Produced by Charlie Howard and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) MODERN HEROINES SERIES EDITED BY WARREN DUNHAM FOSTER HEROINES OF THE MODERN STAGE MODERN HEROINES SERIES EDITED BY WARREN DUNHAM FOSTER _Now Ready_ HEROINES OF MODERN PROGRESS HEROINES OF MODERN RELIGION HEROINES OF THE MODERN STAGE Each volume 12mo cloth _Illustrated $1.50_ [Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT] HEROINES OF THE MODERN STAGE BY FORREST IZARD _ILLUSTRATED_ New York STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY 1915 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1915 PREFACE The following pages give some account of those actresses who stand out today as the most interesting to an English-speaking reader. The Continental actresses included are those who gained international reputations and belonged to the English and American stage almost as much as to their own. All actresses have been modern, in a sense, for the acting of female rÃ´les by women is distinctly a latter-day touch in that ancient institution, the theatre.[1] Thus a book on modern actresses might range from Elizabeth Barry to Mrs. Fiske. But while many volumes already exist that serve well to keep alive the names of the dead-and-gone heroines,[2] biographies of actresses whom we of today have seen, are, in general, insufficient or inaccessible. That is true even of such notable women as Sarah Bernhardt, Ada Rehan and Mrs. Fiske; while accounts in English of such Continental actresses as Duse and RÃ©jane are altogether lacking. The author hopes that in these chapters he has done something toward making better known the careers of those actresses and of others who present themselves either in vivid recollection or in the light of present day achievement. The concluding chapter deals briefly with a number of American actresses of the present, who, although not rising in all cases to the eminence or popularity attained by those to whom separate chapters are given, yet have made some distinct contribution to our stage. The authorâs thanks are due to Mr. Edwin F. Edgett for the loan of material; to Mr. John BouvÃ© Clapp and to Mr. Robert Gould Shaw for the use of the originals from which some of the illustrations were made; and, for assistance of many kinds, to the editor of the series. Boston, Massachusetts, October, 1915. F. I. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE v CHAPTER I SARAH BERNHARDT 3 II HELENA MODJESKA 52 III ELLEN TERRY 93 IV GABRIELLE RÃJANE 126 V ELEONORA DUSE 171 VI ADA REHAN 203 VII MARY ANDERSON 230 VIII MRS. FISKE 265 IX JULIA MARLOWE 299 X MAUDE ADAMS 324 XI SOME AMERICAN ACTRESSES OF TODAY 347 APPENDIX 368 BIBLIOGRAPHY 377 INDEX 381 ILLUSTRATIONS SARAH BERNHARDT _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE HELENA MODJESKA 52 ELLEN TERRY 92 GABRIELLE RÃJANE 126 ELEONORA DUSE 170 ADA REHAN 202 MARY ANDERSON 230 MRS. FISKE 264 JULIA MARLOWE 298 MAUDE ADAMS 324 HEROINES OF THE MODERN STAGE SARAH BERNHARDT â_Sarah-Bernhardt, Officier dâAcadÃ©mie, artiste dramatique, directrice du thÃ©Ã¢tre Sarah-Bernhardt, professeur au Conservatoire_;â so run the rapid phrases of the French âWhoâs Who.â And, it might have added: âpersonality extraordinary, and woman of mystery.â âThe impetuous feminine hand that wields scepter, thyrsus, dagger, fan, sword, bauble, banner, sculptorâs chisel and horsewhip--it is overwhelming.â Thus the poet Rostand epitomized âthe divine Sarah.â Her career, he said, gives one the vertigo--it is one of the marvels of the nineteenth century. And he might have added, of the twentieth, for Bernhardt, who began her stage career at the time of our Civil War, was only recently, at an amazing age, to be seen on the stage of London and Paris. There are many who think, with William Winter,[3] that she has been merely âan accomplished executant, an experienced, expert imitator, within somewhat narrow limits, of the operations of human passion and human suffering.â The fact remains, the woman has been a genius of work and achievement, âthe Lady of Energy,â who has fairly earned the title of great actress. It is difficult to think of any woman the light of whose fame has carried to the ends of the earth in quite the same way. To be sure it has not always been from the lamp of pure genius. There have been self-advertising, scandal, extravagant eccentricity, to swell the general effect, but back of all this has been the worker.[4] She was born in Paris, at 265 _Rue St. HonorÃ©_, October 23, 1844.[5] Her blood is a mingling of French and Dutch-Jewish. Her real name is Rosine Bernard, and she was the eleventh of fourteen children. Of her father hardly anything can be learned. Sarah herself says that when she was still a mere baby he had gone to China, but why he went there she had no idea. Her mother was, by birth, a Dutch Jewess, by sympathy a Frenchwoman, by habit a cosmopolitan; âa wandering beauty of Israel,â forever traveling. As much because there was no home, therefore, as because the French have a custom of banishing infants from the household, Sarah spent her childhood in the care of a foster-mother, first in the Breton country, near QuimperlÃ© (where she fell in the fireplace and was badly burned), then at Neuilly, near Paris. Her mother came seldom to see her, though there seems to have been affection, at least on the childâs side. It was a lonely childhood--made worse by the high-strung, sensitive nature that was Sarahâs from the beginning.[6] When Sarah was seven she was sent away to boarding school at Auteuil, where she says she spent two comparatively happy years. Her mysterious father then sent orders that she was to be transferred to a convent. âThe idea that I was to be ordered about without any regard to my own wishes or inclinations put me into an indescribable rage. I rolled about on the ground, uttering the most heartrending cries. I yelled out all kinds of reproaches, blaming mamma, my aunts, and Mme. Fressard for not finding some way to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two hours, and while I was being dressed I escaped twice into the garden and attempted to climb the trees and throw myself into the pond, in which there was more mud than water. Finally, when I was completely exhausted and subdued, I was taken off sobbing in my auntâs carriage.â[7] At the Augustinian convent at Grandchamp, Versailles, she was baptized and confirmed a Christian. She became extravagantly pious and conceived a passionate adoration of the Virgin. Nevertheless, she was fractious and was more than once expelled.[8] When she left the convent Sarah was a capricious, sensitive, religious girl, who must indeed have constituted a problem for her mother. Sarah, strangely enough, was herself strongly inclined to be a nun. But her mother, who was a woman of the world and of means, had other plans and provided as âfinishing governessâ for Sarah a Mlle. de Brabander. One day, when she was fifteen, her fate was decided for her. At a family council her own ambition to be a nun was voted down and the decision was: âSend her to the _Conservatoire_.â Sarah had never even heard of the famous school for actors of the government theatres. That same evening she was taken to the theatre for the first time--the _ThÃ©Ã¢tre FranÃ§ais_. _Brittanicus_ and _Amphitrion_ moved her profoundly, and she left the theatre weeping, as much for the sudden shattering of her cherished plan as from the effects of the plays. Thus she began her studies at the _Conservatoire_ (1860) with no love for the career chosen for her.[9] She was no beauty;--she was decidedly thin, had kinky hair, and a pale face. But she worked hard. Her extraordinary nervous energy and her intelligence had their effect and when she left the _Conservatoire_ she had won two second prizes.[10] The discernment of some of the judges[11] saw in her something of the artist she was to be, and she immediately had a call to the company of the _ComÃ©die FranÃ§aise_. With the signing of her contract came her resolve, that if the stage were to be her working place, she would throw herself into her task with all her soul. â_Quand-mÃªme_,â--in spite of all,--was already her motto,--she would, in the face of any obstacle, win a place for herself.[12] Though with wonderful success she has been busily pursuing that object from that day to this, the beginnings of her career were not promising. Her dÃ©but (1862) in Racineâs _IphigÃ©nie_ created no particular comment. She remembers, however, that on that occasion, when she lifted her long and extraordinarily thin arms, for the sacrifice, the audience laughed.[13] Other parts fell to her, but she did not long remain at the House of MoliÃ¨re. As other managers were later to learn, Sarah cared little for agreements and contracts. The occasion of her first desertion of the _ComÃ©die_ was trivial enough. Here at the great national theatre she expected to remain always, but one day her sister trod on the gown of Mme. Nathalie, another actress of the company, âold, spiteful and surly,â who in petty anger shoved the girl aside. Sarah promptly responded by boxing the ears of her elder colleague. Neither would apologize, and the quickly achieved result was that the younger actress retired. She remained away from the _ComÃ©die FranÃ§aise_ for ten years, and it was during this time that she laid the foundation of her fame. Brief engagements at the _Gymnase_[14] and the _Porte St. Martin_ were followed by an opportunity to join the company at the _OdÃ©on_. MM. Chilly and Duquesnel were the managers. The latter was young, kind to Sarah, and discerning of her talents. As for Chilly, he was less enthusiastic: âM. Duquesnel is responsible for you. I should not upon any account have engaged you.â âAnd if you had been alone, monsieur,â she answered, âI should not have signed, so we are quits.â Mlle. Bernhardtâs career--once she had launched herself upon it--divides naturally into three periods: the six years (1866â1872) at the _OdÃ©on_, the playhouse of the Latin Quarter, âthe theatre,â she says, âthat I have loved mostâ; another term (1872â1880) at the _FranÃ§aise_; and her long career since, during which she has been her own mistress, accepting engagements where it pleased her, managing theatres of her own, and traveling over all the world. Her first taste of success came when she played Zacharie in _Athalie_, soon after she went to the _OdÃ©on_. It fell to her to recite the choruses, and the â_voix dâor_â won its first triumph. She was now twenty-two. For four years, with plentiful interludes of temper and temperament, she had been striving for success. Now, at the _OdÃ©on_, she worked and worked hard. âI was always ready to take any oneâs place at a momentâs notice, for I knew all the rÃ´les.â Chilly, who at first could see only her thinness[15] and not her ability, was brought round to Duquesnelâs view of her. âI used to think,â she says again, âof my few months at the _ComÃ©die FranÃ§aise_. The little world I had known there had been stiff, scandal-mongering, and jealous. At the _OdÃ©on_ I was very happy. We thought of nothing but putting on plays, and we rehearsed morning, afternoon, and at all hours, and I liked that very much.â[16] At the _OdÃ©on_ Sarah soon became the favorite of the students of the _Quartier_. Rather to the disgust of the older patrons of the house, the students were indiscriminate in their appreciation of the young actress, and applauded her indifferent work equally with her successes. For successes she now began to have. With difficulty M. Chilly was induced to consent to the production of CoppÃ©eâs one-act play _Le Passant_. But so successful was it that it not only ran for a hundred nights, but Bernhardt and the beautiful Mlle. Agar played it for Napoleon and EugÃ©nie at the Tuileries. In _Kean_, by Dumas, she was, by all accounts, admirable.[17] George Sand came to the _OdÃ©on_ for the rehearsals of her play _LâAutre_. Of her Bernhardt says: âMme. George Sand was a sweet charming creature, extremely timid. She did not talk much but smoked all the time.â In the midst of her term at the _OdÃ©on_ came an astonishing episode in Bernhardtâs career--her activities during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870â71. The theatres were of course closed, but it was not in her nature to sit still and do nothing. Therefore she sent her young son[18] out of the city, and in the fall of 1870, after her own severe illness, proceeded to establish an army hospital in the foyers of the _OdÃ©on_, with herself as its working head. With an executive ability and a zeal characteristic but none the less remarkable, she not only organized its commissariat, and kept all the records and accounts, but herself acted as one of the nurses. The section of her autobiography that deals with the siege of Paris and with her journey through the enemyâs country to Hombourg and back that she might bring home her family, will afford some future historian a graphic impression of one of the saddest days in the history of Paris. When the _OdÃ©on_ reopened, in the fall of 1871, Sarcey, the great critic, said of Sarah, who played (in _Jean-Marie_) a young Breton girl: âNo one could be more innocently poetic than this young lady. She will become a great _comÃ©dienne_, and she is already an admirable artist. Everything she does has a special savor of its own. It is impossible to say whether she is pretty. She is thin, and her expression is sad, but she has queenly grace, charm, and the inexpressible _je ne sais quoi_. She is an artist by nature, and an incomparable one. There is no one like her at the _ComÃ©die FranÃ§aise_.â At the end of 1871 Victor Hugo, who had been practically an exile during the Empire, came back to France. His return, as it proved, meant another turning point in Sarahâs life, for when the _OdÃ©on_ decided to produce his _Ruy Blas_, she was selected, after a good deal of bickering, as the Queen. Hugo she found, despite her strong previous prejudice against him, âcharming, so witty and refined, and so gallant.â[19] The play was produced on January 26, 1872. That night, in Bernhardtâs own words, ârent asunder the thin veil which still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity. Until that day I had remained the studentsâ little Fairy. I became then the elect of the Public.â Hugo himself, on his knee, kissed her hands and thanked her. M. Sarcey, who from the beginning was Bernhardtâs staunchest admirer among the critics, praised her warmly: âNo rÃ´le was ever better adapted to Mlle. Bernhardtâs talents. She possesses the gift of resigned and patient dignity. Her diction is so wonderfully clear and distinct that not a syllable is missed.â The _ComÃ©die FranÃ§aise_ now made overtures for her return to its fold. Bernhardt at once accepted, which was wretchedly unfair to the _OdÃ©on_, for she owed much to Duquesnel. When in 1866 he persuaded Chilly to take her on, she was comparatively unknown; now, in 1872, she was rapidly becoming the talk of Paris. Her contract with the _OdÃ©on_ had yet a year to run, but Sarah demanded, as the condition of her remaining, an advance in the stipulated salary.[20] Chilly indignantly refused; so Mlle. Bernhardt hurried away to the _ComÃ©die_ and forthwith signed her new contract. The _OdÃ©on_ brought an action against her and she had to pay a forfeit of six thousand francs. This sudden change of scene is but one instance of the directness, not to say unscrupulousness, of Bernhardtâs methods in advancing herself. â_Quand-mÃªme_â it was to be, at any cost. If she had merely followed her inclinations, however, she would probably have remained at the _OdÃ©on_, for she has often protested the attraction for her of the scene of her first triumphs. The _ComÃ©die_, on the other hand, had never this appeal to her. As is easily understood, her imperiousness and willfulness made her feel less at home at the more staid _ComÃ©die_. The other members of her company, with a few exceptions, were unfriendly and jealous. Moreover she made almost a failure in her dÃ©but (in _Mlle. de Belle-Isle_), but this was due not to stage-fright, as Sarcey guessed, but to her anxiety on seeing her mother, suddenly taken ill, leave the theatre. Sarcey loyally championed her early efforts, though he was often keenly critical also: âI fear,â he wrote (apropos of _Dalila_), âthat the management has made a mistake in already giving Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt leading parts. I do not know whether she will ever be able to fill them, but she certainly cannot do so at present. She is wanting in power and breadth of conception. She impersonates soft and gentle characters admirably, but her failings become manifest when the whole burden of the piece rests on her fair shoulders.â Other critics, particularly Paul de Saint-Victor, were consistently hostile. She had in the company envious rivals who inspired attacks on her, and she clashed frequently with M. Perrin, the director of the theatre. With that indomitable persistence that is her finest trait, however, she kept right on, and won her way to genuine achievement. As Aricie in _PhÃ¨dre_ she made a secondary part notable. Thus Sarcey: âThere can be no doubt about it now. All the opposition to Mlle. Bernhardt must yield to facts. She simply delighted the public. The beautiful verses allotted to Aricie were never better delivered. Her voice is genuine music. There was a continuous thrill of pleasure among the entire audience.â That she had thoroughly arrived was soon to be proved and re-proved. ZaÃ¯re[21] was followed by PhÃ¨dre herself, Berthe in _La Fille de Roland_, DoÃ±a Sol in _Hernani_, Monime in _Mithridate_, and revivals of _Ruy Blas_ and _Le Sphinx_, each a personal triumph for the actress who was so rapidly filling the eye of Paris.[22] For Sarah Bernhardt had by now succeeded in making herself, if not a universally acknowledged artist, at least a real Parisian celebrity. It was not a reputation confined to the actress _per se_. Designedly or not, Sarah set the tongues of Paris (and shortly of all Europe) wagging by a continuous exhibition of eccentricity that amounts to a tradition. To mention only what seem to be well authenticated manifestations of her caprice: She kept a pearwood coffin at the foot of her bed, slept in it and learned her parts in it. It is to be the veritable coffin of her last resting place.[23] She kept as a further reminder of her mortality a complete human skeleton in her bedroom. Years before she had a tortoise as a household pet. She named it ChrysogÃ¨re and had a shell of gold, set with topazes, fitted to its back. Now she was keeping two Russian greyhounds, a poodle, a bulldog, a terrier, a leveret, a monkey, three cats, a parrot, and several other birds. Later she had lions, and an alligator! She made ascents in a captive balloon at the Exhibition and once in a balloon that was _not_ captive.[24] Perrin was outraged by this caprice and tried to fine her for âtraveling without leave.â She wrote for the newspapers. She scorned the fashions. She dabbled in painting and sculpture, and, particularly with her chisel, her efforts were, if not noteworthy, at least respectable. Indeed, a group sculpture won an honorable mention in the Salon of 1876, though there were plenty to deny that it was really her work. Her studiolike apartment was the rendezvous of all artistic Paris. In 1879 her poetic, restrained, and generally admirable impersonation of DoÃ±a Sol in _Hernani_ brought her general homage. On the night of the one-hundredth performance Victor Hugo presided at a banquet in her honor, and M. Sarcey, in behalf of her âmany admiring friends,â presented to her a necklace of diamonds. When it was proposed, in 1879, that the _ComÃ©die FranÃ§aise_ company go to London, Sarah refused to go along unless she be made Associate â_Ã parte entiÃ¨re_.â[25] Her proposal was rejected, and at a meeting of the Committee M. Got represented the feeling that prevailed among the directors of the theatre by crying: âWell, let her stay away! She is a regular nuisance!â Sarah finally gave in, however, and in reward was made â_SociÃ©taire Ã parte entiÃ¨re_.â[26] On the first evening at the Gaiety, Bernhardt was to make her bow to England in the second act of _PhÃ¨dre_. Just before she went on she had one of her occasional bad attacks of stage fright, and could not remember her lines. âWhen I began my part,â she wrote, âas I had lost my self-possession, I started on rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I could not get lower again; I simply could not stop. I suffered, I wept, I implored, I cried out, and it was all real. My suffering was horrible.â _The Telegraph_ next morning said: âClearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and fiber and her passion grew with the excitement of the spectators, for when after a recall that could not be resisted the curtain drew up, Mr. Mounet-Sully was seen supporting the exhausted figure of the actress, who had won her triumph only after tremendous physical exertion, and triumph it was, however short and sudden.â An American writer--probably Henry James--said at this time in the _Nation_: âIt would require some ingenuity to give an idea of the intensity, the ecstasy, the insanity, as some people would say, of curiosity and enthusiasm provoked by Mlle. Bernhardt.... She is not, to my sense, a celebrity because she is an artist. She is a celebrity because, apparently, she desires, with an intensity that has rarely been equaled, to be one, and because all ends are alike to her.... She has compassed her ends with a completeness which makes of her a sort of fantastically impertinent _victrix_ poised upon a perfect pyramid of ruins--the ruins of a hundred British prejudices and proprieties.... The trade of a celebrity, pure and simple, had been invented, I think, before she came to London; if it had not been, it is certain that she would have discovered it. She has in a supreme degree what the French call the _gÃ©nie de la rÃ©clame_--the advertising genius; she may, indeed, be called the muse of the newspaper.â But trouble was brewing, and the irrepressible Sarah was soon making difficulties for her _confrÃ¨res_. She insisted on her right to give performances before private audiences on the nights she was not appearing with the company. Perrin had flown into a rage when he first heard of these performances, for it was the _ComÃ©dieâs_ chief grievance against her that she _would not_ rest. There came a day in London when Sarah sent word she was too tired to appear. A Saturday audience had to be dismissed at the last moment; it was too late to change the bill. A great commotion ensued among the company and in the Paris press. So many and varied were the attacks on her that she was on the point of resignation. She had brought to London a number of her sculptures and paintings and gave an exhibition, selling a few pieces, and entertaining at the gallery reception a group of aristocrats and celebrities--Gladstone and Leighton among them. She made a trip to Liverpool to buy more lions, and came back with a chetah, a wolf, and a half dozen chameleons to add to her menagerie. The members of the company thought she was ruining the dignity of âMoliÃ¨reâs Houseâ; and all manner of stories were told. âIt was said,â she wrote, âthat 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 when 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.â These stories were only less dreadful than the tales told in Paris: that she had thrown a live kitten into the fire, and poisoned two monkeys with her own hands! As a matter of fact, it is probable that Sarah was finding irksome the restrictions of the _ComÃ©die_, was ambitious to earn more money and, as anxious for her exit from the company as were her jealous _confrÃ¨res_, was only waiting for a chance to sever her contract. But contracts with the _FranÃ§aise_ are not lightly broken. As Coquelin had told her: âWhen one has the good fortune and the honor of belonging to the _ComÃ©die FranÃ§aise_ one must remain there until the end of oneâs career.â She had to watch her chance shrewdly. Again returned to Paris, the company of the _ComÃ©die_ revived, on April 17, 1880, Augierâs _LâAventuriÃ¨re_. From whatever cause--pique at being assigned a part she disliked in a play she detested, a temporary suspension of her usual power, or, as she says herself, illness that prevented proper study of her part,--she failed rather miserably. Even the usually indulgent Sarcey said: âHer Clorinde was absolutely colorlessâ; and the other critics, to a man, wrote scathing reviews. Sarah saw her chance, as she thought, and determined that this would be her last performance at the _ComÃ©die_. The morning after the fiasco she wrote to Perrin: â_Monsieur lâAdministrateur_: âYou made me play before I was ready. You gave me only eight stage rehearsals, and there were only three full rehearsals of the piece. I could not make up my mind to appear under such conditions, but you insisted upon it. What I foresaw has come to pass, and the result of the performance has even gone beyond what I expected. One critic actually charges me with playing Virginie in _LâAssommoir_ instead of _LâAventuriÃ¨re_! May Emile Augier and Zola absolve me! It is my first rebuff at the _ComÃ©die_, and it shall be my last. I warned you at the dress rehearsal. You have gone too far. I now keep my word. When you receive this letter I shall have left Paris. Be good enough, Monsieur lâAdministrateur, to accept my resignation as from this moment. Apr. 18, 1880. SARAH BERNHARDT.â An immense commotion at once arose, as if some tremendous political upheaval had occurred. Sarah took train and disappeared in the country, just as on a similar occasion, years before, she had suddenly gone off to Spain. The press, her fellow players, and the author of the play all poured upon her head a shower of abuse. M. Sarcey prophesied: âShe had better not deceive herself. Her success will not be lasting. She is not one of those _artistes_ who can bear the whole weight of a piece on their own shoulders, and who require no assistance to hold the public attention.â[27] The _ComÃ©die_ took legal action against her, and a few months later, when the suit was tried, Sarah was formally deprived of her standing as _sociÃ©taire_, of her portion of the reserve fund, amounting to more than eight thousand dollars, and in addition had to pay the _FranÃ§aise_ damages of twenty thousand dollars. She hadnât the money, but she soon earned it, on her first American tour. So ended, for good and all, Bernhardtâs connection with the government theatres; so abruptly did she turn a corner in her remarkable career. From her retirement Sarah announced, absurdly enough, that she would renounce the stage, and live by painting and sculpture, for these, she said, brought her thirty thousand francs ($6,000) a year. As a matter of fact, within two weeks she signed a contract with Henry E. Abbey, who post-haste crossed the ocean for the purpose, to go to America. His English agent, Jarrett, had long been importuning her to go. Now she was glad to accept.[28] Sarahâs wanderings now began--those wanderings that have carried her up and down the world, made her name familiar everywhere, brought her riches and (in William Winterâs sonorous phrase) âsuch adulation and advocacy as have seldom been awarded to even the authentic benefactors of human society.â First she played a month in London, giving the pieces she was preparing for the American tour, and scoring a tremendous success, artistic, financial and social. A newspaper writer said at this time: âIt has been said here that English society is not so eager this season to make her a social goddess as it was last; but it would hardly be possible for a woman to be more thoroughly besieged than is Sarah--that is the name by which people generally fondly call her. To see her is almost as difficult as to see the Queen--I dare say for people not connected with the artistic world even more so. Sarah lives very comfortably--even luxuriously--and entertains lavishly. It seems to me that the only lack of attention that she could possibly complain of is that the Queen has not yet left her card, and that is a complaint she must share with many people.â To her amazement the Paris critics followed her to London, and praised her extravagantly. Sarcey personally tried to induce her to return to Paris, and M. Perrin sent Got, the _doyen_ of the _ComÃ©die_, on the same errand. Sarah refused; she was enjoying her freedom and her large earnings. She went to Belgium and then to Denmark. At Copenhagen she brought a storm about her ears by a gratuitous affront to the German Ambassador to Denmark, Baron Magnus. At a dinner in her honor he gallantly proposed a health to â_la belle France_.â Sarah was at once on her feet, in a theatrical mood, mindful of the smarts that lingered from the war of 1870â1871, and much impressed with her own importance. âI suppose, _Monsieur lâEmbassadeur de Prusse_,â she cried, âyou mean the _whole_ of France.â This obvious reference to Alsace-Lorraine put the amiable Baron to confusion, broke up the dinner, threw consternation into the French diplomats on duty in Copenhagen, and enraged Bismarck. It is only fair to say that Sarah was genuinely sorry for her impetuous âbreak.â Before sailing for America, Sarah was prevailed upon to undertake a monthâs provincial tour in France--something she had never done. She appeared in Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Lyons and Geneva. Everywhere enthusiasm for her ran high. âMedals bearing her image and superscription, Sarah Bernhardt bracelets and collars, photographs and biographies were sold in the streets. At Lyons the Khediveâs son unsuccessfully offered Â£80 for a stage-box.â[29] On October 16, 1880, Mlle. Bernhardt sailed for New York. On November 8, at Boothâs Theatre, she made her first appearance in America in _Adrienne Lecouvreur_, which, with much success, she had added to her repertoire since leaving the _ComÃ©die_.[30] Her triumph was immediate. She had been told that New York would receive her coldly. At the end of the play, however, âthere was quite a manifestation and everyone was deeply moved,â while after the play a large crowd serenaded and cheered before her hotel. Sarah had been put on her mettle, and, as always, she did her best in the face of possible opposition. And these ovations repeated themselves in each city, both in the United States and in Canada. The Bishop of Montreal took it upon himself to condemn Bernhardt, her company, her plays, the authors and French literature in general. As if in reply to his utterances, the public flocked to see Sarah. As is usual with such strictures, the Bishop had given the best possible advertising[31] and each night Sarahâs sleigh was dragged by cheering men. Wherever she went, her astute managers saw to it that the Bernhardtian advertising tradition was maintained: She went to Menlo Park to call on Thomas A. Edison; at Boston she visited a captive live whale in the harbor, and stood (and fell!) upon its back; in Canada she visited a tribe of Iroquois; at Montreal she ventured on the ice in the St. Lawrence and put her life in peril; visiting the Colt factory at Springfield, Massachusetts, she fired off some newly invented cannon;--âit amused me very much without procuring me any emotion,â she wrote; at Chicago she witnessed the slaughtering of pigs at the stock-yards; in St. Louis her jewelry was exhibited in a store window; at Niagara she again endangered her life by getting herself into an awkward place on the ice bridge below the falls. Her object was accomplished, at all events. She had won in America a new fame and a much needed fortune. She had earned more than one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. She was now able to pay her debt to the _FranÃ§aise_, and had a comfortable sum left. And her return to France was a veritable return from Elba. Her vessel was met by scores of small boats, gay with welcoming flags, and the wharves held thousands of people shouting: â_Vive_ Sarah Bernhardt!â Her first performance in France of _La Dame aux CamÃ©lias_, at Havre in May, 1881, was âa perfect triumph.â It is startling to reflect that a woman who thus reached the zenith of her career a generation ago is still a working actress. What a triumph for the frail physique and the dauntless will! It is worth while to get a picture of her at about the time of her American tour, when she was thirty-six years old. A correspondent who visited her in London wrote: âI never was more agreeably disappointed in the appearance of a person than when Sarah smilingly and merrily tripped into the room. She looked infinitely fresher, brighter and prettier than I had ever seen her on the stage. Her photographs are perfect caricatures--every one of them. They give no idea of those wonderfully clear, translucent, great blue eyes, with their now soft and melting and now keen and penetrating glance; of her fresh and fair complexion, which on the stage is hidden under a horrid mask of thick paint; of her beautiful light blond hair, which lacks just a shade of being golden and is curled in the most graceful fashion; of her tender and sensitive mouth, the slightest motion of which is full of character and expression. I had never considered her pretty. I now, after a most careful and painstaking inspection, decidedly thought her so. She was charmingly dressed, too, and her thinness of person, which is so generally marked, but which she ridicules herself, was most artistically disguised. The waves of lace and ruffles which fell about her neck appeared to hide a bust worthy of Diana herself.â Other contemporary accounts show that those who visited her at her studio found her clad in a gray or white flannel suit of masculine garments,--jacket, trousers, necktie and all, âlooking something like a thirteen-year-old boy.â Though Sarah performed wonders in the way of self-advertising, more than one observer has noticed that she had a certain natural dignity that was not altogether inconsistent with a rather rollicking playfulness. âHer words are those of a lady,â wrote one, âand her enunciation, though rapid, beautifully distinct.â She has always been eminently hospitable. In the engaging phrase of one of her biographers,[32] âMarriage was the only eccentricity that Sarah had not yet perpetrated.â In the spring of 1882 she remedied this deficiency by marrying a member of her company, a Greek named Damala, or, as he was known on the stage, Daria. Sarah had been proceeding up and down Europe (always patriotically excepting Germany), playing in France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Russia, Italy, Austria and Spain, everywhere with immense success.[33] In the midst of this tour, quite unexpectedly (April, 1882), came the announcement of the marriage. In order to have the ceremony performed in London, she had traveled from Naples, and then returned to Spain to resume the tour.[34] It was the talk of the day that the reason for Sarahâs sudden marriage and for the selection of London as the scene of the ceremony, was not only her passing infatuation for Damala, but also a wish to propitiate English Puritanism. For a tour of England and Scotland soon followed. The marriage was not a huge success, however. It lasted not more than a year. The mere statement of Bernhardtâs wanderings is sufficiently astonishing and is one proof of her wonderful vitality. In 1886, a tour that lasted more than a year took her to Mexico, Brazil, Chile, the Argentine,[35] the United States and Canada. Two years later she acted in Constantinople, Cairo and Alexandria, besides most of the European countries. In the early part of 1891 she left Europe for two years and played not only in North and South America, but this time as far afield as Australia. Sarah has been a cosmopolitan figure, if there ever was one. As the land of readily won dollars, the United States has naturally been much favored; for beginning in 1880, Bernhardt has made no less than nine tours in America.[36] Like a number of actors of the other sex, but almost alone among actresses, Bernhardt has dabbled in the management of theatres. Soon after her first American tour, she assumed control of the _Ambigu_ in Paris. If she had acted in her own theatre (as later she did) her business venture might have succeeded. As it was, she was acting _FÃ©dora_ at the _Vaudeville_, and later, with only moderate success, in Holland and Belgium. The _Ambigu_ languished. In the meantime, Sarah had spent all her money. Finding herself in straits, she auctioned her jewels, and realized handsomely on them. It was an event in Paris, and the sale produced no less than thirty-five thousand dollars. Her next venture in management was more successful. In 1883, on behalf of her son, she bought a partnership in the _Porte St. Martin_, and produced _Frou-Frou_ there for the first time in Paris. Her rÃ©gime at this house was interrupted by the long tour begun in 1886, but continued, under the prosperity shed by her own presence, until 1893, when she bought the _Renaissance_. Since that day she has owned her own theatre, until 1899 at the _Renaissance_, and since then at the more commodious _ThÃ©Ã¢tre Sarah-Bernhardt_, her renaming of the _ThÃ©Ã¢tre des Nations_. When Bernhardt went to America for the first time she had in her company an actress named Marie Colombier. For reasons that are difficult to determine, this woman conceived a passionate hatred of Sarah and on her return to France prepared, or had prepared for her,[37] a thinly disguised pseudo-biography of Bernhardt which sold in enormous numbers under the name _Les Memoires de Sarah Barnum_. This pamphlet subjected Bernhardt to miscellaneous ridicule and abuse. Although on the whole false, parts of it may have been true enough to penetrate the armor against gossip that Sarah schooled herself to wear. At any rate, she was furiously angry. When the book had been in circulation long enough to give her action its proper background and advertising value, Bernhardt one day turned up at Mme. Colombierâs apartment, accompanied by her son and M. Jean Richepin, and armed with a horsewhip. The party forced themselves in, and Sarah, great actress, proceeded to chase her detractor about the place, beating her soundly with the whip. A similar incident occurred at Rio de Janeiro in 1886. Mme. Noirmont, a member of the company, one day âwent forâ Sarah with strong language and the flat of her hand. Sarah was at first content with the womanâs arrest, but one evening, between the acts, her desire for revenge got the better of her, and Mme. Noirmont was, in her turn, thoroughly horsewhipped. The cause of these (at the time) world famous ructions, which are now important only--if at all--as shedding light on Sarahâs frail humanity, has always remained shrouded in mystery. Further proof that the âdivine Sarahâ was after all very human was furnished in 1907 when she published a volume of reminiscences.[38] William Winterâs estimate of this book is characteristic; it contains, he says: âsome passages of interest, but, as a whole, it is diffuse, flamboyant, and artificial,--an eccentric contribution to theatrical annals, mottled over by affectation, egregious vanity, and the pervasive insincerity of an inveterate self-exploiter.â It would be juster to say that the book shows in many places a more likable woman than the eccentric celebrity was supposed to be, and that it contains but few passages that are _not_ of interest. At any rate, it shows Sarah to be, after all, in many respects like us commonplace people. Whatever hostility she may have met in her earlier days, Bernhardt long ago won the unqualified homage of her countrymen. To them she became a cherished national institution, the great actress of her time. âThe great and only Sarahâ is the phrase of the once scoffing Sarcey. âI am not quite sure,â wrote LemaÃ®tre in 1894, âwhether Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt can say âHow do you do?â like any ordinary mortal. To be herself she must be extraordinary, and then she is incomparable.â âYou cannot praise her for reciting poetry well,â said M. Theodore de Banville, a poet learned in metres and rhythms; âshe is the muse of poetry itself. A secret instinct moves her. She recites poetry as the nightingale sings, as the wind sighs, and as the water murmurs.â âHer acting is the summit of art,â--again Sarcey--âour grandfathers used to speak with emotion of Talma and Mlle. Mars. I never saw either the one or the other, and I have barely any recollection of Rachel, but I do not believe that anything more original and more perfect than Mlle. Sarah Bernhardtâs _PhÃ¨dre_ has ever been seen in any theatre.â To take this view of Sarah one must, perhaps, be a Frenchman. The Sarcey of America, William Winter, certainly could not take it. With what may be termed the utilitarian Puritanism that seeks in the theatre to be âbenefited, cheered, encouraged, ennobled, instructed, or even rationally entertained,â he could see in Bernhardtâs art only an exhibition of morbid eccentricity. Mr. Winter, here as elsewhere, has been made intolerant of much in the institution he has served and honored by his insistence on âintrinsic grandeurâ in its characters. He is always looking for âthe woman essentially good and noble,â whereas the modern drama has as one of its most cherished prerogatives its right to portray mixed characters,--often women whose âessential goodnessâ is mingled with much human frailty. Fairly enough, however, according to his lights, does Mr. Winter specify and define Bernhardtâs peculiar merits: âThey are, in brief, the ability to elicit complete and decisive dramatic effect from situations of horror, terror, vehement passion, and mental anguish; neatness in the adjustment of manifold details; evenly sustained continuity; ability to show a woman who seeks to cause physical infatuation and who generally can succeed in doing so; a woman in whom vanity, cruelty, selfishness, and animal propensity are supreme; a woman of formidable, sometimes dangerous, sometimes terrible mental force.â Not all of Madame Bernhardtâs impersonations, however, fall within Mr. Winterâs proscribed class. She has at times shown a startling propensity for breaking into new and strange fields. Her _Jeanne dâArc_ (1890), a genuine success, was certainly not a âmorbid eccentric.â âIt is impossible to make _Hamlet_ Parisian,â but, in 1899, Sarah played _Hamlet_, to the satisfaction of the French at least. âShe never did anything finer,â said Rostand. âShe makes one understand Hamlet, and understand him beyond the possibility of a doubt.â[39] A year later she was playing Reichstadt, the son of Napoleon, in _LâAiglon_, an impersonation that even Mr. Winter admitted âwas one of beautiful symmetry.â And of recent years Sarah has threatened--though as yet she has not accomplished--the acting of Mephistopheles in _Faust_. When Bernhardt was in London in 1895, George Bernard Shaw was in the midst of his career as the dramatic critic of the _Saturday Review_, serving a three-year term of what he called his slavery to the theatre. He observed Sarah with none too sympathetic eyes, but what he said shows, under his purposefully irritating exterior, the shrewd critical insight that makes the âDramatic Opinions and Essaysâ one of the soundest books of theatrical comment, as well as one of the most readable: âMadame Bernhardt has the charm of a jolly maturity, rather spoilt and petulant, perhaps, but always ready with a sunshine-through-the-clouds smile if only she is made much of. Her dresses and diamonds, if not exactly splendid, are at least splendacious; her figure, far too scantily upholstered in the old days, is at its best; and her complexion shows that she has not studied modern art in vain.... She is beautiful with the beauty of her school, and entirely inhuman and incredible. But the incredibility is pardonable, because, though it is all the greatest nonsense, nobody believing in it, the actress herself least of all, it is so artful, so clever, so well recognized a part of the business, and carried off with such a genial air, that it is impossible not to accept it with good-humor. One feels, when the heroine bursts on the scene, a dazzling vision of beauty, that instead of imposing on you, she adds to her own piquancy by looking you straight in the face, and saying, in effect: âNow who would ever suppose that I am a grandmother?â That, of course, is irresistible; and one is not sorry to have been coaxed to relax oneâs notions of the dignity of art when she gets to serious business and shows how ably she does her work. The coaxing suits well with the childishly egotistical character of her acting, which is not the art of making you think more highly or feel more deeply, but the art of making you admire her, pity her, champion her, weep with her, laugh at her jokes, follow her fortunes breathlessly, and applaud her wildly when the curtain falls. It is the art of finding out all your weaknesses and practicing on them--cajoling you, harrowing you, exciting you--on the whole, fooling you. And it is always Sarah Bernhardt in her own capacity who does this to you. The dress, the title of the play, the order of the words may vary; but the woman is always the same. She does not enter into the leading character: she substitutes herself for it.â Where a more tolerant judgment would proclaim Sarahâs inalterable romanticism, Mr. Shaw, whose passion for truth and realism leave him little room for the sort of truth and reality there may be in the romantic, sees only the tricks of her trade: âEvery year Madame Bernhardt comes to us with a new play, in which she kills somebody with any weapon from a hairpin to a hatchet; intones a great deal of dialogue as a sample of what is called âthe golden voice,â to the great delight of our curates, who all produce more or less golden voices by exactly the same trick; goes through her well-known feat of tearing a passion to tatters at the end of the second or fourth act, according to the length of the piece; serves out a ration of the celebrated smile; and between whiles gets through any ordinary acting that may be necessary in a thoroughly businesslike and competent fashion. This routine constitutes a permanent exhibition, which is refurnished every year with fresh scenery, fresh dialogue, and a fresh author, whilst remaining itself invariable. Still, there are real parts in Madame Bernhardtâs repertory which date from the days before the traveling show was opened; and she is far too clever a woman, and too well endowed with stage instinct, not to rise, in an off-handed, experimental sort of way, to the more obvious points in such an irresistible new part as Magda.â On the whole, Shaw is something less than fair to Sarah. But one cannot deny him an appreciative chortle when he speaks of her âdragging from sea to sea her Armada of transports.â On December 9, 1896, there was held a fÃªte in Paris in honor of Bernhardt--the most striking in a long line of similar occasions. It was felt that her position as queen of the stage deserved a public recognition. It was carried through with Gallic enthusiasm. Sardou presided at a mid-day banquet attended by CoppÃ©e, LemaÃ®tre, Theuriet, Lavedan, Coquelin, Charpentier, Rostand, and a host of others from the literary and artistic world of Paris. Sardou hailed her as the acknowledged sovereign of dramatic art, and bore testimony not only to her acting, but also to âthe benevolence, the charity, and the exquisite kindness of the woman.â When Sarah had responded with a few words of thanks, there was a great demonstration, emotionally enthusiastic and Gallic. Later in the day, at the _Renaissance_, the ceremonies were continued. Sarah gave the third act of _PhÃ¨dre_ and the fourth act of _Rome Vaincue_. She gave her best efforts and her hearers were much moved. Huret records
{'title': 'Heroines of the Modern Stage by Forrest Izard', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}