“Let us go and fish,” and off they all go. Down the endless steps cut in the rock the party stumble, and on the seashore they drag their nets. Up those same steps every night toil men with buckets of salt water, for the great actress has a boiling salt water bath every morning, to which she attributes much of her good health. Fishermen throw nets for the evening’s catch, but “Sarah” is most energetic in hauling them in, and gets wildly excited at a good haul. Her unfailing energy is thrown even into the fishing, and she will stay out till the small hours enjoying the sport. One summer Madame Bernhardt caught a devil fish—this delighted her. She took it home and quickly modelled a vase from her treasure. Seaweed and shells formed its stand, the tail its stem. She seldom sculpts nowadays, but the power is still there.
It was in 1880 that she retired from the Comédie Française, not being content with her salary of £1,200 a year, and she then announced her intention of making sculpture and painting her profession. After a rest, however, she fortunately changed her mind, or the stage would have lost one of the greatest actresses the world has known. Perhaps the apotheosis of her life was in December, 1896, when she was acclaimed Queen of the French stage, and the leading poets of her country recited odes in her honour. On that occasion the heroine of the fête declared:
“For twenty-nine years I have given the public the vibrations of my soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have played 112 parts, I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen of which are the work of poets. I have struggled as no other human being has struggled.... I have ardently longed to climb the topmost pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part of my life remains for me to live; but what matters it? Every day brings me nearer to the realisation of my dream. The hours that have flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it.”
She was right; there is always something beyond our grasp, and those who think they have seized it must court failure from that moment. Those nearest perfection best know how far they really are from it.
Madame Bernhardt’s mind is penetrating, yet her body never rests. She can do with very little sleep—can live without butcher’s meat, rarely drinks alcohol, and prefers milk to anything. Perhaps this is the reason of her perpetual youth. She loves her holiday, she loves the simple life of the country, the repose from the world, the knowledge that autograph hunters and reporters cannot waylay her, and in the country she ceases to be an actress and can enjoy being a woman.
In Paris her life is very different. She resides in a beautiful hotel surrounded by works of art, and keeps a table ouverte for her friends. She rises at eleven, when she has her masseuse and her boiling bath, sees her servants, and gives personal orders for everything in the establishment. She is one of those women who find time for all details, and is capable of seeing to most matters well. At 12.30 is déjeuner, rarely finished till 2 o’clock, as friends constantly drop in. Then off to the theatre, where she rehearses till six. There she sits in a little box, from which point of vantage she can see everything and yet be out of draughts. She always wears white, even in the theatre, and looks as smart as though at a party instead of on business bent. Dresses are brought her for inspection, she alters, changes, admires, or deplores as fancy takes her; she arranges the lighting, decides a little more blue or a little less green will give the tone required; but then she has that inner knowledge of harmony and the true painter spirit. She is never out of tune. At six high-tea is served in her dressing-room, for she rarely leaves the theatre. The meal consists mostly of fish—lobster, crab, cray-fish, shrimps, scallops cooked or raw—with a little tea and lots of milk. A chat with a friend, a peep at a new play, and then it is time to dress for the great work of the day. She changes quickly. After the performance is over she sees her manager, and rarely leaves the theatre in Paris before 1.30, when she returns home to a good hot supper. But her day is not ended even then. She will have a play read to her or read it herself, study a new part, write letters, and do dozens of different things before she goes to bed. She can do with little rest, and seems to have the energy of many persons in one. In spite of this she has never mastered English, although she can read it.
Madame Bernhardt will ever be associated in my mind with a night spent at a theatre behind a French claque. That claque was terrible, but the actress was so wonderful I almost forgot its existence, and sat rapt in admiration of her first night of Hamlet.
Till quite lately there was a terrible institution in France known as the claque, nothing more or less than a paid body of men whose duty it was to applaud actors and actresses at certain points duly marked in their play-books.
At the Comédie Française of Paris a certain individual known as the Chef de Claque had been retained from 1881 for over twenty years at a monthly salary of three hundred francs, that is to say, he received £12 a month, or £3 a week, for “clapping” when required. He was a person of great importance. Though disliked by the public, he was petted and feasted by actors and actresses, for a clap at the wrong moment, or want of applause at the right, meant disaster; besides, there was a sort of superstitious fear that being on bad terms with the Chef de Claque foreboded ill luck.
After performing his duties for twenty-one years with considerable success, the Chef de Claque was dismissed, and it was decided that professional applause should be discontinued. Naturally the Chef was indignant, and in the autumn of 1902 sued the Comédie Française for 30,000 francs damages or a pension. Paris, however, found relief in the absence of the original claque, and gradually one theatre after another began to dispense with a nuisance it had endured for long. History says that during the early days of the claque there was an equally obnoxious institution, a sort of organised opposition known as siffleurs. It was then as fashionable to whistle a piece out of the world as to clap it into success. There was a regular instrument made for the purpose, known as a sifflet, which was wooden and emitted a harsh creaking noise. No man thought of going to the theatre without his sifflet—but the claque gradually clapped him away. Thus died out the official dispensers of success or failure.