On the 8th February she brought out a piece by M. Sardou, Spiritisme. It was a failure. Sarah’s talents were extolled to the skies as usual, but in comparison with her previous appearances the reception of the play was cold. After twenty-five indifferent performances she was obliged to revive La Tosca, and then bring out a piece, Snob, by M. Gustave Guiches, in which there was no part for her. Easter week arrived, and she took advantage of it to give a series of performances of M. Rostand’s religious drama, La Samaritaine, which met with triumphal success. Says M. Sarcey—“Sarah, transfigured and drinking in the life-giving Word, and repeating the words ‘I am listening, I am listening’ with all a neophyte’s ardour, is a sight to be seen. Her personality completely fills the second act. Full of the divine fire, she evangelizes the crowd wherever she goes. Her success was very great.”

We now come to the great artiste’s most recent creations. Her dramatic genius found fresh expression in Octave Mirabeau’s fine social problem play, Les Mauvais Bergers, brought out on the 15th December. After her appearance as a man in Lorenzaccio, and as a divinely inspired convert in La Samaritaine, here she was as one of the working-class, in a cotton blouse and woollen skirt. Next she gave Gabriel d’Annunzio’s Ville Morte, and, rejuvenated and transfigured after her severe illness, she produced Lysiane by M. Romain Coolus in the spring of 1898.

Immediately after her triumph in Lorenzaccio, a few of Sarah Bernhardt’s friends, headed by M. Henry Bauer, decided to organize a grand fÊte in her honour, to mark the apogee of her artistic career. Wednesday, 9th December, 1896, was fixed as the date. Shortly before the great day, I had requested Sarah to give herself up to one or two hours’ solitude, to revive the memories of her emotions, struggles, and triumphs, and, in short, give the readers of the Figaro a glimpse into her mind on the eve of one of the most memorable events of her brilliant career. She sent me the following spontaneous and vigorous account of her meditations—

My dear friend, you are asking for nothing less than a full confession, but I have no hesitation in answering. I am proud and thoroughly happy at the prospect of the fÊte that is to be given me. You ask me to say whether I really and truly believe I deserve this honour. If I say Yes, you will think me very conceited. If I say No, you will set me down as very blamable. I would rather tell you why I am so proud and happy. For twenty-nine years past I have given the public the vibrations of my soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have played one hundred and twelve parts. I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen of which are the work of poets. I have struggled like no other human being has struggled. My independence and hatred of deception have made me bitter enemies. I have overcome and pardoned those whom I condescended to encounter. They have become my friends. The mud thrown at me by others has fallen from me in dust, dried up by the scorching sun of my determination and faith in my own powers. I have ardently longed to climb the topmost pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part of my life remains for me to live, but what matters it! Every day brings me nearer to the realization of my dream. The hours that have flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it.

I have journeyed across the ocean, carrying with me my ideal of art, and the genius of my nation has triumphed. I have planted the French language in the heart of foreign literature, and this is my proudest achievement. My art has been the missionary whose efforts have made French the common speech of the younger generation. I know this to be true. Teachers in foreign countries have told me so, ladies in New York have confirmed it, the public has proved it, and I have been openly blamed for my presumption by a German professor at Chicago. In Brazil, the students fought with drawn swords because an attempt was made to prevent them from shouting “Vive la France!” as they dragged my carriage along. In the Argentine Republic, the students tried to do honour to my country by learning passages from Racine, Corneille, MoliÈre, and Jules LemaÎtre’s critiques, all of which they recited most correctly and with scarcely any foreign accent. In Canada, my sledge was propelled by members of Parliament to the cry of “Vive la France!” and after every performance the students struck up the Marseillaise, listened to by the English, standing up, hat in hand, with their invariable respect for any noble expression of feeling.

Here is a typical incident. When I arrived in Australia, the French residents were dominated by the Germans. Our consul was neither liked nor esteemed. Immediately upon my arrival I was received by the mayor in his robes of office. His wife and children offered me flowers, and a military band played the national anthems of France and England. I owed this polite attention to orders from England. The effect was immediately felt, and this semi-royal reception was much to the benefit of our countrymen at Sydney and Melbourne. The plays performed by my company and myself met with wonderful success, and when the steamer which was conveying us back to the northern hemisphere fired her parting gun, our own national anthem was sung by more than five thousand people massed on the quays. I assure you that those who witnessed that grand and heart-stirring scene have not forgotten it.

In Hungary, the towns in which I was to perform were decorated with French flags, in spite of orders from the Austrian Government. Czechs went through their national dances before me with red, white, and blue ribbons.

These are the trifling victories that have gained me so much indulgence. I say nothing of the encounters at which you and all the Paris public have been present. And now, after having finished my confession, I can still find one little circumstance in my own favour. Five months ago I refused an offer of a million francs to perform in Germany. If there be any carping critics to say the fÊte about to be given me is out of proportion to my talents, tell them I am the militant doyenne of a grand, inspiring, elevating form of art. Tell them French courtesy was never more manifest than when, desiring to honour the art of interpretation and raise the interpreter to the level of other creative artists, it selected a woman.

Sarah Bernhardt.

December 8, 1896.

The promised fÊte took place on the following day, 9th December. It was a very fine one—much finer than any one could possibly have expected. It was a charming, delightful festival under a grey wintry sky in the heart of Paris: an outburst of kindly feeling in the most artistic form. Some unsympathetic spirits had made merry over the programme, and it was asserted that the timid poets who were to appear would shrink from the critical gaze of Paris. Thanks to Sarah and the witchcraft of her grace and beauty, the ceremony was not only the greatest and most enviable triumph of her career, but it passed off with perfect harmony, in an atmosphere warm with cordiality and admiration.

The brief and hurried summary to which I am obliged to confine myself can give only a faint idea of those six hours of continuous ovations. Half-an-hour after noon Sarah arrived in her two-horse brougham with her son and daughter-in-law. As she appeared on the steps in the courtyard of the Grand HÔtel, cries of “Vive Sarah!” were heard, and the crowd of foreign visitors present spontaneously uncovered as the great artiste passed through them. The great Salle du Zodiaque, in which the banquet was held, was already full of guests, all in evening dress. When Mme. Sarah Bernhardt came down the narrow winding staircase leading from the first floor into the dining-room, every man and woman among the five hundred guests rose and frantically applauded again and again. The long train of her beautiful white dress, trimmed with English lace, embroidered with gold, and bordered with chinchilla, followed her like a graceful, tame serpent down the stairs. At every turn in the winding staircase she bent over the railing and twined her arm like an ivy-wreath round the velvet pillars while she acknowledged the acclamations with her disengaged hand. Her lithe and slender body scarcely seemed to touch the earth. She was wafted towards us as it were in a halo of glory. There was a continuous fire of applause from the whole assembly as she made her way to the presidential chair. She reached it very pale, but smiling and happy. Another thunderous outburst of cheers, and the meal began.

Sarah Bernhardt had M. Sardou on her right and M. Henry Bauer on her left. At the head table there were also Mme. de Najac, MM. FranÇois CoppÉe, H. de Bornier, Ludovic HalÉvy, Jules LemaÎtre, ThÉodore Dubois, AndrÉ Theuriet, H. Lavedan, Albert CarrÉ, Coquelin the elder, Edouard Colonne, and Gabriel PiernÉ; Mme. Maurice Bernhardt, MM. MendÈs, Silvestre, Maurice Bernhardt, Lord and Lady Ribblesdale, MM. Jean Lorrain, Haraucourt, Charpentier, Comte Robert de Montesquiou, Clairin, Armand d’Artois, Morand, Silvain, and Edmond Rostand. At the other tables the guests took their places as best pleased them, without regard to the cards. There were three kinds of menus, designed by Mme. AbbÉma, ChÉret, and Mucha. The luncheon was a lively one. All eyes were fixed on the heroine of the feast. Every one was loud in wonder at the freshness of her colour and the perpetual youth which she owes without doubt to the incomparable vital energy of her privileged nature. When the dessert was reached, M. Sardou rose and said—

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I leave to the poets, whom we are to hear later on, the honour of extolling, better than I can do, the genius of the unrivalled artiste before us, the real creator of every one of her rÔles, the acknowledged sovereign of dramatic art, and hailed as such throughout the world. My task is a humbler one. To every one of those who owe to her such keen emotions it is not given to see her in her home, among her children and her friends, and, after applauding the actress, to know the benevolence, the charity, and the exquisite kindness of the woman. To her I bear testimony, and wish her long life and prosperity, and I ask you all to drink to the health of her who is both the great and the good Sarah.

Terrific applause followed this last sentence, the ladies present being, if possible, more enthusiastic than the men. When silence was restored, Sarah rose and uttered these simple words—

“To all of you, my friends, from the bottom of a grateful heart I say ‘Thank you! thank you!’”

Her hands, at first clasped upon her breast and then outstretched towards the guests, seemed to say—

“My heart, my whole heart is yours!”

Repeated volleys of applause followed. Tears coursed down the cheeks of many of the ladies. M. Sardou was seen to wipe his eyes. The emotion was truly great and general. The Colonne choir sang the chorus composed for the occasion by MM. Armand Silvestre and Gabriel PiernÉ, and then the guests rose from the table. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt left as she had come, shaking many a hand on the way, embracing Coquelin, stopping in front of Jeanne Granier, kissing her twice and congratulating her on her triumph in Amants. As she went slowly up the winding stair, from time to time sending a smile or a wave of her hand to her admirers below, she seemed almost to be mounting in triumph towards the sky!

The next act in the great ceremony took place at the Renaissance theatre at half-past three. As was the case at the Grand HÔtel, mounted soldiers were posted outside to keep back the crowd assembled to watch the arrival of the guests. The house was crowded. Every one who had been at the luncheon was in attendance, and hundreds of others besides. Literally everybody in art, literature, and society was there. Greetings were exchanged on all sides, but, unlike most assemblies of this kind, the gathering did not display a trace of mockery or hostility. Everybody had come to do honour in real earnest to the great French tragedienne. The upper galleries were occupied by deputations from the students’ associations, Polytechnic School, Conservatoire of Music and Declamation, School of Fine Arts, non-commissioned officers of the Paris garrison, etc. At a quarter to four the curtain rose on the third act of PhÈdre, with M. Darmont as Hippolyte, Mlle. Seylor as IsmÈne, Mlle. Mellot as Aricie, and Mme. Grandet as Œnone. Sarah’s entrance in her peplum and mousseline de soie veil, embroidered with gold, was the signal for thunders of applause. She spoke, she moaned, she sang, she called down imprecations on her enemies’ heads, and when, with a superb gesture, she bared her breast and declaimed—

“VoilÀ mon coeur. C’est lÀ que ton bras doit frapper!”—

the ovation she received threatened to literally bring down the house. The same scenery was used, after the interval, for the fourth act of Rome Vaincue, by M. de Parodi. Enthusiasm rose to a still greater height when Postumia came forward, blind, in mourning garments, a halo of white hair about her brow. The whole audience was thrilled by her cries of anguish, the gestures of her hesitating arms, and the signs of grief upon her face. I saw all my neighbours shed tears.

After a second interval came the turn of the poets, who, according to the programme, were each to read a sonnet in honour of the artiste. There was a distinct thrill of curiosity among the audience. What would this apotheosis be like, and would the bold idea be carried out as it ought to be? At this moment I was in fear of seeing a smile—fear for the great and beloved artiste, and for the courageous poets whose grateful admiration was perhaps to expose them to the shafts of malice. The curtain rose again, and applause burst forth from every part of the house. Sarah, in her PhÈdre dress, was seen seated in a chair of flowers beneath a canopy of green palms standing on a platform raised two steps above the stage. Her face, pale with emotion, stood out against a background of red and white camellias. Amongst the palms were branches of orchids; around Sarah, and at her feet, were her fellow-actresses, in plain white antique robes, with wreaths of roses on their brows, gazing at her with smiles of delight. On her right, and close to the scenery, were the five poets who were to celebrate her—MM. FranÇois CoppÉe, Edmond Haraucourt, Catulle MendÈs, Edmond Rostand, and AndrÉ Theuriet. Beside them was a deputation from the Students’ Association. On the left were all the artistes of the Renaissance theatre. M. Paul Clerget, of the Renaissance, acted as master of the ceremonies. M. Paul Tixier, the President of the Students’ Association, came forward and delivered a witty and tactful little address. M. Clerget then announced—

The poet, FranÇois CoppÉe.

As M. CoppÉe came forward, Sarah rose, and it was seen that the flowers suspended from the palms formed a wreath just above her head. Standing up, she listened to an indifferent sonnet. After reading his verses M. CoppÉe approached Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and kissed both her hands, but she, bending down towards the poet, offered him her cheeks to kiss. M. MendÈs, M. Haraucourt, and M. AndrÉ Theuriet then read their sonnets with the same simple ceremonial, amid applause. A sonnet by M. de Heredia, read by M. Morand, was not sufficiently audible. Finally, M. Edmond Rostand came forward and recited the following verses in clear, resonant tones—

Long-continued applause greeted these beautiful verses, and it was felt that the greatest success of the occasion had fallen to M. Rostand. At this moment Sarah’s emotion reached its height. She stood, with heaving breast, pale as the camellias about her. Her trembling lips endeavoured to shape themselves into a grateful smile, but the tears were gathering in her eyes. Her hands were clasped with all her strength over her heart as if to keep it from bursting forth. No spectacle could be finer than this woman, whose unconquerable energy had withstood the struggles and difficulties of a thirty-years career, standing overwhelmed and vanquished by the power of a few lines of poetry delivered before these fifteen hundred enthusiastic auditors. Flowers from the topmost galleries fell on the stage, and with long-sustained cheers the ceremony closed. Hundreds of friends, not content with applauding all day, invaded Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s room. More hand-clasps, embraces, and happy tears followed. M. and Mme. Maurice Bernhardt were there, with swollen eyes but joyful faces. There was talk about imaginary difficulties raised by the Grand Chancellery of the Legion of Honour as an excuse for not decorating the great artiste. The Cabinet, it was said, would have to intervene, but it was generally thought that all difficulties would be overcome before the 1st of January. Besides, how could this decoration enhance such a demonstration as had just taken place? I am told that M. PoincarÉ, who was present, was condoled with on losing office, and replied, “If I regretted it at all I could not do so more than I do to-day.” The letters and telegrams received during the day were handed round. Here are a few selected from the mass—

From Emma CalvÉ (who had arrived in New York three days before).

ChÈre grande artiste, my heart is with you.

From Mme. RÉjane.

My dear Sarah,

The whole Vaudeville company are here to express their admiration for you. On their behalf I beg you to accept the accompanying flowers with the assurance of my deep affection.

RÉjane.

Francavilla Mare.

From Gabriel d’Annunzio.

On this most glorious day a grateful Italy sends her wreath of laurel to the immortal enchantress. Ave.

Gabriel d’Annunzio.

London.

From Sir Henry Irving.

Dear Madame Sarah Bernhardt,

Your brother and sister artistes of the Lyceum theatre send you their love and greeting. Your favourite art and all the arts do homage to you, and we your comrades in another land in which your genius is so highly esteemed are happy to add our tribute to the great honour you so well deserve.

Yours as ever, with affection and admiration,
Henry Irving.

[Appended were the signatures of Ellen Terry and thirty-four members of the Lyceum Company].

From Mr. Wilson Barrett.

Dear Madame,

I send you a drawing of a silver wreath, which it will be my great pleasure to ask you to accept. The date of the fÊte to be given in your honour was so uncertain that the jewellers have not had time to finish the wreath, but I hope to be able to send it to you in a few days. Believe me, it is a pleasure to pay this small tribute to so great an artiste as yourself, and to one who has raised our profession to the high standard it now occupies. Kindly send me the names of the different parts created by you which you would like to have engraved on the leaves of the wreath. I have the honour to be

Your great admirer,
Wilson Barrett.

A cable from Chicago.

Compliments of all the critics of the Tribune, Times, Herald, Inter-Ocean, Post, Journal, and Dispatch.

Another from New York.

The American Dramatic Authors’ Club instructs me to offer its homage to the queen and sovereign, by divine right, of the French stage, and to congratulate the Masters of the French drama who, thanks to Sarah Bernhardt, have secured a worldwide triumph for fine works, and have thus set back the boundaries of art.

Bronson Howard,
President of the American Dramatic Authors’ Club.

Other congratulations came from the St. James’s and Criterion theatres, Mme. Melba, MM. Jean and Edouard de ReszkÉ, Chartran, etc. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt spent the evening of this unique day at her son’s house, among her relations and intimate friends.

On the 20th April, 1898, she scored a fresh triumph in Lysiane. M. Bauer wrote in the Echo de Paris—

Every new part in which Sarah Bernhardt appears is a new revelation of her talent. After accustoming us to expect sublime tragedy from her, she charms and delights us with light and delicate comedy touches and subtle shades of coquetry. How affectionately and joyfully the public greeted her ever-flowering genius! How well the clapping of hands and excitement aroused by her return to the stage showed the sympathy of Paris for her trials and sufferings!

M. Catulle MendÈs, in the Journal, speaks of the extraordinary versatility of her talent and its unexpectedly new manifestations. She has always been subtle, tender, and ardent, he says, and yet in her rÔle she exhibited these qualities in a different form.

After Lysiane, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt gave a series of performances of La Dame aux CamÉlias and La Samaritaine. She then went to London in June on her annual visit, playing PhÈdre, Adrienne Lecouvreur, D’Annunzio’s Spring Morning’s Dream. July, August, and September she spent at Belle-Isle-en-Mer. On the 28th October, 1898, she produced M. MendÈs’ MÉdÉe. It was a dead failure, in spite of all the great tragedienne’s efforts. The unsatisfactory receipts obliged her to fall back on La Dame aux CamÉlias, of which she gave a few performances before leaving for Italy and the south of France on a tour she had been obliged to postpone a week before.

This brings us to the beginning of the year 1899. The Renaissance theatre had been prospering for five years. In it, as we have seen, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt had successively performed Les Rois, La Dame aux CamÉlias, PhÈdre, IzeÏl, FÉdora, La Femme de Claude, Gismonda, Magda, Amphitryon, L’InfidÈle, La Princesse Lointaine, Lorenzaccio, La Tosca, La Samaritaine, Les Mauvais Bergers, La Ville Morte, Lysiane, and MÉdÉe. The plays in which she did not appear were Amants, La Figurante, La Meute, Snobs, and Affranchie. Notwithstanding the success achieved, there was a feeling of restriction. The field of action was too limited. In spite of perfect prodigies of ingenuity, and the unsparing efforts of all Mme. Bernhardt’s co-workers, great spectacular effects were impossible. Many new plays which the great artiste would have wished to produce could not be mounted satisfactorily at the Renaissance, and had to be left to rival theatres. The ThÉÂtre des Nations, vacated by the removal of the OpÉra Comique to its new quarters, tempted her, the 1900 Universal Exhibition being at hand. She applied to the Municipal Council for the theatre, and obtained it. She opened on the 21st January with a revival of La Tosca. On the 8th March she reproduced Feuillet’s Dalila, and, on the 25th, Rostand’s Samaritaine, which seems to have taken the place of the Dame aux CamÉlias as general stand-by.

Mme. Sarah Bernhardt’s appearance at the ThÉÂtre des Nations marks the commencement of a new era in her artistic career. I have already said that the history of the arts affords no parallel to the life of Mme. Sarah Bernhardt, and I maintain that we can only bow with respect before the incomparable expenditure of vital energy which she has lavished throughout thirty years of intense and varied activity.