France from Behind the Veil: Fifty Years of Social and Political Life

by Princess Catherine Radziwill

Marcel Prévost is also among the men I have often met, and I liked him very much. He was modest; he did not always speak of his personal perfections, and did not think that the fact of his having been elected a member of the French Academy relieved him from study or from honest hard work. He was also a delightful companion. Few men are living to-day who are better informed as to the virtues or the vices of his generation; he has a thorough knowledge of the human heart, he realises the artificiality of the society among which he lives, and also its follies, for which his indulgence is seldom lacking.

There is much earnestness in the talent of M. Marcel Prévost, far more than in the sketches, for one can hardly call them anything else, of Abel Hermant, who poses for the satirist of his time and of his generation, and who forgets that one could often find much about himself to satirise.

I will not do more than mention the modern playwrights such as Henri Bataille, Alfred Capus, Henri Bernstein, Francis du Croisset, and so on. They write in order to make money, and of course must compose dramatic pieces which can bring it to them. They are more or less cabotins themselves, owing to the influence of the many actors with whom their whole life is spent, and they often mistake life for a comedy, which unfortunately it is not, introducing drama when it is not needed. Still, I hardly see how they could avoid it, living, as everybody does, in an artificial atmosphere. The greatest actors in Paris indeed are those who do not appear on the stage.

It is impossible to pass actresses by in silence; they rule Paris with a rod of iron, and are given far more importance than the highest born. Artists like Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Réjane, Jane Hading, or the “divine” Bartet, as she is called, of the Comédie Française, without mentioning Cecile Sorel, who is something else besides an actress of unrivalled talent, are all the objects of far more attention than a queen would be should she appear in the circles in which these ladies live. One looks up to them not only as clever, talented artists, but also the supreme mistresses of fashion; as examples to be imitated by all those who can do so; as the most fascinating, interesting women in Paris. Their dresses, their hats, their jewels, carriages, and sumptuous apartments are described in all the newspapers; their movements are chronicled as if they were empresses.

Among all these fair, charming creatures, Madame Bartet is certainly the most ladylike, not only in her person, but also in her tastes and quiet refinement. She has been lucky enough to keep her youth at an age when most other women have long ago forgotten that they ever had such a possession, and her slight figure, her lovely complexion, despite her more than fifty years, make her look always young and altogether charming. Sarah Bernhardt is a great-grandmother, yet she also can play the Dame aux Camélias without appearing ridiculous in the eyes of her old admirers. She is perhaps the greatest actress that France has produced since Rachel, but I cannot say that I ever found her sympathetic. To my mind she screams far too much, and is not natural in her conception of the many heroines which she represents. But she is so charming as a woman of the world, so interesting in her intercourse, that I am quite ready to say that it is I who have bad taste, and that all she does is perfection itself.

Réjane is something quite different; there is more real passion in her acting, though much less refinement. She is vulgar, and the heaviness of her whole person adds to that first impression; but she knows how to represent the different feelings of joy, despair, sorrow, anger and rage that can shake a human creature. She is life itself whenever she appears on the stage, not life seen through rose-coloured spectacles, but life as we have unfortunately to live and to bear it.

Jeanne Granier is still a favourite with the Parisian public, though her lovely voice has become worn, and her increasing stoutness has done away with her former grace.

Jane Hading was also at one moment the rage, but she did not remain a long time the fashion, though we still see her name on the programmes of different theatres. She certainly played well, but tried too much to imitate Sarah, which did not always agree with her style of beauty, to which, let it be said en passant, she owed most of her successes rather than to her talent, which was not that of a tragedienne by any means.

As for Cecile Sorel, she is an exception among actresses, just as much as she is an exception among women. She has often reminded me of the Duchesse de Longueville and those other ladies of the time of the Fronde who led men to victory or to death. Her beauty is something quite extraordinary, more by its originality than by its perfection. She is the incarnation of feminine charm, and clever in mind as well as cultured and well-bred. Her whole demeanour is that of a grande dame.

And actors, you will ask me, actors such as Guitry, or Le Bargy or Mounet Sully, what do you think of them? I think nothing, because I do not know them. In my time one kissed the pretty fingers of a lovely actress, but one did not invite actors to one’s house. I have kept to this tradition, and do not regret it.