In 2023, I discovered the memoires of Sarah Bernhardt. I loved it. In particularly her ´QUAND MEME! ´ that is used when she knew it was a bold thing to do and YET did it anyway. Out of passion. She JUMPED and got scarred. And she would it do it again. Defiantly. Powerful.
And deliciously difficult for others to work with, and often righteously so. The story of the balloon ride is typical, it is full of strength of character and highly amusing. And put the men in place with the most authority. A wild desire to LIVE to get the most out of live. QUAND-MEME!!
Sarah Bernhardt writes in her memoir:
Georges Clairin encouraged me to continue painting. Then I started boldly and courageously. I began a painting almost two metres tall: ‘The Young Girl and Death.’
Then people shouted indignantly at me.
Why did I want to do something other than acting, because that was career!
Why did I always want to be in front of an audience?
Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He started preaching.
‘You are destroying yourself, my dear child,’ he said. ‘Why do you start sculpting, painting and so on? Is it to prove that you can do it?’
‘Oh, no, no,’ I replied, ’it's only to find a need to stay here!
‘I don't understand,’ said Perrin, listening intently.
‘It's like this. I have a wild desire to travel, to see something different, to breathe a different air, to see skies that are higher than ours and trees that are taller; something different, in short. Therefore, I have had to create for myself some tasks that will keep me on my chains. If I did not do this, my desire to see other things in the world would win out and I would do something stupid.’
The balloon ride
Ah, our departure! It was five-thirty. I shook hands with a few friends. My family, whom I had kept in the deepest ignorance, was not there. I felt my heart cramp a little as I found myself fifty metres above the earth in an instant after the words ‘Release all’. I heard a few more cries: ‘Attention! Come back! Don't let her die!’ And then nothing more.... Nothing.... There was the sky above and the earth below.... Then suddenly I was in the clouds. I had left a foggy Paris. I was now breathing under a blue sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us were opaque cloud mountains with radiant edges. Our balloon dipped into a milky vapour all warm from the sun. It was beautiful! It was intoxicating! No sound, no breath!
But the balloon barely moved. It was only around six o'clock that the air currents caught us and we flew eastwards. We were at an altitude of about 1,700 metres. The spectacle became fairytale-like. Large cloudy clouds spread out below us. Big orange curtains fringed with violet descended from the sun to lose itself in our cloud cover.
We had talked a lot. The night began to put on its heavy dark cloak. It became very cold. We were then at 2,600 metres and I had a singing in my ears. My nose started bleeding. I felt very uncomfortable and started feeling sleepy without being able to prevent it. Georges Clairin became worried and young Godard called loudly to wake me up: ‘Alloa! Alloa! We have to go down. Let's cast off the tow rope!’ This shout woke me up. I wanted to know what the rope was. I stood up rather dazed and, to wake me up, Godard put the tow rope in my hands. It was a strong rope, about 130 metres long, with small iron hooks attached at certain distances. Laughing, Clairin and I released the rope, while Godard looked over the side of the cabin bent over through a field glass.
‘Stop!’ he suddenly shouted. ‘There are many trees!’
In fact, we were above the Ferrières forest. But just ahead of us was a small open area suitable for our descent. ‘There is no doubt about it,’ Godard cried, ’if we miss this plain, we will end up in the black night in the Ferrières forest, and that would be very dangerous!’ Then he turned to me: ‘Will you,’ he said, ‘open the valve?’
I immediately did so and the gas came out whistling. The valve was closed on the pilot's orders and we descended rapidly. Suddenly, the silence of the night was broken by the sound of a horn. I trembled. It was Louis Godard, who had retrieved from his pocket, which was a veritable storehouse, some kind of horn, on which he blew fiercely. A loud whistle answered our call and 500 metres below us we saw a man doing his utmost to make us hear. Since we were near a small railway station, we could easily guess that this man was the station master.
‘Where are we?’ cried Louis Godard with his horn. ‘At-in-in-ille,’ replied the stationmaster. It was impossible to understand him.
‘Where are we?’ thundered Georges Clairin in his most formidable tones. ‘At-in-in-ille,’ cried the stationmaster with his hand bent around his mouth. ‘Where are we?’ cried I in my most crystalline accent.
‘At-in-in-ille,’ replied the stationmaster and his porters. It was impossible to know anything. We had to lower the balloon. At first, we descended a little too fast and the wind blew us towards the forest. We had to take off again. But ten minutes later, we turned the valve open again and made another descent. The balloon was then to the right of the station, and far from the amiable station master.
‘Cast anchor!’ cried the young Godard in a commanding tone.
And helped by Georges Clairin, he threw another rope into space, at the end to which a large anchor was attached. The rope was 80 metres long. Below us, a crowd of children of all ages had been running since we had stopped above the station. When we were about 300 metres from earth, Godard called to them, ‘Where are we?’
‘At Vachère!’ None of us knew Vachère. But we descended anyway.
‘Alloa! You down there - grab the rope,’ the pilot shouted, ’and be careful not to pull too hard!’ Five powerful men grabbed the rope. We were 130 metres off the ground and the spectacle was getting interesting. The night began to blur everything. I raised my head to see the sky, but remained open-mouthed in amazement. I only saw the lower end of our balloon, which was hanging completely loose. It was very ugly.
We anchored gently, without the little drag I hoped would happen, and without the little drama I half expected.
It started raining in torrents as we left the balloon. The young owner of a neighbouring castle ran up, as did the farmers, to see what was going on.
He offered me his umbrella. ‘Oh, I'm so thin I can't get wet! I come between the drops.’
The word was repeated and almost became a proverb.
‘What time is a train coming?’ asked Godard. ‘Oh, you have plenty of time!’ replied a fat and heavy voice. ‘You can't leave before ten because the station is far away from here, and with this weather it will take the young lady two hours to walk there.’
I was confused and looked for the young man with the umbrella, which I could have used as a walking stick, where neither Clairin nor Godard had one. But just as I accused him of leaving and leaving us behind, he jumped out of a vehicle I had not heard driving away.
‘There!’ he said. ‘There is a carriage for you and these gentlemen, and another for the balloon.’ ‘Ma foi! You saved us,’ said Clairin, clasping his hand, ’because it seems the roads are in a very bad state.’
‘Oh,’ said the young man, ’it would be impossible for the fierce Parisians to walk even half the distance.’
Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey.
A little over an hour later, we arrived at Emerainville station. The stationmaster who heard who we were received us very kindly. He apologised for not hearing us when we called out. He had us served a meagre meal of bread, cheese and cider. I have always detested cheese and would never eat it - there is nothing poetic about it, but I was dying of hunger.
‘Taste it, taste it,’ Georges Clairin said.
I took a bite and found it delicious.
We returned very late, in the middle of the night, and I found my home in an extreme state of anxiety. Our friends, who had come to hear news about us, had stayed. There was quite a crowd. This annoyed me a little, as I was half dead from fatigue.
I sent everyone away rather abruptly and went to my room. When my maid helped me undress, she told me that someone from the Comédie Française had already come to me a few times.
‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ I cried anxiously. ‘Could the play have changed?’
‘No, I don't think so,’ the maid said. ‘But it seems Mr Perrin is furious and they are all against you. There's the note that was left for you.’
I opened the note. I was asked to appear before the administration at two o'clock the next day.
When I arrived at Perrin's office at the appointed time, I was received with an exaggerated politeness with an undercurrent of seriousness.
Then began a series of attacks on my bouts of bad temper, my quirks, my eccentricities; and he ended his speech by saying that I had been fined for travelling without the manager's permission. I burst out laughing: ‘The balloon is not provided,’ I said.
'And I can promise you I won't pay a fine. Outside the theatre, I do what I want and that is none of your business, my dear M. Perrin, as long as I don't do anything that would harm my theatre work! And besides, you are boring me to death! I am resigning! Be happy!’
I left him embarrassed and worried. The next day I sent my letter of resignation to M. Perrin, and shortly afterwards I was called by M. Turquet, minister of arts. I refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend, who said that M. Perrin had gone beyond his rights, that the fine had been waived, and that I should withdraw my resignation.
So I did.