"As to that, you can count on me!" exclaimed Felix Duquesnel. "My dear Sarah, you had your first successes with me, and it is with me that you will have your last...."
Everybody protested, and I jumped up.
"Wait one moment," said he. "Last successes until you come back from America! If you will consent, you can count on me for everything. I will obtain, at any price, theatres in all the large towns, and we will give twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to financial arrangements, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five performances--fifty thousand francs. To-morrow I will give you one half of this sum, and sign a contract with you, so that you will not have time to change your mind."
I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, an itinerary of the tour, for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had gained laurels in England, Belgium, and Denmark.
Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was settled that their visits should be drawn by lot from a little bag, and each town marked with the date and the name of the play.
A week later Duquesnel, with whom I had signed a contract, returned with the tour mapped out and all the company engaged. It was almost miraculous.
The performances were to commence on Sat.u.r.day, September 4, and there were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day of departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which caused this tour to be called "The twenty-eight days of Sarah Bernhardt," like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to accomplish his military service.
The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more than during this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organised excursions and _fetes_ outside the towns.
At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, &c., had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections, and the mayors had prepared visits to the churches and celebrated buildings.
When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters, each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked.
I hate seeing public buildings and having them explained to me. I know most of the public sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt inclined and with my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other buildings, I find them very tiresome. I cannot help it--it really wearies me to see them.
I can admire their outline in pa.s.sing, or when I see them silhouetted against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will not go. The idea of entering these cold s.p.a.ces, while some one explains their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the left wing that they would have done better to let crumble to ruins; to have some one express wonder at the depth of some moat which once upon a time used to be full of water, but is now as dry as the east wind--all that is so tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood I have always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all buildings higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I positively adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct the horizon. I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a hundred times rather they had never been built.
I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who had been so obliging. We pa.s.sed two hours over this task, and on September 3, I set out, free, joyful, and content.
My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding country from all the towns in which I played.
I came back to Paris on September 30, and had only just time to prepare for my journey to America. I had only been a week in Paris when I had a visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Varietes. His brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond Deslandes.
I did not know Eugene Bertrand, but I received him at once, for we had mutual friends.
"What are you going to do when you come back from America?" he asked me, after we had exchanged greetings.
"I really don"t know. Nothing. I have not thought of anything."
"Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your reappearance in Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou"s, I will sign with you at once for the Vaudeville."
"Ah!" I cried. "The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond Deslandes is the manager, and he hates me like poison because I ran away from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play _Un mari qui lance sa femme_. His play was ridiculous, and I was even more ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady addicted to dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage me!"
He smiled. "My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My brother--to put it plainly--is myself. All the money put in the affair by us is mine. I am the sole master. What salary do you want?"
"But----I really don"t know."
"Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?"
I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right mind.
"But, Monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot agree to that."
"Do not be afraid," he said. "I can a.s.sure you it will be a success--a colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty performances!"
"Oh no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign, and thank you for your confidence."
At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my resignation (from the Comedie Francaise).
I was to leave Paris in three days. My heart was sore at the idea of leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons. But in these Memoirs I have put on one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There is one family "me" which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows, joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts.
But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster s.p.a.ce, of other skies.
I left my little boy with my uncle, who had five boys of his own. His wife was rather a strict Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise, their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me to be on the watch, and to let me know at once if there was anything I ought to know.
Up to the last moment people in Paris did not believe that I would really go. My health was so uncertain that it seemed folly to undertake such a journey. But when it became absolutely certain that I was going, there was a general concert of spiteful reproaches. The hue and cry of my enemies was in full swing. I have now under my eyes these specimens of insanity, calumnies, lies, and stupidities; burlesque portraits, doleful pleasantries; good-byes to the Darling, the Idol, the Star, the Zimm! boum! boum! &c. &c. It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was confounded. I did not read the greater part of these articles, but my secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little note-books, whether favourable or unfavourable. It was my G.o.dfather who had commenced doing this when I entered the Conservatoire, and after his death I had it continued.
Happily, I find in these thousands of lines fine and n.o.ble words--words written by J.J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Valles, Jules Lemaitre, &c.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed Victor Hugo, Francois Coppee, Richepin, Haraucourt, Henri de Bornier, Catulle Mendes, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.
I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies, but I confess that the kind appreciation and praises accorded me by the superior minds afforded me infinite joy.
x.x.xII
EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HaVRE TO NEW YORK
The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and other successes was named _L"Amerique_. It was the unlucky boat, the boat that was haunted by the gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents, and storms had been its lot. It had been blockaded for months with its keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat, and it had foundered on the sh.o.r.es of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Havre roadstead, but no great damage was done. The poor boat had had a celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous.
In 1876 or 1877 a new pumping system was adopted, and although this system had been in use by the English for a long time, it was quite unknown aboard French boats. The captain very wisely decided to have these pumps worked by his crew, so that in case of any danger the men should be ready to manipulate them easily.
The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of the men came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling with water, and no one could discover the cause of it. "Go on pumping!"
shouted the captain. "Hurry up! Pump away!" The pumps were worked frantically, and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the pa.s.sengers safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after, tried the pumps, which worked admirably, but in the contrary way to that indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the Compagnie Transatlantique 48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to run the ship again and pa.s.sengers refused to go by it, they offered my _impresario_, Mr. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very intelligent he was, for, in spite of all prognostications, nothing further happened to the boat.
I had hitherto travelled very little, and I was wild with delight.
On October 15, 1880, at six o"clock in the morning, I entered my cabin.
It was a large one, and was hung with light red repp embroidered with my initials. What a profusion of the letters S.B.! Then there was a large bra.s.s bedstead brightly polished, and flowers were everywhere. Adjoining mine was a very comfortable cabin for _mon pet.i.t Dame_, and leading out of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other persons in my service were at the other end of the ship.
The sky was misty, the sea grey, with no horizon. I was on my way over there, beyond that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a mysterious rampart.
The clearing of the deck for the departure upset every one and everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain"s call, the bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in time to catch the boat, the "Halloa!" "Look out!" of the men who were pitching the packages from the quay into the hold, the sound of the laughing waves breaking on the side of the boat, all this mingled together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who up to the last moment enjoyed the good-byes, the hand-shakings, the plans about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over flung themselves sobbing on their beds.
For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping bitter tears, tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to get calm again; my will-power triumphed over my grief. On the fourth day I dressed at seven o"clock and went on deck to have some fresh air. It was icy cold, and as I walked up and down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad resigned face. The sea looked gloomy and colourless, and there were no waves.
Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against the ship that we were both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold of the leg of one of the benches, but the unfortunate lady was flung forward. Springing to my feet with a bound, I was just in time to seize hold of the skirt of her dress, and with the help of my maid and a sailor managed to prevent the poor woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much hurt though she was, and a trifle confused, she thanked me in such a gentle dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with emotion.
"You might have been killed, Madame," I said, "down that horrible staircase."
"Yes," she answered, with a sigh of regret; "but it was not G.o.d"s will."