Sarah Bernhardt (1845-1923)

Sarah Bernhardt (1845-1923)

In Press and Literature SARAH BERNHARDT AS SHE APPEARS IN HER HOME IN THE RUE ST. GEORGES (Warren Ledger, 16th July, 1886) SARA THE DIVINE - AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT ACTRESS (Iowa State Press, 23rd September, 1899) BERNHARDT'S WORK IN BRONZE(The Mansfield [Pennsylvania] News, 26th September, 1900)

(Warren Ledger, 16th July, 1886)
SARAH BERNHARDT AS SHE APPEARS IN HER HOME IN THE RUE ST. GEORGES.

Her Prodigality and Generosity - Terribly Active Existence — The Coffin Story and the Skull — How She Moves About in Her Own Parlors.

[Special Correspondence.] PARIS, June 22. I spent a half hour with Mlle. Bernhardt a week or so before she left Paris for her long American tour, now just beginning at the capital of Brazil. The great actress lives in a rather shabby but spacious house in the Rue St. Georges, within a stone's throw of the famous town residence of Thiers. Her present habitation is not so fine either inside or outside as the hotel near the Parc Monceau, which her creditors forced her to quit two or three years ago. For Sarah Bernhardt is as great a spendthrift as she is tragedienne. But if she is always heavily in debt, it must be said in her defense that she is not selfish, and much of the hard earned money that she dispenses so lavishly goss into the pockets of needy friends or poor persons whom she has never met. She may be prodigal, but she is generous, too. Like Goldsmith, Bernhardt cannot resist giving even when she has nothing to give.

When you enter Sarah Bernhardt's house you immediately pass the kitchen on the right hand. The door generally stands open, and you see the big blue and white porcelain stove, reaching from floor to ceiling, with the man cook, clad In white, before it busily engaged in preparing the evening meal. At the rear of this broad entrance way is a paved courtyard that the stables open on. In the middle of this courtyard stood, the day I called, a horse harnessed to a coupe and eating his oats from a bag hung from his head. The actress has evidently hurried home to dinner, and would start in an hour for the theatre. The coachman is swallowing his food in an adjoining room. There is no time to unharness and harness up again. Mistress, servant and horse are all eating "on the jump." What a life! The coachman and horse might endure it, but how can that frail, nervous woman bear up under it? The question has often been asked, and Sarah Barnhardt answers it by continuing to lead the same terribly active existence from year to year, without appearing to suffer therefrom.

The grand stairway opens on the left from this entrance hall. A stack of apparel partly blocks the way. You see robes and shoes and fans, etc., mixed together in utter disorder. This is a portion of the actress' wardrobe waiting to be packed in the big black trunks, that maid servants are bending over in the little room across the hall. Probably some of these wrinkled garments will, in a few months more, delight the eyes of American audiences. Pushing by them and mounting this palace-like staircase, I reach the drawing rooms of the celebrated artist. The walls are painted in white, relieved by strips of gold moulding. The paint and the chairs and sofas look faded and used. You see that this is a furnished house. The army of hungry creditors, so stripped her own hotel that she had scarcely anything left; so there was nothing for her to do but to take a furnished house. A few pictures hang on the walls, and some nicknacks stand on the tables — all that remains of a fine collection of canvases and objects of art that passed under the auctioneer's hammer at the Hotel Drouot a year ago last January. Among the other things knocked down to the highest bidder on that occasion was the well known picture, "The Young Girl and Death," painted by the tragedienne. I saw it almost daily for months afterward in the window of a picture dealer near the grand boulevards. One day I noticed that it had disappeared, carried off, perhaps, to Brazil or the great west, where, perhaps, the grand actress may soon feast her eyes once more on this lost child of her brush. Two busts by the same hand — for Sarah Bernhardt is a sculptor, too — are the only things left in her parlors to testify to the artistic bent of the hostess. The most noticable objects in Sarah Bernhardt's rooms, as I saw them when I called, were immense baskets and bouquets of faded flowers, the floral offerings of the first night of "Hamlet," which occured this past winter. Sarah Bernhardt appeared as Ophelia and was very much criticised. So severe in fact were some of the critics that tbe actress got on one of her high horses and answered them through the newspapers. But the public took the same view as the critics, and the piece soon disappeared from the stage of the Porte St. Martin. Perhaps the actress clings to these withered gifts in order still to protest against the opinions of her judges of the press and the public, and to show that she at least is proud to remind her visitors of this disastrous adventure into the realms of Shakespeare.

It has often been said that Sarah Bernhardt keeps her coffin in one of the closets of her house, and that she sometimes takes a nap in this narrow bed in order to accustom herself to the terms of death. I am assured by the intimate friends of the actress that, as I have always believed, there is no truth in this weird story. However this may be, another emblem of the heartless Reaper does adorn the center table at Sarah Bernhardt's. A human skull there stares you in the face. And the most interesting thing in connection with this cranium, a sufficient excuse for leaving it in full view, is a stanza written on the crown by Victor Hugo. It may be translated as follows:

Skeleton, what hast thou done with the soul?
Lamp, what hast thou done with the flame?
Deserted cage, what hast thou done
  with thy beautiful bird that used to sing?
Volcano, what hast thou done with the lava?
What hast thou done to thy master?
  Made him thy slave!
V. H.

The last line of course refers to the poet and the actress. Sarah Bernhardt interpreted many of Victor Hugo's tragedies at the Theatre Francais before falling out with the manager of that famous state playhouse and resigning from the troupe. Hence the poet calls himself her "master." And she did indeed treat him more than once as if he were her "slave," for Sarah Bernhardt used to rule in the green room of the House of Moliere, and Victor Hugo, like less noted dramatists, often had to submit to her whims and caprices.

Mme. Bernhardt talks and moves in her drawing room just as she does on the stage. The same rapid but clear enunciation, the same graceful cat-like motion, you feel that you are in the theatre with the great actress before the footlights. Sarah Bernhardt is either natural on the stage or stagey at home, probably the latter. She is as affable in her easy chair as she is irascible at a rehearsal. She always had a kind word for the many visitors who used to crowd her parlors on Thursday. During the last weeks before her departure she had so much to do that she had to give up her regular weekly receptions, and was visible for about an hour before dinner every evening.

There were two or three persons waiting to see her the other night when I called. "I have rehearsed two pieces to-day," she said when she came in; "one of them, 'Fedora,' for my American tour. And to-night I am to play 'Fedora.' Isn't that too much for one day? But I must be ready for my American audiences. I go this time, you know, to South America, too. I have never been before in that part of the new world. My son Maurice goes with me. When I went to the United States he was too young to accompany me. But not so now. He is coming, too. I cannot be separated from him for so long, I who have a heart for two mothers. A week in London and then to Liverpool. Oh! I long so much to be off. Eighteen days of sea! I am sea sick. That is to say, I am sea sick if I sit up. But lying down I get on pretty comfortably. So I stay in my state room or stretch myself out on deck. What a rest this voyage will be for me. Do you know it amuses me to see other people sea sick? I go to Rio first, work up towards the United States, reach San Francisco, cross the continent and expect to be in New York next winter. I like the United States and its inhabitants, and I should be a very ungrateful creature if I did not. Your countrymen have treated me so kindly. The English, too, are my friends, and the Danes; in fact all the northern nations except the Germans, whom I dislike because they are the enemies of France. But I admire their wonderful intelligence."

This is the way the "Divine Sarah" rattled on for fifteen minutes, until her dinner was announced. I bade her good-by and went down stairs. The horse and coupe still stood in the courtyard. The driver had finished eating and was on the box ready to start for the theatre. The clothes had been taken from the foot of the stairs and the maids were burying them in the big black trunks. The kitchen was full of smoke and I saw the fuming dishes being sent up to the dining room above. The large gate-like door opened and shut behind me with a slam. In the street daylight was fast giving way to night, the stars were trying to come out. As I walked slowly down into the heart of the great city, I revolved in my mind all that I had just seen and heard. I tried to understand the odd genius whom I had left at dinner. The next morning a friend who saw "Fedora" the night before told me that Bernhardt was hoarse and looked tired. I who knew how she had rehearsed two pieces that day and that she sat down to a table at 7 when she was advertised to appear on the stage at 8:15 — I could understand why she was hoarse and weary. But that is as far as I was able to penetrate into the mystery of this woman's strange life, strange aim and strange future.

THEODORE STANTON.

(Iowa State Press, 23rd September, 1899)
SARA THE DIVINE - AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT ACTRESS.

She Tells the Correspondent About Her Life, Her Successes and the Many Things She Hopes Yet to Accomplish.

"I will see you at 3." So ran a line from Madame Bernhardt to me, and at 3 I was well on my way to the fashionable part of Paris, where the queen of the drama, "Sara, the Divine," as they call her in Paris, lives. Approaching Bernhardt's house through the tiny courtyard I saw hanging alongside the door a big bunch of purple grapes, and behind the grapes was the door signal. In answer to my touch the neatest of French maids opened the door and showed me across to a very, pretty square hallway with stairs leading up. The hallway is used by madame as a reception room.

Scarcely had I seated myself when I saw a figure upon the stairs. It was Bernhardt. She had been standing upon the top step reading by the uncertain light of a colored lamp, but as she saw me she came down the steps with outstretched hands and a hearty "I am so glad to see you!"

Of course she spoke French, for Bernhardt does not know English. She has always declared that she would not learn it for fear it would spoil her French. A charming idiosyncrasy, truly, and one that is appreciated by both French and English audiences. If foreign stars, says a well known critic, would cling to their own language, we should not be put to the mortification of hearing our own tongue murdered upon the stage. Speak correctly or not at all should be the rule for public speakers. But we Americans are so good natured! I thought of all this as Bernhardt's smooth, musical tongue struck upon my ear, as she came forward with both warm hands outstretched.

She shook mine cordially and pulled me toward a curling tete-a-tete, one of the sort in which you face each other, though sitting on opposite sides. "You see me at a disadvantage," declared madame, laughingly, "for I am alone. My friend who has been visiting me is away, and I like never to be alone. This house was built for many guests, and I am never without some one."

"Your son?"

"Oh, now," said madame, touching the lace upon the gown as though she would place her hand upon her heart; "you mention the dearest and kindest fellow in the world. I love Maurice and he loves me. He is the most devoted of sons. Every day he comes, and many times some days, to see how I am. Am I lonely he does not leave me. Am I sad he brings me bright flowers and pets and books. He is a darling, Maurice."

As madame spoke she glanced around the room which was filled with many beautiful objects, perhaps the gifts of Maurice. There were many small clocks, for I learned afterward that she is very fond of time-pieces, and there were vases and easy chairs and rugs. Yet the room was relieved from Bohemianity by the similarity of the style of ornaments, which all belonged to the pure French renaissance, and were not scattered articles of virtu and bric-a-brac of all nations. "I am resting now," said madame, "for in a few days I start upon my tour of the provinces. I shall play my Hamlet, entirely, for it is the greatest success of my life. Yes, I like to play it. There is a novelty about it. Shall I go to America? I hope so, for I love your people. They are so appreciative. I could play for them forever." And now you must have a pen picture of Bernhardt.

She is petite, though so slight that you take her for taller than she is. I do not think she is over five feet three. She weighs about 145 pounds, and her hair is a light shade of natural red. It is curly, and she wears it in a French coil from which ripples curl around her face. Her complexion is pink and her teeth are white and even. Her hands are the long slim ones of the artist, but so delicate that you wonder how she could ever have handled the large figures which she will tell you that she modeled. "The future? Of that I cannot speak accurately." said madame, "but I shall play here next year in my own theater, which I am building now. But my next play? That is not decided yet." Bernhardt can be haughty, and there is just a suggestion of haughtiness as she speaks. She has the habit of carrying the head well back and speaking with her eyes cast down slightly, yet looking down at you instead of up. It is a stage trick, very pretty and effective, which gives dignity. That is Bernhardt's way.

"You are very busy. Madame?" I asked.

"Oh dear yes. What can I say? I have promised to write my recollections and experiences for a publisher and to soon finish the book. I have contracted to complete my theater by the opening of the Exposition, and that means the earning of the necessary money for it. Business reverses have brought me low in money, and I must be active. Then there is a new play to select and rehearse, and the company always needs much drilling. Ah, if it were not for Sardou what would I have done?" Madame sighed and bowed her head. It was a dramatic moment. Then a merry laugh burst from her lips, for she is a creature of moods. "But that is nothing. I am so glad that my Hamlet is a success"

At that moment there was a sound at the curtains, and the maid ushered in a caller. It was madame's reception day, and I knew that I must not take up too much of her time. "Come again," she murmured, as I departed, and then she stood up and held out both hands again and smiled upon me one of her wonderful dazzling smiles. As I walked out into the warm August sunshine I pondered upon this wonderful woman, who upon the sunset slope of life's mountain, still retained the face and figure of a girl. Absolutely babyish in complexion, youthful in eyes and expression, fresh in voice, lithe as a cat and possessed of all the strong qualities of manner, this Woman, though over 55 is today the greatest living actress.

At the age when most of us are willing to settle down into old age she is planning new achievements, and at the time when many of us are counting our grandchildren she is counting the new deeds that lie before her for accomplishment. Maurice is a great man of over thirty. But Berrhardt alone of all who surround her is fresh and youthful. You have heard how this woman forty years ago went on the stage at the Theater Francaise in a small part, and how she made a failure. She was so thin, so untaught, yet so earnest that the audience ridiculed her. For ten years she struggled, then came success.

In 1880 she was at the very height of her first fame, and in that year she modelled statuary, painted for the Salon, played to packed houses, successfully toured America and set all Paris gossiping with her eccentricities. One of these was to sleeep in her coffin, which she continually decorated anew with handsome bits of lace and choice silk for the becomingness of the final moment.

Her latest and greatest success is in the role of Hamlet, the part which was played by Charlotte Cushman with indifferent success, and by Alma Dickenson with failure. Other women have tried Hamlet and failed. Ellen Terry predicted defeat, though she hoped for the best. And no one presaged success. But Bernhardt's Hamlet is the wonder of the century in stageland.

As I passed away from Bernhardt's home I looked back. Madame was standing at the window, her back to the pane. The lovely, long, unbroken line of her celestial blue robe showed through the glass, and her clear, red hair gleamed above. Around her neck was a string of many colored beads, which supported, I remember, a lorgnette. As I looked madame moved, and the long, sinewy line of her figure passed out of sight. "Wonderful woman," I said. And a passer-by stopped and echoed my words. Yes, Bernhardt is wonderful!

ANNIE R. RUD.

(The Mansfield [Pennsylvania] News, 26th September, 1900)
BERNHARDT'S WORK IN BRONZE

The Fantastic Reproductions of Sea Weed She Has at the Paris Fair.

It is not generally known that Mme. Sarah Bernhardt is an exhibitor at the World's fair. In the galleries on the Invalides Esplanade a glass case will be found, in rather a dark corner, among endless exhibits of conventional and common place bronzes, which bears the name, "Sarah Bernhardt."

Not only the magic name will attract the visitor once he has discovered it, but also the strange fascination of the work which the glass case contains. There is a strikingly lifelike bust of Sardou and a chimera, in which Sarah Bernhardt has modeled her own face on a fantastic winged body with monstrous claws. These exhibits, however, will be passed over in one glance. Near by are strange things of bronze which irresistibly draw the visitor's eye. At first sight these appear to be nameless creations summoned from existence by a freakish sculptor's fancy. They nave no defined shape and the weird, uncertain forms, some like long, thin hands, with uncannily tapering fingers, others resembling entangled meshes of floating hair, have no definite color, but a hue blended of every shade of browns, yellows and greens. Apparently the sculptor, whose imagination has thus run riot in bronze, has cast in the metal forms of unnatural plants which grow in the lands of nightmare.

All Mme. Sarah Bernhardt has in reality done, however, has been faithully to copy nature. The fantastic vegetation which she has cast in bronze is merely seaweed. Besides having rendered the multiple shapes and rich hues of the plants and Bowers of the deep with astonishing accuracy, she has added a touch of individual fancy. It is said that the actress first had the idea of turning to artistic account the weeds of the sea during her brief communions with nature in her fort at Belle Isle en Mer, when she lives among the wild and deserted rocks of the Brittany coast, associates with fishermen and dresses like them. The dried seaweed which cottagers hang on their wails and which are their homely barometers, showed the actress, who is sculptor when she has the time, how effectively the decorative artist could use seaweed for his models. She took friends who wield the chisel professionally down to Belle Isle and showed them her discovery, but they would not be convinced, so she worked out her idea herself. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt now shows a number of objects in which every species of seaweed is used as the leading motive for decoration, and certainly the results achieved are all of interest. A fanciful departure from nature here and there gives to the design a touch of uncanny strangeness. Many of the bronze seaweeds are spread on slabs of enameled ceramic ware, tinted and rippled like pools of water.

From a Paris letter.