Mme. Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only played in one scene and there were four more. I realized then that it would really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own motto, and, standing in front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was very insignificant in my part.
The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at Sarcey’s article in L’Opinion Nationale, and she now read me the following lines.... “Mlle. Bernhardt, who made her début yesterday in the rôle of Iphigénie, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure and a very pleasing expression, the upper part of her face is remarkably beautiful. She holds herself well, and her enunciation is perfectly clear. This is all that can be said for her at present.”
“The man is an idiot,” said my mother, drawing me to her. “You were charming.”
She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream. I was happy, but not completely so. When my godfather arrived in the afternoon, he exclaimed:
“Good heavens! my poor child, what thin arms you have!”
As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when, stretching out my arms, I had said the famous lines in which Favart had made her famous “effect” that was now a tradition. I certainly had made no “effect,” unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can be reckoned such.
My second appearance was in Valérie, when I did have some slight success.
My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following effusion from the pen of the same Sarcey:
SARAH BERNHARDT AT THE TIME OF HER DÉBUT IN “LES FEMMES SAVANTES.”