It is said that an artiste of the Comédie Française was recently driven by private sorrows to take refuge in the sweets of monastic solitude. It appears, however, that after two days’ retirement the comedienne in question came to the conclusion that she was not yet ripe for the cloister. She bade farewell to the bare walls of the convent and returned to the theatre, much to the disgust of her fellow-actresses, who realized only too well that she was steadily growing not only into a star but into a planet. You see, M. Sarcey, people can’t do without you!!! (Figaro, July 9, 1876).
As Doña Sol in Hernani.
None the less Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt continued to work. On September 27, Rome Vaincue, by M. Parodi, was brought out, and this time she obtained a brilliant and unmistakable success. Not a single discordant note was heard in the chorus of praise. M. Auguste Vitu wrote—
Draped like an antique statue, her head crowned with long white curls under her matron’s veil, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt made Posthumia one of her finest creations. No other living actress could have rendered this character with so much nobility, grandeur, and true feeling. The genuine tears shed by her audience must have shown her how deeply she had touched their hearts and minds.
M. Sarcey was quite poetical—
When Parodi came to chat with me about the rehearsals then going on, he said—“I never imagined how much there was in the part until I heard Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt play it. She puts into it all the life it has. I cannot recognize my own verses when they fall from her lips.” I have indeed rarely seen anything so perfectly fine, especially as regards the last act. She was no longer a comedienne, but human nature itself, interpreted by a marvellous intelligence, a soul full of fire, and the most harmonious and melodious voice that ever delighted human ears. She acts with her whole heart and soul. She is a marvellous, incomparable artiste, one of the élite, or, in a word, a genius.
She appeared in Hernani on November 21, 1877, with considerable success. She was now unmistakably the spoilt child of the public. She had vanquished almost all her adversaries, and practically every theatre-goer was an admirer of her talent. She realized this and profited by it. Nevertheless she had her moments of humility and self-effacement. She wrote as follows to her manager on New Year’s Day, 1878—
My dear Monsieur Perrin, I have begun the year badly. I caught cold this morning when coming back from the cemetery, and I am far from well. I should have liked to tell you this evening of all the grateful affection I feel for you. If you could only understand how entirely I am yours! But all that is difficult for me to express. I owe everything to you. The good points I have, you brought out. I tried to become a little somebody, and you determined that it should be so. Blessings on that determination of yours, and my loving greetings to you! My illness depresses me, and I have little hope of completing the year just begun. Monsieur Perrin, I love you very much.
Sarah Bernhardt.
