Thrice, after she opened her theatre, she undertook long, fatiguing tours of America and Europe, and once she went to Australia, South Africa and New Zealand. “Bernhardt’s Circus” was what her travelling company was facetiously nicknamed by the Paris press—the fun and criticism of which, however, had grown considerate and kindly.
“Sarah Bernhardt is a national institution; to criticise her is like criticising the Tomb of Napoleon,” said Le Journal des Débats one evening.
The Prince of Wales, who was shortly to become King Edward VII., was a warm friend of Sarah Bernhardt, and on one well-remembered occasion paid an informal visit, together with the Princess of Wales, to her home in Paris.
“What did you talk about?” I asked, the next day.
“Dogs and dresses,” said Sarah promptly.
“The Prince,” she continued, “is tremendously interested in dogs, and there we have a common ground.”
Once the Prince called on Sarah in her dressing-room—this was when she was at the Renaissance.
Word was sent in advance, of course, that he was coming—and she was requested to be ready to receive him at ten o’clock. At that hour she was customarily on the stage, and her entourage was excited at the possibility of her not being there to receive the Royal visitor.
The stage-manager suggested advancing the time of the whole piece, so that the third act would be finished by ten, but this did not suit Sarah, who knew that such an arrangement would make many people who had purchased seats miss a part of the first act.
She settled it in her own characteristic fashion.