garden walks, lights flashed

forth triumphantly. The wheels of the carriage turned a few times more

and then drew up at the house of the famous Thomas Edison. A group of

people awaited us on the veranda, four men, two ladies, and a young

girl. My heart began to beat quickly as I wondered which of these men

was Edison. I had never seen his photograph and I had the greatest

admiration for his genius. I sprang out of the carriage and the dazzling

electric light made it seem like daytime to us. I took the bouquet which

Mrs. Edison offered me and thanked her for it, but all the time I was

endeavoring to discover which of these was the Great Man. They all four

advanced toward me, but I noticed the flush that came into the face of

one of them and it was so evident from the expression of his blue eyes

that he was intensely bored that I guessed this was Edison. I felt

confused and embarrassed myself, for I knew very well that I was causing

inconvenience to this man by my visit. He, of course, imagined that it

was due to the idle curiosity of a foreigner, eager to court publicity.

He was no doubt thinking of the interviewing in store for him the

following day, and of the stupidities he would be made to utter. He was

suffering beforehand at the idea of the ignorant questions I should ask

him, of all the explanations he would, out of politeness, be obliged to

give me, and at that moment Thomas Edison took a dislike to me. His

wonderful blue eyes, more luminous than his incandescent lamps, enabled

me to read his thoughts. I immediately understood that he must be won

over, and my combative instinct had recourse to all my powers of

fascination, in order to vanquish this delightful but bashful _savant_.

I made such an effort and succeeded so well that, half an hour later, we

were the best of friends. I followed him about quickly, climbing up

staircases as narrow and steep as ladders, crossing bridges suspended in

the air above veritable furnaces, and he explained everything to me. I

understood all, and I admired him more and more, for he was so simple

and charming, this king of light. As we leaned over a slightly unsteady

bridge, above the terrible abyss in which immense wheels, encased in

wide thongs, were turning, tacking about, and rumbling, he gave various

orders in a clear voice and light then burst forth on all sides,

sometimes in sputtering, greenish jets, sometimes in quick flashes or in

serpentine trails like streams of fire. I looked at this man of medium

size, with rather a large head and a noble-looking profile, and I

thought of Napoleon I. There is certainly a great physical resemblance

between these two men, and I am sure that one compartment of their brain

would be found to be identical. Of course I do not compare their genius.

The one was “destructive” and the other “creative,” but while I execrate

battles, I adore victories and, in spite of his errors, I have raised an

altar in my heart to that god of Glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at

Edison thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who was dead.

The deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling rapidity of the

changes of light—all that together made my head whirl and, forgetting

where I was, I leaned for support on the slight balustrade which

separated me from the abyss beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger

that, before I had recovered from my surprise, Edison had helped me into

an adjoining room and installed me in an armchair without my realizing

how it had all happened. He told me afterwards that I had turned dizzy.

After having done the honors of his telephonic discovery and of his

astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and took me to the

dining-room where I found his family assembled. I was very tired and did

justice to the supper that had been so hospitably prepared for us.

I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning and this time the

country round, the roads, and the station were all lighted up, _à

giorno_, by the thousands of jets of my kind host. What a strange power

of suggestion the darkness has! I thought I had traveled a long way that

night, and it seemed to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved

to be quite a short distance and the roads were charming, although they

were covered with snow. Imagination had played a great part during the

journey to Edison’s house, but reality played a much greater one during

the same journey back to the station. I was enthusiastic in my

admiration of the inventions of this man, and I was charmed with his

timid graciousness and perfect courtesy, and with his profound love of

Shakespeare.

The next day or rather that same day, for it was then four in the

morning, I started after my company for Boston. Mr. Abbey, my

_impresario_, had arranged for me to have a delightful “car,” but it was

nothing like the wonderful Pullman car that I was to have from

Philadelphia for continuing my tour. I was very much pleased with this

one, nevertheless. In the middle of the room there was a real bed, large

and comfortable, on a brass bedstead. Then there was an armchair, a

pretty dressing table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and

flowers everywhere, but flowers without overpowering perfume. In the car

adjoining mine were my own servants, who were also very comfortable. I

went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied and woke up at Boston.

A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters and

curious men and women, a public decidedly more interested than friendly,

not badly intentioned but by no means enthusiastic. Public opinion in

New York had been greatly occupied with me during the past month. I had

been so much criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid

and disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me. Some

people blamed and others admired the disdain with which I had treated

these turpitudes, but everyone knew that I had won in the end, and that

I had triumphed over all and everything. Boston knew, too, that

clergymen had preached from their pulpits saying that I had been sent by

the Old World to corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration

from hell, etc., etc. Everyone knew all this, but the public wanted to

see for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women. Tradition says

that it was a woman who first set foot in Boston. Women form the

majority there. They are puritanical with intelligence, and independent

with a certain grace. I passed between the two lines formed by this

strange, courteous, and cold crowd, and, just as I was about to get into

my carriage a lady advanced toward me and said: “Welcome to Boston,

madame.”

“Welcome, madame,” and she held out a soft little hand to me. (American

women generally have charming hands and feet.) Other people now

approached and smiled, and I had to shake hands with many of them. I

took a fancy to this city at once, but all the same I was furious for a

moment when a reporter sprang on to the steps of the carriage just as we

were driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious than any

of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the limits and I pushed

the wretched man back angrily. Jarrett was prepared for this and saved

him by the collar of his coat; otherwise he would have fallen down on

the pavement as he deserved.

“At what time will you come and get on the whale to-morrow?” this

extraordinary personage asked. I gazed at him in bewilderment. He spoke

French perfectly and repeated his question.

“He’s mad,” I said in a low voice to Jarrett.

“No, madame, I am not mad, but I should like to know at what time you

will come and get on the whale. It would be better perhaps to come this

evening, for we are afraid it may die in the night, and it would be a

pity for you not to come and pay it a visit while it still has breath.”

He went on talking, and as he talked, he half seated himself beside

Jarrett who was still holding him by the collar, lest he should fall out

of the carriage.

“But, monsieur,” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? What is all this about

a whale?”

“Ah! madame,” he replied, “it is admirable, enormous. It is in the

harbor basin and there are men employed day and night to break the ice

all round it.”

He broke off suddenly and standing on the carriage step he clutched the

driver.

“Stop! Stop!” he called out. “Hi-Hi, Henry—come here—here’s madame, here

she is!”

The carriage drew up, and without any further ceremony he jumped down

and pushed into my carriage a little man, square all over, who was

wearing a fur cap pulled down over his eyes, and an enormous diamond in

his cravat. He was the strangest type of the old-fashioned Yankee. He

did not speak a word of French, but he took his seat calmly by Jarrett,

while the reporter remained half sitting and half hanging on to the

vehicle. There had been three of us when we started from the station,

and we were five when we reached the Hotel Vendome. There were a great

many people awaiting my arrival, and I was quite ashamed of my new

companion. He talked in a loud voice, laughed, coughed, spat, addressed

everyone, and gave everyone invitations. All the people seemed to be

delighted. A little girl threw her arms round her father’s neck,

exclaiming: “Oh, yes, papa, do please let us go!”

“Well, but we must ask madame,” he replied and he came up to me in the

most polite and courteous manner. “Will you kindly allow us to join your

party when you go to see the whale to-morrow?” he asked.

“But, monsieur,” I answered, delighted to have to do with a gentleman

once more, “I have no idea what all this means. For the last quarter of

an hour this reporter and that extraordinary man have been talking about

a whale. They declare, authoritatively, that I must go and pay it a

visit and I know absolutely nothing about it at all. These two gentlemen

took my carriage by storm, installed themselves in it without my

permission and, as you see, are giving invitations in my name to people

I do not know, asking them to go with me to a place about which I know

nothing, for the purpose of paying a visit to a whale which is to be

introduced to me and which is waiting impatiently to die in peace.”

The kindly disposed gentleman signed to his daughter to come with us

and, accompanied by them, and by Jarrett, and Mme. Guérard, I went up in

an elevator to the door of my suite of rooms. I found my apartments hung

with valuable pictures and full of magnificent statues. I felt rather

disturbed in my mind, for among these objects of art were two or three

very rare and beautiful things which I knew must have cost an exorbitant

price. I was afraid lest any of them should be stolen and I spoke of my

fear to the proprietor of the hotel.

“Mr. X——, to whom the knickknacks belong,” he answered, “wishes you to

have them to look at as long as you are here, mademoiselle, and when I

expressed my anxiety about them to him just as you have done to me, he

merely remarked that ‘it was all the same to him.’ As to the pictures,

they belong to two wealthy Bostonians.” There was among them a superb

Millet which I should have liked very much to own. After expressing my

gratitude, and admiring these treasures, I asked for an explanation of

the story of the whale, and Mr. Max Gordon, the father of the little

girl, translated for me what the little man in the fur cap had said. It

appeared that he owned several fishing boats which he sent out for

codfishing for his own benefit. One of these boats had captured an

enormous whale, which still had the two harpoons in it. The poor

creature, thoroughly exhausted with its struggles, was several miles

farther along the coast, but it had been easy to capture it and bring it

in triumph to Henry Smith, the owner of the boats. It was difficult to

say by what freak of fancy and by what turn of the imagination this man

had arrived at associating in his mind the idea of the whale and my name

as a source of wealth. I could not understand it, but the fact remained

that he insisted in such a droll way and so authoritatively and

energetically that the following morning at seven o’clock, fifty persons

assembled, in spite of the icy cold rain, to visit the basin of the

quay. Mr. Gordon had given orders that his mail coach with four

beautiful horses should be in readiness. He drove himself, and his

daughter, Jarrett, my sister, Mme. Guérard, and another elderly lady,

whose name I have forgotten, were with us. Seven other carriages

followed. It was all very amusing indeed. On our arrival at the quay, we

were received by this comic Henry, shaggy looking this time from head to

foot, and his hands encased in fingerless woolen gloves. Only his eyes

and his huge diamond shone out from his furs. I walked along the quay,

very much amused and interested. There were a few idlers looking on also

and alas! three times over alas!—there were reporters. Henry’s shaggy

paw then seized my hand and he drew me along with him quickly to the

staircase. I barely escaped breaking my neck at least a dozen times. He

pushed me along, made me stumble down the ten steps of the basin and I

next found myself on the back of the whale. They assured me that it

still breathed; I should not like to affirm that it really did, but the

splashing of the water breaking its eddy against the poor creature

caused it to oscillate slightly. Then, too, it was covered with glazed

frost, and twice I fell down full length on its spine. I laugh about it

now, but I was furious then. Everyone around me insisted, however, on my

pulling a piece of the shattered whalebone from the mouth of the poor

wounded creature, a sliver of that bone from which those little ribs are

made which are used for women’s corsets. I did not like to do this, as I

feared to cause it suffering and I was sorry for the poor thing, as

three of us, Henry, the little Gordon girl, and I, had been skating

about on its back for the last ten minutes. Finally, I decided to do it.

I pulled out the little piece of whalebone and went up the steps again,

holding my poor trophy in my hand. I felt nervous and flustered, and

everyone surrounded me. I was annoyed with this man. I did not want to

return to the coach, as I thought I could hide my bad temper better in

one of the huge, gloomy-looking landaus which followed, but the charming

Miss Gordon asked me so sweetly why I would not drive with them, that I

felt my anger melt away before the child’s smiling face.

“Would you like to drive?” her father asked me, and I accepted with

pleasure.

Jarrett immediately proceeded to get down from the coach as quickly as

his age and corpulence would allow him.

“If you are going to drive I prefer getting down,” he said, and he took

his place in another carriage. I changed seats boldly with Mr. Gordon in

order to drive, and we had not gone a hundred yards before I had let the

horses make for a chemist’s shop along the quay and got the coach itself

up on to the footpath, so that if it had not been for the quickness and

energy of Mr. Gordon we should all have been killed. On arriving at the

hotel, I went to bed and stayed there until it was time for the theater

in the evening.

CHAPTER XXVII

I VISIT MONTREAL