The publication of Sarah’s book “Dans les Nuages,” which was at once a defence of her actions, a scornful reply to her critics and a picturesque description of her flight in the balloon, brought down on her head still more criticism, and still further admonishment from M. Perrin, the director of the ComÉdie FranÇaise.

But now she lived a monarch in a little world apart. Her art while on the stage was such that even her sternest opponents were obliged to hold their tongues in reluctant admiration, while she now openly maintained the right to live her private life as she pleased. Every protest from Perrin brought forth the haughty reply that if he was dissatisfied she was perfectly willing to leave the ComÉdie FranÇaise for ever. What made him powerless in any struggle with her was the fact that the ComÉdie was a government institution, and that Sarah had friends in very high places.

She was a striking figure of a woman, as I remember her at this epoch.

Her extreme slenderness, accentuated by the exaggerated lacing of the clothes she wore, contrived to give her the impression of height; whereas she was in reality no taller than the normal person. Her complexion was naturally pale from her anÆmia—a malady which had persisted—but, not content with the effect thus achieved, she must needs paint her face a chalk white, relieved only by the slender etching of her widely-separated eyebrows, and by a pair of cleverly-reddened lips. Her forehead was high and arched, and her hair was the same riotous and tangled mass of crinkled confusion which had made her remarkable as a child. Her eyes were the singularly lovely blue of the clear sky just after the dawn—light-coloured, but seemingly of illimitable depth.

When she was serious, they would be downcast, shielded by long, curving lashes, mysterious and almost oriental in their pensive languor. When she was interested, they would snap into life with an extraordinary vivacity and play of expression; when she was angry, which was often enough, actual sparks of blue fire seemed to dart from eyes that had miraculously grown into two large, burning pools of wrath. No man I ever saw, except Damala, ever long withstood the challenge of those eyes when Sarah, wistful and imperious, desired to have her way.

After an interview with her and an ineffectual attempt to discipline his wilful star, Perrin invariably ended his lecture by throwing up his hands, uttering a short word of mingled supplication and terror, and escaping into an inner office.

Sarah was a supreme conversationalist. I never knew anyone her match in ordinary talk. She could be eloquent on fifty current topics, and had something original and interesting to say about all of them. The fact that she could hold such men as Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas fils, Georges Clairin, Gustave DorÉ, and others like them, enthralled by the sheer power of her personality as partly expressed by her skill in conversation, is proof enough of her many-sided genius.

She was the first great feminine adherent to the capricious cult of “je m’en fichisme,” which is best interpreted as an absolute disregard of convention and an existence studiously carried along the lines of “the individual before the crowd.”

Sarah was beautiful; she was brilliant. She was a genius; she was a hard-worker; she was prodigious in her handling of men—she seldom had less than a dozen famous ones around her—and her charm, as well as her antipathetic side, was due to her sublime belief in herself above everything and everybody.

Perrin, Got and other theatrical celebrities used to beg and plead with her to dress in quieter and less conspicuous ways which would be more in conformity with the fashion.

“La mode!” she exclaimed indifferently. “Je m’en fiche de la mode! Let fashion follow me!”

And frequently fashion did. Sarah was thin, narrow-chested, bony in places and walked with a stride. The fashion was for plump women, of rounded and gracious line. Sarah remained totally indifferent to the fashion, and within a few years she found herself a leader of the mode, with plumpness and bouffonerie beating a protesting retreat.

When she was forty, her arms had grown so thin that they had to be concealed, even with evening dress, so she invented the shoulder-length glove, which immediately jumped into fashion.

She launched several kinds of corsets, one of which still bears her name. Her footwear was seized on and copied extensively. She was the first woman in France to wear high leather buttoned boots with an ordinary street dress.

She was the first woman to bid her dressmaker insert jewels in her slippers. She was the first woman to wear ostrich plumes as an ornament to her evening coiffure. She was the first woman audaciously to defy convention, and receive her friends in her painter’s garb of silken pyjamas!

She did this, she did that, she did anything she pleased. Whenever anybody started a great outcry against her, others would shrug their shoulders and exclaim, “Mais, c’est Sarah!” She was Sarah. That was answer enough. If ever a woman in France has been a law unto herself, it was Sarah at that time—a whole lexicon of law, in fact.

Naturally, she got into numerous scrapes. She was thrice sued for debt, as a result of her lavish expenditure during the building of her house in the rue Fortuny. Whenever she saw anything she liked, she could not rest until she had acquired it. Her salary at the ComÉdie was only 20,000 francs a year—only £800, even at that time—yet with this, and the small sums left her by her father and by several relatives, she managed to live in a style and with an ostentation surpassed by but few persons of her age.

The furniture in her house had been acquired absolutely regardless of cost, and a lot of it was taken away again when she did not pay for it. Dealers were glad to sell things to her, and to take their money as and when she paid them, for the fact that Sarah Bernhardt had bought an article was certain to start a fad for it.

Her dresses, her hats and her shoes never cost her anything. In later years I even heard it stated that her dressmaker actually paid her to wear his creations! It was a triumph for any dealer to be able to say, “Sarah Bernhardt bought one like that,” or, “Sarah Bernhardt was wearing one like that yesterday,” or, “Sarah Bernhardt has one in her dining-room.” The mural decorations and the works of art in her house, fortunately, did not cost Sarah anything. They were mostly gifts of such great friends as Georges Clairin, Louise Abbema—of whose paintings, when she died, Sarah possessed more than eighty—Sir Edward Burne-Jones—who had been caught in the siege of Paris, and had then met and fallen captive to Sarah—Ernest Duez, ThÉodore Fantin-Latour, Maxime Guyon, Hector Giacomelli, RÉnÉ Raoul Griffon, Graham Robertson, Luc Olivier Merson, Germain Fabien Brest, John Lewis Brown, Robert Fleury, Vastagh Gezah, Alfred Stevens, and many other great and famous artists of the brush.

Most of the above-mentioned persons frequented her house. I have seen a dozen famous painters and six or seven great authors all listening to Sarah together—and finding joy in it. She ruled her little court with a rod of iron, but she wrapped the rod in silk. Victor Hugo, watching her at work in her studio on one occasion, said:

“Ah! madame, how I wish I could paint!”

“But you can!” replied Sarah.

“No,” said Hugo.

“Tu es ridicule!” responded Sarah. “Anyone who can write or who can act can paint if he tries!”

Then and there Sarah constituted herself his teacher, with the result that Hugo became an extremely creditable artist, chiefly with pen-and-ink. His chief delight was in sketching-tours, which he undertook with Sarah during her rare holidays—tours in which Clairin and DorÉ would generally also take part. It was a novel and extraordinary sight to see these three wonderful men and this single eccentric woman set forth together on foot from the gates of Paris, huge sketch-books under their arms.

But things were fast approaching their inevitable climax at the ComÉdie FranÇaise.

Perrin and his committee had entered into a contract with Messrs. John Hollingshead and Mayer for a six weeks’ French repertory season at the Gaiety Theatre in London. The contract called for the appearance in the English capital of most of the stars of the ComÉdie, including Sarah Bernhardt, Sophie Croizette, Marie Lloyd, Mounet-Sully, Coquelin and Got.

Sarah was afire with excitement at the idea of playing before a foreign audience, but a difficulty that seemed insurmountable presented itself.

Sarah was still only a part sociÉtaire. An actress enters the ComÉdie as a dÉbutante, or kind of apprentice. Unless she has extraordinary talent and still more extraordinary luck, she is likely to remain in this decidedly inferior position, both as regards rank and salary, for several years. Then, by decree of the committee, endorsed by the Minister of Fine Arts, she is made a part member, with half or two-thirds of the salary of a full member. Sometimes an actress remained at the ComÉdie twenty or twenty-five years without being made a full member. Sarah had been there nearly eight years. The salary of a full member was thirty thousand francs a year; Sarah was receiving twenty thousand.

The difficulty arose not so much from the question of salary, however, as from the fact that Sarah Bernhardt would be playing in a foreign capital, and would be in an inferior position as regards the billing and the programmes. The custom of the ComÉdie was strict in this regard: the name of the oldest sociÉtaire in rank appeared first on the programme, regardless of the rÔle she played. This was understood in Paris; it might easily be misunderstood in London.

“If,” insisted Sarah, “I go to London, it must be as a full member, with a full member’s privileges and emoluments.”

There was an immediate rebellion in the committee.

“We have had enough of her caprices!” cried Perrin. “Let her remain here, if she wants to! I will not consent to her demands!”

Nothing in Sarah’s contract, it appeared, obliged her to travel abroad. So it was settled that she should not go.

Then Hollingshead and Mayer threw another bombshell into the excited and harassed committee of the ComÉdie FranÇaise. If Sarah Bernhardt was not coming, they said, they did not want the troupe at all, and they hereby cancelled the contract!

The end of it was that Sarah obtained her full membership, as did Croizette, and the whole troupe embarked for London. The first man to greet her as she stepped ashore in England was Oscar Wilde. He became a great friend of Sarah’s some years later—a friendship that only ceased with his downfall.

Sarah’s first visit to London was not the triumph which she had anticipated, though she had her share of the laurels. Her lodgings at 77, Chester Square which were procured for her by William Jarrett, the impresario who later managed her tour of America, were crowded with celebrities, but they came out of curiosity and not to pay homage.

Stories of her eccentricities had long been printed in England. She was looked upon as a wild woman, and her morals were much discussed and severely commented upon in staid London society. Everything she did in London during this first visit evoked hostile comment. The papers praised her performances, but criticised her sensational appearances in society, into which she was introduced by Lady Dudley.

Queen Victoria vetoed a suggestion that she should play in a State performance at Court. The Prince and Princess of Wales were not in London on this first occasion, and their tolerant influence did not make itself felt.

Still, there was nothing definite against Sarah, except gossip, and so much was admitted everywhere. All fashionable London fell captive to her art on the stage of the Gaiety. The Times acclaimed her as the greatest emotional actress ever seen on an English stage. She made her London dÉbut in the second act of PhÈdre, into which she put so much of herself that after the performance she fainted from exhaustion and had to be carried home. “Such a scene of enthusiasm,” wrote the Standard, “has rarely and perhaps never been witnessed in an English theatre.”

Meanwhile, a tremendous campaign was going on against her in the Paris newspapers. They said that by her eccentric actions she had disgraced the ComÉdie FranÇaise abroad, and brought dishonour on her country. It was a despicable campaign, and was founded on practically nothing. But her enemies in Paris were determined to make hay while the cat was away, if I may be pardoned for mixing up two proverbs.

Gladstone, who was much struck by the charming and emotional French actress, introduced her to King LÉopold of Belgium, who fell an utter slave to her beauty. She was seen with the Belgian monarch everywhere, and, as LÉopold enjoyed probably the worst reputation of any prince in Europe, the fact that he was obviously enamoured of Sarah did not enhance her reputation.

This incident, in fact, in Republican France, was only an added cause for dissatisfaction. LÉopold was not liked in Paris, and he was barely tolerated in London; yet Sarah seemed to find pleasure in his conversation and amusement in his company. He had, of course, the entrÉe everywhere, and as often as not he appeared with Sarah, generally to the secret dismay of his hostess.

There were houses in London at this period where certain representatives of royalty were looked at askance; and this condition of affairs obtained also in many European capitals. When I was in Moscow I was amazed to find that there were several aristocratic but untitled families who would not have dreamed of receiving a Grand Duke into their homes.

One of the rumours that gained particular credit in London was to the effect that Sarah smoked cigars. She received several boxes from male admirers!

Another story was that she paraded the streets dressed as a man. I doubt both of the stories myself—especially that as to the cigars, for Sarah never smoked at all—but they were widely credited in London, and those of the Paris newspapers that were hostile to the actress naturally seized on them and reprinted them with avidity. Editorials were published severely criticising her conduct, and these finally grew so numerous that Sarah decided to have done with them once and for all.

She accordingly wrote a letter to Albert Wolff, the director of the Figaro, announcing that she had decided to resign from the ComÉdie FranÇaise.

Nobody believed she would actually resign—she had threatened it too many times before—but her announcement in the Figaro caused huge excitement. The Minister of Fine Arts telegraphed personally to Sarah demanding an explanation. Sarah disdained to reply. The ComÉdie troupe was recalled from London, and Sarah was warned not to play for a while, as the public, “after the things she had done in London,” would be sure to hiss her. She insisted on playing, however, and was given an ovation. It was another triumph for her personality. But she had the critics against her en masse.

A few weeks later Perrin refused to postpone the premiÈre of L’AventuriÈre, in which Sarah was playing Clorinde, despite her statement that she was physically unable to act. The first night was a failure. Sarah was unanimously attacked in the newspapers, and this time, enraged at Perrin, she did resign.

She wrote her resignation, posted it, and then fled from Paris, so that no one could call her back. She was gone five weeks, and nobody knew her address.

When she returned, she found Jarrett waiting for her with a new contract for London, to be followed by one for America. She accepted both, and returned to London with her own company. There the eccentricities of her previous visit were forgiven, and her triumph was complete until she made the serious mistake of taking her son to the home of Lord and Lady R——, where she was invited to play.

Lady R——’s indignation at Sarah’s daring action, though Sarah herself probably considered it nothing out of the ordinary, knew no bounds, and she gave secret instructions to her butler. This functionary advanced before Sarah into the huge ball-room, which was crowded with people distinguished in British society, and solemnly announced:

“Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt and her son!”

After this she was, of course, unmercifully snubbed, and left in a rage ten minutes later. This was Sarah Bernhardt’s last appearance in British society until Queen Victoria, yielding to the entreaties of the Prince of Wales, lifted the ban and commanded her to give a performance of La Dame aux CamÉlias at Windsor Castle.

But this recognition did not come until many long years afterwards.