My dear Mme. Guérard (ma petite dame) took a cab and hurried away to my mother to get news for me. I put a little more powder on, but the public, not knowing what was taking place, were annoyed with me, thinking I was guilty of some fresh caprice, and received me still more coldly than before. It was all the same to me, as I was thinking of something else. I went on saying Mademoiselle de Belle Isle’s words (a most stupid and tiresome rôle), but all the time, I, Sarah, was waiting for news about my mother. I was watching for the return of ma petite dame. “Open the door on the O. P. side, just a little way,” I had said to her, “and make a sign like this, if mamma is better, and like that, if she is worse.” But I had forgotten which of the signs was to stand for better, and when, at the end of the third act, I saw Mme. Guérard opening the door and nodding her head for “yes,” I became quite idiotic. It was in the big scene of the third act when Mademoiselle de Belle Isle reproaches the Duc de Richelieu (Bressant) with doing her such irreparable harm. The Duc replies, “Why did you not say that some one was listening, that some one was hidden?” I exclaimed: “It’s Guérard bringing me news!” The public had not time to understand, for Bressant went on quickly, and so saved the situation.
After an unenthusiastic recall, I heard that my mother was better, but that she had had a very serious attack. Poor mamma, she had thought me such a fright when I made my appearance on the stage that her superb indifference had given way to grievous astonishment, and that, in its turn, to rage, on hearing a lady seated near her say in a jeering tone: “Why, she’s like a dried bone, this little Bernhardt!”
“OPHELIA”—SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT.
I was greatly relieved on getting the news, and I played my last act with confidence. The great success of the evening, though, was Croizette’s, who was charming as the Marquise de Prie. My success, nevertheless, was assured in the performances which followed, and it became so marked that I was accused of paying for applause. I laughed heartily at this, and never even contradicted the report, as I have a horror of useless words.
I continued my débuts in “Junie de Britannicus,” having for hero Mounet-Sully, who played admirably. In this delicious rôle of Junie I obtained an immense and incredible success.
Then, in 1873 I played Chérubin in “Le Mariage de Figaro.” Croizette played Suzanne, and it was a real treat for the public to see the delicious creature play a part so full of gayety and charm. Chérubin was for me the opportunity of a fresh success.
In the month of March, 1873, Perrin took it into his head to stage “Dalila,” by Octave Feuillet. I was then taking the part of young girls, young princesses, or young boys. My slight frame, my pale face, my delicate aspect marked me out, for the time being, for the rôle of victim. When suddenly Perrin, finding that the victims attracted the pity of the public, and thinking that it was for this reason I pleased them, made the most ridiculous change in the distribution of the parts; he gave me the rôle of Dalila, the swarthy, wicked, and ferocious princess, and to Sophie Croizette he gave the rôle of the fair young dying girl.
The piece, under this strange distribution, was turned upside down. I forced my nature in order to appear the haughty and voluptuous siren; I stuffed my bodice with wadding, and the hips under my skirt with horsehair; but I kept my small, thin, sorrowful face. Croizette was obliged to repress the advantages of her bust by bands which oppressed and suffocated her, but she kept her pretty plump face with its dimples.
I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers. In fact, it was absurd, and the piece was only a partial success.