The matter was, in fact, put right, but only temporarily. The Théâtre Français re-opened its doors on August 2nd, with Les Femmes Savantes and Le Malade Imaginaire. At midnight the curtain rose for the well-known ceremony carried out on such occasions. All the artists of the Comédie came forward, two by two, according to the time-honoured custom, bowed to the public, and took their seats. Loud, continued, and hearty applause burst forth from every part of the house when Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt came slowly forward to the footlights. It was her formal reconciliation with the Paris public. “We are all delighted about it,” said M. Sarcey, “and we hope the ‘row’ will be a lesson to all concerned.”
Sketch by Mme. Sarah Bernhardt.
All’s well that ends well; but unfortunately in this case the end had not been reached. The year 1880 witnessed a great event in Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt’s life: the severance of her connection with the Comédie Française. On April 17th, L’Aventurière, by Emile Augier, was revived, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt taking the difficult part of Clorinde. The newspapers gave her full credit for her usual ability and charm, but qualified their praise to an unmistakable extent. M. Sarcey wrote in the Temps—
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt’s costume hardly struck me as suitable. She came on the stage with a head-dress exactly like a nightcap. Her comprehension of the part was still more unsatisfactory. It is difficult to understand what she intended to make of the character. Her Clorinde was absolutely colourless.
In the Moniteur Universal, Paul de Saint-Victor devoted several columns of scathing and even savage criticism to an attack on Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. Knowing her hold on the public, she might have ignored this hostility, but her cup of bitterness was filled to overflowing by M. Auguste Vitu, who, though a courteous and moderate critic, wrote as follows in the Figaro—
During the last two acts, the new Clorinde indulged in uncalled-for exaggerations. She not merely forced a voice which is pleasing only when used in moderation, but she managed her body and arms in a style which would do very well for Virginie in L’Assommoir, but is out of place at the Comédie Française.
This was more than Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt could bear. She sat down and wrote the following letter to M. Perrin—
Monsieur l’Administrateur,
You made me play before I was ready. You gave me only eight stage rehearsals, and there were only three full rehearsals of the piece. I could not make up my mind to appear under such conditions, but you insisted upon it. What I foresaw has come to pass, and the result of the performance has even gone beyond what I expected. One critic actually charges me with playing Virginie in L’Assommoir instead of Doña Clorinde in L’Aventurière! I appeal to Zola and Emile Augier. This is my first failure at the Comédie Française, and it shall be my last. I warned you at the dress rehearsal, but you took no notice. I now keep my word. When you receive this letter I shall have left Paris. Be good enough, Monsieur l’Administrateur, to accept my resignation as from this moment, and to believe me, etc.,
Sarah Bernhardt.
April 18, 1880.
Immediately after writing this letter Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt took the train to Havre, and ran to earth at Sainte-Adresse. A terrible uproar followed. The entire Press, the Comédie, the author of the unlucky play, and the public assailed the fugitive with showers of violent invective and cutting sarcasm. The sociétaires of the Comédie were hastily summoned to a meeting, and they decided to take legal proceedings with a view to obtaining—