I WAS scarcely sixteen years old. I was then playing ingenue roles on the road, when on the theatrical horizon there appeared the announcement that the greatest tragedienne of modern times, Sarah Bernhardt, the most distinguished of French actresses, was about to come to America! What an event! We awaited it with feverish curiosity, for the divine Sarah was not a human being like the rest of us. She was a spirit endowed with genius.
The circumstance which made my heart throb and caused me to shed tears copiously was that I was uncertain of being able to see this wonderful fairy of the stage. I knew beforehand that there would be no seat for one so insignificant as I was. The newspapers were printing column upon column about her, and I read everything that I could get hold of. The papers said that the seats were all bought up, and that not a hundredth part of those who wanted to see her would achieve their ambition. The box office was besieged by speculators. All that, alas! meant that there was scarcely any hope for me. I do not know whether Sarah had visited America before, for I had all along been on the road with little travelling companies in the Western States. So far as I was concerned this was positively her first visit.
At last the famous day arrived. A steamer, with delegations and an orchestra aboard, went down the bay to meet her. All that impressed me greatly. I saw in it genuine homage rendered to genius. She had come at last. She was here. If I could only see her, even from a distance—from a great distance!
But where and how? I did not know, and I kept on reading the papers, fairly intoxicating myself with the articles describing her. It seemed magic, unreality, a fairy tale.
Finally she gave her first performance. The public and critics appeared to rave over her,—absolutely to rave.
The actors and actresses of New York circulated a petition, begging her to give a matinee in order that they might honour her and observe her glorious art.
Wonder of wonders, she accepted! My mind was quickly made up.
Very recently come to New York, my mother and I were strangers in the big city. But fortunately I had plenty of courage without knowing it. When I learned that Sarah was going to play for the benefit of her fellow-artists, I said to my mother: “Well, now, I am going to see her.”
“There are so many famous artists in New York,” my mother replied, “how do you suppose that you can get seats?”
I had not thought of that, so I jumped up, saying:
“Then I had better hurry up.”
“How will you go about it?” asked my mother.
I paused a moment to think the matter over.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but in some way or other I must see her. I am going to her theatrical manager.”
“But he won’t receive you.”
Of that I had not thought, either. But I would not hear of any obstacles. Besides, out West I had never been treated that way. I was not yet fully aware that people in the West were simpler and more approachable than in New York.
The objection, therefore, did not appear to me a formidable one, and I started out with my mother, who always went with me and who obeyed me in everything without my having the faintest idea but that I was the obedient one.
Here we were, then, on our way; and, after half an hour’s walking, we reached the theatre. The manager had not yet arrived. We sat down to wait for him. A lot of people came in. Some of them stayed for a while. Others went away at once.
They were all excited, busy and looked worried. What were they after? Were they going to get all the tickets? The crowd kept increasing to such an extent that I saw my poor tickets grow smaller and smaller in perspective and then disappear altogether. And I had counted so much on them!
Would the manager never come?
At last a great commotion was heard. A group of gentlemen rushed by like the wind and, without stopping to see what was going on, disappeared behind a door on which was written “No admission.”
None of us knew what to do after that. Everybody stared at everybody else. Most of those who were cooling their heels in the ante-chamber were men. My exhausted nerves would not let me linger any longer, and I said in a whisper to my mother:
“I am going to knock on the door.”
She turned pale, but I had no choice in the matter. This was the only way to come to something, even if I ran the risk of heart failure from an organ that was beating so loudly that I thought it was on the point of bursting.
My head was in a whirl and I saw nothing for a moment. Nevertheless I approached the door and gave a gentle knock.
I felt as if I had committed a crime, this little rap resounded so loudly in my ears. A command to enter that sounded lugubrious was the response, and I opened the door.
Mechanically I came forward and found myself in the middle of a group of gentlemen without knowing which of them to address. Overcome with embarrassment I stood erect in the centre of the room while everybody looked me over. Then I summoned all my courage and I said, to the whole circle:
“Gentlemen, I should like to see the manager of this theatre, if you please.”
When I stopped speaking my teeth began to chatter so loudly that I bit my tongue.
A gentleman who looked more important than the others came forward and said:
“What do you want of him, little girl?”
Good heavens, must I speak again before all these people? To my own astonishment, I heard, as if it were somebody else’s, my own voice saying in a firm tone:
“Well, it is this way, sir. I am an artist, and I should like to come with my mother to the matinee that Sarah Bernhardt is going to give us.”
“Who are you, and where are you playing?”
At this point the tone lost its assurance, while the voice replied:
“You probably don’t know my name, sir. It isn’t well known here. It’s Loie Fuller. I have come from the West, to try and find an engagement. I’m not playing anywhere just now, but I think that—it is of no importance anyway—and that perhaps you will let me just the same—see her—if I beg it of you.”
“Where is your mother?”
“There, outside,” and I pointed to the door.
“The pale lady, with the sweet expression?”
“Yes, sir. She is pale because she is afraid.”
“And you, are you afraid, too?”
The firm voice reappeared.
“No, sir.”
He looked at me, a slightly ironical smile played on his lips, and he said:
“Then you think that you are an artist?”
His remark cut me to the quick, but I felt that I must endure everything. I experienced, nevertheless, a great temptation to cry.
My assurance reasserted itself.
“I have never thought that,” I replied. “But I should like to become an artist, some day, if I am able.”
“And that is why you are anxious to see the great French tragedienne play?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I was thinking only of my longing to see her, and it was on that account that I came here.”
“Very well, I am going to give you seats for yourself and your mother.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
The manager drew a card from his pocket, wrote something on it and handed it to me. It was a permit for us to see Sarah Bernhardt play!
I looked at the card and looked at the manager. He smiled and I smiled. He extended his hand. I extended both of mine. While he held my hands he said to me:
“You have my card. Come and see me. Perhaps I can find you an engagement, little girl.”
There was a new pleasure, and not a vain pleasure, for this man’s promise was one that was destined to be fulfilled.
“Thank you, thank you very much, sir.”
I went out blinded with tears of happiness, which I could no longer restrain, and, rejoining my mother, I left the theatre.
“What’s the matter, my dear Loie? What did they say to make you cry so? What is it?”
“Mamma, mamma, I have a ticket to see her—to see her!”
“Oh, I am so pleased, my dear.”
“And I have a seat for you, too!”
The great day came. We were seated, my mother and I, in the orchestra stalls. About us there were American artists. In the boxes were the managers of all the New York theatres and their wives. The house was filled to overflowing. The three bangs announced the rising of the curtain. Silence ensued and the play began, I did not understand a word and no one around me, I fancy, did, either. But everybody awaited the culminating moment. She appeared, and there was an almost painful silence in the great overcrowded hall. Every one held his breath. She came forward lightly, appearing barely to brush the earth. Then she stopped in the middle of the stage, and surveyed this audience of actors.
Suddenly pandemonium was let loose. Madness fell upon the house, and for a quarter of an hour she stood thus, prevented from playing by the din of the theatre, as if she were the audience. She looked round, interested, inspired and moved. This tumultuous crowd was playing with magnificent sincerity a part of indescribable enthusiasm.
Finally silence was restored. Sarah Bernhardt came forward and began to read her lines. I believe I understood her soul, her life, her greatness. She shared her personality with me!
The stage settings were lost on me. I saw and heard only her.
There was frantic applause, encore after encore following each scene. Then the curtain fell on the final scene, only to be followed by a great uproar. Then the audience went out slowly, as if regretting to leave the surroundings.
While I went away a golden voice—the golden voice—seemed still to resound in my ears, uttering words which I could not understand: “Je t’aime! je t’aime!” They were like the notes of a crystal bell resounding in my consciousness.
Who would have thought at that time that the poor little Western girl would one day come to Paris, would appear there on a stage, in her turn before an audience trembling with enthusiasm, and that Sarah Bernhardt would be in the house for the purpose of applauding this little Western girl, just as the little Western girl had applauded her to-day?
I was dancing at the Folies-Bergère. At a matinee some one came to say that Sarah Bernhardt was in a box with her little daughter. Did I dream? My idol was there. And to see me! Could this be possible?
I came on to the stage and looked over the audience, which was filling the hall above and below. Standing quietly, in my great white robe, I waited for the end of the applause.
I danced and, although she could not know it, I danced for her. I forgot everything else. I lived again through the famous day in New York, and I seemed to see her once more, marvellous as she was at the matinee. And now here was a matinee to which she had come for the purpose of seeing me—my idol, to see me.
Photo Lafitte
THE DANCE OF THE LILY
I finished.
She rose in her box, she leaned forward toward me to applaud—and to applaud again. The curtain rose several times. My brain was in a whirl. Was this real? Was it? Was it she?
It was my turn to become the audience and, as I saw only her, her audience. And that is how she played to my profound, my perfect gratification, the part of the whole house.
One day a friend took me to Sarah Bernhardt’s house. It was a real visit, but it seemed to me nevertheless like a dream. I was scarcely able to speak or to breathe. I could hardly presume to look at her. I was in the presence of my divinity.
Later she invited me to have lunch with her, as a result of my begging her to be photographed by one of the best photographers of San Francisco, who had crossed the ocean expressly to take Sarah Bernhardt in her wonderful studio. She had consented. I had taken my compatriot to her, and she had posed for him very graciously. He was so pleased with his good luck, so grateful, the dear fellow!
Sarah had asked me to come and lunch with her on the day when he was to show her the proofs.
Exactly at noon I made my entrance. Very shortly after she appeared in the great studio, took me in her arms and imprinted a kiss on each of my cheeks. All that was so simple, so natural and yet so extraordinary.
We had luncheon, Sarah at the end of the table, with her back to the window, seated in a magnificent chair, as it were in some carved throne, whose back overtopped her head like a halo of gold. Sarah was my divinity once more. I was seated on her right. There were several other invited guests whose names I have forgotten, my mind was so full of her. Her voice rang in my ears. I understood not a word of what she was saying, but every syllable made me thrill.
All at once the photographer was announced. Sarah bade him enter. He was a nice elderly gentleman of about sixty, with pretty white curly hair. He looked well pleased with himself. He approached Sarah, and placed in her outstretched hands a packet of proofs of the photographs he had taken. She looked at them slowly, one by one. Then, her golden voice broke forth in shrill notes that gave me a sinking feeling. I did not know what she was saying, but I saw her tear the photographs into a thousand and one shreds and hurl them at the feet of my fellow-countryman. He knew no French. Pale and disturbed, he asked me to translate what Sarah said. But she gave me no time to reply. She cried, this time in English: “Horrible! Horrible!”
“What does she say?” he asked, making a trumpet of his hand about one ear.
Thank Heaven, he was deaf! I signalled to him to bend down toward me so that I might whisper in his ear.
“She says these portraits are unworthy of your work. She has seen some of your really wonderful photographs. You will have to come again and make another attempt.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” he replied with a joyful smile on his lips. “She is quite right. The photographs are not good. But the weather was to blame. It wasn’t bright enough, and these are interiors. We shall have to make efforts several times in order to succeed. Do you want to make another appointment?”
I promised, but without hope, and solely because out of kindness I had to promise.
He grasped my divinity’s hand and mine, and went away.
Sarah was destined on that day to cause me a happy surprise. She consented, when I asked it of her, to sit again, and I was sorry that the old man was not there, she was so grieved on account of the pain for which she was responsible. She really was grieved, and that made me love her all the more. Her temper, too keen, too glowing, had just resulted in a ruinous flare-up. And now here was this same fiery disposition manifesting itself sweet and kind.
One day in London I went to a banquet of fifteen hundred covers given in honour of Sarah Bernhardt. I attended as one of those who were personally acquainted with her, and who were to be seated at her table in the centre of the great hall. She arrived nearly an hour late. She said how sorry she was to have kept us waiting, and blamed her coachman for the delay.
At the end of the banquet the president made a long speech. Sarah, in reply, spoke some harmonious sentences in English. From a distance I once more surveyed my divinity. I heard her say, in my mother tongue, that she was happy, and I still loved her.
One day in Paris, very recently, Sarah Bernhardt’s business manager was announced. I received him, all the while wondering why my divinity’s manager had come to see me. He explained that Madame Sarah Bernhardt wanted to know if I could give her certain hints on the subject of the lighting of her new play, “La Belle au Bois Dormant.” I was ill enough to be in bed, but I arose to receive him. I promised him that I would go to see Sarah the next day. The arrangement was inaccurately reported and she understood that I was coming the same day. When she learned that she could count on me only for the next day, she declared that I had fallen ill very suddenly.
This thing wounded me to the quick, for I still loved Sarah. Next day I went to her house and she saw that I was suffering, for I could not utter a word. She took me in her arms and called me her treasure. That was enough. Everything that I had was at her service, and I would have done anything or given anything to help her. I did remain at rehearsal to familiarise myself with what she needed in the way of illumination.
In her turn she came to my theatre after the performance to see some lighting arrangements that I had installed especially for her play, and with the sole object of pleasing her. She brought some people with her. For her sake I received them all cordially. Among them was her electrician. Each time that I took the trouble to show something to Sarah the electrician would be overheard saying:
“But I can do that. That is easy to copy. Oh, I can do that, too. That’s nothing at all.”
As always during my performances the spectators were in darkness, and one of my friends; who had seated herself near Sarah to hear the admiring things she would say; was staggered by what she did hear. And in going away Sarah thanked me as she would thank anybody, overwhelming me with pretty speeches.
On the morning of the next day the managing director of the theatre at which I was dancing announced in the newspapers—without having consulted me—that Sarah Bernhardt had come to see Loie Fuller’s lighting effects with reference to the new play by Mm. Richepin et Cain, “La Belle au Bois Dormant.”
I sent some one to Sarah to ask which lighting apparatus she would like.
And this was her reply.
“My electricians would go on a strike if they thought I was about to associate any one with them. They say they can do whatever I need to have done. Besides, it is only a matter of a gauze curtain and a revolving lamp. A thousand thanks to Loie.”
Am I alone to blame for my disillusionment? I had pictured something incomprehensible because Sarah Bernhardt is an inspired artist.
But she is also a woman, and it took me twenty years to find it out. She is a woman, a fact I shall now never be able to forget, but she remains my divinity just the same.