Chapter XV: Part 15

“You know I can’t compliment you,” he said, “on your rash action, but with good luck we shall make you change your mind. When one has the good fortune and the honour of belonging to the Comédie Française, one must remain there until the end of one’s career.”

Frédéric Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with the Comédie, because it would save money for me, and I was quite incapable of doing that myself.

“Believe me,” he said, “when we are with the Comédie we must not leave; it means our bread provided for us later on.”

Got, our _doyen_, then approached me.

“Do you know what you are doing in sending in your resignation?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Deserting.”

“You are mistaken,” I answered; “I am not deserting: I am changing barracks.”

Others then came to me, and they all gave me advice tinged by their own personality: Mounet as a seer or believer; Delaunay prompted by his bureaucratic soul; Coquelin as a politician blaming another person’s ideas, but extolling them later on and putting them into practice for his own profit; Febvre, a lover of respectability; Got, as a selfish old growler understanding nothing but the orders of the powers that be and advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said to me in his melancholy way:

“Will they be better towards you elsewhere?”

Worms had the most dreamy soul and the most frank, straightforward character of any member of our illustrious company. I liked him immensely.

We were about to return to Paris, and I wanted to forget all these things for a time. I was in a hesitating mood. I postponed taking a definite decision. The stir that had been made about me, the good that had been said in my favour and the bad things written against me—all this combined had created in the artistic world an atmosphere of battle. When on the point of leaving for Paris some of my friends felt very anxious about the reception which I should get there.

The public is very much mistaken in imagining that the agitation made about celebrated artistes is in reality instigated by the persons concerned, and that they do it purposely. Irritated at seeing the same name constantly appearing on every occasion, the public declares that the artiste who is being either slandered or pampered is an ardent lover of publicity. Alas! three times over alas! We are victims of the said advertisement. Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrity when they have passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves. They are at the beginning of a series of small worries, thunderbolts hidden under flowers, but they know how to hold in check that monster advertisement. It is a sort of octopus with innumerable tentacles. It throws out on the right and on the left, in front and behind, its clammy arms, and gathers in through its thousand little inhaling organs all the gossip and slander and praise afloat, to spit out again at the public when it is vomiting its black gall. But those who are caught in the clutches of celebrity at the age of twenty know nothing. I remember that the first time a reporter came to me I drew myself up straight and was as red as a cock’s-comb with joy. I was just seventeen years old—I had been acting in a private house, and had taken the part of Richelieu with immense success. This gentleman came to call on me at home, and asked me first one question and then another and then another. I answered and chattered, and was wild with pride and excitement. He took notes, and I kept looking at my mother. It seemed to me that I was getting taller. I had to kiss my mother by way of keeping my composure, and I hid my face on her shoulder to hide my delight. Finally the gentleman rose, shook hands with me, and then took his departure. I skipped about in the room and began to turn round singing, _Trois petits pâtés, ma chemise brûle_, when suddenly the door opened and the gentleman said to mamma, “Oh, Madame, I forgot, this is the receipt for the subscription to the journal. It is a mere nothing, only sixteen francs a year.” Mamma did not understand at first. As for me, I stood still with my mouth open, unable to digest my _petits pâtés_. Mamma then paid the sixteen francs, and in her pity for me, as I was crying by that time, she stroked my hair gently. Since then I have been delivered over to the monster, bound hand and foot, and I have been and still am accused of adoring advertisement. And to think that my first claims to celebrity were my extraordinary thinness and delicate health. I had scarcely made my _début_ when epigrams, puns, jokes, and caricatures concerning me were indulged in by every one to their heart’s content. Was it really for the sake of advertising myself that I was so thin, so small, so weak; and was it for this, too, that I remained in bed six months of the year, laid low by illness? My name became celebrated before I was myself.

SARAH BERNHARDT
_From the portrait by Jules Bastien-Lepage_
]

On the first night of Louis Bouilhet’s piece, _Mademoiselle Aïssé_, at the Odéon, Flaubert, who was an intimate friend of the author, introduced an _attaché_ of the British Embassy to me.

“Oh, I have known you for some time, Mademoiselle,” he said; “you are the little stick with the sponge on the top.”

This caricature of me had just appeared, and had been the delight of idle folks. I was quite a young girl at that time, and nothing of that kind hurt me or troubled me. In the first place, all the doctors had given me up, so that I was indifferent about things; but all the doctors were mistaken, and twenty years later I had to fight against the monster.

XXIX
THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE RETURNS TO PARIS—SARAH BERNHARDT’S COMMENTS ON
ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY

The return of the Comédie to its home was an event, but an event that was kept quiet. Our departure from Paris had been very lively and gay, and quite a public function. Our return was clandestine for many of the members, and for me among the number. It was a doleful return for those who had not been appreciated, whilst those who had been failures were furious.

I had not been back home an hour when Perrin was announced. He began to reproach me gently about the little care I took of my health. He said I caused too much fuss to be made about me.

“But,” I exclaimed, “is it my fault if I am too thin? Is it my fault, too, if my hair is too curly, and if I don’t think just as other people do? Supposing that I took sufficient arsenic during a month to make me swell out like a barrel, and supposing I were to shave my head like an Arab and only answer, ‘Yes’ to everything you said, people would declare I did it for advertisement.”

“But, my dear child,” answered Perrin, “there are people who are neither fat nor thin, neither close shaven nor with shocks of hair, and who answer ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’”

I was simply petrified by the justice and reason of this remark, and I understood the “because” of all the “whys” I had been asking myself for some years. There was no happy medium about me; I was “too much” and “too little,” and I felt that there was nothing to be done for this. I owned it to Perrin, and told him that he was quite right. He took advantage of my mood to lecture me and advise me not to put in an appearance at the opening ceremony that was soon to take place at the Comédie. He feared a cabal against me. Some people were rather excited, rightly or wrongly—a little of both, he added, in that shrewd and courteous way which was peculiar to him. I listened to him without interrupting, which slightly embarrassed him, for Perrin was an arguer but not an orator. When he had finished I said:

“You have told me too many things that excite me, Monsieur Perrin. I love a battle, and I shall appear at the ceremony. You see, I have already been warned about it. Here are three anonymous letters. Read this one; it is the nicest.”

He unfolded the letter, which was perfumed with amber, and read as follows:

“MY POOR SKELETON,—You will do well not to show your horrible Jewish
nose at the opening ceremony the day after to-morrow. I fear that it
would serve as a target for all the potatoes that are now being cooked
specially for you in your kind city of Paris. Have some paragraphs put
in the papers to the effect that you have been spitting blood, and
remain in bed and think over the consequence of excessive
advertisement.

“A SUBSCRIBER.”

Perrin pushed the letter away from him in disgust.

“Here are two more,” I said; “but they are so coarse that I will spare you. I shall go to the opening ceremony.”

“Good!” replied Perrin. “There is a rehearsal to-morrow. Shall you come?”

“I shall come,” I answered.

The next day at the rehearsal not one of the artistes, man or woman, seemed to care about going on to the stage to bow with me. I must say, though, that they all showed nevertheless much good grace. I declared, however, that I would go on alone, although it was against the rule, for I thought I ought to face the ill humour and the cabal alone.

The house was crowded when the curtain rose.

The ceremony commenced in the midst of “Bravos!” The public was delighted to see its beloved artistes again. They advanced two by two, one on the right and the other on the left, holding the palm or the crown to be placed on the pedestal of Molière’s bust. My turn came, and I advanced alone. I felt that I was pale and then livid, with a will that was determined to conquer. I went forward slowly towards the footlights, but instead of bowing as my comrades had done, I stood up erect and gazed with my two eyes into all the eyes turning towards me. I had been warned of the battle, and I did not wish to provoke it, but I would not fly from it. I waited a second, and I felt the thrill and the emotion that ran through the house; and then, suddenly stirred by an impulse of generous kindliness, the whole house burst into wild applause and shouts. The public, so beloved and so loving, was intoxicated with joy. That evening was certainly one of the finest triumphs of my whole career.

Some artistes were delighted, especially the women, for there is one thing to remark with regard to our art: the men are more jealous of the women than the women are amongst themselves. I have met with many enemies among male comedians, and with very few among actresses.

I think that the dramatic art is essentially feminine.

To paint one’s face, to hide one’s real feelings, to try to please and to endeavour to attract attention—these are all faults for which we blame women and for which great indulgence is shown. These same defects seem odious in a man. And yet the actor must endeavour to be as attractive as possible, even if he is obliged to have recourse to paint and to false beard and hair. He may be a Republican, and he must uphold with warmth and conviction Royalist theories. He may be a Conservative, and must maintain anarchist principles, if such be the good pleasure of the author.

At the Théâtre Français poor Maubant was a most advanced Radical, and his stature and handsome face doomed him to play the parts of kings, emperors, and tyrants. As long as the rehearsals went on Charlemagne or Cæsar could be heard swearing at tyrants, cursing the conquerors, and claiming the hardest punishments for them. I thoroughly enjoyed this struggle between the man and the actor. Perhaps this perpetual abstraction from himself gives the comedian a more feminine nature. However that may be, it is certain that the actor is jealous of the actress. The courtesy of the well-educated man vanishes before the footlights, and the comedian who in private life would render a service to a woman in any difficulty will pick a quarrel with her on the stage. He would risk his life to save her from any danger in the road, on the railway, or in a boat, but when once on the boards he will not do anything to help her out of a difficulty. If her memory should fail, or if she should make a false step, he would not hesitate to push her. I am going a long way, perhaps, but not so far as people may think. I have performed with some celebrated comedians who have played me some bad tricks. On the other hand, there are some actors who are admirable, and who are more men than comedians when on the stage. Pierre Berton, Worms, and Guitry are, and always will be, the most perfect models of friendly and protecting courtesy towards the woman comedian. I have played in a number of pieces with each of them, and, subject as I am to stage fright, I have always felt perfect confidence when acting with these three artistes. I knew that their intelligence was of a high order, that they had pity on me for my fright, and that they would be prepared for any nervous weaknesses caused by it. Pierre Berton and Worms, both of them very great artistes, left the stage in full artistic vigour and vital strength, Pierre Berton to devote himself to literature, and Worms—no one knows why. As to Guitry, much the youngest of the three, he is now the first artist on the French stage, for he is an admirable comedian and at the same time an artist, a very rare thing. I know very few artistes in France or in other countries with these two qualities combined. Henry Irving was an admirable artist, but not a comedian. Coquelin is an admirable comedian, but he is not an artist. Mounet-Sully has genius, which he sometimes places at the service of the artist and sometimes at the service of the comedian; but, on the other hand, he sometimes gives us exaggerations as artist and comedian which make lovers of beauty and truth gnash their teeth. Bartet is a perfect _comédienne_ with a very delicate artistic sense. Réjane is the most comedian of comedians, and an artist when she wishes to be.

Eleonora Duse is more a comedian than an artist; she walks in paths that have been traced out by others; she does not imitate them, certainly not, for she plants flowers where there were trees, and trees where there were flowers; but she has never by her art made a single personage stand out identified by her name; she has not created a being or a vision which reminds one of herself. She puts on other people’s gloves, but she puts them on inside out. And all this she has done with infinite grace and with careless unconsciousness. She is a great comedian, a very great comedian, but not a great artist.

Novelli is a comedian of the old school which did not trouble much about the artistic side. He is perfect in laughter and tears. Beatrice Patrick Campbell is especially an artist, and her talent is that of charm and thought: she execrates beaten paths; she wants to create, and she creates. Antoine is often betrayed by his own powers, for his voice is heavy and his general appearance rather ordinary. As a comedian there is therefore often much to be desired, but he is always an artist without equal, and our art owes much to him in its evolution in the direction of truth. Antoine, too, is not jealous of the actress.

XXX
MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANAÇISE—PREPARATIONS FOR MY FIRST
AMERICAN TOUR—ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON

The days which followed the return of the Comédie to its own home were very trying for me. Our manager wanted to subdue me, and he tortured me with a thousand little pin-pricks which were much more painful for a nature like mine than so many stabs with a knife. (At least I imagine so, as I have never had any.) I became irritable, bad-tempered on the slightest provocation, and was in fact ill. I had always been gay, and now I was sad. My health, which had ever been feeble, was endangered by this state of chaos.

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 on April 14, 1880.

“I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin,” I said, “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 tea-pot. 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 candelabra. 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 with regard to 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 only
allowed me eight rehearsals on the stage, and the play has been
rehearsed in its entirety only three times. I was 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 of
_L’Assommoir_ instead of Dona Clorinde of _L’Aventurière_. May Emile
Augier and Zola absolve me! It is my first rebuff at the Comédie; it
shall be my last. I warned you on the day of the dress 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 recognised, 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 unceasingly.

I went back to the Hôtel Frascati frozen, and in the night I was so feverish that Dr. Gibert was requested to call. Madame Guérard, who was sent for by my alarmed maid, came at once. 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, &c. &c.

This 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 kitchen-maid, the second lady’s maid, and five dogs; but it was all in vain that I protested against this minion of the law; it was useless.

The Comédie must, according to the rules, send me three summonses. This was not done, and a law-suit was commenced against me. It was lost in advance.

Maître Allou, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented wicked little histories about me. He took 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 from Perrin to myself which have been published were given by him from his letter-copy book. Of course, he only showed those which could inspire the public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me, &c. &c.

The pleading of Maître Allou was very, successful: he claimed three hundred thousand francs damages, in addition to the confiscation for the benefit of the Comédie Française of the forty-three thousand francs which that theatre 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 forty-three thousand 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 terms, and this is what he proposed:

SARAH BERNHARDT (1879)
]

Five thousand francs for each performance and one-half of the receipts above fifteen thousand francs; that is to say, the day the receipts reached the sum of twenty thousand francs I should receive seven thousand five hundred francs. In addition, one thousand francs per week for my hotel bill; also a special Pullman car, on all railway journeys, containing a 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, one hundred thousand francs as advance payment for my expenses before departure. I was to play eight pieces: _Hernani_, _Phèdre_, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _La Dame aux Camélias_, _Le Sphinx_, _L’Etrangère_, and _La Princesse Georges_.

I ordered twenty-five modern dresses at Laferrière’s, of whom I was then a customer.

At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and four costumes for _Hernani_. I ordered from a young theatre _costumier_ named Lepaul my costume for _Phèdre_. These thirty-six costumes cost me sixty- one thousand francs; but out of this my costume for _Phèdre_ alone cost four thousand francs. The poor _artist-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 unwell, 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 your costume is!” And he spread it out with loving respect before me.

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

“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor artist 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 artist the four thousand francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some unintelligible words and withdrew.

“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to _mon petit Dame_ and my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccoughs 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 artist 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 eaten away the stuff. As to the poor artist, I learnt 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 _impresarii_ of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from May 24 to June 24 (1880).

It was during this period that the law-suit which the Comédie Française brought against me was decided.

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 Allou in his pleadings pretended that the London public had tired of me very quickly, and did not care to come to the performances of the Comédie in which I appeared.

The following list gives the best possible denial to the assertions of Maître Allou:

PERFORMANCES GIVEN BY THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE

(The * indicates the pieces in which I appeared.)

1879. Plays. Receipts
in
Francs.

June 2. Le Misanthrope (Prologue); Phèdre (Acte II.); Les
Précieuses Ridicules *13,080

„ 3. L’Etrangère *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 Villemer 9,960

„ 7. Tartufe (matinée); La Joie fait Peur 8,700

„ 9. Hernani *13,600

„ 10. Le Demi-monde 11,525

„ 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 *13,350

„ 14. Le Misanthrope (matinée); Les Plaideurs 8,800

„ 16. L’Ami Fritz 9,375

„ 17. Zaïre; Les Précieuses Ridicules *13,075

„ 18. 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 *13,375

„ 21. Tartufe (matinée); 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. L’Etrangère (matinée) *11,710

„ 25. Le Barbier de Seville 9,180

„ 26. Andromaque; Les Plaideurs *13,350

„ 27. L’Avare; L’Etincelle 11,775

„ 28. Le Sphinx; Le Dépit amoureux *12,860

„ 28. Hernani (matinée) *13,730

„ 30. Ruy Blas *13,660

July 1. Mercadet; L’Eté de la St. Martin 9,850

„ 2. Ruy Blas *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. Phèdre (matinée); La Joie fait Peur *14,265

„ 7. Le Marquis de Villemer 10,565

„ 8. L’Ami Fritz 11,005

„ 9. Hernani *14,275

„ 10. Le Sphinx *13,775

„ 11. Philiberte; L’Etourdi 11,500

„ 12. Ruy Blas *12,660

„ 12. Gringoire (matinée); Hernani (Acte V.);La
Bénédiction; Davenant; L’Etincelle *13,725

Total receipts 492,150 francs

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 law-suit. “The Court—with its ‘Inasmuch as,’ ‘Nevertheless,’ &c.—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 March 24, 1875, and condemns her to pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality the sum of one hundred thousand francs damages.”

I gave my last performance in London the very day that the papers published this unjust verdict. I was applauded, and the public overwhelmed me with flowers.

I had taken with me Madame Devoyod, Mary Jullien, Kalb, my sister Jeanne, Pierre Berton, Train, Talbot, Dieudonnée—all artistes of great repute.

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

Vitu, Sarcey, 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 could no longer understand what it all meant. 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 with 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, _à propos_ of my resignation at the Comédie, had finished in these terms:

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

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

SARAH BERNHARDT AS “ANDROMAQUE”

BY WALTER SPINDLER
]

“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 June 7, he wrote in his theatrical _feuilleton_, on the first performance of _Froufrou_:

“I do not think that the emotion at any theatre 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!”

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 _coup de Jarnac_ 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 to 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 it, but you!”

“I thank you,” I answered, “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_; he came to my dressing-room and said:

“You had better sign, believe me! And come back to commence with _Froufrou_! I promise you a happy return!”

I refused, and finished my performances in London without Coquelin.

The average of the receipts was nine thousand 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 and 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 drunken; the wild dancing of dishevelled 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 gaiety. The broad English hospitality, which is manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of the men, which compares favourably 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 in 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 half-way, 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.

XXXI
A TOUR IN DENMARK—ROYAL FAMILIES—THE “TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS” OF SARAH
BERNHARDT

After this first test of my freedom I felt more sure of life than before. Although I was very weak of constitution, the possibility of doing as I wanted without hindrance and without control calmed my nervous system, and my health, which had been weakened by perpetual irritations and by excessive work, was improved. 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 one 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 Théâtre de la Monnaie, and I felt uncomfortable in that immense and frigid house. But the benevolent enthusiasm of the public soon warmed me, and I shall never forget the four performances I gave there.

Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances at the Theatre Royal.

SARAH BERNHARDT
IN TRAVELLING COSTUME (1880)
]

Our arrival, which doubtless was anxiously expected, 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 Theatre 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 wide path for my carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic sight-seers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to me. In the course of my long career I have had many triumphs, receptions, and ovations, but my reception by the Danish people remains one of my most cherished memories. The living hedge lasted till we reached the Hôtel d’Angleterre, where I went in, after thanking once more the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.

In the evening the King, the Queen, and their daughter, the Princess of Wales, were present at the first performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_.

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

“Sarah Bernhardt has played _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ with a tremendous
success before a magnificent audience. The royal family, the King and
the Queen of the Hellenes, as well as the Princess of Wales, were
present at the performance. The Queens threw their bouquets to the
French artiste, amidst applause. It was an unprecedented triumph. The
public was delirious. To-morrow _Froufrou_ will be played.”

The performance of _Froufrou_ was equally successful. But as I was only playing 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 Theatre Royal, had ordered a magnificent lunch 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 Kronborg. 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 any one 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 on the surface. Carried by an invisible current, they 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 marvellous legends of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all that love, all that musical poetry. And that setting sun was also for me. And in this fleeting moment, which brought all the beauty of life near to me, I felt myself very near to God.

The following day, at the close of the performance, the King sent for me to come 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 different 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 went from the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a poor 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 charming 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’Ambassadeur de Prusse!” I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical without intending it.

It was like a thunderbolt.

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 thrust of mine. 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 upset 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 lacked 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, as it 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 _algarade_; 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 is to be famous it can only really become manifest after death. 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, 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 what has been and attentive to what will be.

My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant no harm, and this incident has always left in me a feeling of remorse and chagrin.

I left Copenhagen amidst applause and the 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.