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My Double Life

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Having found the grandmother, I now needed the child.

I passed a review of a whole army of professional Italian models. There
were some lovely children, real little Jupins. The mothers undressed
their children in a second, and the children posed quite naturally and
took attitudes which showed off their muscles and the development of the
torso. I chose a fine little boy of seven years old, but who looked more
like nine. I had already had in the workmen, who had followed out my
design and put up the scaffolding necessary to make my work sufficiently
stable and to support the weight. Enormous iron supports were fixed into
the plaster by bolts and pillars of wood and iron wherever necessary.
The skeleton of a large piece of sculpture looks like a giant trap put
up to catch rats and mice by the thousand.

I gave myself up to this enormous work with the courage of ignorance.
Nothing discouraged me.

Often I worked on till midnight, sometimes till four o'clock in the
morning. And as one humble gas-burner was totally insufficient to work
by, I had a crown or rather a silver circlet made, each bud of which was
a candlestick, and each had its candle burning, and those of the back
row were a little higher than those of the front. And with this help I
was able to work almost without ceasing. I had no watch or clock in the
room, as I wished to ignore time altogether, except on the days I had to
perform at the theatre. Then my maid would come and call for me. How
many times have I gone without lunch or dinner. Then I would perhaps
faint, and so be compelled to send for something to eat to restore my
strength.

I had almost finished my group, but I had done neither the feet nor the
hands of the grandmother. She was holding her little dead grandson on
her knees, but her arms had no hands and her legs had no feet. I looked
in vain for the hands and feet of my ideal, large and bony. One day,
when my friend Martel came to see me at my studio and to look at this
group, which was much talked of, I had an inspiration. Martel was big,
and thin enough to make Death jealous. I watched him walking round my
work. He was looking at it as a _connoisseur_. But I was looking at
_him_. Suddenly I said:

"My dear Martel, I beg you--I beseech you--to pose for the hands and
feet of my grandmother!"

He burst out laughing, and with perfectly good grace he took off his
shoes and took the place of my model.

He came ten days in succession, and gave me three hours each day.

Thanks to him, I was able to finish my group. I had it moulded and sent
to the Salon (1876), where it met with genuine success.

Is there any need to say that I was accused of having got some one else
to make this group for me? I sent a summons to one critic. He was no
other than Jules Claretie, who had declared that this work, which was
very interesting, could not have been done by me. Jules Claretie
apologised very politely, and that was the end of it.

The Jury, after a full investigation, awarded me an "honourable
mention," and I was wild with joy.

I was very much criticised, but also very much praised. Nearly all the
criticisms referred to the neck of my old Breton woman, that neck on
which I had worked with such eagerness.

The following is from an article by René Delorme:

"The work of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt deserves to be studied in detail. The
head of the grandmother, well worked out as to the profound wrinkles it
bears, expresses that intense sorrow in which everything else counts as
nothing.

"The only reproach I have to make against this artist is that she has
brought too much into prominence the muscles of the neck of the old
grandmother. This shows a lack of experience. She is pleased with
herself for having studied anatomy so well, and is not sorry for the
opportunity of showing it. It is," &c. &c.

Certainly this gentleman was right. I had studied anatomy eagerly and in
a very amusing manner. I had had lessons from Doctor Parrot, who was so
good to me. I had continually with me a book of anatomical designs, and
when I was at home I stood before the glass and said suddenly to myself,
putting my finger on some part of my body, "Now then, what is that?" I
had to answer immediately, without hesitation, and when I hesitated I
compelled myself to learn by heart the muscles of the head or the arm,
and did not sleep till this was done.

A month after the exhibition there was a reading of Parodi's play, _Rome
Vaincue_, at the Comédie Française. I refused the _rôle_ of the young
vestal Opimia, which had been allotted to me, and energetically demanded
that of Posthumia, an old, blind Roman woman with a superb and noble
face.

No doubt there was some connection in my mind between my old Breton
weeping over her grandson and the august patrician claiming forgiveness
for her grand-daughter.

Perrin was at first astounded. Afterwards he acceded to my request. But
his order-loving mind and his taste for symmetry made him anxious about
Mounet-Sully, who was also playing in the piece. He was accustomed to
seeing Mounet-Sully and me playing the two heroes, the two lovers, the
two victims. How was he to arrange matters so that we should still be
the two--something or other? _Eureka!_ There was in the play an old
idiot named Vestaepor, who was quite unnecessary for the action of the
piece, but had been brought in to satisfy Perrin. "Eureka!" cried the
director of the Comédie; "Mounet-Sully shall play Vestaepor!"
Equilibrium was restored. The god of the _bourgeois_ was content.

The piece, which was really quite mediocre, obtained a great success at
the first performance (September 27, 1876), and personally I was very
successful in the fourth act. The public was decidedly in my favour, in
spite of everything and everybody.




XXV


"HERNANI"--A TRIP IN A BALLOON


The performances of _Hernani_ made me a still greater favourite with the
public.

I had already rehearsed with Victor Hugo, and it was a real pleasure to
me to see the great poet almost each day. I had never discontinued my
visits, but I was never able to have any conversation with him in his
own house. There were always men in red ties gesticulating, or women in
tears reciting. He was very good; he used to listen with half-closed
eyes, and I thought he was asleep. Then, roused by the silence, he would
say a consoling word, for Victor Hugo could not promise without keeping
his word. He was not like me: I promise everything with the firm
intention of keeping my promises, and two hours after I have forgotten
all about them. If any one reminds me of what I have promised, I tear my
hair, and to make up for my forgetfulness I say anything, I buy
presents--in fact, I complicate my life with useless worries. It has
always been thus, and always will be so.

As was I grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a
chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after
lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to
which Paul Meurice, the poet Léon Cladel, the Communard Dupuis, a
Russian lady whose name I do not remember and Gustave Doré were also
invited. In front of Victor Hugo sat Madame Drouet, the friend of his
unlucky days.

But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly served. My
feet were frozen by the draughts from the three doors, which fitted
badly, and one could positively hear the wind blowing under the table.
Near me was Mr. X., a German socialist, who is to-day a very successful
man. This man had such dirty hands and ate in such a way that he made me
feel sick. I met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean and
proper, and, I believe, an imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling
this uncongenial neighbour inspired in me, the cold draughts blowing on
my feet, mortal boredom--all this reduced me to a state of positive
suffering, and I lost consciousness.

When I recovered I found myself on a couch, my hand in that of Madame
Drouet, and in front of me, sketching me, Gustave Doré.

"Oh, don't move," he exclaimed; "you are so pretty like that!" These
words, though they were so inappropriate, pleased me nevertheless, and I
complied with the wish of the great artist, who was one of my friends.

I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-bye to him, a trifle
ashamed of myself.

The next day he came to see me. I told him some tale to account for my
illness, and I saw no more of him except at the rehearsals of _Hernani_.

The first performance of _Hernani_ took place on November 21, 1877. It
was a triumph alike for the author and the actors. _Hernani_ had already
been played ten years earlier, but Delaunay, who then took the part of
Hernani, was the exact contrary of what this part should have been. He
was neither epic, romantic, nor poetic. He had not the style of those
grand epic poems. He was charming, graceful, and wore a perpetual smile;
of middle height, with studied movements, he was ideal in Musset,
perfect in Emile Augier, charming in Molière, but execrable in Victor
Hugo.

Bressant, who took the part of Charles Quint, was shockingly bad. His
amiable and flabby style and his weak and wandering eyes effectively
prevented all grandeur. His two enormous feet, generally half hidden
under his trousers, assumed immense proportions. I could see nothing
else. They were very large, flat, and slightly turned in at the toes.
They were a nightmare! But think of their possessor repeating the
admirable couplet of Charles Quint to the shade of Charlemagne! It was
absurd! The public coughed, wriggled, and showed that they found the
whole thing painful and ridiculous.

In our performance it was Mounet-Sully, in all the splendour of his
talent, who played Hernani. And it was Worms, that admirable artiste,
who played Charles Quint--and how well he took the part! How he rolled
out the lines! What a splendid diction he had! This performance of
November 21, 1877, was a triumph. I came in for a good share in the
general success. I played Dona Sol. Victor Hugo sent me the following
letter:

"Madame,--You have been great and charming; you have moved me--me, the
old combatant--and at one moment, while the public whom you had
enchanted cheered you, I wept. This tear which you caused me to shed is
yours, and I place myself at your feet.

"Victor Hugo."


With this letter came a small box containing a fine chain bracelet, from
which hung one diamond drop. I lost this bracelet at the house of the
rich nabob, Alfred Sassoon. He wanted to give me another, but I refused.
He could not give me back the tear of Victor Hugo.

My success at the Comédie was assured, and the public treated me as a
spoiled child. My comrades were a little jealous of me.

Perrin made trouble for me at every turn. He had a sort of friendship
for me, but he would not believe that I could get on without him, and as
he always refused to do as I wanted, I did not go to him for anything. I
used to send a letter to the Ministry, and I always won my cause.

As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now tried my hand at
painting. I knew how to draw a little, and had a well-developed sense of
colour. I first did two or three small pictures, then I undertook the
portrait of my dear Guérard.

Alfred Stevens thought it was vigorously done, and Georges Clairin
encouraged me to continue with painting. Then I launched out
courageously, boldly. I began a picture which was nearly two metres in
size, _The Young Girl and Death_.

Then came a cry of indignation against me.

Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was my career?

Why did I always want to be before the public?

Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He began to preach.
"You are killing yourself, my dear child," he said. "Why do you go in
for sculpture, painting, &c? Is it to prove that you can do it?"

"Oh, no, no," I answered; "it is merely to create a necessity for
staying here."

"I don't understand," said Perrin, listening very attentively.

"This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something
else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are higher than ours
and trees that are bigger--something different, in short. I have
therefore had to create for myself some tasks which will hold me to my
chains. If I did not do this, I feel that my desire to see other things
in the world would win the day, and I should do something foolish."

This conversation was destined to go against me some years later, when
the Comédie brought a law-suit against me.

The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state of
exasperation that Perrin and some of the artistes of the theatre had
conceived against me. They blamed me for everything--for my painting, my
sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible scene with Perrin, and it was
the last one, for from that time forth we did not speak to each other
again; a formal bow was the most that we exchanged afterwards.

The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored and I still
adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard's captive balloon.
This persistency had struck the _savant_, and he asked a mutual friend
to introduce him.

"Oh, Monsieur Giffard," I said, "how I should like to go up in a balloon
that is not captive!"

"Well, Mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like," he replied very
kindly.

"When?" I asked.

"Any day you like."

I should have liked to start immediately, but, as he pointed out, he
would have to fit the balloon up, and it was a great responsibility for
him to undertake. We therefore fixed upon the following Tuesday, just a
week from then. I asked M. Giffard to say nothing about it, for if the
newspapers should get hold of this piece of news my terrified family
would not allow me to go. M. Tissandier, who a little time after was
doomed, poor fellow, to be killed in a balloon accident, promised to
accompany me. Something happened, however, to prevent his going with me,
and it was young Godard who the following week accompanied me in the
"Dona Sol," a beautiful orange-coloured balloon specially prepared for
my expedition. Prince Jerome Napoleon (Plon-Plon), who was with me when
Giffard was introduced, insisted on going with us. But he was heavy and
rather clumsy, and I did not care much about his conversation, in spite
of his marvellous wit, for he was spiteful, and rather delighted when he
could get a chance to attack the Emperor Napoleon III., whom I liked
very much.

We started alone, Georges Clairin, Godard, and I. The rumour of our
journey had spread, but too late for the Press to get hold of the news.
I had been up in the air about five minutes when one of my friends,
Comte de M----, met Perrin on the Saints-Pères Bridge.

"I say," he began, "look up in the sky. There is your star shooting
away."

Perrin gazed up, and, pointing to the balloon which was rising, he
asked, "Who is in that?"

"Sarah Bernhardt," replied my friend. Perrin, it appears, turned purple,
and, clenching his teeth, he murmured, "That's another of her freaks,
but she will pay for this."

He hurried away without even saying good-bye to my young friend, who
stood there stupefied at this unreasonable burst of anger.

And if he had suspected my infinite joy at thus travelling through the
air, Perrin would have suffered still more.

Ah! our departure! It was half-past five. I shook hands with a few
friends. My family, whom I had kept in the most profound ignorance, was
not there. I felt my heart tighten somewhat when, after the words "Let
her go!" I found myself in about a second some fifty yards above the
earth. I still heard a few cries: "Wait! Come back! Don't let her be
killed!" And then nothing more. Nothing. There was the sky above and the
earth beneath. Then suddenly I was in the clouds. I had left a misty
Paris. I now breathed under a blue sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us
were opaque mountains of clouds with irradiated edges. Our balloon
plunged into a milky vapour quite warm from the sun. It was splendid! It
was stupefying. Not a sound, not a breath! But the balloon was scarcely
moving at all. It was only towards six o'clock that the currents of air
caught us, and we took our flight towards the east. We were at an
altitude of about 1700 metres. The spectacle became fairylike. Large
fleecy clouds were spread below us like a carpet. Large orange curtains
fringed with violet came down from the sun to lose themselves in our
cloudy carpet.

At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2500 metres above the earth,
and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves felt.

The dinner was copious--we had _foie gras_, fresh bread, and oranges.
The cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the clouds with a pretty,
soft noise. We raised our glasses in honour of M. Giffard.

We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her heavy dark mantle.
It became very cold. We were then at 2600 metres, and I had a singing in
my ears. My nose began to bleed. I felt very uncomfortable, and began to
get drowsy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got
anxious, and young Godard cried out loudly, to wake me up, no doubt:
"Come, come! We shall have to go down. Let us throw out the guide-rope!"

This cry woke me up. I wanted to know what a guide-rope was. I got up
feeling rather stupefied, and in order to rouse me Godard put the
guide-rope into my hands. It was a strong rope of about 120 metres long,
to which were attached at certain distances little iron hooks. Clairin
and I let out the rope, laughing, while Godard, bending over the side of
the car, was looking through a field-glass.

"Stop!" he cried suddenly. "There are a lot of trees!"

We were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in front of us there was a
little open ground suitable for our descent.

"There is no doubt about it," cried Godard; "if we miss this plain we
shall come down in the dead of night in the wood of Ferrières, and that
will be very dangerous!" Then, turning to me, "Will you," he said, "open
the valve?"

I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison whistling a
mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the aeronaut, and we
descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by the
sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of
his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn on which he
blew with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500 metres
below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest to make us hear. As
we were very close to a little station, we easily guessed that this man
was the station-master.

"Where are we?" cried Louis Godard through his horn.

"At--in--in--ille!" answered the station-master. It was impossible to
understand.

"Where are we?" thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones.

"At--in--in--ille!" shouted the station-master, with his hand curved
round his mouth.

"Where are we?" cried I in my most crystalline accents.

"At--in--in--ille!" answered the station-master and his porters.

It was impossible to get to know anything. We had to lower the balloon.
At first we descended rather too quickly, and the wind blew us towards
the wood. We had to go up again. But ten minutes later we opened the
valve again and made a fresh descent. The balloon was then to the right
of the station, and far from the amiable station-master.

"Throw out the anchor!" cried young Godard in a commanding tone. And
assisted by Georges Clairin, he threw out into space another rope, to
the end of which was fastened a formidable anchor. The rope was 80
metres long.

Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been running ever
since we stopped above the station. When we got to about 300 metres from
earth Godard called out to them, "Where are we?"

"At Vachère!"

None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.

"Hullo! you fellows down there, take hold of the rope that's dragging,"
cried the aeronaut, "and mind you don't pull too hard!" Five vigorous
men seized hold of the rope. We were 130 metres from the ground, and the
sight was becoming interesting. Darkness began to blot out everything. I
raised my head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with
astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which was
overhanging its base, all loose and baggy. It was very ugly.

We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I had hoped would
happen, and without the little drama which I had half expected.

It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.

The young owner of a neighbouring château ran up, like the peasants, to
see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella.

"Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet. I pass between the drops."

The saying was repeated and had a great success.

"What time is there a train?" asked Godard.

"Oh, you have plenty of time," answered an oily and heavy voice. "You
cannot leave before ten o'clock, as the station is a long way from here,
and in such weather it will take Madame two hours to walk there."

I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with the umbrella,
which I could have used as walking-stick, as neither Clairin nor Godard
had one. But just as I was accusing him of going away and leaving us, he
jumped lightly out of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up.

"There!" said he. "There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and
another for the body of the balloon."

"_Ma foi!_ You have saved us," said Clairin, clasping his hand, "for it
appears the roads are in a very bad state."

"Oh," said the young man, "it would be impossible for the feet of
Parisians to walk even half the distance."

Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey.

Rather more than an hour later we arrived at the station of
Emerainville. The station-master, learning who we were, received us in a
very friendly manner. He made his apologies for not having heard when we
called out an hour previously from our floating vehicle. We had a frugal
meal of bread, cheese, and cider set before us. I have always detested
cheese, and would never eat it: there is nothing poetical about it. But
I was dying with hunger.

"Taste it, taste it," said Georges Clairin.

I bit a morsel off, and found it excellent.

We got back very late, in the middle of the night, and I found my
household in an extreme state of anxiety. Our friends who had come to
hear news of us had stayed. There was quite a crowd. I was somewhat
annoyed at this, as I was half dead with fatigue.

I sent everybody away rather sharply, and went up to my room. As my maid
was helping me to undress she told me that some one had come for me from
the Comédie Française several times.

"Oh, mon Dieu!" I cried anxiously. "Could the piece have been changed?"

"No, I don't think so," said the maid. "But it appears that Monsieur
Perrin is furious, and that they are all in a rage with you. Here is the
note which was left for you."

I opened the letter. I was requested to call on the manager the
following day at two o'clock.

On my arrival at Perrin's at the time appointed I was received with
exaggerated politeness which had an undercurrent of severity.

Then commenced a series of recriminations about my fits of ill-temper,
my caprices, my eccentricities; and he finished his speech by saying
that I had incurred a fine of one thousand francs for travelling without
the consent of the management.

I burst out laughing. "The case of a balloon has not been foreseen," I
said; "and I vow that I will pay no fine. Outside the theatre I do as I
please, and that is no business of yours, my dear Monsieur Perrin, so
long as I do nothing to interfere with my theatrical work. And besides,
you bore me to death--I will resign. Be happy."

I left him ashamed and anxious.

The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin, and a few
hours afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister of Fine Arts. I
refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who stated that M. Perrin
had gone a step farther than he had any right to; that the fine was
annulled, and that I must cancel my resignation. So I did.

But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying for my
enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my friends. But at that
time all this stir and noise amused me vastly. I did nothing to attract
attention. My somewhat fantastic tastes, my paleness and thinness, my
peculiar way of dressing, my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in all
respects, made me a being quite apart from all others. I did not
recognise the fact.

I did not read, I never read, the newspapers. So I did not know what was
said about me, either favourable or unfavourable. Surrounded by a court
of adorers of both sexes, I lived in a sunny dream.

All the royal personages and the notabilities who were the guests of
France during the Exhibition of 1878 came to see me. This was a constant
source of pleasure to me.

The Comédie was the first theatre to which all these illustrious
visitors went, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening. While I
was playing Amphytrion I fell seriously ill, and was sent to the south.

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