Chapter III: Part 3

After thirteen months’ absence Sarah at length returned to Europe. The total receipts during her American tour were a million dollars, of which her own share was £60,000. She landed in England on May 6th, not, as might be supposed, to rest, but to start off again on another tour, under the management of Mr. Mayer, through England, Scotland, and Ireland. On August 10th she started for Cauterets, and begun to prepare for her return to Paris. She re-opened with _La Tosca_ on November 24, 1887, and long and loud was the applause that greeted her. M. Sarcey alone withheld unstinted praise, and took exception, not to the artiste’s talents but to her use of them, and indulged in criticisms of the play itself. M. Sardou responded in a letter addressed to a third person, in which he took advantage of the opportunity to make a hit at the critics of his work--

MONSIEUR,

You ask for my opinion on Sarah Bernhardt. It is simply that she is
an admirable artiste, and that, in _La Tosca_, she has far exceeded
anything that has been done in our generation by Georges, Dorval,
or Rachel. As for Sarcey, who knows nothing about painting, music,
architecture, or sculpture, and to whom Nature has harshly denied
all sense of the artistic, it is not surprising that he should be
not merely indifferent but even hostile to any attempt to reproduce
the past by means of scenery, costume, and the representation of
former customs. He showed this feature by his treatment of _La
Haine_, but it would be unjust to blame him for this defect in his
intellect. If he likes to play the part of the fox who lost his
tail, by all means let him do it.

Cordially yours,
V. SARDOU.

This time M. Sardou was on the right side. _La Tosca_ was performed one hundred and twenty-nine times, and was not taken off the boards until March 25, 1888. Ten days later, Sarah was playing _La Dame aux Camélias_ and _La Tosca_ at Bordeaux. Thence she went on to Lisbon and Madrid. Next the indefatigable traveller began a French tour, under the management of M. Emile Simon, at Caen. In July she was in London playing _Francillon_, at the Lyceum, with indifferent success. She was soon off again, her life being now one incessant round of travel with brief stoppages in Paris. M. Maurice Grau was once more her manager, and she opened in October at Antwerp, after which she visited Liège, Amsterdam, the Hague, Rotterdam, Utrecht, Arnheim, Brussels, Vienna, Prague, Budapest, Bucharest, Constantinople, Cairo, and Alexandria. _La Tosca_ was as great a favourite as it had been in Paris, but at the Hague the Huguenot scruples of the Dutch _bourgeois_ led to the performance of the play being forbidden, on the ground that it contained attacks on Roman Catholicism which might prove offensive to persons of that religion. At Bucharest Sarah was received by Queen Natalie, who, living as she was in strict retirement, had been unable to attend any public performance in spite of her great desire to see the artiste. Sarah accordingly performed a scene from _La Dame aux Camélias_ for her at the palace. When the actress uttered the words, “Shall fallen greatness never rise again?” Queen Natalie, who applied them to her own case, burst into tears. Every one present, including Sarah Bernhardt, shared the poor Queen’s emotion, and the performance had to be interrupted.

From Bucharest Sarah went on to Italy, Russia, and Scandinavia, returning to Paris on the 21st March. Three weeks afterwards, without taking time for rest, she appeared at the Variétés in _Léna_, a piece adapted from the English by M. Pierre Berton, and in which she added another to the numerous kinds of death already on her list. The piece, however, was merely an ephemeral success, and was not a great triumph for its principal interpreter. M. Jules Lemaître says--

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt played the earlier acts in a rather offhand
style. Her delivery was sometimes childish and lisping, and
sometimes hard and guttural.

On the 16th May, Sarah revived _La Dame aux Camélias_ at the Variétés. In July she went to London, where she was received with the customary enthusiasm, and, the summer at an end, she re-appeared on the 4th September at the Porte St. Martin theatre in _La Tosca_, in which she had triumphed two years before. A month later came another revival, _Théodora_, which furnished M. Sarcey with one more opportunity for lamenting--as, in fact, he had never ceased to do since Sarah’s desertion of the Comédie Française--the injury her foreign tours had done her. Regardless of criticism and case-hardened by experience against the opinions of the Press, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt was devoting all her energies to the rehearsals of _Jeanne d’Arc_. Perhaps, however, she was not really far from agreeing with M. Sarcey. On the eve of one of her tours she remarked--

Really, I seem to be intended for the export trade! Success abroad
is very nice, but success in France is still better.

She produced M. Jules Barbier’s _Jeanne d’Arc_ at the Porte St. Martin, on the 3rd January, 1890. The result was unanimously admitted to be all that could be desired. M. de Lapommeraye observed--

The entire performance was one continued triumph for Mme. Sarah
Bernhardt, who sent a thrill of the noblest emotion and the keenest
admiration through every heart.

According to M. Henry Bauer, “her success increased with every act and culminated in a brilliant triumph.” “This woman has a power within her,” exclaimed M. Jules Lemaître. “It is impossible to see her without being moved to tears,” said M. Sarcey. M. Vitu wrote--

She chiefly surprised every one, including her warmest admirers
as well as her most prejudiced critics, by the extraordinary,
passionate, irresistible force she imparted to the patriotic
outbursts of the heroine. But everything, even praises, must have
an end. What I have said is merely a summary of the expressed
opinions of the entire audience last night, of what Paris will say
in a few days, and of what every one will say in a few months when
Paris and the world will have seen and applauded Sarah again and
again in this the finest of all the fine creations of her career.

In July she was playing in London, and on the 23rd October she appeared at the Porte St. Martin in _Cléopâtre_, by MM. Sardou and Moreau. “What a wonderful actress she is!” exclaims M. de Lapommeraye. “She appears, she is seen and heard, and she triumphs.”

“What a pity it is,” regretfully says M. Bauer, “that her
prodigious gifts, her art, and her powers of perception and
expression should ever be wasted on M. Jules Barbier’s verses, or
on brigand stories in prose!”

M. Albert Wolff simply quivers with enthusiasm--

I have long felt that this rare artiste is not merely a great
actress, but the only one of our time. She stands without a rival
in the world. I have never seen Rachel, whose fame still excites
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt to greater efforts even in the hour of her
greatest triumphs, but I do not see how it can be possible for any
one to have more talent than Sarah. Her evening ended in a perfect
ovation.

She played Cléopâtre until the beginning of January 1891, and on the 23rd she set off for America and Australia, I went to see her a few days before her departure. I had already paid several visits about this time to her delightful sanctum in the Boulevard Pereire. She had been suffering from an affection of the larynx, and was hardly able to speak, and I had called to inquire after her health. To pass away the time while she disposed of her dressmakers, doctors, attorneys, and what not, I strolled up and down the well-known hall on the ground-floor--a hall quite unlike any other that I have ever seen. In the course of my many journalistic visits to the houses of Paris celebrities I have soon become indifferent to the cold and hollow display of official _salons_, to M. Renan’s plain walnut-wood furniture, to M. Zola’s somewhat discordant profusion of decoration, to Edmond de Goncourt’s art-treasures, and to the solemn comfort of academic homes. I have viewed, without faltering, the gorgeous and imposing ceilings of the Hôtel d’Uzès, the pompous display of multi-millionaire financiers, the faintly pretentious coquetry of the popular actress’s home, the frills and furbelows and knock-me-down eccentricities of our celebrated painters; but every time I enter what Sarah Bernhardt calls her studio, I am immediately struck by an indefinable something, infinitely pleasing, and not to be met with elsewhere. No doubt the sensation is partly physical and partly mental; it must arise from a combination of the perfumed atmosphere of the place, the ideally artistic arrangement and extraordinary diversity of everything, the muffled footfalls on the thick carpet, the subdued twittering of birds hidden in the foliage of rare and costly plants, the intoxicating play of colour on silk and velvet, the silent welcome of familiar animals, and above all, the voice and presence of the mistress of the house when she makes her appearance. But she is not yet here, and I resume my investigations. At the first glance it is difficult to see anything more than a delightful chaos of light and colour, an odd but harmonious profusion of the Oriental and the modern. Gradually the eye begins to distinguish surrounding objects. On the walls, which are hung with Turkey-red cotton, with a pattern of graceful plumes, are all sorts of queer weapons, Mexican sombreros, feather parasols, and trophies of lances, daggers, sabres, clubs, quivers and arrows, surmounted by hideous nightmare-like war-masks. Scattered about are bits of old pottery, Venice mirrors with wide frames of pale gold, and pictures by Clairin, some representing Sarah lying on a couch at full length, half hidden among her furs and brocaded coverings, others, her son Maurice and her big white greyhound.

Scattered about on stools, on settles, and on the edges of sundry small articles of furniture are swarms of Buddhas, Japanese monsters, rare Chinese curios, bits of pottery, enamel, lacquer, and ivory work, miniatures, ancient and modern bronzes. In a special case is a collection of valuable souvenirs: gold vases, drinking-cups, liqueur-flasks, pyxes, beautifully carved golden wreaths, and exquisitely artistic gold and silver filigree. Flowers are on all sides: bunches of white lilac, Spanish lilies-of-the-valley, and mimosa, bouquets of roses and chrysanthemums, mingled with palms reaching to the glass ceiling. At the further end of the room is the big cage originally made for Tigrette--a tiger-cat brought home by Sarah from one of her voyages--and afterwards occupied by two lion-cubs, Scarpia and Justinian, reared in freedom but despatched to the menagerie immediately they displayed an intention of providing their own food. At present the wild animals’ cage, with its closely-set bars, serves as an aviary. In it birds of brilliant plumage sing and disport themselves on the branches of an artificial tree. In the corner opposite the cage and on the right-hand side of the fire-place with its wrought-iron dogs, is a most magnificent, barbaric, disconcerting couch--an immense divan made out of a heap of white bear, beaver, eland, tiger, jaguar, buffalo, and even crocodile skins. The walls of this lair are also formed of thick furry skins, falling in luxuriant, enticing curves over the foot of the couch. Piles of faintly-tinted silk cushions lie scattered over the furs. The light falls from above through a canopy of colourless silk, embroidered with faded flowers and supported by two dragon-head standards. The floor is covered from end to end with Oriental carpets thickly strewn with skins. Jackals’ and hyenas’ heads and panthers’ paws meet the visitor at every step.

A servant interrupts my reflections and announces that Madame is waiting for me. I go up-stairs to the study, and find the illustrious actress in an ample cream cashmere _peignoir_ trimmed with lace.

“I have just come out of my bath, and you must excuse me for keeping you waiting,” she says, with an outstretched hand and a smile. “I can talk a little better to-day. What is it you want to know?”

“To begin with,” I reply, “I should like to know the date of your departure and the extent of your tour?”

“You will find it all on this paper. I am sure I could not tell you all these things. On my tours I often take the train or steamer without even asking where I am going. What does it matter to me?”

I read as follows--

“Leave Paris, 23rd January, and Havre, 24th; arrive at New York, 1st February. New York, 1st February to 14th March; Washington, 16th to 21st March; Philadelphia, 23rd to 28th March; Boston, 30th March to 4th April; Montreal, 6th to 11th April; Detroit, Indianapolis, and St. Louis, 13th to 18th April; Denver, 20th to 22nd April; San Francisco, 24th April to 1st May. Leave San Francisco for Australia, 2nd May. Stay in Australia about three months. Open at Melbourne, 1st June; visit Sydney, Adelaide, and Brisbane, completing engagements at end of August. Return to San Francisco, 28th September. Principal cities of the United States, then Mexico and Havana. Return to New York about 1st March, 1892. If business then better in South America, take the Argentine Republic, Uruguay, and Brazil in June, July, August, September, and October, 1892; London, January 1893; then Russia and European capitals.”

“Two years!” I said. “Don’t you feel sorry to think of leaving Paris for two years?”

“Not at all,” replied the Bohemian genius. “Far from it; it is just the same thing as going to the Bois de Boulogne or the Odéon. I love travelling. I am delighted to be off, and full of joy to get back again. There is genuine and healthy excitement in moving from place to place and getting over so much ground. It never bores me, and then I haven’t time to be bored. Just think--I have never stayed more than a fortnight in any one place! At the end of these two years I shall have gone half round the world. I know North America already, and I have been there twice; but this time we are going to Australia, which will be quite new to me. We shall stop at the Sandwich Islands and play before Queen Pomaré, at Honolulu. There’s a novelty for you!”

“Won’t you miss your home, your comforts, and your friends?”

“I shall have them all again when I come back, and my delight will be all the greater for being so long deprived of them. And as for comfort, we travel like princes. Very often we have a special train for ourselves and our baggage. There is a big car, called the ‘Sarah Bernhardt,’ containing a fine bedroom, with a four-post bed, bath-room, drawing-room, and kitchen, all for me, and there are about thirty beds for the rest of the troupe. You see how convenient it is; and as the train is our own, we can stop when we like. When we come to a specially nice neighbourhood we leave the train, play ball games on the prairie, have pistol practice, and amuse ourselves generally. If we don’t care to get off the train, we turn the beds up against the sides and have dancing with a piano. There is plenty of room, as we have three long cars joined together. You see, we don’t suffer from _ennui_!”

“How do you spend your time on these long sea-voyages?”

“I play chess, draughts, and _nain jaune_. I don’t care much for cards, but sometimes I play Chinese bezique, because it is very long, and passes the time. I am a very bad player, and I hate to lose--it enrages me. This is ridiculous and silly, I know, but there it is! I can’t bear to be beaten!”

“What do you think of American scenery?”

“I don’t like it. Everything is so big--too big in fact--nothing but mountains with tops that you can’t see; steppes that stretch away to the horizon, immense trees and plants, and skies that look ten times as high as ours. All these things have a supernatural effect, and when I come back Paris looks like a dear little trinket in a miniature case.”

“And the public?”

“I can’t call them anything but delightful! They adore me! In the principal American cities, every one of a certain class understands French, and as the prices are, of course, very high, the audience is largely composed of this class. In some places I have regular first-night audiences, who note the smallest effects and shades of diction.”

“What about those who don’t understand French?”

“They buy books containing the French text with the translation opposite. This has a curious effect; everybody turns over at the same time, and it sounds like a shower of rain a second long.”

All these details, and the manner in which they were told, were very amusing. I could have gone on asking questions all night, but as it was becoming late I hastened to put my most inquisitive queries.

“How much baggage do you take?”

“About eighty trunks.”

“Eighty?”

She laughed at my astonishment.

“Yes,” she added, “there are at least forty-five cases of theatrical costumes. We take nearly two hundred and fifty pairs of shoes, and they fill one entire trunk. There is one for linen, one for flowers, and one for perfumery, and others for my dresses, hats, etc. I really don’t know how my maid manages to find what she wants!”

“Would it be indiscreet to ask what payment you are to receive?”

“Not at all; there is no mystery about it. I get £120 for every performance, plus one-third of the receipts, which makes on the average a total of £240. Oh! I was forgetting: I am allowed £40 a week for hotel expenses.”

In accordance with her programme, Sarah left on January 23 for her second tour in America. She followed the route given above, with the exception of Mexico and Havana, which she omitted. She was enthusiastically applauded almost everywhere. In Australia the excitement rose to a frenzy. Sydney was decorated with flags in her honour; she was received by members of the Colonial Cabinet; the horses were taken out of her carriage, she was borne in triumph, and official receptions were organized for her. At Sydney she appeared for the first time in _Pauline Blanchard_, by MM. Darmont and Humblot. On this occasion she also played _La Dame de Chalant_--a piece that has not yet been seen in France.

During her absence there was some talk of her returning to the House of Molière for the creation of _La Reine Juana_, by M. Parodi, the author of _Rome Vaincue_, in which she had scored so many triumphs. Her own plans, however, were different. She wanted to make her dream a reality: to be her own mistress and to work on her own account. Thus, barely a month after her return to Paris in May 1892, she set off for London, returned to France, and started again on a tour through Russia and the Continental cities, such as Vienna, Copenhagen, Christiania, etc. It would take too long to record the triumph she scored in this wild gallop across Europe. Back in Paris in March 1893, she immediately began to prepare for another tour in South America. On the 28th May she played _Phèdre_ at the Vaudeville in aid of the funds of the Pouponnière, a charitable organization under the presidency of Mme. Georges Charpentier, wife of the well-known publisher. On the 24th May, through her American _impresarii_, Messrs. Abbey and Grau, she purchased the Renaissance theatre. Then came her tour through South America; dazzling success, big takings, and back to Paris.

Sarah Bernhardt was now at length installed in her own theatre, which she was to make her own in every sense, and which was destined to be for several years to come the scene of the finest experiments in dramatic art in all Paris--experiments carried out with a lavish disregard for everything except the interests of art. On the 6th November she opened the Renaissance with a four-act drama by M. Jules Lemaître, _Les Rois_.

As one critic expressed it, the Renaissance was not a shop but almost a temple!

At last, exclaims M. Sarcey, we have seen the great and only Sarah
again, and the Renaissance, under her management, has opened its
doors with _Les Rois_. How splendid she was, and how she reminded
us of the Sarah of her best days!

She re-appeared in _La Dame aux Camélias_ on the 16th December, and, according to the _Figaro_--

The interpretation of the play was admirable as far as Mme. Sarah
Bernhardt was concerned. The performance was one of the great
artiste’s best.

M. Sarcey indulged in reminiscences--

I well remember the first occasion on which I saw Mme. Sarah
Bernhardt as Marguerite Gauthier. It was in London, in 1881. She
played the part on several consecutive evenings, and every time I
was there, interested, delighted, and enthusiastic! The notices I
wrote then were simply brimming over with admiration. The Parisians
thought me slightly mad!

On the 24th January, 1894, _Izeïl_, by MM. Sylvestre and Morand, was brought out. Every act elicited enthusiastic applause from the public. Referring to Sarah, M. Jules Lemaître wrote in the _Journal des Débats_--

We owe to her one of the strongest artistic impressions we have
ever experienced. Is it a fact that, for reasons which MM.
Sylvestre and Morand know as well as I, and which the reader can
doubtless guess, her creative has had still more play than her
artistic talent?

M. Sarcey says--

In this delightfully picturesque play she is herself the most
delightful and most picturesque spectacle. She does not look
thirty! The audience was at first quite overcome. Then there was
a furious outburst of applause, and the house rose at her. What a
triumph!

These extracts, which might be multiplied _ad infinitum_, show Sarah Bernhardt at her apogee. From this point her supremacy was undisputed, and any show of criticism was always tempered by admiring reservations. This was the attitude henceforth adopted by the entire Press in regard to her creations. _Fédora_ was revived on the 3rd April, 1894. M. Lemaître remarks on it--

I am not quite sure whether Mme. Sarah Bernhardt can say “How
do you do?” like any ordinary mortal. To be herself she must be
extraordinary, and then she is incomparable.

Off to London in June, she played _Izeïl_ with tremendous success. On her return she gave _La Femme de Claude_ on the 19th September. _Gismonda_, which she produced on the 1st November, elicited another poetical outburst of admiration in the Press. The _Figaro_ speaks of her as attaining the perfection of her art. M. Bauer, in the _Echo de Paris_, calls Gismonda the most wonderful of all her creations. M. Lemaître, in the _Journal des Débats_, says that “as all the laudatory adjectives have already been used up in her service, it is difficult to express the adoration evoked by every fresh appearance of this extraordinary woman.” M. Sarcey alone was rather reserved in his praise, and described her as having been applauded with more Italian than French exaggeration; but he amply atoned for this when Sarah revived _Phèdre_ on the 24th December of the same year (1894).

What can I tell you of Sarah that you do not know already? Her
acting is the summit of art. Our grandfathers used to speak with
emotion of Talma and Mlle. Mars. I never saw either the one or the
other, and I have barely any recollection of Rachel, but I do not
believe that anything more original and more perfect than Mme.
Sarah Bernhardt’s performance on Wednesday has ever been seen in
any theatre.

On the 11th February, 1895, came the revival of _Amphitryon_, with Coquelin, who unfortunately remained with her for only a brief period. M. Sarcey considered the performance wanting in life. The other critics treated it as a success for Sarah and Coquelin, but there was no enthusiasm. On the 15th February, _Magda_, by the German writer Sudermann, was produced. All the critics described her as admirable. On the 5th April, _La Princesse Lointaine_, by M. Edmond Rostand, proved an equally great success for poet and actress. To London and Scotland again, with _Gismonda_, _Izeïl_, _La Princesse Lointaine_, _La Tosca_, _Magda_, and _La Femme de Claude_. Then she made arrangements to produce _Amants_, by M. Maurice Donnay, for which she engaged Mme. Jeanne Granier. In the meantime what does Sarah do? Rest? Not at all. On the 5th January the _Figaro_ announced her departure on that day for America, where she was to give a series of performances. She was back on the 4th July, 1896. She took two months’ rest at Belle-Isle, and on the 30th September she revived _La Dame aux Camélias_ with phenomenal success. On the 8th October she recited before the Tsar and Tsaritsa at Versailles. _Lorenzaccio_, adapted by M. Armand Dartois from Musset’s poem, was produced on the 3rd December, and enabled Sarah to score yet another triumph.

“SARAH BERNHARDT’S DAY”

On the 8th February she brought out a piece by M. Sardou, _Spiritisme_. It was a failure. Sarah’s talents were extolled to the skies as usual, but in comparison with her previous appearances the reception of the play was cold. After twenty-five indifferent performances she was obliged to revive _La Tosca_, and then bring out a piece, _Snob_, by M. Gustave Guiches, in which there was no part for her. Easter week arrived, and she took advantage of it to give a series of performances of M. Rostand’s religious drama, _La Samaritaine_, which met with triumphal success. Says M. Sarcey--“Sarah, transfigured and drinking in the life-giving Word, and repeating the words ‘I am listening, I am listening’ with all a neophyte’s ardour, is a sight to be seen. Her personality completely fills the second act. Full of the divine fire, she evangelizes the crowd wherever she goes. Her success was very great.”

We now come to the great artiste’s most recent creations. Her dramatic genius found fresh expression in Octave Mirabeau’s fine social problem play, _Les Mauvais Bergers_, brought out on the 15th December. After her appearance as a man in _Lorenzaccio_, and as a divinely inspired convert in _La Samaritaine_, here she was as one of the working-class, in a cotton blouse and woollen skirt. Next she gave Gabriel d’Annunzio’s _Ville Morte_, and, rejuvenated and transfigured after her severe illness, she produced _Lysiane_ by M. Romain Coolus in the spring of 1898.

Immediately after her triumph in _Lorenzaccio_, a few of Sarah Bernhardt’s friends, headed by M. Henry Bauer, decided to organize a grand _fête_ in her honour, to mark the apogee of her artistic career. Wednesday, 9th December, 1896, was fixed as the date. Shortly before the great day, I had requested Sarah to give herself up to one or two hours’ solitude, to revive the memories of her emotions, struggles, and triumphs, and, in short, give the readers of the _Figaro_ a glimpse into her mind on the eve of one of the most memorable events of her brilliant career. She sent me the following spontaneous and vigorous account of her meditations--

_My dear friend, you are asking for nothing less than a full
confession, but I have no hesitation in answering. I am proud and
thoroughly happy at the prospect of the_ fête _that is to be given
me. You ask me to say whether I really and truly believe I deserve
this honour. If I say Yes, you will think me very conceited. If
I say No, you will set me down as very blamable. I would rather
tell you why I am so proud and happy. For twenty-nine years past I
have given the public the vibrations of my soul, the pulsations of
my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have played one hundred and
twelve parts. I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen
of which are the work of poets. I have struggled like no other
human being has struggled. My independence and hatred of deception
have made me bitter enemies. I have overcome and pardoned those
whom I condescended to encounter. They have become my friends. The
mud thrown at me by others has fallen from me in dust, dried up by
the scorching sun of my determination and faith in my own powers.
I have ardently longed to climb the topmost pinnacle of my art. I
have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part of my life remains
for me to live, but what matters it! Every day brings me nearer to
the realization of my dream. The hours that have flown away with
my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for my goal is
unchanged, and I am marching towards it._

_I have journeyed across the ocean, carrying with me my ideal of
art, and the genius of my nation has triumphed. I have planted
the French language in the heart of foreign literature, and
this is my proudest achievement. My art has been the missionary
whose efforts have made French the common speech of the younger
generation. I know this to be true. Teachers in foreign countries
have told me so, ladies in New York have confirmed it, the public
has proved it, and I have been openly blamed for my presumption
by a German professor at Chicago. In Brazil, the students fought
with drawn swords because an attempt was made to prevent them from
shouting “Vive la France!” as they dragged my carriage along. In
the Argentine Republic, the students tried to do honour to my
country by learning passages from Racine, Corneille, Molière,
and Jules Lemaître’s critiques, all of which they recited most
correctly and with scarcely any foreign accent. In Canada, my
sledge was propelled by members of Parliament to the cry of “Vive
la France!” and after every performance the students struck up the
Marseillaise, listened to by the English, standing up, hat in hand,
with their invariable respect for any noble expression of feeling._

_Here is a typical incident. When I arrived in Australia, the
French residents were dominated by the Germans. Our consul was
neither liked nor esteemed. Immediately upon my arrival I was
received by the mayor in his robes of office. His wife and children
offered me flowers, and a military band played the national anthems
of France and England. I owed this polite attention to orders from
England. The effect was immediately felt, and this semi-royal
reception was much to the benefit of our countrymen at Sydney and
Melbourne. The plays performed by my company and myself met with
wonderful success, and when the steamer which was conveying us
back to the northern hemisphere fired her parting gun, our own
national anthem was sung by more than five thousand people massed
on the quays. I assure you that those who witnessed that grand and
heart-stirring scene have not forgotten it._

_In Hungary, the towns in which I was to perform were decorated
with French flags, in spite of orders from the Austrian Government.
Czechs went through their national dances before me with red,
white, and blue ribbons._

_These are the trifling victories that have gained me so much
indulgence. I say nothing of the encounters at which you and all
the Paris public have been present. And now, after having finished
my confession, I can still find one little circumstance in my own
favour. Five months ago I refused an offer of a million francs to
perform in Germany. If there be any carping critics to say the_
fête _about to be given me is out of proportion to my talents, tell
them I am the militant_ doyenne _of a grand, inspiring, elevating
form of art. Tell them French courtesy was never more manifest than
when, desiring to honour the art of interpretation and raise the
interpreter to the level of other creative artists, it selected a
woman._

_SARAH BERNHARDT._

_December 8, 1896._

The promised _fête_ took place on the following day, 9th December. It was a very fine one--much finer than any one could possibly have expected.

It was a charming, delightful festival under a grey wintry sky in the heart of Paris: an outburst of kindly feeling in the most artistic form. Some unsympathetic spirits had made merry over the programme, and it was asserted that the timid poets who were to appear would shrink from the critical gaze of Paris. Thanks to Sarah and the witchcraft of her grace and beauty, the ceremony was not only the greatest and most enviable triumph of her career, but it passed off with perfect harmony, in an atmosphere warm with cordiality and admiration.

The brief and hurried summary to which I am obliged to confine myself can give only a faint idea of those six hours of continuous ovations. Half-an-hour after noon Sarah arrived in her two-horse brougham with her son and daughter-in-law. As she appeared on the steps in the courtyard of the Grand Hôtel, cries of “_Vive Sarah!_” were heard, and the crowd of foreign visitors present spontaneously uncovered as the great artiste passed through them. The great Salle du Zodiaque, in which the banquet was held, was already full of guests, all in evening dress. When Mme. Sarah Bernhardt came down the narrow winding staircase leading from the first floor into the dining-room, every man and woman among the five hundred guests rose and frantically applauded again and again. The long train of her beautiful white dress, trimmed with English lace, embroidered with gold, and bordered with chinchilla, followed her like a graceful, tame serpent down the stairs. At every turn in the winding staircase she bent over the railing and twined her arm like an ivy-wreath round the velvet pillars while she acknowledged the acclamations with her disengaged hand. Her lithe and slender body scarcely seemed to touch the earth. She was wafted towards us as it were in a halo of glory. There was a continuous fire of applause from the whole assembly as she made her way to the presidential chair. She reached it very pale, but smiling and happy. Another thunderous outburst of cheers, and the meal began.

Sarah Bernhardt had M. Sardou on her right and M. Henry Bauer on her left. At the head table there were also Mme. de Najac, MM. François Coppée, H. de Bornier, Ludovic Halévy, Jules Lemaître, Théodore Dubois, André Theuriet, H. Lavedan, Albert Carré, Coquelin the elder, Edouard Colonne, and Gabriel Pierné; Mme. Maurice Bernhardt, MM. Mendès, Silvestre, Maurice Bernhardt, Lord and Lady Ribblesdale, MM. Jean Lorrain, Haraucourt, Charpentier, Comte Robert de Montesquiou, Clairin, Armand d’Artois, Morand, Silvain, and Edmond Rostand. At the other tables the guests took their places as best pleased them, without regard to the cards. There were three kinds of menus, designed by Mme. Abbéma, Chéret, and Mucha. The luncheon was a lively one. All eyes were fixed on the heroine of the feast. Every one was loud in wonder at the freshness of her colour and the perpetual youth which she owes without doubt to the incomparable vital energy of her privileged nature. When the dessert was reached, M. Sardou rose and said--

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,

I leave to the poets, whom we are to hear later on, the honour
of extolling, better than I can do, the genius of the unrivalled
artiste before us, the real creator of every one of her _rôles_,
the acknowledged sovereign of dramatic art, and hailed as such
throughout the world. My task is a humbler one. To every one of
those who owe to her such keen emotions it is not given to see
her in her home, among her children and her friends, and, after
applauding the actress, to know the benevolence, the charity, and
the exquisite kindness of the woman. To her I bear testimony, and
wish her long life and prosperity, and I ask you all to drink to
the health of her who is both the great and the good Sarah.

Terrific applause followed this last sentence, the ladies present being, if possible, more enthusiastic than the men. When silence was restored, Sarah rose and uttered these simple words--

“To all of you, my friends, from the bottom of a grateful heart I say ‘Thank you! thank you!’”

Her hands, at first clasped upon her breast and then outstretched towards the guests, seemed to say--

“My heart, my whole heart is yours!”

Repeated volleys of applause followed. Tears coursed down the cheeks of many of the ladies. M. Sardou was seen to wipe his eyes. The emotion was truly great and general. The Colonne choir sang the chorus composed for the occasion by MM. Armand Silvestre and Gabriel Pierné, and then the guests rose from the table. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt left as she had come, shaking many a hand on the way, embracing Coquelin, stopping in front of Jeanne Granier, kissing her twice and congratulating her on her triumph in _Amants_. As she went slowly up the winding stair, from time to time sending a smile or a wave of her hand to her admirers below, she seemed almost to be mounting in triumph towards the sky!

The next act in the great ceremony took place at the Renaissance theatre at half-past three. As was the case at the Grand Hôtel, mounted soldiers were posted outside to keep back the crowd assembled to watch the arrival of the guests. The house was crowded. Every one who had been at the luncheon was in attendance, and hundreds of others besides. Literally everybody in art, literature, and society was there. Greetings were exchanged on all sides, but, unlike most assemblies of this kind, the gathering did not display a trace of mockery or hostility. Everybody had come to do honour in real earnest to the great French tragedienne. The upper galleries were occupied by deputations from the students’ associations, Polytechnic School, Conservatoire of Music and Declamation, School of Fine Arts, non-commissioned officers of the Paris garrison, etc. At a quarter to four the curtain rose on the third act of _Phèdre_, with M. Darmont as Hippolyte, Mlle. Seylor as Ismène, Mlle. Mellot as Aricie, and Mme. Grandet as Œnone. Sarah’s entrance in her peplum and _mousseline de soie_ veil, embroidered with gold, was the signal for thunders of applause. She spoke, she moaned, she sang, she called down imprecations on her enemies’ heads, and when, with a superb gesture, she bared her breast and declaimed--

“Voilà mon cœur. C’est là que ton bras doit frapper!”--

the ovation she received threatened to literally bring down the house. The same scenery was used, after the interval, for the fourth act of _Rome Vaincue_, by M. de Parodi. Enthusiasm rose to a still greater height when Postumia came forward, blind, in mourning garments, a halo of white hair about her brow. The whole audience was thrilled by her cries of anguish, the gestures of her hesitating arms, and the signs of grief upon her face. I saw all my neighbours shed tears.

After a second interval came the turn of the poets, who, according to the programme, were each to read a sonnet in honour of the artiste. There was a distinct thrill of curiosity among the audience. What would this apotheosis be like, and would the bold idea be carried out as it ought to be? At this moment I was in fear of seeing a smile--fear for the great and beloved artiste, and for the courageous poets whose grateful admiration was perhaps to expose them to the shafts of malice. The curtain rose again, and applause burst forth from every part of the house. Sarah, in her Phèdre dress, was seen seated in a chair of flowers beneath a canopy of green palms standing on a platform raised two steps above the stage. Her face, pale with emotion, stood out against a background of red and white camellias. Amongst the palms were branches of orchids; around Sarah, and at her feet, were her fellow-actresses, in plain white antique robes, with wreaths of roses on their brows, gazing at her with smiles of delight. On her right, and close to the scenery, were the five poets who were to celebrate her--MM. François Coppée, Edmond Haraucourt, Catulle Mendès, Edmond Rostand, and André Theuriet. Beside them was a deputation from the Students’ Association. On the left were all the artistes of the Renaissance theatre. M. Paul Clerget, of the Renaissance, acted as master of the ceremonies. M. Paul Tixier, the President of the Students’ Association, came forward and delivered a witty and tactful little address. M. Clerget then announced--

The poet, François Coppée.

As M. Coppée came forward, Sarah rose, and it was seen that the flowers suspended from the palms formed a wreath just above her head. Standing up, she listened to an indifferent sonnet. After reading his verses M. Coppée approached Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and kissed both her hands, but she, bending down towards the poet, offered him her cheeks to kiss. M. Mendès, M. Haraucourt, and M. André Theuriet then read their sonnets with the same simple ceremonial, amid applause. A sonnet by M. de Heredia, read by M. Morand, was not sufficiently audible. Finally, M. Edmond Rostand came forward and recited the following verses in clear, resonant tones--

En ce temps sans beauté, seule encor tu nous restes
Sachant descendre, pâle, un grand escalier clair,
Ceindre un bandeau, porter un lys, brandir un fer.
Reine de l’attitude et Princesse des gestes.

En ce temps, sans folie, ardente, tu protestes!
Tu dis des vers. Tu meurs d’amour. Ton vol se perd.
Tu tends des bras de rêve, et puis des bras de chair.
Et quand Phèdre paraît, nous sommes tous incestes.

Avide de souffrir, tu t’ajoutas des cœurs;
Nous avons vu couler--car ils coulent, tes pleurs!--
Toutes les larmes des nos âmes sur tes joues.

Mais aussi tu sais bien, Sarah, que quelquefois
Tu sens furtivement se poser, quand tu joues,
Les lèvres de Shakespeare aux bagues de tes doigts.

Long-continued applause greeted these beautiful verses, and it was felt that the greatest success of the occasion had fallen to M. Rostand. At this moment Sarah’s emotion reached its height. She stood, with heaving breast, pale as the camellias about her. Her trembling lips endeavoured to shape themselves into a grateful smile, but the tears were gathering in her eyes. Her hands were clasped with all her strength over her heart as if to keep it from bursting forth. No spectacle could be finer than this woman, whose unconquerable energy had withstood the struggles and difficulties of a thirty-years career, standing overwhelmed and vanquished by the power of a few lines of poetry delivered before these fifteen hundred enthusiastic auditors. Flowers from the topmost galleries fell on the stage, and with long-sustained cheers the ceremony closed. Hundreds of friends, not content with applauding all day, invaded Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s room. More hand-clasps, embraces, and happy tears followed. M. and Mme. Maurice Bernhardt were there, with swollen eyes but joyful faces. There was talk about imaginary difficulties raised by the Grand Chancellery of the Legion of Honour as an excuse for not decorating the great artiste. The Cabinet, it was said, would have to intervene, but it was generally thought that all difficulties would be overcome before the 1st of January. Besides, how could this decoration enhance such a demonstration as had just taken place? I am told that M. Poincaré, who was present, was condoled with on losing office, and replied, “If I regretted it at all I could not do so more than I do to-day.” The letters and telegrams received during the day were handed round. Here are a few selected from the mass--

From EMMA CALVÉ (who had arrived in New York three days before).

Chère grande artiste, my heart is with you.

* * * * *

From Mme. RÉJANE.

MY DEAR SARAH,

The whole Vaudeville company are here to express their admiration
for you. On their behalf I beg you to accept the accompanying
flowers with the assurance of my deep affection.

RÉJANE.

* * * * *

_Francavilla Mare._

From GABRIEL D’ANNUNZIO.

On this most glorious day a grateful Italy sends her wreath of
laurel to the immortal enchantress. _Ave._

GABRIEL D’ANNUNZIO.

* * * * *

_London._

From Sir HENRY IRVING.

DEAR MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT,

Your brother and sister artistes of the Lyceum theatre send you
their love and greeting. Your favourite art and all the arts do
homage to you, and we your comrades in another land in which your
genius is so highly esteemed are happy to add our tribute to the
great honour you so well deserve.

Yours as ever, with affection and admiration,
HENRY IRVING.

[Appended were the signatures of Ellen Terry and thirty-four
members of the Lyceum Company].

* * * * *

From Mr. WILSON BARRETT.

DEAR MADAME,

I send you a drawing of a silver wreath, which it will be my great
pleasure to ask you to accept. The date of the _fête_ to be given
in your honour was so uncertain that the jewellers have not had
time to finish the wreath, but I hope to be able to send it to
you in a few days. Believe me, it is a pleasure to pay this small
tribute to so great an artiste as yourself, and to one who has
raised our profession to the high standard it now occupies. Kindly
send me the names of the different parts created by you which you
would like to have engraved on the leaves of the wreath. I have the
honour to be

Your great admirer,
WILSON BARRETT.

* * * * *

A cable from CHICAGO.

Compliments of all the critics of the _Tribune_, _Times_, _Herald_,
_Inter-Ocean_, _Post_, _Journal_, and _Dispatch_.

* * * * *

Another from NEW YORK.

The American Dramatic Authors’ Club instructs me to offer its
homage to the queen and sovereign, by divine right, of the French
stage, and to congratulate the Masters of the French drama who,
thanks to Sarah Bernhardt, have secured a worldwide triumph for
fine works, and have thus set back the boundaries of art.

BRONSON HOWARD,
President of the American Dramatic Authors’ Club.

Other congratulations came from the St. James’s and Criterion theatres, Mme. Melba, MM. Jean and Edouard de Reszké, Chartran, etc. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt spent the evening of this unique day at her son’s house, among her relations and intimate friends.

On the 20th April, 1898, she scored a fresh triumph in _Lysiane_. M. Bauer wrote in the _Echo de Paris_--

Every new part in which Sarah Bernhardt appears is a new revelation
of her talent. After accustoming us to expect sublime tragedy from
her, she charms and delights us with light and delicate comedy
touches and subtle shades of coquetry. How affectionately and
joyfully the public greeted her ever-flowering genius! How well the
clapping of hands and excitement aroused by her return to the stage
showed the sympathy of Paris for her trials and sufferings!

M. Catulle Mendès, in the _Journal_, speaks of the extraordinary versatility of her talent and its unexpectedly new manifestations. She has always been subtle, tender, and ardent, he says, and yet in her _rôle_ she exhibited these qualities in a different form.

After _Lysiane_, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt gave a series of performances of _La Dame aux Camélias_ and _La Samaritaine_. She then went to London in June on her annual visit, playing _Phèdre_, _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, D’Annunzio’s _Spring Morning’s Dream_. July, August, and September she spent at Belle-Isle-en-Mer. On the 28th October, 1898, she produced M. Mendès’ _Médée_. It was a dead failure, in spite of all the great tragedienne’s efforts. The unsatisfactory receipts obliged her to fall back on _La Dame aux Camélias_, of which she gave a few performances before leaving for Italy and the south of France on a tour she had been obliged to postpone a week before.

This brings us to the beginning of the year 1899. The Renaissance theatre had been prospering for five years. In it, as we have seen, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt had successively performed _Les Rois_, _La Dame aux Camélias_, _Phèdre_, _Izeïl_, _Fédora_, _La Femme de Claude_, _Gismonda_, _Magda_, _Amphitryon_, _L’Infidèle_, _La Princesse Lointaine_, _Lorenzaccio_, _La Tosca_, _La Samaritaine_, _Les Mauvais Bergers_, _La Ville Morte_, _Lysiane_, and _Médée_. The plays in which she did not appear were _Amants_, _La Figurante_, _La Meute_, _Snobs_, and _Affranchie_. Notwithstanding the success achieved, there was a feeling of restriction. The field of action was too limited. In spite of perfect prodigies of ingenuity, and the unsparing efforts of all Mme. Bernhardt’s co-workers, great spectacular effects were impossible. Many new plays which the great artiste would have wished to produce could not be mounted satisfactorily at the Renaissance, and had to be left to rival theatres. The Théâtre des Nations, vacated by the removal of the Opéra Comique to its new quarters, tempted her, the 1900 Universal Exhibition being at hand. She applied to the Municipal Council for the theatre, and obtained it. She opened on the 21st January with a revival of _La Tosca_. On the 8th March she reproduced Feuillet’s _Dalila_, and, on the 25th, Rostand’s _Samaritaine_, which seems to have taken the place of the _Dame aux Camélias_ as general stand-by.

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s appearance at the Théâtre des Nations marks the commencement of a new era in her artistic career. I have already said that the history of the arts affords no parallel to the life of Mme. Sarah Bernhardt, and I maintain that we can only bow with respect before the incomparable expenditure of vital energy which she has lavished throughout thirty years of intense and varied activity.

SARAH BERNHARDT’S ‘HAMLET’

Madame Sarah Bernhardt’s appearance in a new French adaptation of _Hamlet_ took place on Saturday, May 20. Her enterprise was distinctly a bold one. The series of performances would necessarily have to cease after June 6, in consequence of the actress’ engagement to appear in London on the 8th. The play could hardly be expected to prove a success from the purely financial point of view. As one critic remarks, it is impossible to make Hamlet Parisian. Moreover, the production of M. Jean Aicard’s version of _Othello_ at the Comédie Française, a splendidly-mounted and finely-acted play, might fairly be thought to have taken off the edge of the public appetite for Shakespearian revivals in Paris. These considerations, however, did not deter Mme. Sarah Bernhardt. No one could ever accuse her of wanting the courage of her opinions. She made up her mind that Hamlet was a part for her to play, and she played it. She was not the first French actress to make the attempt. Mme. Judith and Mme. Lerou had both played the Prince of Denmark with a fair amount of success, and much curiosity was felt as to Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s interpretation of the character. She had already given something like a foretaste of Hamlet in Lorenzaccio, and there are one or two weird incidents in her own career. She has been identified as the actress whom Edmond de Goncourt shows us, in _Faustine_, watching at a death-bed with professional curiosity, and afterwards utilizing the experience on the stage. Be this as it may, there is a touch of Hamlet’s melancholy philosophy about her daily contact with her own coffin.

_The Queen_, Mlle. Marcya. _Hamlet_, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt.
]

The translation of _Hamlet_ has often tempted French literary skill. Dumas and Victor Hugo, each with the assistance of a collaborator, at different times rendered the play in French verse. The adaptation by MM. Samson and Cressonnois, in which Mme. Sarah Bernhardt appeared as Ophelia, was also entirely in verse. Then M. Theodore Reinach translated Shakespeare’s verse into verse and prose into prose. The latest adaptation, carried out by MM. Morand and Schwob for Mme. Sarah Bernhardt, is wholly in prose, and is perhaps the most literal reproduction of the original ever attempted in France. It is so literal that in many cases the English word is used in preference to what might not be a close or satisfactory equivalent in French. Even Victor Hugo’s version, which was accused of being more Shakespearian than Shakespeare, did not go as far as this in the effort for exactitude. As M. Henry Fouquier observes--

“Even in England, _Hamlet_ is never played in its entirety. MM. Morand-Schwob have reduced the original thirty-two scenes to fifteen, but they have shown all possible respect for Shakespeare’s masterpiece, and of all translations made for the stage theirs retains most of the colour of the original, which can never be followed sufficiently closely in verse.”