My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 45

"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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 s.e.xes, 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 Comedie was the first theatre to which all these ill.u.s.trious 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.

I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I made Cap Martin my headquarters. I had a tent put up here on the spot that the Empress Eugenie afterwards selected for her villa. I did not want to see anybody, and I thought that by living in a tent so far from the town I should not be troubled with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I was having lunch with my little boy I heard the bells of two horses and a carriage. The road overhung my tent, which was half hidden by the bushes. Suddenly a voice which I knew, but could not recognise, cried in the emphatic tone of a herald, "Does Sarah Bernhardt, Societaire of the Comedie Francaise, reside here?"

We did not move. The question was asked again. Again the answer was silence. But we heard the sound of breaking branches, the bushes were pushed apart, and at two yards from the tent the unwelcome voice recommenced.

We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed, I came out. I saw before me a man with a large _tussore_ cloak on, a field-gla.s.s strapped on his shoulders, a grey bowler hat, and a red, happy face, with a little pointed beard. I looked at this commonplace-looking individual with anything but favour. He lifted his hat.

"Madame Sarah Bernhardt is here?"

"What do you want with me, sir?"

"Here is my card, Madame."

I read, "Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers." I looked at him with astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent.

"Well, you see, Madame, I came to ask you to sell me your group, _After the Tempest_."

I began to laugh.

"Ma foi, Monsieur, I am treating for that with the firm of Susse, and they offer me 6000 francs. If you will give ten you may have it."

"All right," he said. "Here are 10,000 francs. Have you pen and ink?"

"No."

"Ah," said he, "allow me!" And he produced a little case in which there were pen and ink.

I made out the receipt, and gave him an order to take the group from my studio in Paris. He went away, and I heard the bells of the horses ringing and then dying away in the distance. After this I was often invited to the house of this original person.

XXVI

THE COMeDIE FRANcAISE GOES TO LONDON

Shortly after, I came back to Paris. At the theatre they were preparing for a benefit performance for Bressant, who was about to retire from the stage. It was agreed that Mounet-Sully and I should play an act from Oth.e.l.lo, by Jean Aicard. The theatre was well filled, and the audience in a good humour. After the song I was in bed as Desdemona, when suddenly I heard the public laugh, softly at first, and then irrepressibly. Oth.e.l.lo had just come in, in the darkness, in his s.h.i.+rt or very little more, with a lantern in his hand, and gone to a door hidden in some drapery. The public, that impersonal unity has no hesitation in taking part in these unseemly manifestations, but each member of the audience, taken as a separate individual, would be ashamed to admit that he partic.i.p.ated in them. But the ridicule thrown on this act by the exaggerated pantomime of the actor prevented the play being staged again, and it was only twenty years later that _Oth.e.l.lo_ as an entire play was produced at the Theatre Francais. I was then no longer there.

After having played Berenice in _Mithridate_ successfully, I reappeared in my _role_ of the Queen in _Ruy Blas_. The play was as successful at the Theatre Francais as it had been at the Odeon, and the public was, if anything, still more favourable to me. Mounet-Sully played Ruy Blas. He was admirable in the part, and infinitely superior to Lafontaine, who had played it at the Odeon. Frederic Febvre, very well costumed, rendered his part in a most interesting manner, but he was not so good as Geffroy, who was the most distinguished and the most terrifying Don Sall.u.s.te that could be imagined.

My relations with Perrin were more and more strained.

He was pleased that I was successful, for the sake of the theatre; he was happy at the magnificent receipts of _Ruy Blas_; but he would have much preferred that it had been another than I who received all the applause. My independence, my horror of submission, even in appearance, annoyed him vastly.

One day my servant came to tell me that an elderly Englishman was asking to see me so insistently that he thought it better to come and tell me, though I had given orders I was not to be disturbed.

"Send him away, and let me work in peace."

I was just commencing a picture which interested me very much. It represented a little girl, on Palm Sunday, carrying branches of palm.

The little model who posed for me was a lovely Italian of eight years old. Suddenly she said to me:

"He's quarrelling--that Englishman!"

As a matter of fact, in the ante-room there was a noise of voices rising higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my palette in my hand, resolved to make the intruder flee. But just as I opened the door of my studio a tall man came so close to me that I drew back, and he came into the large room. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair silvery white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses very politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my "hall"--and this while I was in complete ignorance of his name. When at the end of ten minutes I begged him to sit down and tell me to what I owed the pleasure of his visit, he replied in a stilted voice with a strong accent:

"I am Mr. Jarrett, the _impresario_. I can make your fortune. Will you come to America?

"Never!" I exclaimed firmly. "Never!"

"Oh well, don't get angry. Here is my address--don't lose it." Then at the moment he took leave he said:

"Ah! you are going to London with the Comedie Francaise. Would you like to earn a lot of money in London?"

"Yes. How?"

"By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make a small fortune for you."

"Oh, I would be pleased--that is if I go to London, for I have not yet decided."

"Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add an additional clause?"

And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me with confidence at first sight--a confidence which he never betrayed.

The committee and M. Perrin had made an agreement with John Hollingshead, director of the Gaiety Theatre in London. n.o.body had been consulted, and I thought that was a little too free and easy. So when they told me about this agreement, I said nothing.