My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 50

"Well, then, show me all your animals."

I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the cheetahs, the pumas, and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore them, and I should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That has always been one of my dreams, and perhaps some day I shall be able to realise it.

Cross had not any, though, so I bought a cheetah. It was quite young and very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some castle of the Middle Ages.

I also bought a dog-wolf, all white with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and spear-like teeth. He was terrifying to look at. Mr. Cross made me a present of six chameleons which belonged to a small breed and looked like lizards. He also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric, fabulous sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity, and changed colour from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute slender and long like a lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out and thick-set like a toad. Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a lobster, were quite independent of each other. With its right eye it would look ahead and with its left eye it looked backwards. I was delighted and quite enthusiastic over this present. I named my chameleon "Cross-ci Cross-ca," in honour of Mr. Cross.

We returned to London with the cheetah in a cage, the dog-wolf in a leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and Cross-ci Cross-ca on my shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had bought at a jeweller's.

I had not found any lions, but I was delighted all the same.

My servants were not as pleased as I was. There were already three dogs in the house: Minniccio, who had accompanied me from Paris; Bull and Fly, bought in London. Then there was my parrot Bizibouzou, and my monkey Darwin.

Madame Guerard screamed when she saw these new guests arrive. My steward hesitated to approach the dog-wolf, and it was all in vain that I a.s.sured them that my cheetah was not dangerous. No one would open the cage, and it was carried out into the garden. I asked for a hammer in order to open the door of the cage which had been nailed down, thus keeping the poor cheetah a prisoner. When my domestics heard me ask for the hammer they decided to open it themselves. Madame Guerard and the women servants watched from the windows. Presently the door burst open, and the cheetah, beside himself with joy, sprang like a tiger out of his cage, wild with liberty. He rushed at the trees and made straight for the dogs, who all four began to howl with terror. The parrot was excited, and uttered shrill cries; and the monkey, shaking his cage about, gnashed his teeth to distraction. This concert in the silent square made the most prodigious effect. All the windows were opened, and more than twenty faces appeared above my garden wall, all of them inquisitive, alarmed, or furious. I was seized with a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and so was my friend Louise Abbema. Nittis the painter, who had come to call on me, was in the same state, and so was Gustave Dore, who had been waiting for me ever since two o'clock.

Georges Deschamp, an amateur musician with a great deal of talent, tried to note down this Hofmannesque harmony, whilst my friend Georges Clairin, his back shaking with laughter, sketched the never-to-be -forgotten scene.

The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was the Bedlam that had been let loose at 77 Chester Square. So much was made of it that our _doyen_, M. Got, came to beg me not to make such a scandal, as it reflected on the Comedie Francaise. I listened to him in silence, and when he had finished I took his hands.

"Come with me and I will show you the scandal," I said. I led the way into the garden, followed by my visitor and friends. "Let the cheetah out!" I said, standing on the steps like a captain ordering his men to take in a reef.

When the cheetah was free the same mad scene occurred again as on the previous day.

"You see, Monsieur le Doyen," I said, "this is my Bedlam." "You are mad," he said, kissing me; "but it certainly is irresistibly comic," and he laughed until the tears came when he saw all the heads appearing above the garden wall.

The hostilities continued, though, through sc.r.a.ps of gossip retailed by one person to another and from one set to another. The French Press took it up, and so did the English Press. In spite of my happy disposition and my contempt for ill-natured tales, I began to feel irritated.

Injustice has always roused me to revolt, and injustice was certainly having its fling. I could not do a thing that was not watched and blamed.

One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan, whom I loved dearly. That adorable artiste took my face in her hands, and looking into my eyes, said:

"My poor dear, you can't do anything to prevent it. You are original without trying to be so. You have a dreadful head of hair that is naturally curly and rebellious, your slenderness is exaggerated, you have a natural harp in your throat, and all this makes of you a creature apart, which is a crime of high treason against all that is commonplace.

That is what is the matter with you physically. Now for your moral defects. You cannot hide your thoughts, you cannot stoop to anything, you never accept any compromise, you will not lend yourself to any hypocrisy--and all that is a crime of high treason against society. How can you expect under these conditions not to arouse jealousy, not to wound people's susceptibilities, and not to make them spiteful? If you are discouraged because of these attacks, it will be all over with you, as you will have no strength left to withstand them. In that case I advise you to brush your hair, to put oil on it, and so make it lie as sleek as that of the famous Corsican; but even that would never do, for Napoleon had such sleek hair that it was quite original. Well, you might try to brush your hair as smooth as Prudhon's, [Footnote: Prudhon was one of the artistes of the Theatre Francais.] then there would be no risk for you. I would advise you," she continued, "to get a little stouter, and to let your voice break occasionally; then you would not annoy any one. But if you wish to remain _yourself_, my dear, prepare to mount on a little pedestal made of calumny, scandal, injustice, adulation, flattery, lies, and truths. When you are once upon it, though, do the right thing, and cement it by your talent, your work, and your kindness. All the spiteful people who have unintentionally provided the first materials for the edifice will kick it then, in hopes of destroying it. They will be powerless to do this, though, if you choose to prevent them; and that is just what I hope for you, my dear Sarah, as you have an ambitious thirst for glory. I cannot understand that myself, as I only like rest and retirement."

I looked at her with envy, she was so beautiful: with her liquid eyes, her face with its pure, restful lines, and her weary smile. I wondered in an uneasy way if happiness were not rather in this calm tranquillity, in the disdain of all things. I asked her gently if this were so, for I wanted to know; and she told me that the theatre bored her, that she had had so many disappointments. She shuddered when she spoke of her marriage, and as to her motherhood, that had only caused her sorrow. Her love affairs had left her with affections crushed and physically disabled. The light seemed doomed to fade from her beautiful eyes, her legs were swollen and could scarcely carry her. She told me all this in the same calm, half weary tone.

What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me to the heart now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the weakness of her eyes and her legs, and her delight in retirement was only the love of that peace which was so necessary to her, wounded as she was by the life she had lived.

The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently than ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her advice. I armed myself for the struggle, preferring to die in the midst of the battle rather than to end my life regretting that it had been a failure. I made up my mind not to weep over the base things that were said about me, and not to suffer any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on the defensive, and very soon an occasion presented itself.

_L'Etrangere_ was to be played for the second time at a _matinee_, June 21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to Mayer that I was not well, and that as I was playing in _Hernani_ at night, I should be glad if he could change the play announced for the afternoon if possible. The advance booking, however, was more than 400, and the committee would not hear of it.

"Oh well," Got said to Mr. Mayer, "we must give the _role_ to some one else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will be Croizette, Madeleine Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself in the cast, and, _que diable!_ it seems to me that all of us together will make up for Mademoiselle Bernhardt."

Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as she had played this _role_ at the Comedie when I was ill. Lloyd was afraid to undertake it, though, and refused. It was decided to change the play, and _Tartufe_ was given instead of _L'Etrangere_. Nearly all the public, however, asked to have their money refunded, and the receipts, which would have been about 500, only amounted to 84. All the spite and jealousy now broke loose, and the whole company of the Comedie, more particularly the men, with the exception of M. Worms, started a campaign against me. Francisque Sarcey, as drum-major, beat the measure with his terrible pen in his hand. The most foolish, slanderous, and stupid inventions and the most odious lies took their flight like a cloud of wild ducks, and swooped suddenly down upon all the newspapers that were against me. It was said that for a shilling any one might see me dressed as a man; that I smoked huge cigars, leaning on the balcony of my house; that at the various receptions where I gave one-act plays I took my maid with me to play a small part; that I practised fencing in my garden, dressed as a pierrot in white; and that when taking boxing lessons I had broken two teeth of my unfortunate professor.

Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these turpitudes, a.s.suring me that the public could not possibly believe them. They were mistaken, though, for the public likes to believe bad things about any one, as these are always more amusing than the good things. I soon had a proof that the English public was beginning to believe what the French papers said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I would consent to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine attire, and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but he was willing to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it. This man was an ill-bred person, but he was sincere. I received several boxes of cigars, and the boxing and fencing professors wrote to offer their services gratuitously. All this annoyed me to such a degree that I resolved to put an end to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris _Figaro_ caused me to take steps to cut matters short.

This is what I wrote in reply to the article in the _Figaro_, June 27, 1879:

"Albert Wolff, _Figaro_, Paris.

"And you, too, my dear Monsieur Wolff--you believe in such insanities?

Who can have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my friend, though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told, you have still a little indulgence left. Well then, I give you my word of honour that I have never dressed as a man here in London. I did not even bring my sculptor costume with me. I give the most emphatic denial to this misrepresentation. I only went once to the exhibition which I organised, and that was on the opening day, for which I had only sent out a few private invitations, so that no one paid a shilling to see me.

It is true that I have accepted some private engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the least remunerated members of the Comedie Francaise. I certainly have the right, therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten pictures and eight pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is quite true, but as I brought them over here to sell, really I must show them. As to the respect due to the House of Moliere, dear Monsieur Wolff, I lay claim to keeping that in mind more than any one else, for I am absolutely incapable of inventing such calumnies for the sake of slaying one of its standard-bearers. And now, if the stupidities invented about me have annoyed the Parisians, and if they have decided to receive me ungraciously on my return, I do not wish any one to be guilty of such baseness on my account, so I will send in my resignation to the Comedie Francaise. If the London public is tired of all this fuss and should be inclined to show me ill-will instead of the indulgence hitherto accorded me I shall ask the Comedie to allow me to leave England, in order to spare our company the annoyance of seeing one of its members hooted at and hissed. I am sending you this letter by wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives me the right to commit this little folly, and I beg you, dear Monsieur Wolff, to accord to my letter the same honour as you did to the calumnies of my enemies.--With very kind regards,

"Yours sincerely,

"SARAH BERNHARDT."

This telegram caused much ink to flow. Whilst treating me as a spoiled child, people generally agreed that I was quite right. The Comedie was most amiable. Perrin, the manager, wrote me an affectionate letter begging me to give up my idea of leaving the company. The women were most friendly. Croizette came to see me, and putting her arms round me, said, "Tell me you won't do such a thing, my dear, foolish child! You won't really send in your resignation? In the first place; it would not be accepted, I can answer for that!"

Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His whole speech savoured of Protestantism. There are several Protestant pastors in his family, and this influenced him unconsciously. Delaunay, surnamed Father Candour, came solemnly to inform me of the bad impression my telegram had made. He told me that the Comedie Francaise was a Ministry; that there was the Minister, the secretary, the sub-chiefs and the _employes_, and that each one must conform to the rules and bring in his share either of talent or work, and so on and so on. I saw Coquelin at the theatre in the evening. He came to me with outstretched hands.

"You know I can't compliment you," he said, "on your rash action, but with good luck we shall make you change your mind. When one has the good fortune and the honour of belonging to the Comedie Francaise, one must remain there until the end of one's career."

Frederic Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with the Comedie, because it would save money for me, and I was quite incapable of doing that myself.

"Believe me," he said, "when we are with the Comedie we must not leave; it means our bread provided for us later on."

Got, our _doyen_, then approached me.

"Do you know what you are doing in sending in your resignation?" he asked.

"No," I replied.

"Deserting."

"You are mistaken," I answered; "I am not deserting: I am changing barracks."

Others then came to me, and they all gave me advice tinged by their own personality: Mounet as a seer or believer; Delaunay prompted by his bureaucratic soul; Coquelin as a politician blaming another person's ideas, but extolling them later on and putting them into practice for his own profit; Febvre, a lover of respectability; Got, as a selfish old growler understanding nothing but the orders of the powers that be and advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said to me in his melancholy way:

"Will they be better towards you elsewhere?"

Worms had the most dreamy soul and the most frank, straightforward character of any member of our ill.u.s.trious company. I liked him immensely.

We were about to return to Paris, and I wanted to forget all these things for a time. I was in a hesitating mood. I postponed taking a definite decision. The stir that had been made about me, the good that had been said in my favour and the bad things written against me--all this combined had created in the artistic world an atmosphere of battle.

When on the point of leaving for Paris some of my friends felt very anxious about the reception which I should get there.

The public is very much mistaken in imagining that the agitation made about celebrated artistes is in reality instigated by the persons concerned, and that they do it purposely. Irritated at seeing the same name constantly appearing on every occasion, the public declares that the artiste who is being either slandered or pampered is an ardent lover of publicity. Alas! three times over alas! We are victims of the said advertis.e.m.e.nt. Those who know the joys and miseries of celebrity when they have pa.s.sed the age of forty know how to defend themselves. They are at the beginning of a series of small worries, thunderbolts hidden under flowers, but they know how to hold in check that monster advertis.e.m.e.nt. It is a sort of octopus with innumerable tentacles. It throws out on the right and on the left, in front and behind, its clammy arms, and gathers in through its thousand little inhaling organs all the gossip and slander and praise afloat, to spit out again at the public when it is vomiting its black gall. But those who are caught in the clutches of celebrity at the age of twenty know nothing. I remember that the first time a reporter came to me I drew myself up straight and was as red as a c.o.c.k's-comb with joy. I was just seventeen years old--I had been acting in a private house, and had taken the part of Richelieu with immense success. This gentleman came to call on me at home, and asked me first one question and then another and then another. I answered and chattered, and was wild with pride and excitement. He took notes, and I kept looking at my mother. It seemed to me that I was getting taller. I had to kiss my mother by way of keeping my composure, and I hid my face on her shoulder to hide my delight. Finally the gentleman rose, shook hands with me, and then took his departure. I skipped about in the room and began to turn round singing, _Trois pet.i.ts pates, ma chemise brule_, when suddenly the door opened and the gentleman said to mamma, "Oh, Madame, I forgot, this is the receipt for the subscription to the journal. It is a mere nothing, only sixteen francs a year." Mamma did not understand at first. As for me, I stood still with my mouth open, unable to digest my _pet.i.ts pates_. Mamma then paid the sixteen francs, and in her pity for me, as I was crying by that time, she stroked my hair gently. Since then I have been delivered over to the monster, bound hand and foot, and I have been and still am accused of adoring advertis.e.m.e.nt. And to think that my first claims to celebrity were my extraordinary thinness and delicate health. I had scarcely made my _debut_ when epigrams, puns, jokes, and caricatures concerning me were indulged in by every one to their heart's content. Was it really for the sake of advertising myself that I was so thin, so small, so weak; and was it for this, too, that I remained in bed six months of the year, laid low by illness? My name became celebrated before I was myself.

On the first night of Louis Bouilhet's piece, _Mademoiselle Aisse_, at the Odeon, Flaubert, who was an intimate friend of the author, introduced an _attache_ of the British Emba.s.sy to me.

"Oh, I have known you for some time, Mademoiselle," he said; "you are the little stick with the sponge on the top."

This caricature of me had just appeared, and had been the delight of idle folks. I was quite a young girl at that time, and nothing of that kind hurt me or troubled me. In the first place, all the doctors had given me up, so that I was indifferent about things; but all the doctors were mistaken, and twenty years later I had to fight against the monster.

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