If it be the main object of an autobiography to make a complete and merciless exposure of the character of the writer … [Memories of My Life by] Sarah Bernhardt constitute[s] one of the most successful books ever written—and the revelation is so utterly unconscious, so vivid and so consistent in all its elaborate complexity as to leave no room for doubt or speculation. Herein lies the value of this rhapsodical but interesting apologia pro vita sua that it exhibits the true woman in clearer relief than it does the largely mythical superwoman whom it labors to depict. Rich as it is in minor details and vivacious descriptions it adds but little to the common knowledge of the career of the best advertised actress in the world. In fact, it is studiously reticent concerning many essential facts, including those of parentage and pedigree, about which the curious in such matters would like to be better informed. Apparently, there is no foundation for the stories, long prevalent, that her youth was passed in poverty.

Her mother seems to have been amply provided for and she herself wanted for nothing in her childhood except the intelligent guidance and control of which she stood most in need. Concerning the identity and social position of her father a significant silence is observed, although he occasionally appears upon the scene. Her mother, as is generally known, was of Jewish descent, but she herself was reared in the Roman Catholic faith.

Her account of her early years, though crammed with domestic incident and anecdote of an easily credible kind, is so careful in its omissions and so reckless in its exaggeration, that only the most confiding reader would put much faith in its complete veracity. But reading between the lines, it is not difficult to discern in the wayward, affectionate, wilful, imaginative, and hysterical little girl of the Grandchamps Convent—where she received most of what regular education she had—the miniature copy of the brilliant, paradoxical and unmanageable creature who, a little later on, was to dazzle Paris with her acting and drive successive managers to despair. She furnishes a lively sketch of her convent life, her various escapades, her paroxysms of temper, her triumphs in religious theatricals and her gradual transformation into a religious devotee. At one time, it appears, it was her highest ambition to become a nun, and she draws an imaginary picture of herself as a Carmelite penitent, an idea for which she is indebted to Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. Her religious fervor, however, was never strong enough to render her amenable to discipline or to prevent her from indulging in the most caustic comment upon all who opposed or offended her, whether they were nuns, relatives or friends. In her case, the tongue was ever a most unruly member, and her book is highly seasoned with personalities, which, however apt or amusing, are neither polite nor amiable.

It was the Due de Moray, the favorite of the third Napoleon, who, when her family was fairly at a loss how to dispose of her, suggested that she be put upon the stage. He therein displayed better judgment, than he employed in some weightier affairs. Her recitation of "Les Deux Pigeons" gained her admission to the Conservatoire. She had made no preparation, but the magic of her voice won her judges. Her first engagement at the Français ended ingloriously. Enraged because Madame Nathalie, an old sociétaire, had pushed her sister, she slapped her face and resigned rather than apologize. Her unruly temper was also the cause of her leaving the Gymnase, and she ran away, on a wild impulse, to Spain, where luckily she fell into good hands. Returning to Paris, she joined the Odéon, where she rapidly rose to fame. It was there that she made the acquaintance of Prince Napoleon (Plon-Plon)—who offended her hugely by his indifference, but afterward became a good friend—and George Sand. It was there, too, that she achieved one of the most notable of her earlier triumphs in Le Passant. After that her popularity, especially among the students, of whom she was ever the favorite, increased apace until it was interrupted by the war.

Her patriotism, as all the world knows, was as practical as it was fervid and vociferous. The Germans, in the present volume are the objects of some of her most vigorous rhetoric. But unlike most of her compatriots she laments the overthrow of the Emperor as well as the national defeat. He had entertained her at the Tuileries and greatly impressed her with his benevolence, gentleness, and wit. She holds that he was the victim of circumstance, and much more sinned against than sinning. Her remarks on political subjects are not profound but her conduct during the siege of Paris is deserving of the warmest admiration. In the emergency hospital which she established at the Odéon she displayed not only energy, endurance, and courage, qualities which she never lacked, but foresight, unselfish devotion, and tenderness. She did not desert her post even when she, with her patients, was driven by the German shells into the cellars, rendered almost uninhabitable by water and rats. Possibly some of her descriptions—that of her visit to a battlefield, for instance—may be colored somewhat too highly, but the reality, doubtless, was horrible enough, and the part she played was at once womanly and heroic.

It is impossible, and unnecessary, to follow her through her long list of triumphs and adventures, her escape from Paris, her descent into the Enfer du Plogoff at Finisterre—with its obvious inspirations from Les Travailleurs de la Mer—her balloon ascensions, etc. Imagination plays at least as great a part in them as sober fact, but Madame Sarah is a capital raconteuse. Nor is it needful to do more than refer to her dramatic achievements, culminating in Phèdre, which have made her name a household word from St. Petersburg to San Francisco. It is a pity that her memories are so centred upon herself as to be forgetful of some of her friends who were almost as illustrious. Doubtless, if she had chosen, she could have told many illuminating anecdotes of Gambetta. Thiers (whom she anathematizes), Paul de Rémusat, Canrobert, Macmahon, Hugo, Augier, Bornier, Rochefort, Rostand, and many others. To tell the plain truth, me monstrous egotism of the book greatly weakens the pleasurable impression created by its vivacity, its cleverness, and its abundance of interesting material. It cannot affect, either in one way or the other, the fame of the consummate artist, which is too firmly established ever to be shaken, but it leaves behind it the impression of a woman endowed indeed with many fine qualities, with intellect, ambition, versatility, dauntless courage, and (within certain limits) both generosity and affection, but too much given to self-glorification, to petty animosities and jealousies and unreasonable prejudices to be entirely great.