Invitations from friends were piled in my foyer; along with cascades of flowers and, I discovered, an anonymous note in an envelope. No postmark, indicating whoever had written it had delivered it personally—a fact that curdled my blood when I read it:
My poor skeleton, you’d do well to not show your horrible Jewish nose at the opening ceremony. I fear it would serve as a target for all the potatoes being cooked especially for you in Paris. Have notices put in the papers to the effect that you are spitting blood and stay in bed to ponder the consequences of your excessive publicity.
I stood in my salon, the note like a stain in my fingers. The handwriting was scrawled, almost crude, but its threat was unmistakable. I knew exactly which ceremony it referred to, as I informed Perrin when I went at once to the theater to show it to him.
“Our annual tribute to Molière,” I said, trying in vain to keep the anger from my voice. “Someone is planning a crime against us.”
Perrin made a moue of revulsion. “Against you. This is the result of your outrages in London. You have placed this entire company in an intolerable position because of your outrageous lack of sensibility.”
“Your receipts from London show a profit only because of my outrages,” I reminded him, realizing I should have expected a confrontation. He had restrained the full weight of his disapproval while in London, no doubt to ensure I did not call in sick twice, but now his expression turned as remorseless as autumn’s encroachment over the city.
“And you think it makes you invincible? Though it would be unprecedented in this company’s history, I am prepared to petition our governing committee to withdraw your senior status. In fact, the committee has already called on me to do so, given your aversion to behaving as you ought. You shall never work here again, nor will you receive the pension due on your retirement, which may come about much sooner than you suppose.”
“Do so.” I didn’t falter as I met his stony regard. Here it was at last, the dénouement that had been brewing between us since my return to the Comédie. When I turned and started to walk out of his office, with pride in what I’d accomplished and overwhelming relief to finally be freed of the burden, I heard him menace from behind me, “Until you are officially released, however, you will comply to the terms of our contract. You will attend our tribute as scheduled. I’ll not have a rabble-rouser put a halt to our proceedings. I expect you to be there, with your lines memorized, so think carefully before you defy me.”
I didn’t dignify him with a look, but as soon as I departed the theater, I raced to the nearest wire office to send an urgent telegram to London, requesting Jarrett’s advice. By the time his response arrived, I was prepared to defy not only Perrin, but all of Paris itself. Jarrett’s reply only made me angrier, for he counseled that I must attend the tribute and put my trust in him to see to my future arrangements. What those arrangements entailed he did not elucidate, so on the date of the tribute, I joined the company for the ritual, which this year doubled as a welcoming reception for the Comédie’s return from a “vastly successful run in London,” as heralded by Sarcey, though no one who’d read the British coverage of our time in England could have doubted the success was solely mine.
In pairs, the actors advanced to set the fronds at the foot of Molière’s plinth. I was partnered with Jean; when our turn came, I held out my hand to detain him and stalked alone to the front of the stage, my frond in hand. The select audience of journalists and patrons of the house—many of them also members of the governing committee, who’d called for my removal—was indistinct, yet I felt their stunned reaction as I stood before them with my shoulders squared, as if braced for an execution. I stared out at them in absolute silence, daring them to lambaste me.
Without warning, they came to their feet in unison, with a fervent burst of applause.
Tears filled my eyes. Only once they had exhausted themselves did I turn back to the bust to set down my frond. As I returned to the company, Jean gave me a knowing smile.
Given my reception by the very house that Perrin claimed had sought to revoke my senior status, he didn’t dare follow through on his threat. Instead, he set me to the ordeal of a demanding 1879–80 season, culminating in my role as the queen in Hugo’s Ruy Blas. Hugo himself attended the celebration for the fiftieth anniversary of his historical drama, where the playwright Coppée, who’d attained his own fame following the debut of his Le Passant, composed a poem in Hugo’s honor. I recited it before my past lover with fiery conviction, and Hugo declared to all present, “Sarah Bernhardt is our crown jewel. Without her luminescence, we would languish in a dark past that no longer exists.”
He sat me at his side at dinner, where we laughed and whispered to each other.
Perrin may have been stymied, but he wasn’t about to be dissuaded. The tension between us grew so strained, we could scarcely abide to be in the same room together. For the spring season—I insisted on an extended Christmas respite to celebrate the holidays with my son—he informed me that I would play the lead in Émile Augier’s L’Aventurière, a ridiculous play with nothing to commend it.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I know of a marvelous play written in this century: Dumas fils’s La Dame aux Camélias. It just ended its run at the Vaudeville, where it enjoyed monumental success.”
“I am aware,” he replied dryly. “With Eugénie Doche reaping accolades as the consumptive courtesan.”
“A part written for me—” I started to say.
Perrin snorted. “We still have a reputation to uphold, much as you wish to tear it down. That play is an embarrassment, an unsavory romanticization of an immoral trade.” He eyed me as he spoke, deliberate in his condemnation of my own tenure in said trade. “I will close our doors permanently before I ever allow such a travesty on our stage.”
In that instant, I made my decision. Jarrett had advised me not to risk further contention with Perrin, but it was glaringly obvious that I had to leave the Comédie, lest he and I come to blows. I must now take matters into my own hands.
On opening night, I sashayed onto the stage as the titular adventuress and overplayed every line like “a vulgar tart in a Zola novel,” as Sarcey hissed in his notice. It was precisely the denigration I’d hoped for. Citing Perrin’s disregard of my value to the company, I submitted my resignation from the Comédie. Before anyone could mount a protest, I sent copies of my resignation letter to every newspaper in Paris.
Jarrett hurried across the Channel to see me. “Why?” he asked, standing in my salon in his sopping hat and overcoat, the skies dumping rains such as had not been seen since the year of my pregnancy with Maurice. “If you’d only waited awhile longer—”
I thrust my most recent notices at him. “Look at these. From Hugo’s crown jewel, I’ve descended to the status of a vulgar tart because of Perrin’s dreadful play. You said if we failed to find mutual accord, I was free to leave. Now I have done so.”
Removing his hat, he passed a hand through his damp hair before he said, “Be that as it may, you voided your contract and made your complaints with the Comédie public. After such a break, Perrin will ensure that no other company dares hire you.”
I paused. “Are you saying my career is over?” All of a sudden, I had a sharp pang of regret over my own brashness. I’d thrown caution aside, all the years of toil and sacrifice to become who I was. I hadn’t stopped to consider whether anyone would hire me after this, though I suspected Duquesnel would be more than eager, providing I agreed to an iron-clad contract that would require my beheading should I defect again.
Jarrett replied, “What I’m saying is you have closed the door to any future employment with an established theater company.”
My throat constricted. “But you were the one who told me no established company could satisfy me. And I want nothing more to do with rules and limitations. I want to perform whatever I like, however I like—as y
ou promised,” I added, as he lapsed into one of his indecipherable silences.
At length, he sighed. “Are you certain this is how you wish to proceed?”
“Yes.” I gave an emphatic nod. The truth was, I’d left myself with no other alternative. “Is it possible? Or must I go begging in the streets?”
When his smile surfaced, I almost wept. “As I said, if you’d only waited, I would have informed you it’s not only possible, but imminent. The Gaiety has requested your return to London for an exclusive six-week engagement next year. I’m also in the process of negotiating an extensive overseas tour for you in the United States.”
I went still. “Exclusive? How…?”
“By establishing your own company.” From his briefcase, he took out a ledger, opening it before me on the table. “Here is the sum total of the proceeds from your recitals in London, minus my commission.” He tapped a number in the column that widened my eyes. “Even with your considerable extravagances,” he said, glancing at my chameleons in their cage, “you’ve earned quite enough to do as you please.”
“All this?” I was incredulous. “It’s far more than a small fortune.”
His smile widened. “Indeed. Shall I cable the Gaiety with our agreement?”
I could have hugged him. Instead, I sank onto my couch. “Yes,” I whispered.
Quand même.
1896
I stand in the wings, dressed in Marguerite Gautier’s mother-of pearl satin gown, my dyed hair piled about a diadem of camellias, opera-length gloves sheathing my arms.
It is the premiere of La Dame aux Camélias at le Théâtre de la Renaissance. Beyond the curtain, I can hear the audience settling into their seats like a restless sea, the papery crackle of handbills and slice of ebony-and-lace fans cutting the air. I’ve made this role one of my signature parts, performing it hundreds of times from Moscow to Chicago, even though in London I risked arrest, as British censorship laws had branded the play immoral.
I’ve traveled the world with my character Marguerite, traversing the vastness of America on my specially appointed train to perform in tents on windswept plains where the blood of slaughtered tribes still drenched the soil; on grandiose stages in gargantuan cities; and on decrepit platforms in tumbleweed towns. Everywhere I’ve gone, Marguerite’s doomed love has elicited tears. Regardless of whether my audience understands Dumas’s verse, they weep anyway, stirred to emotion by her self-sacrificing dance into death.
But never in Paris. Until tonight.
As I await the curtain’s rise, I see those who have gone before me. My sister Régine, flittering among the coiled ropes like a sprite. Jeanne, dead before her thirtieth year of an opium overdose. My mother, Julie, laid to rest in her prepurchased tomb after years of languishing in an empty salon, drifting past me with a censorious glance. And my aunt Rosine, the last of my maternal family to depart, fretful in the shadows.
Ma petite dame is here in spirit, too. I feel her close as I always have, her palm at my brow, gauging my temperature and suggesting a cup of hot cocoa to warm my blood. I lost her to pneumonia on a bitter winter night that shattered my heart.
And the living. Jean is in the audience, having sent me an enormous bouquet of congratulatory roses, competing as is his wont with Bertie of Wales, not yet king of Great Britain, as his ancient mother clings to her throne. Duquesnel stalks backstage; still debonair, he’s organized several of my international tours under Jarrett’s patronage and continues to champion me, our grievances forgiven. Louise sits in the front row, with her sketchpad at the ready. She wants to paint me as Marguerite, though Mucha has already immortalized me in his lavish, swirling posters.
I am fifty-two years old, but my past is never far from my present.
How will the city of my birth receive me?
“Maman, it’s time.” Maurice comes up beside me. So handsome now, so tall like his father, with my coppery hair darkened by Kératry’s hue. He is my most precious achievement, this son I chose to keep despite everything aligned against us. He has become a playwright, a producer, and an aspiring director; he has always dreamed of managing our own theater, and so I’ve given him the lease on the Renaissance.
He kisses my cheek. “Merde, Maman. Remember who you are.”
After the hammer blows preceding the curtain’s rise, the orchestra strikes up the refrain. No matter how long I’ve been on the stage, opening nights are always the same. The sudden hush, taut as cloth about to rip. The sensation of nothing under my feet, as if I’m again taking flight in Nadar’s balloon. The constriction of my throat as the claw of le trac uncoils, a curse that has never fully deserted me.
Tonight, however, there’s also something else.
Fear.
The French public and critics have always been unpredictable, as liable to condemn as to praise me. How will they react to this tragedy that echoes my now-obscure past, my own fraught beginnings as a courtesan and the demise of my younger sister of the same disease? How will they compare me to those who’ve performed this role before me, the loyal actresses who never strayed to foreign shores in search of fortune and acclaim? Yet it is my role, first conceived of for me by my beloved Dumas, long gone now, but growing ever more famous, his works a fount of inspiration for hundreds of writers seeking to emulate him. Marguerite is his gift to me. She is mine; she has always been mine.
I glide forth for the first act, my practiced steps exuberant as a waltz.
Behind the music, the silence is oppressive, a sound in and of itself. I almost falter. I see myself as if from above: the unwanted child separated from her dog. The devout schoolgirl yearning to take the veil. The struggling ingénue, felled by mistrust in her own talent. The lead actress of the Odéon, in her lithe hose and page-boy cut. Mademoiselle Révolte of the Comédie, letting a cheetah loose to hunt in a London park.
It does not matter how I’m received. I have made my mark. No one can take that away from me. Regardless of what is said of me tonight, I will always be Sarah Bernhardt.
As I pause on the stage, my hand set on my hip in Marguerite’s provocative stance, the sudden roar of applause overwhelms me. The orchestra is forced to stop. Gazing upon hundreds of strangers and friends as they come to their feet, I hear their enthusiastic cry:
“Sarah! Sarah! Notre divine Sarah!”
I am home. I am adored. And, yes, I am finally divine.
Curtain Call: Afterword
Sarah Bernhardt performed for the rest of her life to worldwide acclaim, success, and failure. She often toured for months on end, with her first North American tour covering 157 engagements in 51 cities. She refused to perform in Germany because of the annexation of French territory after the Franco-Prussian War, but she went on tour throughout most of Europe and Russia. In Kiev, anti-Semitic crowds hurled stones at her; in Saint Petersburg, Tsar Alexander III broke court protocol to bow to her. She counted several royals among her admirers, among them Edward VII of Great Britain, Alfonso XII of Spain, and Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria.
In 1882, she met a Greek diplomat-turned-actor, known by his stage name of Jacques Damala. He was eleven years younger than she; Sarah fell in love and made him her leading man. Upon their wedding in London, she told friends she had done it because “marriage was the only thing” she’d never experienced. Damala’s lesser talent, however, caused him to envy and humiliate his famous wife. He became a morphine addict, expending her money on his vice and mistresses until she confronted him. He left her only to eventually return, penniless and ailing. Always forgiving, Sarah took him back and performed with him until he proved himself unworthy of her trust. In 1889, he suffered a near-fatal overdose. She nursed him until his death at the age of thirty-four. Sarah sculpted his bust for his tomb in Athens. To the end of her life, she signed all of her official documents as his widow.
Her unwilling rivalry with Marie Colombier became an internati
onal scandal when Colombier, who’d gone on tour with her at Sarah’s behest, published in 1884 a fictitious work about an ambitious actress that made no attempt to hide its resemblance to Sarah’s life. Enraged, Sarah assaulted Colombier backstage with an umbrella, prompting a slew of caricatures and gleeful headlines. For Sarah, it was the final betrayal; she filed suit against Marie for “gross indecency” and the book was withdrawn after selling thousands of copies in ninety-two printings. Marie’s acting career faded, but she continued to publish novels, as well as volumes of her memoirs, before her death in 1910 at the age of sixty-six.
In contrast, Sarah’s friendship with Louise Abbéma endured for the rest of their lives. Louise’s prolific accomplishments as a painter, sculptor, designer, and printmaker earned her the Palmes Académiques in 1887 and the nomination as “Official Painter of the Third Republic.” She was awarded a medal at the 1900 Universal Exposition and made a chevalier of the Order of the Légion d’honneur in 1906. She died in 1927, at the age of seventy-three.
Oscar Wilde eventually wrote his Salomé in French for Sarah. Rehearsals for its 1892 debut in London were brought to a halt because it was illegal in England to depict biblical characters onstage. Sarah was forty-eight years old at the time. Three years later, Wilde was convicted of sodomy and imprisoned for two years. Upon his release, he left England, wandering through Italy until he ended up destitute in Paris, where he died at the age of forty-six.
Sarah never performed the role he had created for her.
Her later years were replete with financial catastrophes and extended tours to recoup her losses. She made several returns to the United States and South America, where her popularity ensured immense profit. Tireless despite her advancing age, she performed for years while suffering pain in her right leg, which she’d injured in a fall from a stage in Brazil in 1905. She finally had to have her leg amputated in 1915 after gangrene set in; she had just turned seventy. Never one to wallow in a setback, Sarah took the loss in stride.
The First Actress Page 39