What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me to the heart now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the weakness of her eyes and her legs, and her delight in the shade was only the love of that peace which was so necessary to her, wounded as she was by the life she had lived.
The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently than ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her advice. I armed myself for the struggle, preferring to die in the midst of the battle rather than to end my life regretting that it had been a failure. I made up my mind not to weep over the base things that were said about me, and not to suffer any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on the defensive and very soon an occasion presented itself.
“L’Etrangère” was to be played for the second time at a matinée, June 21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to Mayer that I was not well and that as I was playing in “Hernani” at night, I should be glad if he could change the play announced for the afternoon if possible. The receipts, however, were more than £400 and the Committee would not hear of it.
“Oh, well,” Got said to Mr. Mayer, “we must give the rôle to some one else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will be Croizette, Madeleine Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself in the cast, and, hang it all, it seems to me that all of us together will make up for Mlle. Bernhardt.”
Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as she had played this rôle at the Comédie when I was ill. Lloyd was afraid to undertake it, though, and refused. It was decided to change the play, and “Tartuffe” was given instead of “L’Etrangère.” Nearly all of the public, however, asked to have their money refunded, and the receipts, which would have been about £500, only amounted to £84.
All the spite and jealousy now broke loose, and the whole company of the Comédie, more particularly the men, with the exception of Mr. Worms, started a campaign against me. Francisque Sarcey, as drum major, beat the measure with his terrible pen in his hand. The most foolish, slanderous, and stupid inventions and the most odious lies took their flight like a cloud of wild ducks and swooped suddenly down upon all the newspapers that were against me. It was said that for a shilling anyone might see me dressed as a man; that I smoked huge cigars leaning on the balcony of my house; that at the various receptions where I gave one-act plays, I took my maid with me for the dialogue; that I practiced fencing in my garden, dressed as a pierrot in white, and that when taking boxing lessons, I had broken two teeth for my unfortunate professor.
Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these turpitudes, assuring me that the public could not possibly believe them. They were mistaken, though, for the public likes to believe bad things about anyone, as these are always more amusing than the good things. I soon had a proof that the English public was beginning to believe what the French papers said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I would consent to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine attire, and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but he was willing to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it. This man was quite an ill-bred person, but he was sincere. I received several boxes of cigars, and the boxing and fencing professors wrote to offer their services gratuitously. All this annoyed me to such a degree that I resolved to put an end to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris Figaro caused me to take steps to cut matters short.
And I wrote in reply to it as follows:
Albert Wolff, Figaro, Paris:
And you, too, my dear M. Wolff—you believe in such insanities? Who can have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my friend, though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told you have still a little indulgence left. Well, then, I give you my word of honor that I have never dressed as a man here in London. I did not even bring my sculptor costume with me. I give the most emphatic denial to this misrepresentation. I only went once to the exhibition which I organized, and that was on the opening day, for which I had only sent out a few private invitations, so that no one paid a shilling to see me. It is true that I have accepted some private engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the most poorly paid members of the Comédie Française. I certainly have the right, therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten pictures and eight pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is quite true, but as I brought them over here to sell I really must show them. As to the respect due to the House of Molière, dear M. Wolff, I lay claim to keeping that in mind more than anyone else, for I am absolutely incapable of inventing such calumnies for the sake of slaying one of its standard-bearers. And now, if the stupidities invented about me have annoyed the Parisians and if they have decided to receive me ungraciously on my return, I do not wish anyone to be guilty of such baseness on my account, so I will send in my resignation to the Comédie Française. If the London public is tired of all this fuss and should be inclined to show me ill-will instead of the indulgence hitherto accorded me, I shall ask the Comédie to allow me to leave England in order to spare our company the annoyance of seeing one of its members hooted at and hissed. I am sending you this letter by wire, as the consideration I have for public opinion gives me the right to commit such folly, and I beg you, dear M. Wolff, to accord to my letter the same honor as you did to the calumnies of my enemies.