I could not know that my opinion on Sarah Bernhardt would become public property, and I am very sorry for it. But I am not in the habit of withdrawing my opinions, even when I have expressed them in a private and friendly conversation, and they are made public against my will. Yes, I consider M. A——’s criticism of her quite true and just. This woman is clever and skilful; she has her business at her fingers’ ends, is gifted with a charming voice and educated in a good school; but she has nothing natural about her, no artistic temperament whatever, and she tries to make up for this by Parisian license. She is eaten through and through with _chic_, _réclame_, and pose. She is monotonous, cold, and dry; in short, without a single spark of talent in the highest sense of the word. Her gait is that of a hen; she has no play of features; the movements of her hands are purposely angular in order to be piquant; the whole thing reeks of the boulevards, of Figaro, and patchouli. You see that, to my mind, M. A—— has been even too lenient. You quote Zola as an authority, although you always rebel against all authorities, so you must allow me to quote Augier, who once said to me: “Cette femme n’a aucun talent; on dit d’elle que c’est un paquet de nerfs—c’est un paquet de ficelles.” But, you will ask, Why then such a world-wide reputation? What do I care? I only speak my own feelings, and I am glad to find somebody who supports my view. But these _ficelles_ are artistic to-day. Doubtless Turgénieff would have been one of the first to recognize the unassuming realistic talents of Duse. There is nothing more touching than his adjuration to Tolstoy to forsake his half-cracked philosophy and return to literature:— VERY DEAR LEON NIKOLAIEVITCH: It is a long time since I wrote to you. I was then, and I am now, on my deathbed. I cannot recover; there is no longer the least chance of it. I am writing to you expressly to tell you how happy I have been to be your contemporary, and to make you a last urgent prayer. My friend, return to literary work. This gift has come to you from there whence everything comes to us. Ah! how happy I should be if I could know that you would listen to my prayer!... My friend, great writer of our Russian land, hear my prayer. Let me know if this letter reaches you. I clasp you for the last time to my heart—you and all yours.... I can write no more.... I am tired. Tolstoy, on his side, could never understand Turgénieff’s fear of death. He said:—