When the Salon opened, Sarah Bernhardt gave her rivals another unpleasant surprise by exhibiting busts of Emile de Girardin and Busnach. Her new departure excited a great sensation. It was impossible to set a foot behind the scenes of any Paris theatre without being assailed by such questions as—
“Have you seen the busts? What do you think of them? Are they really very good?”
Portraits of Mlle. Bernhardt were exhibited at the Salon by Clairin and Louise Abbéma. The latter painted her sitter in a black cashmere bodice with an iron-grey skirt, black guipure chemisette, black hat and black feathers—the costume worn by her as Mrs. Clarkson in L’Etrangère. M. Clairin’s Sarah Bernhardt was in a white cashmere peignoir, trimmed with white feathers, and with lace ruffles at the sleeves and neck; black satin slippers, sky-blue stockings, and a large feather screen: the actress lying on a cerise velvet divan, with a many-coloured cushion under her head.
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in her coffin.
Sarah Bernhardt was now a full-blown Parisian celebrity, and her fame was destined to go on increasing. Curiosity began to be felt concerning even the most insignificant details of her daily life. This public curiosity stimulated her, as an independent and original person, to brave the gossip of the city and its bourgeois hypocrisy. All sorts of more or less true tales of her eccentricities were told about this time. She was constantly haunted by ideas of death, her frail organization being, no doubt, still incomplete. From time to time she fainted on the stage, and her unruly imagination promptly led her to expect the most direful consequences, but her extraordinary elasticity of temperament soon supplied her with renewed strength and vitality, and the complete prostration of to-day was always followed on the morrow by the most sanguine anticipations. One day she caused herself to be measured for a coffin, and had it brought to her house. This coffin, which she courageously keeps at the foot of the bed, is made of pear-wood. The only ornament consists of the artiste’s initials S. B., with the motto Quand-même! The inside is lined with white satin, and is provided with a mattress, bolster, and cushions—a bed fit for the most charming of coquettes. But for the spectacle of the lid, always ready to be screwed down, any one would readily lie on this pleasant, perfumed couch. Unfortunately, the lid is a stern reality. There is something else to note. Inspired by a strange but poetical fancy, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt has lined the bottom of the coffin with her most cherished souvenirs. Love-letters and faded bouquets are there, huddled together pell-mell, awaiting her coming—waiting to remind her, in the silence of the tomb, of the sad or happy hours in which she knew them.
The première of L’Etrangère (May 25, 1876) was exclusively a personal success for her. The newspapers spoke severely of M. Dumas’ work—
If Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, said M. Sarcey, had not thrown the glamour of her gestures and diction over the silly sentimentality of Mrs. Clarkson, the public would have burst out laughing. The piece is simply bad melodrama of the Ambigu type.
Her health was still far from robust, and during a performance of L’Etrangère (May 25, 1876) a painful incident occurred. Before the curtain rose M. Got had asked the indulgence of the public for Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, who was indisposed. The request was far from unnecessary, for as soon as the young artiste appeared on the stage it was evident that she was in great pain. The performance followed its course, but in the middle of her long tirade in the third act, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt suddenly turned pale, threw up her arms, and fell to the floor. Indescribable excitement arose amongst the audience. The curtain was promptly lowered, and the most alarming rumours were in circulation, when M. Got came forward and made a reassuring speech, adding, however, that Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was far too ill to permit of her reappearing. Mlle. Lloyd, who had been immediately informed, took the vacant place, and the performance proceeded, but the anxiety among actors and public was so great that when the curtain fell general depression prevailed. Inquiries were made at midnight, and it was ascertained that the patient was a little better, but that absolute rest was necessary, and that the doctor had forbidden her even to speak.
Her illness led to a rumour that she was about to retire into a convent. Paragraphs, of which the following is a specimen, began to appear in the newspapers—