My Double Life: The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt Part 47

This news disappointed me, and even annoyed me personally. I had been told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of the visit of the Comedie Francaise, and I had found London extremely indifferent. The crowd was large and even dense, but cold.

"Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?" I asked M. Mayer.

"Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,"

he replied.

"Oh, then they won't be here for our first night?" I continued.

"No. The Prince has taken a box for the season, for which he has paid four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught."

I was in despair. I don't know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I felt that everything was going wrong.

A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the house, 77 Chester Square, I did not want to get out of my carriage.

The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me.

"Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?" I asked my man-servant.

"Yes," he replied. "I have put them together on a tray. All of them are from Paris, from Madame's friends there. This one is the only bouquet from here." He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it I read the words, "Welcome!--Henry Irving."

I went all through the house, and it seemed to me very dismal-looking. I visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth chattered when I came in again. That night when I went to sleep my heart was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some misfortune.

The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. That man was a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He had made me some very good offers for America, and although I had refused them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account of his intelligence, his comic humour, and my need of being piloted in this new country.

"No," he said; "if you receive them all together, they will all be furious, and you will get some wretched articles. You must receive them one after the other."

Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them.

I remember perfectly well that all of them began with, "Well, Mademoiselle, what do you think of London?"

I had arrived the previous evening at nine o'clock, and the first of these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had drawn my curtain on getting up, and all I knew of London was Chester Square, a small square of sombre verdure, in the midst of which was a black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church.

I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared for this, and I learnt the following morning that I was most enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a number of the public buildings, &c. &c.

Towards five o'clock Hortense Damain arrived. She was a charming woman, and a favourite in London society. She had come to inform me that the d.u.c.h.ess of ---- and Lady ---- would call on me at half-past five.

"Oh, stay with me, then," I said to her. "You know how unsociable I am; I feel sure that I shall be stupid."

At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the first time I had come into contact with any members of the English aristocracy, and I have always had since a very pleasant memory of it.

Lady R---- was extremely beautiful, and the d.u.c.h.ess was so gracious, so distinguished, and so kind that I was very much touched by her visit.

A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very well, as he had been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert, one of my dearest friends.

He asked me if I would care to have a ride the following morning, and he said he had a very nice lady's horse which was entirely at my service. I thanked him, but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row.

At seven o'clock Hortense Damain came to fetch me to dine with her at the house of the Baroness M----. She had a very nice house in Prince's Gate. There were about twenty guests, among others the painter Millais.

I had been told that the _cuisine_ was very bad in England, but I thought this dinner perfect. I had been told that the English were cold and sedate: I found them charming and full of humour. Every one spoke French very well, and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the English language. After dinner there were recitations and music. I was touched by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts in not asking me to recite any poetry.

I was very much interested in observing the society in which I found myself. It did not in any way resemble a French gathering. The young girls seemed to be enjoying themselves on their own account, and enjoying themselves thoroughly. They had not come there to find a husband. What surprised me a little was the _decollete_ of ladies who were getting on in years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I spoke of this to Hortense Damain.

"It's frightful!" I said.

"Yes, but it's chic."

She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled about nothing that was not _chic_. She sent me the "_Chic_ commandments" a few days before I left Paris:

_Chester Square tu habiteras._ In Chester Square thou shalt live _Rotten Row tu monteras_ In Rotten Row thou shalt ride _Le Parlement visiteras_ Parliament thou shalt visit _Garden-parties frequenteras_ Garden parties thou shalt frequent, _Chaque visite tu rendras_ Every visit thou shalt return _A chaque lettre tu repondras_ Every letter thou shalt answer _Photographies tu signeras_ Photographs thou shalt sign _Hortense Damain tu ecouteras_ To Hortense Damain thou shalt listen _Et tous ses conseils, les suicras._ And all her counsels thou shalt follow.

I laughed at these "commandments," but I soon realised that under this jocular form she considered them as very serious and important. Alas! my poor friend had hit upon the wrong person for her counsels. I detested paying visits, writing letters, signing photographs, or following any one's advice. I adore having people come to see me, and I detest going to see them. I adore receiving letters, reading them, commenting on them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and driving in frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary places. I adore giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I never follow at once any wise advice that is given me. It always requires an effort of my will to recognise the justice of any counsel, and then an effort of my intellect to be grateful for it: at first, it simply annoys me.

Consequently, I paid no attention to Hortense Damain's counsels, nor yet to Jarrett's; and in this I made a great mistake, for many people were vexed with me (in any other country I should have made enemies). On that first visit to London what a quant.i.ty of letters of invitation I received to which I never replied! How many charming women called upon me and I never returned their calls. Then, too, how many times accepted invitations to dinner and never went after all, nor did I even send a line of excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know; and yet I always accept with pleasure and intend to go, but when the day comes I am tired perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from any obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or another, the time has gone by and it is too late to send word and too late to go. And so I stay at home, dissatisfied with myself, with every one else and with everything.

XXVII

LONDON LIFE--MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE

Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable people on earth, and they are hospitable simply and munificently. When an Englishman has opened his door to you he never closes it again. He excuses your faults and accepts your peculiarities. It is thanks to this broadness of ideas that I have been for twenty-five years the beloved and pampered artiste.

I was delighted with my first _soiree_ in London, and I returned home very gay and very much "anglomaniaised." I found some of my friends there--Parisians who had just arrived--and they were furious. My enthusiasm exasperated them, and we sat up arguing until two in the morning.

The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather, and all Hyde Park seemed to be strewn with enormous bouquets. There were the flower-beds wonderfully arranged by the gardeners; then there were the cl.u.s.ters of sunshades, blue, pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the light hats covered with flowers under which shone the pretty faces of children and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop of graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds of horsewomen, slender, supple, and courageous; then there were men and children, the latter mounted on big Irish ponies. There were other children, too, galloping along on Scotch ponies with long, s.h.a.ggy manes, the children's hair and the manes of the horses streaming in the wind of their own speed.

The carriage road between the riding-track and the foot pa.s.sengers was filled with dog-carts, open carriages of various kinds, mail-coaches, and very smart cabs. There were powdered footmen, horses decorated with flowers, sportsmen driving, ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All this elegance, this essence of luxury, and this joy of life brought back to my memory the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so animated a few years before, when Napoleon III. used to drive through on his _daumont_, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how beautiful it was in those days--our Bois de Boulogne, with the officers caracoling in the Avenue des Acacias, admired by our beautiful society women!

The joy of life was everywhere--the love of love enveloping life with an infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt a pang at my heart as the awful recollections of 1870 crowded to my brain. He was dead, our gentle Emperor, with his shrewd smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed by fortune, crushed with grief.

The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all its intenseness, but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury was still shrouded in c.r.a.pe. Scarcely eight years had pa.s.sed since the war had struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes, and tarnished our glory.

Three Presidents had already succeeded each other. That wretched little Thiers, with his perverse _bourgeois_ soul, had worn his teeth out with nibbling at every kind of Government--royalty under Louis Philippe, Empire under Napoleon III., and the executive power of the French Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our beloved Paris up again, bowed down as she was under the weight of so many ruins. He had been succeeded by MacMahon, a good, brave man, but a cipher. Grevy had succeeded the Marshal, but he was miserly, and considered all outlay unnecessary for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful Bois de Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that the national defence had inflicted on her. The Avenue des Acacias was deserted.

I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and through their mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant vitality which surrounded me.

I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night for the first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing. There were several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester Square, but I did not want to see any one. I took a cup of tea and went to the Gaiety Theatre, where we were to face the English public for the first time. I knew already that I had been elected the favourite, and the idea of this chilled me with terror, for I am what is known as a _traqueuse_. I am subject to the _trac_ or stage fright, and I have it terribly. When I first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had this _trac_. I used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened to meet the eye of some spectator. I was ashamed of talking so loud before so many silent people. That was the effect of my cloistered life, but I had no feeling of fear. The first time I ever had the real sensation of _trac_ or stage fright was in the month of January 1869, at the seventh or perhaps the eighth performance of _Le Pa.s.sant_. The success of this little masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the part of Zanetto had delighted the public, and particularly the students. When I went on the stage that day I was suddenly applauded by the whole house.

I turned towards the Imperial box, thinking that the Emperor had just entered. But no; the box was empty, and I realised then that all the bravos were for me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, and my eyes smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I had five curtain calls, and on leaving the theatre the students ranged on each side gave me three cheers. On reaching home I flung myself into the arms of my blind grandmother, who was then living with me.

"What's the matter with you, my dear?" she asked.

"It's all over with me, grandmother," I said. "They want to make a 'star' of me, and I haven't talent enough for that. You'll see they'll drag me down and finish me off with all their bravos."

My grandmother took my head in her hands, and I met the vacant look in her large light eyes fixed on me.

"You told me, my child, that you wanted to be the first in your profession, and when the opportunity comes to you, why, you are frightened. It seems to me that you are a very bad soldier."

I drove back my tears, and declared that I would bear up courageously against this success which had come to interfere with my tranquillity, my heedlessness, and my "don't care-ism." But from that time forth fear took possession of me, and stage fright martyrised me.

It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second act of _Phedre,_ in which I was to appear for the first time before the English public. Three times over I put rouge on my cheeks, blackened my eyes, and three times over I took it all off again with a sponge. I thought I looked ugly, and it seemed to me I was thinner than ever and not so tall. I closed my eyes to listen to my voice. My special pitch is "_le bal,_" which I p.r.o.nounce low down with the open _a, "le baaal_" or take high by dwelling on the _l--"le balll._" Ah, but there was no doubt about it; my "_le bal_" neither sounded high nor low, my voice was hoa.r.s.e in the low notes and not clear in the soprano. I cried with rage, and just then I was informed that the second act of _Phedre_ was about to commence. This drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and my cameo belt was not fastened.