My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 49

"I don't know. She looks quite calm."

The whole of this conversation, which was repeated to me later on, took much less time than it does now to write it down. Coquelin had been told, and he now came on to the stage to finish the act. The curtain fell. I was stupefied and desperate afterwards on hearing all that people told me. I had not noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed to me that I had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really under the influence of the opium. There was very little for me to say in the fifth act, and I went through that perfectly well. The following day the accounts in the papers sounded the praises of our company, but the piece itself was criticised. I was afraid at first that my involuntary omission of the important scene in the third act was one of the causes of the severity of the Press. This was not so, though, as all the critics had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself, and did not mention my slip of memory.

The _Figaro_, which was in a very bad humour with me just then, had an article from which I quote the following extract:

"_L'Etrangere_ is not a piece in accordance with the English taste.

Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically, and so were Coquelin and Febvre. Mile. Sarah Bernhardt, nervous as usual, lost her memory.'" (_Figaro_, June 3rd.)

He knew perfectly well, this worthy Mr. Johnson, [Footnote: T. Johnson, London correspondent of _Le Figaro_.] that I was very ill. He had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot; consequently he was aware that I was acting in spite of the Faculty in the interests of the Comedie Francaise. The English public had given me such proofs of appreciation that the Comedie was rather affected by it, and the _Figaro_, which was at that time the organ of the Theatre Francais, requested Johnson to modify his praises of me. This he did the whole time that we were in London.

My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was quite an unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to authors how unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining the characters of their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly anxious to give us the reasons which caused Mrs. Clarkson to act as strangely as she did. He had created a person who was extremely interesting and full of action as the play proceeds. She reveals herself to the public, in the first act, by the lines which Mrs. Clarkson says to Madame de Septmonts:

"I should be very glad, Madame, if you would call on me. We could talk about one of your friends, Monsieur Gerard, whom I love perhaps as much as you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as he does for you."

That was quite enough to interest the public in these two women. It was the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat between vice and virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace to Dumas, ancient history, in fact, and he wanted to rejuvenate the old theme by trying to arrange for an orchestra with organ and banjo. The result he obtained was a fearful cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been a beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his ideas, and the brutality of his humour sufficed for rejuvenating old ideas which, in reality, are the eternal basis of tragedies, comedies, novels, pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was love between vice and virtue.

Among the spectators who saw the first performance of _L'Etrangere_ in London, and there were quite as many French as English present, not one remarked that there was something wanting, and not one of them said that he had not understood the character.

I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman.

"Did you notice the gap in the third act?" I asked him.

"No," he replied.

"In my big scene with Croizette?"

"No."

"Well then, read what I left out," I insisted.

When he had read this he exclaimed:

"So much the better. It's very dull, all that story, and quite useless.

I understand the character without all that rigmarole and that romantic history."

Later on, when I apologised to Dumas _fils_ for the way in which I had cut down his play, he answered, "Oh, my dear child, when I write a play I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when any one tells it to me I think it is perfect, as the person always forgets half of it."

The performances given by the Comedie Francaise drew a crowd nightly to the Gaiety Theatre, and I remained the favourite. I mention this now with pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful for my success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of it, and hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.

Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had a.s.sured me that I should be able to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had therefore taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a hundred in all.

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales let me know that he would come with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities of London came to the inauguration. I had only sent out a hundred invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived and were introduced to me. I was delighted, and enjoyed it all immensely.

Mr. Gladstone did me the great honour of talking to me for about ten minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain clergymen on the Comedie Francaise and the d.a.m.nable profession of dramatic artistes had made on me. I answered that I considered our art quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and Protestant preachers.

"But will you tell me, Mademoiselle,'" he insisted, "what moral lesson you can draw from _Phedre_?"

"Oh, Mr. Gladstone," I replied, "you surprise me. _Phedre_ is an ancient tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to perspective quite different from ours and different from the morality of our present society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old nurse Oenone, who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent person.

The love of Phedre is excusable on account of the fatality which hangs over her family and descends pitilessly upon her. In our times we should call that fatality atavism, for Phedre was the daughter of Minos and Pasiphae. As to Theseus, his verdict, against which there could be no appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and was punished by the death of that beloved son of his, who was the sole and last hope of his life. We ought never to do what is irreparable."

"Ah," said the Grand Old Man, "you are against capital punishment?"

"Yes, Mr. Gladstone."

"And quite right, Mademoiselle."

Frederic Leighton then joined us, and with great kindness complimented me on one of my pictures, representing a young girl holding some palms.

This picture was bought by Prince Leopold.

My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought that it was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many cowardly side-thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with the Comedie Francaise.

I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptress, and I exhibited my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to buy two little lions, and had not money enough. I sold the pictures for what they were worth--that is to say, at very modest prices.

Lady H---- bought my group _After the Storm_. It was smaller than the large group I had exhibited two years previously at the Paris Salon, and for which I had received a prize. The smaller group was in marble, and I had worked at it with the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for 160, but Lady H---- sent me 400, together with a charming note, which I venture to quote. It ran as follows:

"Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed 400 for your admirable group, _After the Storm_. Will you also do me the honour of coming to lunch with me, and afterwards you shall choose for yourself the place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.--ETHEL H."

This was Tuesday, and I was playing in Zare that evening, but Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting. I had money enough now to buy my lions, so without saying a word at the theatre I started for Liverpool. I knew there was a big menagerie there, Cross's Zoo, and that I should find some lions for sale.

The journey was most amusing, as although I was travelling incognito, I was recognised all along the route and was made a great deal of.

Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with me, and it was a very lively little trip. I knew that I was not s.h.i.+rking my duties at the Comedie, as I was not to play again before Sat.u.r.day, and this was only Wednesday.

We started in the morning at 10.30, and arrived at Liverpool about 2.30.

We went at once to Cross's, but could not find the entrance to the house. We asked a shopkeeper at the corner of the street, and he pointed to a little door which we had already opened and closed twice, as we could not believe that was the entrance.

I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond, and we were in front of a little door leading into quite a small, bare-looking room, where we found a little man.

"Mr. Cross?" we said. "That's my name," he replied.

"I want to buy some lions," I then said.

He began to laugh, and then he asked:

"Do you really, Mademoiselle? Are you so fond of animals? I went to London last week to see the Comedie Francaise, and I saw you in _Hernani_."

"It wasn't from that you discovered that I like animals?" I said to him.

"No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew's Street who told me. He said you had bought two dogs from him, and that if it had not been for a gentleman who was with you, you would have bought five."

He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal of humour.

"Well, Mr. Cross," I said, "I want two lions to-day."

"I'll show you what I have," he replied, leading the way into the courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what magnificent creatures they were! There were two superb African lions with s.h.i.+ning coats and powerful-looking tails, which were beating the air. They had only just arrived and they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for rebellion. They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating stigma of civilised beings.

"Oh, Mr. Cross," I said, "these are too big. I want some young lions!"

"I haven't any, Mademoiselle."