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My Double Life

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

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

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

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

"A SUBSCRIBER."

Perrin pushed the letter away from him in disgust. "Here are two more,"
I said; "but they are so coarse that I will spare you. I shall go to the
opening ceremony."

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

"I shall come," I answered.

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

The house was crowded when the curtain rose.

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

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

I think that the dramatic art is essentially feminine.

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

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

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

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




XXX


MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE-PREPARATIONS FOR MY FIRST
AMERICAN TOUR--ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON


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

Perrin gave me the _rôle_ of the _Aventurière_ to study. I detested the
piece, and did not like the part, and I considered the lines of
_L'Aventurière_ very bad poetry indeed. As I cannot dissimulate well, in
a fit of temper I said this straight out to Emile Augier, and he avenged
himself in a most discourteous way on the first opportunity that
presented itself. This was on the occasion of my definite rupture with
the Comédie Française, the day after the first performance of
_L'Aventurière_ on Saturday, April 17,1880. I was not ready to play my
part, and the proof of this was a letter I wrote to M. Perrin on April
14,1880.

"I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin," I said, "but I have such
a sore throat that I cannot speak, and am obliged to stay in bed. Will
you kindly excuse me? It was at that wretched Trocadéro that I took cold
on Sunday. I am very much worried, as I know it will cause you
inconvenience. Anyhow, I will be ready for Saturday, whatever happens. A
thousand excuses and kind regards.

"SARAH BERNHARDT."


I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat, but I had
not studied my part during the three days, as I could not speak. I had
not been able to try on my costumes either, as I had been in bed all the
time. On Friday I went to ask Perrin to put off the performance of
_L'Aventurière_ until the next week. He replied that it was impossible;
that every seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the
following Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be persuaded
to act, as I had confidence in my star.

"Oh," I said to myself, "I shall get through it all right." I did not
get through it, though, or rather I came through it very badly. My
costume was a failure; it did not fit me. They had always jeered at me
for my thinness, and in this dress I looked like an English tea-pot. My
voice was still rather hoarse, which very much disconcerted me. I played
the first part of the _rôle_ very badly, and the second part rather
better. At a certain moment during the scene of violence I was standing
up resting my two hands on the table, on which there was a lighted
candelabra. There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair was very
near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said that, as I
felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on fire so
that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely. That
was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The Press did not praise me,
and the Press was quite right. I had played badly, looked ugly, and been
in a bad temper, but I considered that there was nevertheless a want of
courtesy and indulgence with regard to me. Auguste Vitu, in the _Figaro_
of April 18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase: "The new
Clorinde (the Adventuress) in the last two acts made some gestures with
her arms and movements of her body which one regrets to see taken from
Virginie of _L'Assommoir_ and introduced at the Comédie Française." The
only fault which I never have had, which I never shall have, is
vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination to hurt my
feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood from this way of
attacking me that petty hatreds were lifting up their rattlesnake heads.
All the low-down, little viper world was crawling about under my flowers
and my laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and
sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted to have the
enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together, and so I threw my laurels
and my flowers to the four winds of heaven. In the most abrupt way I
broke the contract which bound me to the Comédie Française, and through
that to Paris.

I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions with
myself I decided to send in my resignation to the Comédie. I therefore
wrote to M. Perrin this letter:

"TO THE DIRECTOR.

"You have compelled me to play when I was not ready. You have only
allowed me eight rehearsals on the stage, and the play has been
rehearsed in its entirety only three times. I was unwilling to appear
before the public. You insisted absolutely. What I foresaw has happened.
The result of the performance has surpassed my anticipations. A critic
pretended that I played Virginie of _L'Assommoir_ instead of Dona
Clorinde of _L'Aventurière_. May Emile Augier and Zola absolve me! It is
my first rebuff at the Comédie; it shall be my last. I warned you on the
day of the dress rehearsal. You have gone too far. I keep my word. By
the time you receive this letter I shall have left Paris. Will you
kindly accept my immediate resignation, and believe me

"Yours sincerely,

"SARAH BERNHARDT."


In order that this resignation might not be refused at the committee
meeting, I sent copies of my letter to the _Gaulois_ and the _Figaro_,
and it was published at the same time as M. Perrin received it.

Then, quite decided not to be influenced by anybody, I set off at once
with my maid for Hâvre. I had left orders that no one was to be told
where I was, and the first evening I was there I passed in strict
incognito. But the next morning I was recognised, and telegrams were
sent to Paris to that effect. I was besieged by reporters.

I took refuge at La Hêve, where I spent the whole day on the beach, in
spite of the cold rain which fell unceasingly.

I went back to the Hôtel Frascati frozen, and in the night I was so
feverish that Dr. Gibert was requested to call. Madame Guérard, who was
sent for by my alarmed maid, came at once. I was feverish for two days.
During this time the newspapers continued to pour out a flood of ink on
paper. This turned to bitterness, and I was accused of the worst
misdeeds. The committee sent a _huissier_ to my hotel in the Avenue de
Villiers, and this man declared that after having knocked three times at
the door and having received no answer, he had left copy, &c. &c.

This man was lying. In the hotel there were my son and his tutor, my
steward, the husband of my maid, my butler, the cook, the kitchen-maid,
the second lady's maid, and five dogs; but it was all in vain that I
protested against this minion of the law; it was useless.

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

Maître Allou, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented wicked
little histories about me. He took pleasure in trying to make me
ridiculous. He had a big file of letters from me to Perrin, letters
which I had written in softer moments or in anger. Perrin had kept them
all, even the shortest notes. I had kept none of his. The few letters
from Perrin to myself which have been published were given by him from
his letter-copy book. Of course, he only showed those which could
inspire the public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me, &c. &c.

The pleading of Maître Allou was very, successful: he claimed three
hundred thousand francs damages, in addition to the confiscation for the
benefit of the Comédie Française of the forty-three thousand francs
which that theatre owed me.

Maître Barboux was my advocate. He was an intimate friend of Perrin. He
defended me very indifferently. I was condemned to pay a hundred
thousand francs to the Comédie Française and to lose the forty-three
thousand francs which I had left with the management. I may say that I
did not trouble much about this law-suit.

Three days after my resignation Jarrett called upon me. He proposed to
me, for the third time, to make a contract for America. This time I lent
an ear to his propositions. We had never spoken about terms, and this is
what he proposed:

Five thousand francs for each performance and one-half of the receipts
above fifteen thousand francs; that is to say, the day the receipts
reached the sum of twenty thousand francs I should receive seven
thousand five hundred francs. In addition, one thousand francs per week
for my hotel bill; also a special Pullman car, on all railway journeys,
containing a bedroom, a drawing-room with a piano, four beds for my
staff, and two cooks to cook for me on the way. Mr. Jarrett was to have
ten per cent, on all sums received by me.

I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett immediately
sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American _impresario_, and he
landed on this side thirteen days later. I signed the contract made by
Jarrett, which was discussed clause by clause with the American manager.

I was given, on signing the contract, one hundred thousand francs as
advance payment for my expenses before departure. I was to play eight
pieces: _Hernani, Phèdre, Adrienne Lecouvreur, Froufrou, La Dame aux
Camélias, Le Sphinx, L'Etrangère_, and _La Princesse Georges_.

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

At Baron's I ordered six costumes for _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and four
costumes for _Hernani_. I ordered from a young theatre _costumier_ named
Lepaul my costume for _Phèdre_. These thirty-six costumes cost me
sixty-one thousand francs; but out of this my costume for _Phèdre_ alone
cost four thousand francs. The poor _artist-costumier_ had embroidered
it himself. It was a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my
departure, and I cannot think of this moment without emotion. Irritated
by long waiting, I was writing an angry letter to the _costumier_ when
he was announced. At first I received him very badly, but I found him
looking so unwell, the poor man, that I made him sit down and asked how
he came to be so ill.

"Yes, I am not at all well," he said in such a weak voice that I was
quite upset. "I wanted to finish this dress, and I have worked at it
three days and nights. But look how nice your costume is!" And he spread
it out with loving respect before me.

"Look!" remarked Guérard, "a little spot!"

"Ah, I pricked myself," answered the poor artist quickly.

But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner of his
lips. He wiped it quickly away, so that it should not fall on the pretty
costume as the other little spot had done. I gave the artist the four
thousand francs, which he took with trembling hands. He murmured some
unintelligible words and withdrew.

"Take away this costume, take it away!" I cried to _mon petit Dame_ and
my maid. And I cried so much that I had the hiccoughs all the evening.
Nobody understood why I was crying. But I reproached myself bitterly for
having worried the poor man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the
force of circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the
chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of
twenty-two--this artist with a future before him.

I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box, yellowed with
age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and the little spot of
blood has slightly eaten away the stuff. As to the poor artist, I learnt
of his death during my stay in London in the month of May, for before
leaving for America I signed with Hollingshead and Mayer, the
_impresarii_ of the Comédie, a contract which bound me to them from May
24 to June 24 (1880).

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

Maître Barboux did not consult me about anything, and my success in
London, which was achieved without the help of the Comédie, irritated
the committee, the Press, and the public.

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

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

PERFORMANCES GIVEN BY THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
AT THE GAIETY THEATRE

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

1879. Plays. Receipts in Francs
June 2. Le Misanthrope (Prologue); *13,080
Phèdre (Acte II.);
Les Précieuses Ridicules
" 3. L'Etrangère *12,565
" 4. Le Fils naturel 9,300
June 5. Les Caprices de Marianne;
La Joie fait Peur 10,100
" 6. Le Menteur;
Le Médecin malgré lui 9,530
" 7. Le Marquis de Villemer 9,960
" 7. Tartuffe (matinée);
La Joie fait Peur 8,700
" 9. Hernani *13,600
" 10. Le Demi-monde 11,525
" 11. Mlle. de Belle-Isle;
Il faut qu'une porte soit
ouverte ou fermée 10,420
" 12. Le Post-Scriptum;
Le Gendre de M. Poirier 10,445
" 13. Phèdre *13,920
" 14. Le Luthier de Crémône;
Le Sphinx *13,350
" 14. Le Misanthrope (matinée);
Les Plaideurs 8,800
" 16. L'Ami Fritz 9,375
" 17. Zaïre;
Les Précieuses Ridicules *13,075
" 18. Le Jeu de l'amour et du hasard;
Il ne faut jurer de rien 11,550
" 18. Le Demi-monde 12,160
" 20. Les Fourchambault 11,200
" 21. Hernani *13,375
" 21. Tartufe (matinée);
Il faut qu'une porte soit
ouverte ou fermée 2,115
" 23. Gringoire;
On ne badine pas avec
l'amour 11,080
" 24. Chez l'avocat;
Mlle. de la Seiglière 9,660
" 25. L'Etrangère (matinée) *11,710
" 25. Le Barbier de Seville 9,180
" 26. Andromaque;
Les Plaideurs *13,350
" 27. L'Avare;
L'Etincelle 11,775
" 28. Le Sphinx;
Le Dépit amoureux *12,860
" 28. Hernani (matinée) *13,730
" 30. Ruy-Blas *13,660
July 1. Mercadet;
L'Eté de la St. Martin 9,850
" 2. Ruy-Blas *13,160
" 3. Le Mariage de Victorine;
Les Fourberies de Scapin 10,165
" 4. Les Femmes savantes;
L'Etincelle 11,960
" 5. Les Fourchambault 10,700
" 5. Phèdre (matinée);
La Joie fait Peur *14,265
" 7. Le Marquis de Villemer 10,565
" 8. L'Ami Fritz 11,005
" 9. Hernani *14,275
" 10. Le Sphinx *13,775
" 11. Philiberte;
L'Etourdi 11,500
" 12. Ruy-Blas *12,660
" 12. Gringoire (matinée);
Hernani (Acte V.);
La Bénédiction;
Davenant;
L'Etincelle *13,725

Total receipts ... 492,150 francs

The average of the receipts was about 11,715 francs. These figures show
that, out of the forty-three performances given by the Comédie
Française, the eighteen performances in which I took part gave an
average of 13,350 francs each, while the twenty-five other performances
gave an average of 10,000 francs.

* * * * *

While I was in London I learned that I had lost my lawsuit. "The
Court--with its 'Inasmuch as,' 'Nevertheless,' &c.--declares hereby that
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt loses all the rights, privileges, and advantages,
resulting to her profit from the engagement which she contracted with
the company by authentic decree of March 24, 1875, and condemns her to
pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality the sum of one hundred
thousand francs damages."

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

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

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

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