A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

My Double Life

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




Vitu, Sarcey, Lapommeraye had said so much against me that I was
stupefied to learn from Mayer that they had arrived in London to be
present at my performances.

I could no longer understand what it all meant. I thought that the
Parisian journalists were leaving me in peace at last, and here were my
worst enemies coming across the sea to see and hear me. Perhaps they
were hoping--like the Englishman who followed the lion-tamer to see him
devoured by his lions!

Vitu in the _Figaro_ had finished one of his bitter articles with these
words:

"But we have heard enough, surely, of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt! Let her go
abroad with her monotonous voice and her funereal fantasies! Here we
have nothing new to learn from her talents or her caprices...."

Sarcey, in an equally bitter article, _à propos_ of my resignation at
the Comédie, had finished in these terms:

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

As to the amiable Lapommeraye, he had showered on my devoted head all
the rumours that he had collected from all sides. But as they said he
had no originality, he tried to show that he also could dip his pen in
venom, and he had cried, "Pleasant journey!" And here they all came,
these three, and others with them. And the day following my first
performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, Auguste Vitu telegraphed to the
_Figaro_ a long article, in which he criticised me in certain scenes,
regretting that I had not followed the example of Rachel, whom I had
never seen. And he finished his article thus:

"The sincerity of my admiration cannot be doubted when I avow that in
the fifth act Sarah Bernhardt rose to a height of dramatic power, to a
force of expression which could not be surpassed. She played the long
and cruel scene in which Adrienne, poisoned by the Duchesse de Bouillon,
struggles against death in her fearful agony, not only with immense
talent, but with a science of art which up to the present she has never
revealed. If the Parisian public had heard, or ever hears, Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt cry out with the piercing accent which she put into her words
that evening, 'I will not die, I will not die!' it would weep with her."

Sarcey finished an admirable critique with these words:

"She is prodigious!"

And Lapommeraye, who had once more become amiable begged me to go back
to the Comédie, which was waiting for me, which would kill the fatted
calf on the return of its prodigal child.

Sarcey, in his article in the _Temps_, consecrated five columns of
praises to me, and finished his article with these words:

"Nothing, nothing can ever take the place of this last act of _Adrienne
Lecouvreur_ at the Comédie. Ah! she should have stayed at the Comédie.
Yes, I come back to my litany! I cannot help it! We shall lose as much
as she will. Yes, I know that we can say Mlle. Dudlay is left to us. Oh,
she will always stay with us! I cannot help saying it. What a pity! What
a pity!"

And eight days after, on June 7, he wrote in his theatrical
_feuilleton_, on the first performance of _Froufrou_:

"I do not think that the emotion at any theatre has ever been so
profound. There are, in the dramatic art, exceptional times when the
artistes are transported out of themselves, carried above themselves,
and compelled to obey this inward 'demon' (I should have said 'god'),
who whispered to Corneille his immortal verses.

"'Well,' said I to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, after the play: 'this is an
evening which will open to you, if you wish, the doors of the Comédie
Française. 'Do not speak of it,' said she, 'to me. 'We will not speak of
it.' But what a pity! What a pity!"

My success in _Froufrou_ was so marked that it filled the void left by
Coquelin, who, after having signed, with the consent of Perrin, with
Messrs, Mayer and Hollingshead, declared that he could not keep his
engagements. It was a nasty _coup de Jarnac_ by which Perrin hoped to
injure my London performances. He had previously sent Got to me to ask
officially if I would not come back to the Comédie. He said I should be
permitted to make my American tour, and that everything would be
arranged on my return. But he should not have sent Got. He should have
sent Worms or _le petit père Franchise_--Delaunay. The one might have
persuaded me by his affectionate reasoning and the other by the falsity
of arguments presented with such grace that it would have been difficult
to refuse.

Got declared that I should be only too happy to come back to the Comédie
on my return to America, "For you know," he added, "you know, my little
one, that you will die in that country. And if you come back you will
perhaps be only too glad to return to the Comédie Française, for you
will be in a bad state of health, and it will take some time before you
are right again. Believe me, sign, and it is not we who will benefit by
it, but you!"

"I thank you," I answered, "but I prefer to choose my hospital myself on
my return. And now you can go and leave me in peace." I fancy I said,
"Get out!"

That evening he was present at a performance of _Froufrou_; he came to
my dressing-room and said:

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

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

The average of the receipts was nine thousand francs, and I left London
with regret--I who had left it with so much pleasure the first time. But
London is a city apart; its charm unveils little by little. The first
impression for a Frenchman or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal
_ennui_. Those tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those
ugly monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime and black and
greasy dirt; those flower-sellers at the corners of all the streets,
with faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in their hats and
lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets; the low sky; the
funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on to men just as drunken; the
wild dancing of dishevelled children round the street organs, as
numerous as the omnibuses--all that caused twenty-five years ago an
indefinite suffering to a Parisian. But little by little one finds that
the profusion of the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of
the aristocratic ladies effaces the image of the flower-sellers....

The constant movement of Hyde Park, and especially of Rotten Row, fills
the heart with gaiety. The broad English hospitality, which is
manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of
the men, which compares favourably with the wit of Frenchmen; and their
gallantry, much more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left
no regrets in me for French gallantry.

But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud, and our windows
opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows. I find also that
nothing marks more clearly the difference of character of the two
nations than their respective windows. Ours open wide; the sun enters in
our houses even to the heart of the dwelling; the air sweeps away all
the dust and all the microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply as
they open.

English windows open only half-way, either the top half or the bottom
half. One may even have the pleasure of opening them a little at the top
and a little at the bottom, but not at all in the middle. The sun cannot
enter openly, nor the air. The window keeps its selfish and perfidious
character. I hate the English windows. But now I love London and--is
there any need to add?--its inhabitants.

Since my first visit I have returned there twenty-one times, and the
public has always remained faithful and affectionate.




XXXI


A TOUR IN DENMARK--ROYAL FAMILIES--THE "TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS" OF
SARAH BERNHARDT


After this first test of my freedom I felt more sure of life than
before. Although I was very weak of constitution, the possibility of
doing as I wanted without hindrance and without control calmed my
nervous system, and my health, which had been weakened by perpetual
irritations and by excessive work, was improved. I reposed on the
laurels which I had gathered myself, and I slept better. Sleeping
better, I commenced to eat better. And great was the astonishment of my
little court when they saw their idol come back from London round and
rosy.

I remained several days in Paris; then I set out for Brussels, where I
was to play _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and _Froufrou_.

The Belgian public--by which I mean the Brussels public--is the one most
like our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am in a strange country.
Our language is the language of the country; the horses and carriages
are always in perfect taste; the fashionable women resemble our own
fashionable women; _cocottes_ abound; the hotels are as good as in
Paris; the cab-horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful.
Brussels is gossiping Paris in miniature.

I played for the first time at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, and I felt
uncomfortable in that immense and frigid house. But the benevolent
enthusiasm of the public soon warmed me, and I shall never forget the
four performances I gave there.

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

Our arrival, which doubtless was anxiously expected, really frightened
me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled in the station
when the train came in gave a hurrah so terrible that I did not know
what was happening. But when M. de Fallesen, manager of the Theatre
Royal, and the First Chamberlain of the King entered my compartment, and
begged me to show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the
public, the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful
anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure, rise to
what was expected from me. My slender frame would inspire disdain in
those magnificent men and those splendid and healthy women. I stepped
out of the train so diminished by comparison that I had the sensation of
being nothing more than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive
to the police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a wide path for my
carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic
sight-seers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to
me. In the course of my long career I have had many triumphs,
receptions, and ovations, but my reception by the Danish people remains
one of my most cherished memories. The living hedge lasted till we
reached the Hôtel d'Angleterre, where I went in, after thanking once
more the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.

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

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

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

The performance of _Froufrou_ was equally successful. But as I was only
playing every other day, I wanted to visit Elsinore. The King placed the
royal steamer at my disposal for this little journey.

I had invited all my company.

M. de Fallesen, the First Chamberlain, and manager of the Theatre Royal,
had ordered a magnificent lunch for us, and accompanied by the principal
notabilities of Denmark, we visited Hamlet's tomb, the spring of
Ophelia, and the castle of Marienlyst. Then we went over the castle of
Kronborg. I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come up
to the expectation. The so-called tomb of Hamlet is represented by a
small column, ugly and mournful-looking; there is little verdure, and
the desolate sadness of deceit without beauty. They gave me a little
water from the spring of Ophelia to drink, and the Baron de Fallesen
broke the glass, without allowing any one else to drink from the spring.

I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather sad. Leaning
against the side of the vessel, I watched the water gliding past, when I
noticed a few rose petals on the surface. Carried by an invisible
current, they were borne against the sides of the boat; then the petals
increased to thousands, and in the mysterious sunset rose the melodious
chant of the sons of the North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on
the water by the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails;
a score of young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters, which
were carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing the marvellous
legends of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all
that love, all that musical poetry. And that setting sun was also for
me. And in this fleeting moment, which brought all the beauty of life
near to me, I felt myself very near to God.

The following day, at the close of the performance, the King sent for me
to come into the royal box, and he decorated me with a very pretty Order
of Merit adorned with diamonds. He kept me some time in his box, asking
me about different things. I was presented to the Queen, and I noticed
immediately that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather embarrassed, but
the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She was beautiful, but much less
so than her lovely sister the Princess of Wales. Oh, that adorable and
seductive face--with the eyes of a child of the North, and classic
features of virginal purity, a long, supple neck that seemed made for
queenly bows, a sweet and almost timid smile. The indefinable charm of
this Princess made her so radiant that I saw nothing but her, and I went
from the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a poor opinion of my
intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark and Greece.

The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand supper.
Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very charming manner for the
"French week" which we had given in Denmark.

Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the press, very
short but very sympathetic. Our Ambassador in a few courteous words
thanked Robert Walt, and then, to the general surprise, Baron Magnus,
the Prussian Minister, rose, and in a loud voice, turning to me, he
said, "I drink to France, which gives us such great artistes! To France,
la belle France, whom we all love so much!"

Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French men and women
were still suffering; their wounds were not healed.

Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had from the time of my
arrival in Copenhagen sent me flowers with his card. I had sent back the
flowers, and begged an _attaché_ of the English Embassy, Sir Francis
----, I believe, to ask the German baron not to renew his gifts. The
Baron laughed good-naturedly, and waited for me as I came out of my
hotel. He came to me with outstretched hands, and spoke kindly and
reasonable words. Everybody was looking at us, and I was embarrassed. It
was evident that he was a kind man. I thanked him, touched in spite of
myself by his frankness, and I went away quite undecided as to what I
really felt. Twice he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but
only bowed as I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity
of this amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper, when I saw
him take the attitude of an orator, I felt myself grow pale. He had
barely finished his little speech when I jumped to my feet and cried,
"Let us drink to France, but to the whole of France, Monsieur
l'Ambassadeur de Prusse!" I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical
without intending it.

It was like a thunderbolt.

The orchestra of the court, which was placed in the upper gallery, began
playing the "Marseillaise." At this time the Danes hated the Germans.
The supper-room was suddenly deserted as if by enchantment.

I went up to my rooms, not wishing to be questioned. I had gone too far.
Anger had made me say more than I intended. Baron Magnus did not deserve
this thrust of mine. And also my instinct forewarned me of results to
follow. I went to bed angry with myself, with the Baron, and with all
the world.

About five o'clock in the morning I commenced to doze, when I was
awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I heard some one knocking at
the door of the _salon_. I called my maid, who woke her husband, and he
went to open the door. An _attaché_ from the French Embassy was waiting
to speak to me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea-gown and went
to see the visitor.

"I beg you," he said, "to write a note immediately to explain that the
words you said were not meant. The Baron Magnus, whom we all respect, is
in a very awkward situation and we are all upset about it. Prince
Bismarck is not to be trifled with, and it may be very serious for the
Baron."

"Oh, I assure you, Monsieur, I am a hundredfold more unhappy about it
than you, for the Baron is a good and charming man. He lacked political
tact, and in this case it is excusable, because I am not a woman of
politics. I was lacking in coolness. I would give my right hand to
repair the ill."

"We don't ask you for so much as that, as it would spoil the beauty of
your gestures!" (He was French, you see.) "Here is the rough copy of a
letter. Will you take it, rewrite it, sign it, and everything will be at
an end?"

But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave twisted and
rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it, and after several attempts
to rewrite it I gave up in despair and did nothing.

Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in addition to the
royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody had heard the amiable but
awkward speech of the Baron. I had replied in a very excited manner. The
public and the Press had all been witnesses of my _algarade_; we were
the victims of our own foolishness, the Baron and myself. If such a
thing were to happen at the present time I should not care a pin for
public opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in
order to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that time I was
very nervous and uncompromisingly patriotic. And also, perhaps, I
thought I was some one of importance. Since then life has taught me that
if one is to be famous it can only really become manifest after death.
To-day I am going down the hill of life, and I regard gaily all the
pedestals on which I have been lifted up, and there have been so many,
so many of them that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had
raised them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on life,
happy with what has been and attentive to what will be.

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

I left Copenhagen amidst applause and the repeated cries of "Vive la
France!" From all the windows hung the French flag, fluttering in the
breeze, and I felt that this was not only _for_ me, but _against_
Germany--I was sure of it.

Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united, and I am not
certain that several Danes do not still bear me ill-will because of this
incident of the Baron Magnus.

I came back to Paris to make final preparations for my journey to
America. I was to set sail on October 15.

One day in August I was having a reception of all my friends, who came
to see me in full force, because I was about to set out for a long
journey.

Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal Canrobert,
Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the beautiful Augusta Holmes,
Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskjold, O'Connor, and other friends. I chatted
gaily, happy to be surrounded by so many kind and intellectual friends.

Girardin did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this journey
to America. He had been the friend of Rachel, and told me the sad end of
her journey.

Arthur Meyer was of opinion that I ought always to do what I thought
best. The other friends discussed the subject. That admirable man, whom
France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much he should miss and
regret those intimate _causeries_ at our five o'clock teas.

"But," said he, "we have not the right to try, in our affectionate
selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the
strife. She is of a combative nature."

"Ah yes!" I cried. "Yes, I am born for strife, I feel it. Nothing
pleases me like having to master a public, perhaps hostile, who have
read and heard all that the Press has said against me. But I am sorry
that I cannot play, not only in Paris but in all France, my two big
successes, _Adrienne_ and _Froufrou_."

"As to that, you can count on me!" exclaimed Félix Duquesnel. "My dear
Sarah, you had your first successes with me, and it is with me that you
will have your last...."

Everybody protested, and I jumped up.

"Wait one moment," said he. "Last successes until you come back from
America! If you will consent, you can count on me for everything. I will
obtain, at any price, theatres in all the large towns, and we will give
twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to financial
arrangements, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five
performances--fifty thousand francs. To-morrow I will give you one half
of this sum, and sign a contract with you, so that you will not have
time to change your mind."

I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged
Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, an itinerary of the tour,
for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had gained
laurels in England, Belgium, and Denmark.

Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was
settled that their visits should be drawn by lot from a little bag, and
each town marked with the date and the name of the play.

A week later Duquesnel, with whom I had signed a contract, returned with
the tour mapped out and all the company engaged. It was almost
miraculous.

The performances were to commence on Saturday, September 4, and there
were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day of
departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which
caused this tour to be called "The twenty-eight days of Sarah
Bernhardt," like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to
accomplish his military service.

The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more
than during this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organised excursions and
_fêtes_ outside the towns.

At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the
sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates
and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, &c.,
had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections,
and the mayors had prepared visits to the churches and celebrated
buildings.

When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters,
each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked.

I hate seeing public buildings and having them explained to me. I know
most of the public sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt
inclined and with my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other
buildings, I find them very tiresome. I cannot help it--it really
wearies me to see them.

I can admire their outline in passing, or when I see them silhouetted
against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will
not go. The idea of entering these cold spaces, while some one explains
their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings
with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over
highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the
left wing that they would have done better to let crumble to ruins; to
have some one express wonder at the depth of some moat which once upon a
time used to be full of water, but is now as dry as the east wind--all
that is so tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood
I have always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all
buildings higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I
positively adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct
the horizon. I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a
hundred times rather they had never been built.

I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who
had been so obliging. We passed two hours over this task, and on
September 3, I set out, free, joyful, and content.

My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the
lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding
country from all the towns in which I played.

I came back to Paris on September 30, and had only just time to prepare
for my journey to America. I had only been a week in Paris when I had a
visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Variétés. His
brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond
Deslandes.

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.