Photo by Lafayette, New Bond Street.
MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET.
At five the great artiste rises, dons a short skirt, country boots, and prepares to enjoy herself. Often the early hours are spent in shooting small birds. She rarely misses her quarry, for her artistic eye helps her in measuring distance, and her aim is generally deadly. Another favourite entertainment is to shrimp. She takes off her shoes and stockings and for a couple of hours will stand in the water shrimping, for her “resting” is as energetic as everything else she does. She plies her net in truly professional style, gets wildly enthusiastic over a good catch, and loves to eat her freshly boiled fish at déjeuner. Perhaps she has a game with her ten lovely Russian dogs before that mid-day meal.
Her surroundings are beautiful. She adores flowers—flowers are everywhere; she admires works of art—works of art are about her, for she has achieved her own position, her own wealth, and why should she not have all she loves best close at hand?
After déjeuner the guests, of whom there are never more than two or three, such as M. Rostand (author of Cyrano de Bergerac) and his wife, rest and read. Not so Madame Bernhardt. She sits in the open air, her head covered with a shady hat, and plays Salta with her son. This game is a kind of draughts, and often during their two months’ holiday-making she and her only child Maurice will amuse themselves in this way for two or three hours in the afternoon; generally she wins, much to her joy. She simply loves heat, like the Salamanders, and, even in July, when other people feel too hot, she would gladly wear furs and have a fire. She can never be too warm apparently. Her own rooms are kept like a hothouse, for cold paralyses her bodily and mentally.
How she adores her son—she speaks of him as a woman speaks of her lover; Maurice comes before all her art, before all else in the world, for Maurice to her is life. He has married a clever woman, a descendant of a Royal house, and has a boy and two girls adored by their grandmother almost as much as their father. She plays with them, gets up games for them, dances with them, throws herself as completely into their young lives as she does into everything else.
About 3.30 au tennis is the cry. Salta is put aside and every one has to play tennis. Away to tennis she trips. Sarah never gets hot, but always looks cool in the white she invariably wears. She wants an active life, and if her brain is not working her body must be, so she plays hard at the game, and when tea is ready in the arbour close at hand, about 6.30, she almost weeps if she has to leave an unfinished “sett.”
She must be interested, or she would be bored; she must be amused, or she would be weary; thus she works hard at her recreations, the enforced rest while reading a novel being her only time of repose during her summer holiday. She walks when she has nothing else to do, and rambles for miles around her seaside home, only occasionally going on long carriage expeditions, with her tents and her servants, to pitch camp for the night somewhere along the coast.
Then comes dinner—dinner served with all the glories of a Parisian chef, for Madame, although a small eater, believes well-cooked food necessary to existence. There is no hurry over dinner, and “guess” games are all the fashion, games which she cleverly arranges to suit the children. No evening dresses are allowed, nor décolleté frocks; except for flowers and well-cooked food, Madame likes to feel she is in the country and far removed from Paris, therefore a dainty blouse is all that is permitted. Music is often enjoyed in the evening. Sometimes on a fine night Madame will exclaim: