The first thing guests perceived on entering was a gigantic dog on a short chain, which growled and sprang at everyone who came in. Many people could not be persuaded to visit Sarah on account of this dog. My aunt was one—I never got her past the door, where she would sit and wait for me patiently, while telling the growling animal, from a safe distance, what she thought of him.
This dog was a great friend of mine, and not the brute which sprang at my throat in the manner related in a preceding chapter. He never growled at me, though I was in and out of Sarah’s home at all hours of the day. I used to help her to mix her clay, and several times posed for an effect that she wanted to get perfect.
A flight of five or six stairs led up to the first reception room, where champagne cup usually stood on a small table; and in the hall outside this room a disagreeable surprise awaited the unwary visitor. This was a full-sized monkey, which was fastened by one leg to a chair, but was otherwise free to move about—which he did, with a great chattering and gnashing of teeth.
The little drawing-room had in it two birdcages and a great tank of goldfish, while cats and small dogs roamed about in a most casual way. Philippe, an old waiter whom Sarah had persuaded to leave the Café du Foyer (?) and enter her service, was in perpetual terror of all these animals and eventually left Sarah’s service, after he had been bitten in the hand by the monkey.
Sarah usually had something new in the way of statuary to show her guests. I remember well when she did her “Médée,” a piece almost as big as she was herself; and once, when I entered unannounced, I found her starting the bust of the famous Adolphe de Rothschild, for which he had promised her ten thousand francs.
Sarah had a lot of trouble with this piece of work. She said it was because the Baron continually changed his expression. At any rate, when the bust was finally achieved, all Rothschild’s comment, after looking at it, was to say drily:
“Is that me?”
Then he turned to a writing-table to draw up an order on his bank for the ten thousand francs, only to be arrested by a crash.
Sarah stood in the centre of the floor panting, her eyes flashing and her breast heaving. On the floor lay the bust, smashed to a thousand pieces.
Baron de Rothschild, without a word, turned and left the room. The next day he received his bust—in a thousand pieces—“with Sarah Bernhardt’s compliments.”