I could see _Gringoire_ a dozen
times in succession and find only one expression for what I felt: "This
is holy."
The piece appealed to me so much, no doubt, because it was more in
agreement than the rest with what in Denmark was considered true poetry.
But during the three years since I had last seen him, Coquelin had made
immense strides in this role. He rendered it now with an individuality,
a heartfelt sincerity and charm, that he had not previously attained; in
contrast to harsh King Louis and unfeeling Loyse, was so poor, and
hungry, and ill and merry and tender and such a hero and such a genius--
that I said to myself: "Who, ever has seen this, has lived."
Quite a short while after my arrival--April 12, 1870--I saw for the
first time Sarah Bernhardt, who had just begun to make a name at the
Odeon. She was playing in George Sand's beautiful and mutinous drama
_L'autre_, from which the great-grandmother in Bjoernson's
_Leonarda_ is derived. The piece is a plea for the freedom of love,
or rather, for indulgence with regard to what are branded by society as
the sins of love. Sarah Bernhardt was the young girl who, in her
innocence, judges all moral irregularities with the utmost severity,
until her eyes are opened to what the world really is. She is, without
knowing it, the child of unlawful love, and the father's curse is that
of not daring to be anything to his child--whom he has educated and over
whom he watches--not daring to claim his right to her affection, as he
would otherwise stain her mother's memory.
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