After this first test of my freedom I felt more sure of life than before. Although I was very weak of constitution, the possibility of doing as I wanted without hindrance and without control calmed my nervous system, and my health, which had been weakened by perpetual irritations and by excessive work, was improved. I reposed on the laurels which I had gathered myself, and I slept better. Sleeping better, I commenced to eat better. And great was the astonishment of my little court when they saw their idol come back from London round and rosy.

I remained several days in Paris; then I set out for Brussels, where I was to play Adrienne Lecouvreur and Froufrou.

The Belgian public——by which I mean the Brussels public——is the one most like our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am in a strange country. Our language is the language of the country; the horses and carriages are always in perfect taste; the fashionable women resemble our own fashionable women; cocottes abound; the hotels are as good as in Paris; the cab-horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful. Brussels is gossiping Paris in miniature.

I played for the first time at the Théâtre de la Monnaie, and I felt uncomfortable in that immense and frigid house. But the benevolent enthusiasm of the public soon warmed me, and I shall never forget the four performances I gave there.

Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances at the Theatre Royal.

Our arrival, which doubtless was anxiously expected, really frightened me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled in the station when the train came in gave a hurrah so terrible that I did not know what was happening. But when M. de Fallesen, manager of the Theatre Royal, and the First Chamberlain of the King entered my compartment, and begged me to show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the public, the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure, rise to what was expected from me. My slender frame would inspire disdain in those magnificent men and those splendid and healthy women. I stepped out of the train so diminished by comparison that I had the sensation of being nothing more than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive to the police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a wide path for my carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of sympathetic sight-seers, who threw me flowers and kisses and lifted their hats to me. In the course of my long career I have had many triumphs, receptions, and ovations, but my reception by the Danish people remains one of my most cherished memories. The living hedge lasted till we reached the Hôtel d’Angleterre, where I went in, after thanking once more the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.

In the evening the King, the Queen, and their daughter, the Princess of Wales, were present at the first performance of Adrienne Lecouvreur.

This is what the Figaro of August 16, 1880, said:

“Sarah Bernhardt has played Adrienne Lecouvreur with a tremendous success before a magnificent audience. The royal family, the King and the Queen of the Hellenes, as well as the Princess of Wales, were present at the performance. The Queens threw their bouquets to the French artiste, amidst applause. It was an unprecedented triumph. The public was delirious. To-morrow Froufrou will be played.”

The performance of Froufrou was equally successful. But as I was only playing every other day, I wanted to visit Elsinore. The King placed the royal steamer at my disposal for this little journey.

I had invited all my company.

M. de Fallesen, the First Chamberlain, and manager of the Theatre Royal, had ordered a magnificent lunch for us, and accompanied by the principal notabilities of Denmark, we visited Hamlet’s tomb, the spring of Ophelia, and the castle of Marienlyst. Then we went over the castle of Kronborg. I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come up to the expectation. The so-called tomb of Hamlet is represented by a small column, ugly and mournful-looking; there is little verdure, and the desolate sadness of deceit without beauty. They gave me a little water from the spring of Ophelia to drink, and the Baron de Fallesen broke the glass, without allowing any one else to drink from the spring.

I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather sad. Leaning against the side of the vessel, I watched the water gliding past, when I noticed a few rose petals on the surface. Carried by an invisible current, they were borne against the sides of the boat; then the petals increased to thousands, and in the mysterious sunset rose the melodious chant of the sons of the North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on the water by the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails; a score of young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters, which were carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing the marvellous legends of past centuries. And all that was for me: all those roses, all that love, all that musical poetry. And that setting sun was also for me. And in this fleeting moment, which brought all the beauty of life near to me, I felt myself very near to God.

The following day, at the close of the performance, the King sent for me to come into the royal box, and he decorated me with a very pretty Order of Merit adorned with diamonds. He kept me some time in his box, asking me about different things. I was presented to the Queen, and I noticed immediately that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather embarrassed, but the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She was beautiful, but much less so than her lovely sister the Princess of Wales. Oh, that adorable and seductive face—with the eyes of a child of the North, and classic features of virginal purity, a long, supple neck that seemed made for queenly bows, a sweet and almost timid smile. The indefinable charm of this Princess made her so radiant that I saw nothing but her, and I went from the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a poor opinion of my intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark and Greece.

The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand supper. Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very charming manner for the “French week” which we had given in Denmark.

Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the press, very short but very sympathetic. Our Ambassador in a few courteous words thanked Robert Walt, and then, to the general surprise, Baron Magnus, the Prussian Minister, rose, and in a loud voice, turning to me, he said, “I drink to France, which gives us such great artistes! To France, la belle France, whom we all love so much!”

Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French men and women were still suffering; their wounds were not healed.

Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had from the time of my arrival in Copenhagen sent me flowers with his card. I had sent back the flowers, and begged an attaché of the English Embassy, Sir Francis ——, I believe, to ask the German baron not to renew his gifts. The Baron laughed good-naturedly, and waited for me as I came out of my hotel. He came to me with outstretched hands, and spoke kindly and reasonable words. Everybody was looking at us, and I was embarrassed. It was evident that he was a kind man. I thanked him, touched in spite of myself by his frankness, and I went away quite undecided as to what I really felt. Twice he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but only bowed as I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity of this amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper, when I saw him take the attitude of an orator, I felt myself grow pale. He had barely finished his little speech when I jumped to my feet and cried, “Let us drink to France, but to the whole of France, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur de Prusse!” I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical without intending it.

It was like a thunderbolt.

The orchestra of the court, which was placed in the upper gallery, began playing the “Marseillaise.” At this time the Danes hated the Germans. The supper-room was suddenly deserted as if by enchantment.

I went up to my rooms, not wishing to be questioned. I had gone too far. Anger had made me say more than I intended. Baron Magnus did not deserve this thrust of mine. And also my instinct forewarned me of results to follow. I went to bed angry with myself, with the Baron, and with all the world.

About five o’clock in the morning I commenced to doze, when I was awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I heard some one knocking at the door of the salon. I called my maid, who woke her husband, and he went to open the door. An attaché from the French Embassy was waiting to speak to me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea-gown and went to see the visitor.

“I beg you,” he said, “to write a note immediately to explain that the words you said were not meant. The Baron Magnus, whom we all respect, is in a very awkward situation and we are all upset about it. Prince Bismarck is not to be trifled with, and it may be very serious for the Baron.”

“Oh, I assure you, Monsieur, I am a hundredfold more unhappy about it than you, for the Baron is a good and charming man. He lacked political tact, and in this case it is excusable, because I am not a woman of politics. I was lacking in coolness. I would give my right hand to repair the ill.”

“We don’t ask you for so much as that, as it would spoil the beauty of your gestures!” (He was French, you see.) “Here is the rough copy of a letter. Will you take it, rewrite it, sign it, and everything will be at an end?”

But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave twisted and rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it, and after several attempts to rewrite it I gave up in despair and did nothing.

Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in addition to the royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody had heard the amiable but awkward speech of the Baron. I had replied in a very excited manner. The public and the Press had all been witnesses of my algarade; we were the victims of our own foolishness, the Baron and myself. If such a thing were to happen at the present time I should not care a pin for public opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in order to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that time I was very nervous and uncompromisingly patriotic. And also, perhaps, I thought I was some one of importance. Since then life has taught me that if one is to be famous it can only really become manifest after death. To-day I am going down the hill of life, and I regard gaily all the pedestals on which I have been lifted up, and there have been so many, so many of them that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had raised them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on life, happy with what has been and attentive to what will be.

My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant no harm, and this incident has always left in me a feeling of remorse and chagrin.

I left Copenhagen amidst applause and the repeated cries of “Vive la France!” From all the windows hung the French flag, fluttering in the breeze, and I felt that this was not only for me, but against Germany—I was sure of it.

Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united, and I am not certain that several Danes do not still bear me ill-will because of this incident of the Baron Magnus.

I came back to Paris to make final preparations for my journey to America. I was to set sail on October 15.

One day in August I was having a reception of all my friends, who came to see me in full force, because I was about to set out for a long journey.

Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal Canrobert, Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the beautiful Augusta Holmes, Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskjold, O’Connor, and other friends. I chatted gaily, happy to be surrounded by so many kind and intellectual friends.

Girardin did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this journey to America. He had been the friend of Rachel, and told me the sad end of her journey.

Arthur Meyer was of opinion that I ought always to do what I thought best. The other friends discussed the subject. That admirable man, whom France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much he should miss and regret those intimate causeries at our five o’clock teas.

“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our affectionate selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing all she can in the strife. She is of a combative nature.”

“Ah yes!” I cried. “Yes, I am born for strife, I feel it. Nothing pleases me like having to master a public, perhaps hostile, who have read and heard all that the Press has said against me. But I am sorry that I cannot play, not only in Paris but in all France, my two big successes, Adrienne and Froufrou.”

“As to that, you can count on me!” exclaimed Félix Duquesnel. “My dear Sarah, you had your first successes with me, and it is with me that you will have your last....”

Everybody protested, and I jumped up.

“Wait one moment,” said he. “Last successes until you come back from America! If you will consent, you can count on me for everything. I will obtain, at any price, theatres in all the large towns, and we will give twenty-five performances during the month of September. As to financial arrangements, they will be of the simplest: twenty-five performances—fifty thousand francs. To-morrow I will give you one half of this sum, and sign a contract with you, so that you will not have time to change your mind.”

I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were there begged Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, an itinerary of the tour, for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in which I had gained laurels in England, Belgium, and Denmark.

Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and it was settled that their visits should be drawn by lot from a little bag, and each town marked with the date and the name of the play.

A week later Duquesnel, with whom I had signed a contract, returned with the tour mapped out and all the company engaged. It was almost miraculous.

The performances were to commence on Saturday, September 4, and there were to be twenty-five of them; and the whole, including the day of departure and the day of return, was to last twenty-eight days, which caused this tour to be called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah Bernhardt,” like the twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to accomplish his military service.

The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself more than during this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organised excursions and fêtes outside the towns.

At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits to the sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from Paris fixing dates and hours. The guardians of the different museums, art galleries, &c., had offered to point out to me the finest objects in their collections, and the mayors had prepared visits to the churches and celebrated buildings.

When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap of letters, each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked.

I hate seeing public buildings and having them explained to me. I know most of the public sights of France, but I have visited them when I felt inclined and with my own chosen friends. As to the churches and other buildings, I find them very tiresome. I cannot help it—it really wearies me to see them.

I can admire their outline in passing, or when I see them silhouetted against the setting sun, that is all right, but further than that I will not go. The idea of entering these cold spaces, while some one explains their absurd and interminable history, of looking up at their ceilings with craning neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over highly waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the left wing that they would have done better to let crumble to ruins; to have some one express wonder at the depth of some moat which once upon a time used to be full of water, but is now as dry as the east wind—all that is so tiresome it makes me want to howl. From my earliest childhood I have always detested houses, castles, churches, towers, and all buildings higher than a mill. I love low buildings, farms, huts, and I positively adore mills, because these little buildings do not obstruct the horizon. I have nothing to say against the Pyramids, but I would a hundred times rather they had never been built.

I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the notabilities who had been so obliging. We passed two hours over this task, and on September 3, I set out, free, joyful, and content.

My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance with the lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach into the surrounding country from all the towns in which I played.

I came back to Paris on September 30, and had only just time to prepare for my journey to America. I had only been a week in Paris when I had a visit from M. Bertrand, who was then director of the Variétés. His brother was director of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond Deslandes.

I did not know Eugène Bertrand, but I received him at once, for we had mutual friends.

“What are you going to do when you come back from America?” he asked me, after we had exchanged greetings.

“I really don’t know. Nothing. I have not thought of anything.”

“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your reappearance in Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s, I will sign with you at once for the Vaudeville.”

“Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond Deslandes is the manager, and he hates me like poison because I ran away from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play Un mari qui lance sa femme. His play was ridiculous, and I was even more ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady addicted to dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage me!”

He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My brother—to put it plainly—is myself. All the money put in the affair by us is mine. I am the sole master. What salary do you want?”

“But—— I really don’t know.”

“Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?”

I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right mind.

“But, Monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot agree to that.”

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will be a success—a colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty performances!”

“Oh no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign, and thank you for your confidence.”

At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my resignation (from the Comédie Française).

I was to leave Paris in three days. My heart was sore at the idea of leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons. But in these Memoirs I have put on one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There is one family “me” which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows, joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts.

But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other skies.

I left my little boy with my uncle, who had five boys of his own. His wife was rather a strict Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise, their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me to be on the watch, and to let me know at once if there was anything I ought to know.

Up to the last moment people in Paris did not believe that I would really go. My health was so uncertain that it seemed folly to undertake such a journey. But when it became absolutely certain that I was going, there was a general concert of spiteful reproaches. The hue and cry of my enemies was in full swing. I have now under my eyes these specimens of insanity, calumnies, lies, and stupidities; burlesque portraits, doleful pleasantries; good-byes to the Darling, the Idol, the Star, the Zimm! boum! boum! &c. &c. It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was confounded. I did not read the greater part of these articles, but my secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little note-books, whether favourable or unfavourable. It was my godfather who had commenced doing this when I entered the Conservatoire, and after his death I had it continued.

Happily, I find in these thousands of lines fine and noble words—words written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Vallès, Jules Lemaître, &c.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed Victor Hugo, François Coppée, Richepin, Haraucourt, Henri de Bornier, Catulle Mendès, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.

I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies, but I confess that the kind appreciation and praises accorded me by the superior minds afforded me infinite joy.