SARAH BERNHARDT

On the 10th February, 1898, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt telephoned to me to come and see her. The occasion was a serious one. She told me that on the following day she would leave her house in the Boulevard Pereire and enter a private hospital in the Rue d’Armaillé, where she was to undergo a painful operation. For some time past she had suffered from a dull, aching pain, and during a performance ofLes Mauvais Bergers, in which she had to fall flat on her face, she experienced a sharper pang than usual. She ought to have at once begun to take care of herself and avoid all fatigue, but when she returned to her dressing-room, her first act was to fall on her face again to make sure that what she had felt was not mere imagination. She went on making sure in this way through the remaining forty performances ofLes Mauvais Bergers. Finally, however, she called in Dr. Pozzi, who immediately discovered seriousinternal trouble, and informed her that an operation must be performed in June. In spite of this, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt organized a provincial tour; but her condition suddenly became worse, and Dr. Pozzi decided that the operation must take place almost immediately.

A few days before the date fixed, the actress decided to break the news to her son. She did this on the eve of his duel with M. Champsaur, of which, of course, he had not told her.

“You can imagine what a blow it was to him,” Mme. Sarah Bernhardt remarked to me.

“Were you not afraid?” I asked—I don’t exactly know why, the great artiste being as gay and alert as usual.

“Afraid?” she replied. “No; there’s no danger with Pozzi. It’s just a stroke of bad luck,” she added bravely, with a smile. “I had a wonderful run of success last year, too much in fact, and now this is a set-off.”

“When is the operation to be?” I asked.

“On Wednesday. Don’t forget to come and see me when I am convalescent. I will tell you all sorts of fine stories, so that you won’t get bored.”

The operation was perfectly successful, and on the 1st of May, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt, who was then quite out of danger, was allowed to see her friends on condition that they should be very few and their visits very short. As one of these friends, I spent half-an-hour in the sick-room.

The hospital, situated in the Ternes quarter of Paris, is a species of small private house with a courtyard in front, and is as little like a medical establishment as can be imagined. The patient’s room, scrupulously neat and clean, was on the first floor, overlooking a small garden containing a few large trees. The great artiste was lying on a small iron bed, her fair hair completely covering her pillow. She was smiling and gay, as usual; perhaps a little paler than her wont, that was all. My mind involuntarily reverted to Lady Macbeth, Doña Sol, Maria de Neubourg, Phèdre, and Froufrou, and I thought of all the triumphs, heroic ardour, wild passion and divine melancholy of thirty years of art and crowded life abruptly cut short and laid low under the surgeon’s knife. But the wonderful vitality of this rare creature, who has always vanquished every combination of adverse circumstances, had once more got the better of misfortune.

“I kept on telling myself every day,” she said, “that this is the price I have to pay for the great day I had two years ago. I always said something of this kind was bound to come. Ask Seylor if I didn’t.”

Mlle. Seylor, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s faithful companion, who has not been absent from her a day for the last ten years, had just entered the room.

“Didn’t I tell you so, Seylor?” the patient continued. “When you kissed me and said how happy you were over my ‘glory,’ as you called it, didn’t Isay, ‘Everything has its bad side as well as its good. See if I don’t pay dearly for to-day!’”

And a shadow of melancholy came over the great artiste’s features, but soon disappeared. As the song of a bird arose from the garden, sheexclaimed—

“Listen to that blackbird; isn’t it delightful? He sings every morning just as if he had been put there on purpose for me.”

Speaking of the operation, shesaid—

“It lasted an hour and a half, but I did not feel the slightest pain either then or afterwards. I have had no fever at all. At the present moment my temperature is not above 97°. For two days the chloroform rather annoyed me, and I had touches of nausea, but that was all. The only pain I had was what I inflicted on my son by running the risk. Poor boy! it’s the first time I have ever made him suffer of my own free will!”

My eyes wandered round the room. Apart from a few roses and orchids, there was nothing on the mantelpiece and tables but portraits of Maurice Bernhardt as a child, as a youth, and as he is to-day. There was also a marble bust of him.

“Look!” said Sarah, “there are his first shoe and his first shirt.”

Hanging from the corner of a mirror were a tiny little white patent-leather shoe, all shrivelled by time, and a shirt that might have fitted a doll.

“They never leave me,” she added. “When I travel, I take them with me, and I felt I musthave them here. I believe they bring me good luck.”

Before taking leave I inquired as to the probable duration of the convalescence.

“At the end of the week,” was the reply, “I shall be able to get up. Within ten days I shall take a walk in the garden, and within a fortnight I am to go to St. Germain and complete my convalescence at the Pavillon Henri IV. Come and see me soon and we will talk.”

I took advantage of the permission, and in the course of my visits I was able to take down, from the great artiste’s own lips, the information contained in these pages, by far the greater part of which information will be new to the public.

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of five.

“I was born in Paris,” Mme. Sarah Bernhardt told me, “at No. 265 Rue St. Honoré, in the house also occupied by my old friend, Mme. Guérard, who is still bright and hearty in spite of her seventy-six years. She saw me come into the world, and she was present at the birth of my son Maurice, and of my grand-daughter.

“My mother, as you know, was a Dutch Jewess. She was fair, short, and round, with a long body and short legs, but she had a pretty face and beautiful blue eyes. She spoke French badly, and with a strong foreign accent. She had fourteen children, among them being two pairs of twins. I was the eleventh child. I was put out to nurse with aconcierge, and the arrangement worked well enough aslong as I was quite small; but I began to find my confinement wearisome, and one day, when I was at the window of theconcierge’sroom—you know those little arched windows that are still to be seen in the entresols of old houses—I saw my mother coming in through theporte-cochère, and I fell out of the window in my haste to reach her! She realized the situation, and I was taken home, where I remained several years with my mother andsisters. My education had to be thought of, and as my father insisted on my being baptized, I was sent to the Augustinian convent at Grandchamp, Versailles. Thus, at the age of twelve I became a Christian, was baptized, received my first communion on the following day, and was confirmed on the day after with three of my sisters. I became very pious. I was seized with an extraordinary, passionate adoration for the Virgin. For a long time I cherished a tiny gold image of her which some one had given me. One day it was stolen, to my great grief.

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of eleven.

“I was both reserved and fractious. My mother had little love for me; she preferred my sisters. I was seldom taken out. Sometimes I was left at the convent during the holidays. I used to feel sad at being thus neglected, but the feeling of depression soon wore off, and the spirit of fun in my nature got the upper hand. One day, when we heard that all the schools in France, except ours, had been given bonbons on the occasion of the baptism of the Prince Imperial, I proposed to several other girls that we should run away, and I undertook to manage it. Being on good terms with the sister in charge of the gate, I went into her lodge and pretended to have a hole in my dress under the armpit. To let her examine the hole I raised my arm towards the cord communicating with the gate, and whilst she was looking at my dress I pulled the cord, my accomplices rushed out, and I followed them. Ourentire stock of provisions, ammunition, and sinews of war consisted of a few clothes, three pieces of soap in a bag, and the sum of seven francs fifty centimes in money. This was to take us to the other end of the world! A search had to be made for us, and as the good sisters could hardly undertake it, the police were set on our track. There was not much difficulty in finding us, as you may imagine. We were questioned, and Amelia Pluche—Ishall never forget the traitress’s name—denounced me as the ringleader. I was sent home in disgrace, but, nevertheless, returned to the convent.

“On another occasion, I remember, I had climbed on to the wall separating the convent from the cemetery. A grand funeral was in progress, and the Bishop of Versailles was delivering an address to quite a crowd. I immediately began to gesticulate, shout, and sing at the top of my voice so as to interrupt the ceremony. You can imagine the scene—a child of twelve sitting astride a wall, and a bishop interrupted in the midst of a funeral oration! The scandal was great, and I was again expelled. My mother did not at all approve of these escapades, and I was severely scolded, but, owing no doubt to influence, I was received in the convent once more. Some time afterwards, having been sentenced to three days’ solitary confinement for some offence, I climbed up to the top of a chestnut-tree in the garden. They sought for me in vain, and then set the watch-dog to find me. He promptly sat down at the foot of the tree and barked. My retreat was thus discovered, but there was no way of getting me down. The only man in the convent was an old gardener, who would not trust himself at such a height, and the ladders were too short. To all the sisters’ commands and threats I merely replied: ‘I will die here! I want to die here!’ Finally they had to promise on oath thatI should be let off my three days’ confinement, and I came down with the agility of a monkey. I was very good at gymnastics. My mother, knowing me to be delicate, urged me to take all sorts of exercise. I remember that the only prizes I ever got at the convent were for history, composition, and gymnastics.

“On my departure from Grandchamp came the question, What was I to do? I was religious, in spite of my wayward and passionate temperament. The patron saint of the convent, St. Augustin, whose portrait was displayed in every room, was my first passion, which he shared with the Virgin. I was strongly inclined to become a nun, but my ideas in this direction underwent a change soon after my departure from the convent. My mother provided me with a finishing governess, Mlle. de Brabander—a very superior woman, who had educated the Grand Duchess Marie of Russia. Mlle. de Brabander adored me. My mother had considerable difficulty in deciding what to do with me. In spite of my youth I was asked in marriage by a neighbouring glover, then by a tanner, and finally by a chemist, from whom I used to buy medicines. I refused them all! One of my mother’s friends was the Duc de Morny, and he suggested that I should try the stage as a profession. My mother thought I was not sufficiently pretty; I was too thin, she considered. Nevertheless, she decided to adopt the duke’s suggestion. The story of my admission tothe Conservatoire has often been told. I came with a letter of recommendation from the Duc de Morny, and I had scarcely recited two verses of La Fontaine’s fable ofThe Two Pigeons, when Auber signed to me to stop and come to him.

“‘Is your name Sarah?’ he asked.

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘Are you a Jewess?’

“‘By birth, sir, but I have been baptized.’

“‘She has been baptized,’ said Auber to the jury, ‘and it would have been a pity for such a pretty child not to be.’ Turning to me, he added, ‘You said your fable very well and you have passed.’

“Consequently I entered the Conservatoire. The next question was, in which class was I to study? Beauvallet said, ‘She will be a tragedienne.’ Regnier maintained, ‘She will be a comedienne,’ and Provost put them in agreement by declaring ‘She will be both.’ I joined Provost’s class.

“I began my studies without the slightest enthusiasm. I set to work because I had been brought to the Conservatoire for that purpose, but I had neither taste nor inclination for the profession I was to enter. I went to the theatre for the first time in my life two or three days before the entrance examination. I was taken to the Théâtre Français to seeAmphitryon. It made me cry! The stage had really no attraction for me. I often felt very unhappy at the prospect, and wept bitterly. Moreover I was horribly timid. When I discussed myreal inclinations with my dear governess, Mlle. de Brabander, I felt more disposed to study painting than anything else, but I had to give way. Mlle. de Brabander used to take me to the Conservatoire every day. My mother gave me the omnibus fare for both of us. I pocketed it and we walked, because we both hated coming into contact with all sorts of people in the omnibus. When we had enough money, that is to say, every alternate day, we took a cab, so that we could make sure of being alone. I have always had a horror of being obliged to rub shoulders with people I don’t know. If I can help it, I never stay in a waiting-room or any public place where I am obliged to inhale other people’s breath. In this respect I have always been ferociously unsociable.

“At the commencement of my studies at the Conservatoire, I had considerable difficulties to overcome. I inherited from my mother a serious defect in pronunciation—speaking with clenched teeth. In all the imitations of my style this point is seized upon. In my early days the defect was ten times more pronounced than it is now, and it clung to me all the time, whereas now it is only noticeable when I am nervous, generally in the first act. To cure me of the habit, the Conservatoire teachers gave me little rubber balls, which prevented me from closing my mouth. My fellow-pupils included Croizette, Lloyd, Rousseil, Dica-Petit, Léontine Massin, and Mme. Provost-Poncin.Among the men was Coquelin, who was always very nice to me.

Mme. Guérard.

“At my first competitive examination I took the second prize for tragedy, and Rousseil the first. In my last year I took the second prize for comedy, and Lloyd the first. I could never manage to get a first. After taking my second prize for tragedy, I stayed a year at the Conservatoire, in receipt of a salary of £75, paid by the Comédie Française,which had views concerning me. Finally it was arranged that I should make mydébutat the Comédie inIphigénie, with Mme. Devoyod as Clytemnestre. I knew no one in the company except Coquelin, who had just entered it, and was as good to me as he had been at the Conservatoire. I do not remember experiencing any strong emotions except a real fear; but I do remember that when I lifted my long, thin arms—and they were thin!—forthe sacrifice, the whole audience laughed. After that I played in Scribe’sValérie, with Coquelin as Ambroise. Theatrical life was still uninteresting to me. I never went inside a theatre except to act. Even now, paradoxical as it may seem, I know scarcely any plays, and scarcely any artistes except such as I have encountered at the various theatres in which I have played.

As Junie inBritannicus.

“I was far from resting at the Théâtre Français. Less than a year after mydébut, my sister Regina one evening accidentally trod on Mme. Nathalie’s train. Mme. Nathalie, who was one of the leading ladies, pushed the poor girl so roughly that she knocked her head against a corner and the blood came. I immediately ‘went for’ Mme. Nathalie, gave her a resounding smack, and called her a great stupid! The men were delighted, but the affair created a terrible scandal. The manager told me I must apologize to Mme. Nathalie. Ireplied—

“‘I will apologize to Mme. Nathalie if she will do the same to my little sister.’

“No arrangement could be made, and I left the House of Molière for the first time.

“Owing to this very pronounced feature in my character, no manager would have anything to do with me. A fairy extravaganza, theBiche au Bois, was being played at the Porte St. Martin, then managed by Marc Fournier, and I learnt that Mlle. Debay, a former Odéon star, who was playing the Princesse Désirée, had been taken ill. As the partwas in verse, I said to myself, ‘Here’s my chance,’ and went to see Fournier, who engaged me on the spot. As I was very young, I was asked who I was, and I replied that I was an orphan. I rehearsed twice, and the date of mydébutwas fixed. I sang a duet with Ugalde, who was kind enough to take the trouble of teaching me how to sing it. On the very first night it happened that my guardian was amongst the audience. He immediately recognized me and came to see me, horrified, after the first act. I implored him to say nothing to my mother, but he rushed off and brought her to the theatre. At first she would not let me finish, but finally she yielded to reason, and I played my part to the end, but that was my first and last appearance in extravaganza.

“After the Porte St. Martin came the Gymnase. In May 1863 I was engaged by Montigny to replace Victoria, Lafontaine’s wife. The piece was a vaudeville in rhymes, and I remember having tosing—

‘Un baiser? Non, non!’

“It was too absurd!

“I was very useful to Montigny. I had a marvellous memory, and shrank from no part, however difficult. I never really loved the stage, but as it was my profession I did not mean to let the grass grow under my feet. I was determined to get to the front. One after another I played inLe Père de la Débutante,Le Démon du Jeuby Theodore Barrière,La Maison sans Enfantsby Dumanoir,L’Etourneauby Bayard and Laya,Le Premier Pasby Labiche and Delacour, andUn Mari qui lance sa Femmeby Raymond Deslandes. In this last piece (April 28, 1864) I was a Russian princess, with nothing to do but eat and dance all the time. This idiotic part disgusted me to such an extent that I vowed not to play it a second time. The day after the first performance I went off to Spain! In the morning I locked my mother in her room so that she could not interfere with me, and off I set with my accomplice, a maid who had been discharged by my mother. We went to Marseilles and got on board a steamer. The only other passenger was a rich wine-merchant from the south of France. You see how practical we were! My great object was to go to Madrid—I was mad to see Spain and its museums—and after encountering a fearful storm we landed at Alicante. I was dreadfully sick, but fortunately I had brought my little golden Virgin, and she gave me hope and consolation.

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt when a girl.

“My mother had set the police on my track, but in vain. At last, however, we were starved out. At the end of two months I had seen all I wanted to see in Spain, and as all my money was gone I was obliged to write to my mother for supplies. She made me wait some little time, but finally sent them, and I returned to Paris.

“One day I encountered Camille Doucet, who, as I told you before, was a friend of our family.

“‘Well, are you as naughty as ever?’ he asked. ‘Have you been slapping any more of your confrères lately?’

As Zanetto inLe Passant.

“I explained that I had had no opportunity, and he advised me to apply to the Odéon, thenmanaged by Chilly and Duquesnel. Chilly was not much inclined to engage me, but Duquesnel seemed anxious to do so. Finally he had his way, and it was decided that I should appear as Junie inBritannicus(January 14, 1867). Taillade, who played Nero, insisted at rehearsal that I should kiss the hem of his garment. I imagine he must have set about obtaining this act of superfluous civility from me rather badly; at any rate, I gave him a sound box on the ear. Camille Doucet must have thought there was no doubt about my vocation.

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt inFrançois le Champi.(From a water-colour by Baudoin.)

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt inFrançois le Champi.

(From a water-colour by Baudoin.)

“My second appearance was inLe Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard. It was a hideous ‘frost’! I remember wearing a dress with white, blue, and red stripes to give me a Louis XV. appearance! Moreover I was as thin as a lath and absolutely unsuited to the part of Sylvia. Her airs and graces were never meant for me.

“My first success at the Odéon was as Zacharie inAthalie. I recited the chorus of women, and this was the first occasion on which I really impressed the public. My reception was, I venture to say, really a triumph. InLe Marquis de VillemerI next played a wretched part—a thirty-five-year-old baroness. I wept all the time. George Sand, who had noticed me, consoled me and promised that I should appear inL’Autre, which she had just finished; and she kept her word. Next cameLe Passant. Chilly had been induced with great difficulty to have this piece played as a benefitperformance. He had no faith in it, and thought it tiresome and without a future. He had so little confidence in its success that he absolutely refused to pay for the costumes, and Agar and I were obliged to order our own and settle the bills out of our own pockets. You know how popular Coppée’s little piece became. Agar and I played it twice before the Court, with immense success!1

1Mme. Bernhardt afterwards appeared as Armande inLes Femmes Savantes, inLes Arrêts(a one-act piece by M. de Boissières), inFrançois le Champi,Le Testament de César Girodot,King Lear,Le Legs,Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix, by Adolphe Belot (1869), andLa Loterie du Mariage.

InLe Drame de la Rue de la Paix.

“Keanwas being prepared at the Odéon. Chilly wanted the part of Anne Damby to be given to Jane Essler, and Dumas had already promised it to Antonine. Duquesnel advised me to go and see Dumas, and not to leave the house without a written authority to at least rehearse the part. I well remember going to see Dumas. The door was opened by his daughter, and I found Dumas in his shirt-sleeves, with a woman leaning on his shoulder—Oceana I believe she was. I timidly explained the object of my visit. He listened, looked at me, andsaid—

“‘You would do very nicely, but I have promised the part to Jane Essler.’

“I persisted in my request, and he confessed that he had also undertaken to give therôleto Antonine.

“Then, I said, ‘As you have promised it to two you may just as well promise it to three.’

“Fortunately I had learnt the part, and I began to recite it to him, inwardly repeating Duquesnel’s words: ‘Don’t leave him before you get a letter.’ Then I urged him again to let me rehearse the part, if only for a week.

“Finally Dumas had enough of it, and gave me a letter for Chilly, to this effect: ‘Jane Essler is to play Anne Damby, but you can let the bearer rehearse for a few days.’

“When the others saw me rehearsing for the part, there was a sensation. The end of it was that I kept the part and played it with very, verygreat success. A well-known incident happened at thepremière. Dumas came into his box accompanied by Oceana, and for three-quarters of an hour the students shouted ‘A la porte!’ to suchpurpose that Dumas was obliged to take the woman out, put her in a cab, and return to his box, wildly cheered by the students. Their hostility was solely against the woman who had forced this great man to make such a scandalous exhibition of himself.

“Next cameLe Bâtardby Alphonse Touroude, andL’Autreby George Sand (September 1869), neither of which has any interesting souvenirs connected with it.”

The war broke out, and ambulances were soon being established everywhere. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt decided to fit one up at the Odéon at her own expense, and on September 30 she set to work. Twenty-two beds were erected, long white curtains were hung at the windows andportièresover the doors, linen was neatly piled in cupboards, the dispensary was provided with bottles and drugs, and the cellars were filled with wood and coal. All the arrangements having been planned beforehand and carried out without delay, everything was completed in forty-eight hours, and there was nothing more to do but wait for the patients. They came soon enough! Day and night Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt and her aides-de-camp were kept at work. One of her first patients was M. Porel (now the manager of the Vaudeville theatre, and the husband of Mme. Réjane), who was slightly wounded by a fragment of shell. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt busied herself not only with the infirmary but with theoffice. The ambulance being a military one, and having to supply daily reports to the central establishment at the Val-de-Grâce hospital, Mlle. Bernhardt carefully noted all particulars of the patients admitted and discharged, and kept all her accounts with remarkable exactitude.

The war and the Commune over, the theatres re-opened their doors, and M. André Theuriet entrusted Mlle. Bernhardt with the principalrôleinJean Marie, which had just been accepted at the Odéon. Her success was striking, and she has kept this little piece in herrépertoire, reviving it time after time in her tours, just as she has done withPhèdre.

Nothing is more curious and instructive than to note the opinions of the theatrical critics on Sarah Bernhardt from this period onward. Sometimes she was lauded to the skies; at other times attempts were made to crush her by severe and often unjust condemnation. To begin with, let us take this expression of opinion given by the late M. Francisque Sarcey on October 14, 1871—

If I experienced great pleasure in seeingJean Marie, it was because the principal part was taken by Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. No one could be more innocently poetic than this young lady. She will become a great comedienne, and she is already an admirable artiste. Everything she does has a special savour of its own. It is impossible to say whether she is pretty. She is thin, and her expression is sad, but she has queenly grace, charm, and the inexpressibleje ne sais quoi. She is an artiste by nature, and an incomparable one. There is no one like her at the Comédie Française.

As Cordelia inKing Lear.

Ten days afterwards came the first performance ofFais ce que dois, a one-act piece in verse, by M. François Coppée. The same critic dismissed the matter by saying—“The two sisters Bernhardt, Sarah and Jeanne, have two such insignificant parts that they can make nothing out of them.” On November 4, M. Sarcey wrote, in reference to the impending departure of Mlle. Favart from the Comédie Française—“Her place should most certainly be taken by Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. Any other choice would be a monstrous injustice.” In spite of this impassioned declaration, the Odéon kept its prey. In the same month she appeared inLa Baronne, by MM. Charles Edmond and Edouard Foussier. By this time it was generally recognized that the antique peplum suited her better than modern dress. Two months afterwards (January 1872) the indefatigable young actress created the part of Mlle. Aïssé in Louis Bouilhet’s four-act play of that name. The critic Paul de Saint-Victor treated her with considerable severity.

Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, he wrote, played Aïssé very indifferently. She was weak and despondent, with no energy and no voice. In passages requiring the utmost fire and passion she did not rise above a monotonous sing-song. She cannot be said to have killed the piece, for it had no life in it, but another actress could perhaps have given it a more tragical and impressive ending. Mlle. Bernhardt makes it die of languor and inanition.

As Doña Sol inHernani.

Mlle. Bernhardt now arrived at one of the turning-points in her life. Victor Hugo, who hadreturned to France on the downfall of the Empire, was superintending the revival of his dramas, and MM. Chilly and Duquesnel decided to bring outRuy Blas. One evening there was a big dinner at Victor Hugo’s, and the guests set themselves to work to arrange the cast. Everyrôlewas satisfactorily allotted except that of the Queen, on which there was some difference of opinion. M. Paul Meurice strongly supported Mlle. Jane Essler.Victor Hugo, observing that Busnach had taken no part in the discussion, asked him his opinion.

“Ma foi,” exclaimed the dramatist, “I think Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is the only possible choice, and I strongly advise you to have her.”

Busnach argued his case with so much warmth that on the following day Victor Hugo asked the artiste to go over the part with him, and accepted her on the spot. Sarah’s success was unmistakable. Auguste Vitu wrote of her in theFigaro(February 19, 1872)—

Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt displayed feeling, grace, and even passion in the comparatively small part of Doña Maria. If, at the beginning of the second act, she could succeed in getting rid of the dismal, psalm-like intonation which she erroneously regards as the proper way to express melancholy, she would perfect a remarkable creation, which does her honour.

M. Sarcey was warmer in hispraise—

Norôlewas ever better adapted to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt’s talents than that of this melancholy queen. She possesses the gift of resigned and patient dignity. Her diction is so wonderfully clear and distinct that not a syllable is missed. At the same time it is hardly powerful enough for the passionate outbursts in the last act, but there is a great deal of warmth and feeling in the impassioned passages at the close.

Immediately after this success the newspapers began to urge M. Perrin, the manager of the Théâtre Français, to engage the brilliant star which had just made its appearance in the theatrical firmament. Sarah was, however, bound by her engagement at the Odéon, and the management would nothear of releasing her. Offers were made to her, and she decided to take legal proceedings to have the contract set aside. The decision was against her, and she was obliged to pay the Odéon the not excessive indemnity of £200. In this way she returned to the scene of herdébut. The event excited a great deal of comment in the theatrical world, and especially, as may be imagined, in the House of Molière. But the success ofRuy BlasandLe Passantsilenced the envious tongues, and her comrades soon found that they would have to reckon with the newpensionnaire. She set to work with astonishing ardour, and made her appearance on November 5, 1872, inMademoiselle de Belle-Isle. There could be no doubt of her possessing the fire of genius, or of her ability to charm and touch her audience. There was still a certain want of power, but she was full of happy inspirations. Paul de Saint-Victor, however, persisted in opposing her. Hewrote—

Mlle. Bernhardt made a very indifferentdébutas Gabrielle. The artificial reputation she made at the Odéon and brought with her to the Comédie Française does not stand examination. There is a deadly monotony about her diction. Everything is on the same level. The only tone in her voice is the low and plaintive one. When the action of the play quickens and the passions of the various characters begin to assert themselves, she dwindles away to nothing, and loses all the fire, force, and colour that the part ought to have. What good work can Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt do at the Théâtre Français? The idea of giving her a leading part in a modern drama is out of the question. The most she can do is to act as a feeble substitute for Mlle. Favart. Theweakness of her voice and the insufficiency of her talents exclude her from leading tragedy parts, and I do not see that she can take her place anywhere except in the background. She might sigh through the tirades of Atalide inBajazetor of Aricie inPhèdremelodiously enough, but that is really the extent of her powers, and it is not enough to justify the importance attached to a very unpromisingdébut.

As Léonora inDalila.

The reader will readily understand that these unjust criticisms by a celebrated writer are givenhere merely as evidence of the vanity of theatrical criticism.

In January and February 1873, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared successively as Junie inBritannicus, as Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle, and as Cherubin inLe Mariage de Figaro. With the exception of M. Sarcey the newspaper critics paid little attention to her. He thought her one of the best Cherubins he had ever seen: the incarnation of the adventurous youngster, the little scamp who is sure to be never without a sweetheart. She had all the self-consciousness of the big school-boy, with the audacity and impetuousness of a young bantam. She conveyed an impression of desire without love.

Next month her struggles began again with the production ofDalilaby Edmond About. Her friends seemed inclined to abandon her. M. Sarcey was far fromencouraging—

I fear, he said, that the management has made a mistake in already giving Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt leading parts. I do not know whether she will ever be able to fill them, but she certainly cannot do so at present. She is wanting in power and breadth of conception. She impersonates soft and gentle characters admirably, but her failings become manifest when the whole burden of the piece rests on her frail shoulders.

Apparently forgetting that, only a year before, he had declared Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt the only possible successor to Mlle. Favart, M. Sarceyadded—

After her two celebrated predecessors, Mlles. Fargueil and Favart, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt has excited little more than a benevolent curiosity. She can do nothing really badly, for she is an artiste to the tips of her fingers, but her voice has no sarcasm or irony, and is simply hard and distinct. Moreover, her whole personality is stiff. There is no clinging softness about her. She is more harsh than cold, and more cold than catlike.

Auguste Vitu indulged in a little fun over her thinness, and described her as “a needle made to look as neat as a new pin.” “There is nothing of the sorceress about her,” he added, “except the magic wand—herself.”

Paul de Saint-Victor wasunmerciful—

It was a singularly unfortunate idea, he wrote, to let Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appear in this important part of Léonora, still alive with the fire breathed into it by Mlle. Fargueil. All the most essential elements in the character—conquering charm, sovereign pride, haughty and cutting wit, light and stinging insolence, pretended pathos and false love—are wanting in her nature. She displays nothing but a subdued plaintiveness, and when she tries to intensify her tone she merely strikes a jarring note. She seeks to be imperious, and is merely violent; her disdain is without hauteur and her allurements are vulgar. It is a singular delusion to suppose that she will be able to fill and sustain a greatrôle. All the efforts that are made and will be made to push her to the front will only display her inadequacy.

Some envious rivals inspired newspaper attacks on her on the ground of her nationality. She was represented as a German Jewess. “Certainly,” she replied, “I am a Jewess, but not a German,” and she wrote as follows to M.Jouvin—

I should be really very much obliged if you would include in your nextfeuilletona few words to correct the mistake you made in your article on the revival ofDalilaat the Comédie Française. Since that day I have received a perfect avalanche of insulting and threatening letters. Nothing less than this could have induced me to write to you. I am French, absolutely French. I proved it during the siege of Paris, and the Society for the Encouragement of Well-doing awarded me a medal. Would it have done so if I had been a German? All my family come from Holland. Amsterdam was the birthplace of my humble ancestors. If I have a foreign accent—which I much regret—it is cosmopolitan, but not Teutonic. I am a daughter of the great Jewish race, and my somewhat uncultivated language is the outcome of our enforced wanderings. I hope your sense of justice will lead you to rectify a mistake which may not only affect my son’s future but is painful to me as a Frenchwoman. I thank you in advance, and am, etc.,Sarah Bernhardt.

Sarah Bernhardt.

On the 4th June, 1873, she created Mrs. Douglas inL’Absent, by Eugène Manuel, and Marthe inChez L’Avocat, a one-act piece by Paul Ferrier. The parts were insignificant, and brought her no increase of fame. The Press ignored them, almost entirely. She took no holiday during the summer of this year. During August she re-appeared inAndromaque, and theTempsbecame kind to heragain—

Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was tender, bewitching, coquettish, and above all feminine. Her performance was like an air, sad and passionate by turns, played by a master hand on a violoncello.

A fortnight later, September 17, she was playing Aricie inPhèdre. TheFigarobestowed a few commonplace compliments on her. She was accusedof being badly dressed, badly got up, and even with being unmistakably untidy; but M. Sarcey brought out his most flattering and ecstatic adjectives in her honour.

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and her son Maurice at the age of fifteen.

There can be no doubt about it now. All the opposition excited by Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt’s success must yield to facts. She simply delighted the public. The beautiful verses allotted to Aricie were never better delivered. Her voice is genuine music. There was a continuous thrill of pleasure among the entire audience.

In January 1874,Péril en la demeure, by Octave Feuillet, was revived. She displayed all her tender poetical grace in the character of the woman on the brink of surrender to temptation: one of Musset’s airy creations straying amongst M. Feuillet’sbourgeoisproverbs. InLe Sphinx, by the same author, produced on the 23rd March, 1874, she played the rather subordinaterôleof Berthe de Savigny. The notices of this performance show it to have been her first unmistakable success. Hitherto the Paris first-night audiences had merely tolerated her, but on this occasion she accomplished the feat of making a secondary part into an important one. Nevertheless, as one of her critics remarks, she in no way trespassed on her sister actresses’ preserves. She played with great discretion, but her graceful movements and the music of her golden voice created a deep impression. The struggle, however, was not yet over. A few connoisseurs admired her greatly, while others regarded her withpositive aversion. Her engagement by M. Perrin required something very like audacity, and the wisdom of the step remained doubtful, the majority of opinions being still unfavourable to her. She excited intense envy among her rivals. There was great dissatisfaction among the other ladies of the company when it was known that M. Perrin intended to pay £100 for a costume she had ordered forLe Sphinx. Her next appearance was in a one-act play in verse,La Belle Paule, by M. Paul Denayrouse, and in August she re-appeared inZaïre. This proved to be the most complete success she had attained since her engagement at the Comédie Française. It was far greater than that of any other member of the cast, as M. Vitu and M. Sarcey recognized. Paul de Saint-Victor alone persisted in depreciating her. According to him she was monotonous, weak, lackadaisical, and hardly noticeable!

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra.

On December 22 she played Phèdre for the first time. The risk was great, the part being one of the most exhausting in the wholerépertoireof the theatre. During the first act she was intensely and perceptibly nervous. Her teeth were set, and her enunciation was hard and abrupt. Her tone was cold and slightly raucous. But in the second act she began to gain confidence, and after her declaration to Hippolyte success began and lasted to the end. She delivered the final lines with consummate art, and, in spite of her delicate physique,she was excellent in the stormy scene with Hippolyte. In the fourth act she was completely carried away by her part. At one point she tripped, and, probably for the first time in her life, mangled a line—she, the incarnation of poetry! Instead of saying, “Reconnais sa vengeance aux fureurs de ta fille,” she exclaimed: “Reconnais sa fureur aux vengeances de ta fille.” The public, however, paid no attention to the slip, nor perhaps did the actress herself. At any rate, she finished in triumph. M. Sarcey considered her superior to Rachel; and M. Jouvin, writing in thePresse, declared that Clairon, who has bequeathed us a summary of her views on the part, could not have failed to applaud Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt.

The first performance ofLa Fille de Roland, by Henri de Bornier, took place on February 15, 1875, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appearing as Berthe, with Maubant and Mounet-Sully in other parts. On this occasion again critical opinion was divided. Paul de Saint-Victor, in theMoniteur Universel, described her as merely an agreeable reciter of verses, without any of the varied and living qualities of the real tragedienne.

Her delivery is still the same musical jeremiad as before. All her tirades are given with the same plaintive, sing-song intonation. When the action quickens the sound rises to a higher key, but the melody remains unaltered. This constant recitative gives way in the strong passages to breathless cries, painful to hear. Her outbursts are those of a breaking voice. They positively wound the ear.

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