Chapter XIV: Part 14

“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are from Paris, from Madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it I read the words, “Welcome!—Henry Irving.”

I went all through the house, and it seemed to me very dismal-looking. I visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth chattered when I came in again. That night when I went to sleep my heart was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some misfortune.

The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. That man was a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He had made me some very good offers for America, and although I had refused them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account of his intelligence, his comic humour, and my need of being piloted in this new country.

“No,” he said; “if you receive them all together, they will all be furious, and you will get some wretched articles. You must receive them one after the other.”

Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them. I remember perfectly well that all of them began with, “Well, Mademoiselle, what do you think of London?”

I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the first of these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had drawn my curtain on getting up, and all I knew of London was Chester Square, a small square of sombre verdure, in the midst of which was a black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church.

I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared for this, and I learnt the following morning that I was most enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a number of the public buildings, &c. &c.

Towards five o’clock Hortense Damain arrived. She was a charming woman, and a favourite in London society. She had come to inform me that the Duchess of —— and Lady —— would call on me at half-past five.

“Oh, stay with me, then,” I said to her. “You know how unsociable I am; I feel sure that I shall be stupid.”

At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the first time I had come into contact with any members of the English aristocracy, and I have always had since a very pleasant memory of it.

Lady R—— was extremely beautiful, and the Duchess was so gracious, so distinguished, and so kind that I was very much touched by her visit.

A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very well, as he had been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert, one of my dearest friends. He asked me if I would care to have a ride the following morning, and he said he had a very nice lady’s horse which was entirely at my service. I thanked him, but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row.

At seven o’clock Hortense Damain came to fetch me to dine with her at the house of the Baroness M——. She had a very nice house in Prince’s Gate. There were about twenty guests, among others the painter Millais. I had been told that the _cuisine_ was very bad in England, but I thought this dinner perfect. I had been told that the English were cold and sedate: I found them charming and full of humour. Every one spoke French very well, and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the English language. After dinner there were recitations and music. I was touched by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts in not asking me to recite any poetry.

I was very much interested in observing the society in which I found myself. It did not in any way resemble a French gathering. The young girls seemed to be enjoying themselves on their own account, and enjoying themselves thoroughly. They had not come there to find a husband. What surprised me a little was the _décolleté_ of ladies who were getting on in years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I spoke of this to Hortense Damain.

“It’s frightful!” I said.

“Yes, but it’s chic.”

She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled about nothing that was not _chic_. She sent me the “_Chic_ commandments” a few days before I left Paris:

_Chester Square tu habiteras._ In Chester Square thou shalt live

_Rotten Row tu monteras_ In Rotten Row thou shalt ride

_Le Parlement visiteras_ Parliament thou shalt visit

_Garden-parties fréquenteras_ Garden parties thou shalt frequent,

_Chaque visite tu rendras_ Every visit thou shalt return

_A chaque lettre tu repondras_ Every letter thou shalt answer

_Photographies tu signeras_ Photographs thou shalt sign

_Hortense Damain tu écouteras_ To Hortense Damain thou shalt
listen

_Et tous ses conseils, les And all her counsels thou shalt
suivras._ follow.

I laughed at these “commandments,” but I soon realised that under this jocular form she considered them as very serious and important. Alas! my poor friend had hit upon the wrong person for her counsels. I detested paying visits, writing letters, signing photographs, or following any one’s advice. I adore having people come to see me, and I detest going to see them. I adore receiving letters, reading them, commenting on them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and driving in frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary places. I adore giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I never follow at once any wise advice that is given me. It always requires an effort of my will to recognise the justice of any counsel, and then an effort of my intellect to be grateful for it: at first, it simply annoys me.

Consequently, I paid no attention to Hortense Damain’s counsels, nor yet to Jarrett’s; and in this I made a great mistake, for many people were vexed with me (in any other country I should have made enemies). On that first visit to London what a quantity of letters of invitation I received to which I never replied! How many charming women called upon me and I never returned their calls. Then, too, how many times accepted invitations to dinner and never went after all, nor did I even send a line of excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know; and yet I always accept with pleasure and intend to go, but when the day comes I am tired perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from any obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or another, the time has gone by and it is too late to send word and too late to go. And so I stay at home, dissatisfied with myself, with every one else and with everything.

XXVII
LONDON LIFE—MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE

Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable people on earth, and they are hospitable simply and munificently. When an Englishman has opened his door to you he never closes it again. He excuses your faults and accepts your peculiarities. It is thanks to this broadness of ideas that I have been for twenty-five years the beloved and pampered artiste.

I was delighted with my first _soirée_ in London, and I returned home very gay and very much “anglomaniaised.” I found some of my friends there—Parisians who had just arrived—and they were furious. My enthusiasm exasperated them, and we sat up arguing until two in the morning.

The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather, and all Hyde Park seemed to be strewn with enormous bouquets. There were the flower- beds wonderfully arranged by the gardeners; then there were the clusters of sunshades, blue, pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the light hats covered with flowers under which shone the pretty faces of children and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop of graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds of horsewomen, slender, supple, and courageous; then there were men and children, the latter mounted on big Irish ponies. There were other children, too, galloping along on Scotch ponies with long, shaggy manes, the children’s hair and the manes of the horses streaming in the wind of their own speed.

The carriage road between the riding-track and the foot passengers was filled with dog-carts, open carriages of various kinds, mail-coaches, and very smart cabs. There were powdered footmen, horses decorated with flowers, sportsmen driving, ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All this elegance, this essence of luxury, and this joy of life brought back to my memory the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so animated a few years before, when Napoleon III. used to drive through on his _daumont_, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how beautiful it was in those days—our Bois de Boulogne, with the officers caracoling in the Avenue des Acacias, admired by our beautiful society women!

The joy of life was everywhere—the love of love enveloping life with an infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt a pang at my heart as the awful recollections of 1870 crowded to my brain. He was dead, our gentle Emperor, with his shrewd smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed by fortune, crushed with grief.

The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its intenseness, but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed since the war had struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory. Three Presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little Thiers, with his perverse _bourgeois_ soul, had worn his teeth out with nibbling at every kind of Government—royalty under Louis Philippe, Empire under Napoleon III., and the executive power of the French Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had succeeded the Marshal, but he was miserly, and considered all outlay unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the national defence had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted.

I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which surrounded me.

SARAH BERNHARDT
IN RIDING COSTUME
]

I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not want to see any one. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theatre, where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew already that I had been elected the favourite, and the idea of this chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a _traqueuse_. I am subject to the _trac_ or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this _trac_. I used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I had no feeling of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of _trac_ or stage fright was in the month of January 1869, at the seventh or perhaps the eighth performance of _Le Passant_. The success of this little masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part of Zanetto had delighted the public, and particularly the students. When I went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole house. I turned towards the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had just entered. But no; the box was empty, and I realised then that all the bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, and my eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I had five curtain calls, and on leaving the theatre the students ranged on each side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into the arms of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me.

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

“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said. “They want to make a ‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that. You’ll see they’ll drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos.”

My grandmother took my head in her hands, and I met the vacant look in her large light eyes fixed on me.

“You told me, my child, that you wanted to be the first in your profession, and when the opportunity comes to you, why, you are frightened. It seems to me that you are a very bad soldier.”

I drove back my tears, and declared that I would bear up courageously against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity, my heedlessness, and my “don’t care-ism.” But from that time forth fear took possession of me, and stage fright martyrised me.

It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of _Phèdre_, in which I was to appear for the first time before the English public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes, and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not so tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is “_le bal_,” which I pronounce low down with the open _a_, “_le bâââl_,” or take high by dwelling on the _l_—“_le balll_.” Ah, but there was no doubt about it; my “_le bal_” neither sounded high nor low, my voice was hoarse in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage, and just then I was informed that the second act of _Phèdre_ was about to commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and my cameo belt was not fastened.

I began to murmur:

“_Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire.
J’oublie en le voyant...._”

That word “_j’oublie_” struck me with a new idea. What if I did forget the words I had to say? Why, yes. What was it I had to say? I did not know—I could not remember. What was I to say after “_en le voyant_”?

No one answered me. Every one was alarmed at my nervous state. I heard Got mumble, “She’s going mad!”

Mlle. Thénard, who was playing Œnone, my old nurse, said to me, “Calm yourself. All the English have gone to Paris; there’s no one in the house but Belgians.”

This foolishly comic speech turned my thoughts in another direction.

“How stupid you are!” I said. “You know how frightened I was at Brussels!”

“Oh, all for nothing,” she answered calmly. “There were only English people in the theatre that day.”

I had to go on the stage at once, and I could not even answer her, but she had changed the current of my ideas. I still had stage fright, but not the fright that paralyses, only the kind that drives one wild. This is bad enough, but it is preferable to the other sort. It makes one do too much, but at any rate one does something.

The whole house had applauded my arrival on the stage for a few seconds, and as I bent my head in acknowledgment I said within myself, “Yes—yes—you shall see. I’m going to give you my very blood—my life itself—my soul.”

When I began my part, as I had lost my self-possession, I started on rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I could not get lower again—I simply could not stop. I suffered, I wept, I implored, I cried out; and it was all real. My suffering was horrible; my tears were flowing, scorching and bitter. I implored Hippolyte for the love which was killing me, and my arms stretched out to Mounet-Sully were the arms of Phèdre writhing in the cruel longing for his embrace. The inspiration had come.

When the curtain fell Mounet-Sully lifted me up inanimate and carried me to my dressing-room.

The public, unaware of what was happening, wanted me to appear again and bow. I too wanted to return and thank the public for its attention, its kindliness, and its emotion. I returned.

The following is what John Murray said in the _Gaulois_ of June 5, 1879:

“When, recalled with loud cries, Mlle. Bernhardt appeared, exhausted by her efforts and supported by Mounet-Sully, she received an ovation which I think is unique in the annals of the theatre in England.”

The following morning the _Daily Telegraph_ terminated its admirable criticism with these lines:

“Clearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and fibre, and her passion grew with the excitement of the spectators, for when, after a recall that could not be resisted, the curtain drew up, M. Mounet-Sully was seen supporting the exhausted figure of the actress, who had won her triumph only after tremendous physical exertion—and triumph it was, however short and sudden.”

The _Standard_ finished its article with these words:

“The subdued passion, repressed for a time, until at length it burst its bonds, and the despairing, heart-broken woman is revealed to Hippolyte, was shown with so vivid a reality that a scene of enthusiasm such as is rarely witnessed in a theatre followed the fall of the curtain. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt in the few minutes she was upon the stage (and coming on, it must be remembered, to plunge into the middle of a stirring tragedy) yet contrived to make an impression which will not soon be effaced from those who were present.”

The _Morning Post_ said:

“Very brief are the words spoken before Phèdre rushes into the room to commence tremblingly and nervously, with struggles which rend and tear and convulse the system, the secret of her shameful love. As her passion mastered what remained of modesty or reserve in her nature, the woman sprang forward and recoiled again, with the movements of a panther, striving, as it seemed, to tear from her bosom the heart which stifled her with its unholy longings, until in the end, when, terrified at the horror her breathings have provoked in Hippolyte, she strove to pull his sword from its sheath and plunge it in her own breast, she fell back in complete and absolute collapse. This exhibition, marvellous in beauty of pose, in febrile force, in intensity, and in purity of delivery, is the more remarkable as the passion had to be reached, so to speak, at a bound, no performance of the first act having roused the actress to the requisite heat. It proved Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt worthy of her reputation, and shows what may be expected from her by the public which has eagerly expected her coming.”

This London first night was decisive for my future.

XXVIII
MY PERFORMANCES IN LONDON—MY EXHIBITION—MY WILD ANIMALS—TROUBLE WITH THE
COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE

My intense desire to win over the English public had caused me to overtax my strength. I had done my utmost at the first performance, and had not spared myself in the least. The consequence was in the night I vomited blood in such an alarming way that a messenger was despatched to the French Embassy in search of a physician. Dr. Vintras, who was at the head of the French Hospital in London, found me lying on my bed, exhausted and looking more dead than alive. He was afraid that I should not recover, and requested that my family be sent for. I made a gesture with my hand to the effect that it was not necessary. As I could not speak, I wrote down with a pencil, “Send for Dr. Parrot.”

Dr. Vintras remained with me part of the night, putting crushed ice between my lips every five minutes. At length towards five in the morning the blood vomiting ceased, and, thanks to a potion that the doctor gave me, I fell asleep.

We were to play _L’Etrangère_ that night at the Gaiety, and, as my _rôle_ was not a very fatiguing one, I wanted to perform my part _quand- même_.

Dr. Parrot arrived by the four o’clock boat, and refused categorically to give his consent. He had attended me from my childhood. I really felt much better, and the feverishness had left me. I wanted to get up, but to this Dr. Parrot objected.

Presently Dr. Vintras and Mr. Mayer, the impresario of the Comédie Française, were announced. Mr. Hollingshead, the director of the Gaiety Theatre, was waiting in a carriage at the door to know whether I was going to play in _L’Etrangère_, the piece announced on the bills. I asked Dr. Parrot to rejoin Dr. Vintras in the drawing-room, and I gave instructions for Mr. Mayer to be introduced into my room.

“I feel much better,” I said to him very quickly. “I’m very weak still, but I will play. Hush!—don’t say a word here. Tell Hollingshead, and wait for me in the smoking-room, but don’t let any one else know.”

I then got up and dressed very quickly. My maid helped me, and as she had guessed what my plan was, she was highly amused.

Wrapped in my cloak, with a lace fichu over my head, I joined Mayer in the smoking-room, and then we both got into his hansom.

“Come to me in an hour’s time,” I said in a low voice to my maid.

“Where are you going?” asked Mayer, perfectly stupefied.

“To the theatre! Quick—quick!” I answered.

The cab started, and I then explained to him that if I had stayed at home, neither Dr. Parrot nor Dr. Vintras would have allowed me to perform.

“The die is cast now,” I added, “and we shall see what happens.”

When once I was at the theatre I took refuge in the manager’s private office, in order to avoid Dr. Parrot’s anger. I was very fond of him, and I knew how wrongly I was acting with regard to him, considering the inconvenience to which he had put himself in making the journey specially for me in response to my summons. I knew, though, how impossible it would have been to have made him understand that I felt really better, and that in risking my life I was really only risking what was my own to dispose of as I pleased.

Half an hour later my maid joined me. She brought with her a letter from Dr. Parrot, full of gentle reproaches and furious advice, finishing with a prescription in case of a relapse. He was leaving an hour later, and would not even come and shake hands with me. I felt quite sure, though, that we should make it all up again on my return. I then began to prepare for my _rôle_ in _L’Etrangère_. While dressing I fainted three times, but I was determined to play _quand-même_.

The opium that I had taken in my potion made my head rather heavy. I arrived on the stage in a semi-conscious state, delighted with the applause I received. I walked along as though I were in a dream, and could scarcely distinguish my surroundings. The house itself I only saw through a luminous mist. My feet glided along without any effort on the carpet, and my voice sounded to me far away, very far away. I was in that delicious stupor that one experiences after chloroform, morphine, opium, or hasheesh.

The first act went off very well, but in the third act, just when I was about to tell the Duchesse de Septmonts (Croizette) all the troubles that I, Mrs. Clarkson, had gone through during my life, just as I should have commenced my interminable story, I could not remember anything. Croizette murmured my first phrase for me, but I could only see her lips move without hearing a word. I then said quite calmly:

“The reason I sent for you here, Madame, is because I wanted to tell you my reasons for acting as I have done. I have thought it over and have decided not to tell you them to-day.”

Sophie Croizette gazed at me with a terrified look in her eyes. She then rose and left the stage, her lips trembling, and her eyes fixed on me all the time.

“What’s the matter?” every one asked when she sank almost breathless into an arm-chair.

“Sarah has gone mad!” she exclaimed. “I assure you she has gone quite mad. She has cut out the whole of her scene with me.”

“But how?” every one asked.

“She has cut out two hundred lines,” said Croizette.

“But what for?” was the eager question.

“I don’t know. She looks quite calm.”

The whole of this conversation, which was repeated to me later on, took much less time than it does now to write it down. Coquelin had been told, and he now came on to the stage to finish the act. The curtain fell. I was stupefied and desperate afterwards on hearing all that people told me. I had not noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed to me that I had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really under the influence of the opium. There was very little for me to say in the fifth act, and I went through that perfectly well. The following day the accounts in the papers sounded the praises of our company, but the piece itself was criticised. I was afraid at first that my involuntary omission of the important scene in the third act was one of the causes of the severity of the Press. This was not so, though, as all the critics had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself, and did not mention my slip of memory.

The _Figaro_, which was in a very bad humour with me just then, had an article from which I quote the following extract:

“_L’Etrangère_ is not a piece in accordance with the English taste. Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically, and so were Coquelin and Febvre. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, nervous as usual, lost her memory.” (_Figaro_, June 3rd.)

He knew perfectly well, this worthy Mr. Johnson,[3] that I was very ill. He had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot; consequently he was aware that I was acting in spite of the Faculty in the interests of the Comédie Française. The English public had given me such proofs of appreciation that the Comédie was rather affected by it, and the _Figaro_, which was at that time the organ of the Théâtre Français, requested Johnson to modify his praises of me. This he did the whole time that we were in London.

Footnote 3:

T. Johnson, London correspondent of _Le Figaro_.

My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was quite an unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to authors how unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining the characters of their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly anxious to give us the reasons which caused Mrs. Clarkson to act as strangely as she did. He had created a person who was extremely interesting and full of action as the play proceeds. She reveals herself to the public, in the first act, by the lines which Mrs. Clarkson says to Madame de Septmonts:

“I should be very glad, Madame, if you would call on me. We could talk about one of your friends, Monsieur Gérard, whom I love perhaps as much as you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as he does for you.”

That was quite enough to interest the public in these two women. It was the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat between vice and virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace to Dumas, ancient history, in fact, and he wanted to rejuvenate the old theme by trying to arrange for an orchestra with organ and banjo. The result he obtained was a fearful cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been a beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his ideas, and the brutality of his humour sufficed for rejuvenating old ideas which, in reality, are the eternal basis of tragedies, comedies, novels, pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was love between vice and virtue. Among the spectators who saw the first performance of _L’Etrangère_ in London, and there were quite as many French as English present, not one remarked that there was something wanting, and not one of them said that he had not understood the character.

I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman.

“Did you notice the gap in the third act?” I asked him.

“No,” he replied.

“In my big scene with Croizette?”

“No.”

“Well then, read what I left out,” I insisted.

When he had read this he exclaimed:

“So much the better. It’s very dull, all that story, and quite useless. I understand the character without all that rigmarole and that romantic history.”

Later on, when I apologised to Dumas _fils_ for the way in which I had cut down his play, he answered, “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when any one tells it to me I think it is perfect, as the person always forgets half of it.”

The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to the Gaiety Theatre, and I remained the favourite. I mention this now with pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful for my success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of it, and hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.

Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had therefore taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a hundred in all.

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales let me know that he would come with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities of London came to the inauguration. I had only sent out a hundred invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived and were introduced to me. I was delighted, and enjoyed it all immensely.

Mr. Gladstone did me the great honour of talking to me for about ten minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain clergymen on the Comédie Française and the damnable profession of dramatic artistes had made on me. I answered that I considered our art quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and Protestant preachers.

“But will you tell me, Mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what moral lesson you can draw from _Phèdre_?”

“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me. _Phèdre_ is an ancient tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to perspective quite different from ours and different from the morality of our present society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old nurse Œnone, who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent person. The love of Phèdre is excusable on account of the fatality which hangs over her family and descends pitilessly upon her. In our times we should call that fatality atavism, for Phèdre was the daughter of Minos and Pasiphaë. As to Theseus, his verdict, against which there could be no appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and was punished by the death of that beloved son of his, who was the sole and last hope of his life. We ought never to do what is irreparable.”

“Ah,” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital punishment?”

“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.”

“And quite right, Mademoiselle.”

Frederic Leighton then joined us, and with great kindness complimented me on one of my pictures, representing a young girl holding some palms. This picture was bought by Prince Leopold.

My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought that it was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many cowardly side- thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with the Comédie Française.

“OPHELIA,” SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT
]

I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptress, and I exhibited my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to buy two little lions, and had not money enough. I sold the pictures for what they were worth—that is to say, at very modest prices.

Lady H—— bought my group _After the Storm_. It was smaller than the large group I had exhibited two years previously at the Paris Salon, and for which I had received a prize. The smaller group was in marble, and I had worked at it with the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for £160, but Lady H—— sent me £400, together with a charming note, which I venture to quote. It ran as follows:

“Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed £400 for your admirable group, _After the Storm_. Will you also do me the honour of coming to lunch with me, and afterwards you shall choose for yourself the place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.—ETHEL H.”

This was Tuesday, and I was playing in Zaïre that evening, but Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting. I had money enough now to buy my lions, so without saying a word at the theatre I started for Liverpool. I knew there was a big menagerie there, Cross’s Zoo, and that I should find some lions for sale.

The journey was most amusing, as although I was travelling incognito, I was recognised all along the route and was made a great deal of.

Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with me, and it was a very lively little trip. I knew that I was not shirking my duties at the Comédie, as I was not to play again before Saturday, and this was only Wednesday.

We started in the morning at 10.30, and arrived at Liverpool about 2.30. We went at once to Cross’s, but could not find the entrance to the house. We asked a shopkeeper at the corner of the street, and he pointed to a little door which we had already opened and closed twice, as we could not believe that was the entrance.

I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond, and we were in front of a little door leading into quite a small, bare-looking room, where we found a little man.

“Mr. Cross?” we said.

“That’s my name,” he replied.

“I want to buy some lions,” I then said.

He began to laugh, and then he asked:

“Do you really, Mademoiselle? Are you so fond of animals? I went to London last week to see the Comédie Française, and I saw you in _Hernani_.”

“It wasn’t from that you discovered that I like animals?” I said to him.

“No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew’s Street who told me. He said you had bought two dogs from him, and that if it had not been for a gentleman who was with you, you would have bought five.”

He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal of humour.

“Well, Mr. Cross,” I said, “I want two lions to-day.”

“I’ll show you what I have,” he replied, leading the way into the courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what magnificent creatures they were! There were two superb African lions with shining coats and powerful-looking tails, which were beating the air. They had only just arrived and they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for rebellion. They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating stigma of civilised beings.

“Oh, Mr. Cross,” I said, “these are too big. I want some young lions!”

“I haven’t any, Mademoiselle.”

“Well, then, show me all your animals.”

I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the cheetahs, the pumas, and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore them, and I should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That has always been one of my dreams, and perhaps some day I shall be able to realise it.

Cross had not any, though, so I bought a cheetah. It was quite young and very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some castle of the Middle Ages. I also bought a dog-wolf, all white with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and spear-like teeth. He was terrifying to look at. Mr. Cross made me a present of six chameleons which belonged to a small breed and looked like lizards. He also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric, fabulous sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity, and changed colour from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute slender and long like a lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out and thick-set like a toad. Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a lobster, were quite independent of each other. With its right eye it would look ahead and with its left eye it looked backwards. I was delighted and quite enthusiastic over this present. I named my chameleon “Cross-ci Cross- ça,” in honour of Mr. Cross.

We returned to London with the cheetah in a cage, the dog-wolf in a leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and Cross-ci Cross-ça on my shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had bought at a jeweller’s.

I had not found any lions, but I was delighted all the same.

My servants were not as pleased as I was. There were already three dogs in the house: Minniccio, who had accompanied me from Paris; Bull and Fly, bought in London. Then there was my parrot Bizibouzou, and my monkey Darwin.

Madame Guérard screamed when she saw these new guests arrive. My steward hesitated to approach the dog-wolf, and it was all in vain that I assured them that my cheetah was not dangerous. No one would open the cage, and it was carried out into the garden. I asked for a hammer in order to open the door of the cage which had been nailed down, thus keeping the poor cheetah a prisoner. When my domestics heard me ask for the hammer they decided to open it themselves. Madame Guérard and the women servants watched from the windows. Presently the door burst open, and the cheetah, beside himself with joy, sprang like a tiger out of his cage, wild with liberty. He rushed at the trees and made straight for the dogs, who all four began to howl with terror. The parrot was excited, and uttered shrill cries; and the monkey, shaking his cage about, gnashed his teeth to distraction. This concert in the silent square made the most prodigious effect. All the windows were opened, and more than twenty faces appeared above my garden wall, all of them inquisitive, alarmed, or furious. I was seized with a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and so was my friend Louise Abbema. Nittis the painter, who had come to call on me, was in the same state, and so was Gustave Doré, who had been waiting for me ever since two o’clock. Georges Deschamp, an amateur musician with a great deal of talent, tried to note down this Hoffmanesque harmony, whilst my friend Georges Clairin, his back shaking with laughter, sketched the never-to-be- forgotten scene.

The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was the Bedlam that had been let loose at 77 Chester Square. So much was made of it that our _doyen_, M. Got, came to beg me not to make such a scandal, as it reflected on the Comédie Française. I listened to him in silence, and when he had finished I took his hands.

“Come with me and I will show you the scandal,” I said. I led the way into the garden, followed by my visitor and friends.

“Let the cheetah out!” I said, standing on the steps like a captain ordering his men to take in a reef.

When the cheetah was free the same mad scene occurred again as on the previous day.

“You see, Monsieur le Doyen,” I said, “this is my Bedlam.”

“You are mad,” he said, kissing me; “but it certainly is irresistibly comic,” and he laughed until the tears came when he saw all the heads appearing above the garden wall.

The hostilities continued, though, through scraps of gossip retailed by one person to another and from one set to another. The French Press took it up, and so did the English Press. In spite of my happy disposition and my contempt for ill-natured tales, I began to feel irritated. Injustice has always roused me to revolt, and injustice was certainly having its fling. I could not do a thing that was not watched and blamed.

One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan, whom I loved dearly. That adorable artiste took my face in her hands, and looking into my eyes, said:

SARAH BERNHARDT
_From the portrait by Mlle. Louise Abbema_
]

“My poor dear, you can’t do anything to prevent it. You are original without trying to be so. You have a dreadful head of hair that is naturally curly and rebellious, your slenderness is exaggerated, you have a natural harp in your throat, and all this makes of you a creature apart, which is a crime of high treason against all that is commonplace. That is what is the matter with you physically. Now for your moral defects. You cannot hide your thoughts, you cannot stoop to anything, you never accept any compromise, you will not lend yourself to any hypocrisy—and all that is a crime of high treason against society. How can you expect under these conditions not to arouse jealousy, not to wound people’s susceptibilities, and not to make them spiteful? If you are discouraged because of these attacks, it will be all over with you, as you will have no strength left to withstand them. In that case I advise you to brush your hair, to put oil on it, and so make it lie as sleek as that of the famous Corsican; but even that would never do, for Napoleon had such sleek hair that it was quite original. Well, you might try to brush your hair as smooth as Prudhon’s,[4] then there would be no risk for you. I would advise you,” she continued, “to get a little stouter, and to let your voice break occasionally; then you would not annoy any one. But if you wish to remain _yourself_, my dear, prepare to mount on a little pedestal made of calumny, scandal, injustice, adulation, flattery, lies, and truths. When you are once upon it, though, do the right thing, and cement it by your talent, your work, and your kindness. All the spiteful people who have unintentionally provided the first materials for the edifice will kick it then, in hopes of destroying it. They will be powerless to do this, though, if you choose to prevent them; and that is just what I hope for you, my dear Sarah, as you have an ambitious thirst for glory. I cannot understand that myself, as I only like rest and retirement.”

Footnote 4:

Prudhon was one of the artistes of the Théâtre Français.

I looked at her with envy, she was so beautiful: with her liquid eyes, her face with its pure, restful lines, and her weary smile. I wondered in an uneasy way if happiness were not rather in this calm tranquillity, in the disdain of all things. I asked her gently if this were so, for I wanted to know; and she told me that the theatre bored her, that she had had so many disappointments. She shuddered when she spoke of her marriage, and as to her motherhood, that had only caused her sorrow. Her love affairs had left her with affections crushed and physically disabled. The light seemed doomed to fade from her beautiful eyes, her legs were swollen and could scarcely carry her. She told me all this in the same calm, half weary tone.

What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me to the heart now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the weakness of her eyes and her legs, and her delight in retirement was only the love of that peace which was so necessary to her, wounded as she was by the life she had lived.

The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently than ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her advice. I armed myself for the struggle, preferring to die in the midst of the battle rather than to end my life regretting that it had been a failure. I made up my mind not to weep over the base things that were said about me, and not to suffer any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on the defensive, and very soon an occasion presented itself.

_L’Etrangère_ was to be played for the second time at a _matinée_, June 21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to Mayer that I was not well, and that as I was playing in _Hernani_ at night, I should be glad if he could change the play announced for the afternoon if possible. The advance booking, however, was more than £400, and the committee would not hear of it.

“Oh well,” Got said to Mr. Mayer, “we must give the _rôle_ to some one else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will be Croizette, Madeleine Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself in the cast, and, _que diable!_ it seems to me that all of us together will make up for Mademoiselle Bernhardt.”

Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as she had played this _rôle_ at the Comédie when I was ill. Lloyd was afraid to undertake it, though, and refused. It was decided to change the play, and _Tartufe_ was given instead of _L’Etrangère_. Nearly all the public, however, asked to have their money refunded, and the receipts, which would have been about £500, only amounted to £84. All the spite and jealousy now broke loose, and the whole company of the Comédie, more particularly the men, with the exception of M. Worms, started a campaign against me. Francisque Sarcey, as drum-major, beat the measure with his terrible pen in his hand. The most foolish, slanderous, and stupid inventions and the most odious lies took their flight like a cloud of wild ducks, and swooped suddenly down upon all the newspapers that were against me. It was said that for a shilling any one might see me dressed as a man; that I smoked huge cigars, leaning on the balcony of my house; that at the various receptions where I gave one-act plays I took my maid with me to play a small part; that I practised fencing in my garden, dressed as a pierrot in white; and that when taking boxing lessons I had broken two teeth of my unfortunate professor.

Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these turpitudes, assuring me that the public could not possibly believe them. They were mistaken, though, for the public likes to believe bad things about any one, as these are always more amusing than the good things. I soon had a proof that the English public was beginning to believe what the French papers said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I would consent to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine attire, and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but he was willing to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it. This man was an ill-bred person, but he was sincere. I received several boxes of cigars, and the boxing and fencing professors wrote to offer their services gratuitously. All this annoyed me to such a degree that I resolved to put an end to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris _Figaro_ caused me to take steps to cut matters short.

This is what I wrote in reply to the article in the _Figaro_, June 27, 1879:

“ALBERT WOLFF, _Figaro_, Paris.

“And you, too, my dear Monsieur Wolff—you believe in such insanities?
Who can have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my
friend, though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told,
you have still a little indulgence left. Well then, I give you my word
of honour that I have never dressed as a man here in London. I did not
even bring my sculptor costume with me. I give the most emphatic
denial to this misrepresentation. I only went once to the exhibition
which I organised, and that was on the opening day, for which I had
only sent out a few private invitations, so that no one paid a
shilling to see me. It is true that I have accepted some private
engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the least
remunerated members of the Comédie Française. I certainly have the
right, therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten
pictures and eight pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is
quite true, but as I brought them over here to sell, really I must
show them. As to the respect due to the House of Molière, dear
Monsieur Wolff, I lay claim to keeping that in mind more than any one
else, for I am absolutely incapable of inventing such calumnies for
the sake of slaying one of its standard-bearers. And now, if the
stupidities invented about me have annoyed the Parisians, and if they
have decided to receive me ungraciously on my return, I do not wish
any one to be guilty of such baseness on my account, so I will send in
my resignation to the Comédie Française. If the London public is tired
of all this fuss and should be inclined to show me ill-will instead of
the indulgence hitherto accorded me, I shall ask the Comédie to allow
me to leave England, in order to spare our company the annoyance of
seeing one of its members hooted at and hissed. I am sending you this
letter by wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives
me the right to commit this little folly, and I beg you, dear Monsieur
Wolff, to accord to my letter the same honour as you did to the
calumnies of my enemies.—With very kind regards,

“Yours sincerely,
“SARAH BERNHARDT.”

This telegram caused much ink to flow. Whilst treating me as a spoiled child, people generally agreed that I was quite right. The Comédie was most amiable. Perrin, the manager, wrote me an affectionate letter begging me to give up my idea of leaving the company. The women were most friendly. Croizette came to see me, and putting her arms round me, said, “Tell me you won’t do such a thing, my dear, foolish child! You won’t really send in your resignation? In the first place; it would not be accepted, I can answer for that!”

Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His whole speech savoured of Protestantism. There are several Protestant pastors in his family, and this influenced him unconsciously. Delaunay, surnamed Father Candour, came solemnly to inform me of the bad impression my telegram had made. He told me that the Comédie Française was a Ministry; that there was the Minister, the secretary, the sub-chiefs and the _employés_, and that each one must conform to the rules and bring in his share either of talent or work, and so on and so on. I saw Coquelin at the theatre in the evening. He came to me with outstretched hands.