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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




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-glass 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
Othello, 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. Othello had just come in, in the darkness, in his shirt
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 participated 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 _Othello_ 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
Salluste 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. Nobody 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.

Perrin rather anxiously took me aside:

"What are you turning over in your mind?"

"I am turning over this: That I will not go to London in a situation
inferior to anybody. For the entire term of my contract I intend to be a
Societaire with one entire share in the profits."

This intention irritated the committee considerably. And the next day
Perrin told me that my proposal was rejected.

"Well, I shall not go to London. That is all! Nothing in my contract
compels me to go."

The committee met again, and Got cried out, "Well, let her stay away!
She is a regular nuisance!"

It was therefore decided that I should not go to London. But
Hollingshead and Mayer, his partner, did not see things in this light,
and they declared that the contract would not be binding if either
Croizette, Mounet-Sully, or I did not go.

The agents, who had bought two hundred thousand francs' worth of tickets
beforehand, also refused to regard the affair as binding on them if we
did not go. Mayer came to see me in profound despair, and told me all
about it.

"We shall have to break our contract with the Comedie if you don't
come," he said, "for the business cannot go through."

Frightened at the consequences of my bad temper, I ran to see Perrin,
and told him that after the consultation I had just had with Mayer I
understood the involuntary injury I should be causing to the Theatre
Francais and to my comrades, and I told him I was ready to go under any
conditions.

The committee was holding a meeting. Perrin asked me to wait, and
shortly after he came back to me. Croizette and I had been appointed
Societaires with one entire share in the profits each, not only for
London, but for always.

Everybody had done their duty. Perrin, very much touched, took both my
hands and drew me to him.

"Oh, the good and untamable little creature!"

We embraced, and peace was again concluded between us. But it could not
last long, for five days after this reconciliation, about nine o'clock
in the evening, M. Perrin was announced at my house. I had some friends
to dinner, so I went to receive him in the hall. He held out to me a
paper.

"Read that," said he.

And I read in an English newspaper, the _Times_, this paragraph:

DRAWING-ROOM COMEDIES OF MLLE. SARAH BERNHARDT, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF
SIR JULIUS BENEDICT.--"The _repertoire_ of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is
composed of comedies, proverbs, one-act plays, and monologues, written
specially for her and one or two artistes of the Comedie Francaise.
These comedies are played without accessories or scenery, and can be
adapted both in London and Paris to the _matinees_ and _soirees_ of the
best society. For all details and conditions please communicate with Mr.
Jarrett (secretary of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt) at Her Majesty's Theatre."

As I was reading the last lines it dawned on me that Jarrett, learning
that I was certainly coming to London, had begun to advertise me. I
explained this frankly to Perrin.

"What objection is there," I said, "to my making use of my evenings to
earn money? This business has been proposed to me."

"I am not complaining--it's the committee."

"That is too bad!" I cried, and calling for my secretary, I said, "Give
me Delaunay's letter that I gave you yesterday."

He brought it out of one of his numerous pockets and gave it to Perrin
to read.

"Would you care to come and play _La Nuit d'Octobre_ at Lady Dudley's on
Thursday, June 5? We are offered 5000 francs for us two. Kind
regards.--DELAUNAY."

"Let me have this letter," said the manager, visibly annoyed.

"No, I will not. But you may tell Delaunay that I spoke to you about his
offer."

For the next two or three days nothing was talked of in Paris but the
scandalous notice in the _Times_. The French were then almost entirely
ignorant of the habits and customs of the English. At last all this talk
annoyed me, and I begged Perrin to try and stop it, and the next day the
following appeared in the _National_ (May 29): _"Much Ado about Nothing.
_--In friendly discussion it has been decided that outside the
rehearsals and the performances of the Comedie Francaise each artiste is
free to employ his time as he sees fit. There is therefore absolutely no
truth at all in the pretended quarrel between the Comedie Francaise and
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. This artiste has only acted strictly within her
rights, which nobody attempts to limit, and all our artistes intend to
benefit in the same manner. The manager of the Comedie Francaise asks
only that the artistes who form this company do not give performances in
a body."

This article came from the Comedie, and the members of the committee had
taken advantage of it to advertise themselves a little, announcing that
they also were ready to play in drawing-rooms, for the article was sent
to Mayer with a request that it should appear in the English papers. It
was Mayer himself who told me this.

All disputes being at an end, we commenced our preparations for
departure.

I had been but once on the sea when it was decided that the artistes of
the Comedie Francaise should go to London. The determined ignorance of
the French with regard to all things foreign was much more pronounced in
those days than it is at present. Therefore I had a very warm cloak
made, as I had been assured that the crossing was icy cold even in the
very middle of summer, and I believed this. On every side I was besieged
with lozenges for sea-sickness, sedatives for headache, tissue paper to
put down my back, little compress plasters to put on my diaphragm, and
waterproof cork soles for my shoes, for it appeared that above all
things I must not have cold feet. Oh, how droll and amusing it all was!
I took everything, paid attention to all the recommendations, and
believed everything I was told.

The most inconceivable thing of all, though, was the arrival, five
minutes before the boat started, of an enormous wooden case. It was very
light, and was held by a tall young man, who to-day is a most remarkable
individual, possessing all orders and honours, a colossal fortune, and
the most outrageous vanity. At that time he was a timid inventor, young,
poor, and sad: he was always buried in books which treated of abstract
questions, whilst of life he knew absolutely nothing. He had a great
admiration for me, mingled with a trifle of awe. My little court had
surnamed him "La Quenelle." He was long, vacillating, colourless, and
really did resemble the thin roll of forcemeat in a _vol-au-vent_.

He came up to see me, his face more wan-looking even than usual. The
boat was moving a little. My departure terrified him, and the wind
caused him to plunge from right to left. He made a mysterious sign to
me, and I followed him, accompanied by _mon petit Dame_, and leaving my
friends, who were inclined to be ironical, behind. When I was seated he
opened the case and took out an enormous life-belt invented by himself.
I was perfectly astounded, for I was new to sea voyages, and the idea
had never even occurred to me that we might be shipwrecked during one
hour's crossing. La Quenelle was by no means disconcerted, and he put
the belt on himself in order to show me how it was used.

Nothing could have looked more foolish than this man, with his sad,
serious face, putting on this apparatus. There were a dozen egg-sized
bladders round the belt, eleven of which were filled with air and
contained a piece of sugar. In the twelfth, a very small bladder, were
ten drops of brandy. In the middle of the belt was a tiny cushion with a
few pins on it.

"You understand," he said to me. "You fall in the water--paff!--you stay
like this." Hereupon he pretended to sit down, rising and sinking with
the movement of the waves, his two hands in front of him laid upon the
imaginary sea, and his neck stretched like that of a tortoise in order
to keep his head above water.

"You see, you have now been in the water for two hours," he explained,
"and you want to get back your strength. You take a pin and prick an
egg, like this. You take your lump of sugar and eat it; that is as good
as a quarter of a pound of meat." He then threw the broken bladder
overboard, and from the packing case brought out another, which he
fastened to the life-belt. He had evidently thought of everything. I was
petrified with amazement. A few of my friends had gathered round, hoping
for one of La Quenelle's mad freaks, but they had never expected
anything like this one.

M. Mayer, one of our _impresarii_, fearing a scandal of too absurd a
kind, dispersed the people who were gathering round us. I did not know
whether to be angry or to laugh, but the jeering, unjust speech of one
of my friends roused my pity for this poor Quenelle. I thought of the
hours he had spent in planning, combining, and then manufacturing his
ridiculous machine. I was touched by the anxiety and affection which had
prompted the invention of this life-saving apparatus, and I held out my
hand to my poor Quenelle, saying, "Be off now, quickly; the boat is just
going to start."

He kissed the hand held out to him in a friendly way, and hurried off. I
then called my steward, Claude, and I said, "As soon as we are out of
sight of land, throw that case and all it contains into the sea."

The departure of the boat was accompanied by shouts of "Hurrah! Au
revoir! Success! Good luck!" There was a waving of hands, handkerchiefs
floating in the air, and kisses thrown haphazard to every one.

But what was really fine, and a sight I shall never forget, was our
landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people there, and it was
the first time I had ever heard the cry of "Vive Sarah Bernhardt!"

I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the ideal face of
Hamlet. He presented me with a gardenia. I was destined to admire him
later on as Hamlet played by Forbes Robertson. We passed on through a
crowd offering us flowers and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was
more favoured than the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was
delighted all the same. One of my comrades who was just near, and with
whom I was not a favourite, said to me in a spiteful tone:

"They'll make you a carpet of flowers soon."

"Here is one!" exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful of lilies on
the ground in front of me.

I stopped short, rather confused, not daring to walk on these white
flowers, but the crowd pressing on behind compelled me to advance, and
the poor lilies had to be trodden under foot.

"Hip, hip, hurrah! A cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!" shouted the turbulent
young man.

His head was above all the other heads; he had luminous eyes and long
hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet, though,
and one of the greatest of the century, a poet who was a genius, but who
was, alas! later tortured and finally vanquished by madness. It was
Oscar Wilde.

The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached our train amidst
shouts of "Hip, hip, hurrah for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip, hip, hurrah for
the French actors!"

When the train arrived at Charing Cross towards nine o'clock we were
nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was
gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again on
our arrival in London with more hurrahs. There were plenty of people,
crowds of people, but none appeared to know us.

On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet
laid down, and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything,
as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however,
had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the
Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris.

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
Duchess 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 Duchess 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.

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We do not know the women's names, but their voices are quite distinct. All are pregnant. But while the first woman awaits the birth of her baby with a moon-like serenity, the other two are not so lucky. One, whose previous pregnancies have failed to go to term, is experiencing a heartbreaking late miscarriage; the other is a young student whose accidental pregnancy will end in her child being put up for adoption.

Sylvia Plath's only play was never intended for the stage, being broadcast instead on BBC radio in August 1962. Less than six months later, Plath killed herself, but not before the burst of astonishing creative energy that produced her extraordinary, terrifying Ariel poems.

Anyone who knows Plath's poetry will see the connection between Three Women and Plath's subsequent poems, particularly in the way she talks about the agony of childbirth, the rush of love for this tiny alien being, and both the wonder and wounded rawness of motherhood. It is a beautiful piece, full of startling imagery that draws you in through the sheer intensity of its femaleness, and because it so precisely articulates the emotions that are often thought but seldom voiced by women - certainly not in the early 1960s - about men, motherhood and our relationship to our bodies.

It's been 20 years since there has been an attempt at a professional stage version and - in a theatre world that happily accepts the poetic offerings of Sarah Kane and Debbie Tucker Green, or the staged possibilities of The Waves, one of Plath's own inspirations for the piece, I see no reason why it shouldn't be brought to life. Sadly, it doesn't breathe here, in a production by Robert Shaw that is clearly a labour of love, but which never finds a way to give the internal a physical reality. Plath's poetry, like most babies, is more robust than it appears - and won't break if treated with a little less reverence and considerably more grit.

Instead, what we are offered is tinkling piano music, mournful mood lighting, an innocuous pale setting, as well as three perfectly good but indisputably ladylike performances that capture none of the wounded redness of Plath's poetry, and do her the disservice of making her sound bleached and somewhat prissy. It's a pity. What might have been a wonder ends up a mere curiosity.

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