Making love in a coffin
The famous Sarah Bernhardt had a pine coffin made to her measure and when she travelled, which she did extensively, she got the sarcophagus among her sixty suitcases.
The following is an extract from: Sarah Bernhardt: My Erotic Life by San Cassimally, available at Amazon’s
As a child, I loved reading about exotic places in the Illustrés which Maman’s callers often brought along when they came to visit, and the island of Cuba had cast its spell on me at an early age. I dreamt of its ink-blue sea, its golden beaches, the coconut palms, the people playing their guitars, dancing and singing the guaganco all day long. Many years later, a Spanish friend of Tante Rosine showed me a magazine which had devoted a good few pages to me and my art. There was a piece in it by no less than the Cuban national hero, the poet José Marti, in which he wrote about how he had looked inside my soul. No French author ever quite managed to catch its essence like that Cuban had. After reading the article, my fascination for Cuba was only reinforced. I will try to quote from memory, what he said:
The first thing that strikes one with Señora Bernhardt is her diaphanous litheness, like she is half Goddess, half Serpent. Her body is full of grace and abandon. When possessed by the demon of tragedy, the strength and nobility gushing out of her is so intense one can almost touch it. Her physiognomy, while maintaining its femininity, breathes a wild voluptuousness, a testimony to her resolution. Señora Bernhardt has, with the sole use of her dainty femininity, snatched from Fate the sceptre and the orb of French theatre. Her genius lies in her will. Her golden voice ever sings, her arms command, and her presence demands admiration.
How could a simple woman like me, full of vanity, resist the urge to visit a place where I am regarded as half Goddess and half Serpent? It was in January 1887 that I embarked on the English ship Dee for Havana, Cuba, from Mexico. From the moment I first glanced at its shores, I was convinced that my imaginings had not been far from reality. The sea was just as blue, the sand just as golden. The people, if they did not dance the guaganco all day long, were always laughing, and I found their cheerful effervescence catching. As I was mourning the death of my dear friend and lover, Edward Jarrett, my impresario who had always been loving and honest in his dealings with me, I was glad for some distraction. I was lodging at the Hotel Petit. With my eighty suitcases and my menagerie, it should be clear that it could not have been that small. Still it was comfortable. I was due to stay in Havana for three weeks and perform eight plays.
I must add that I had also brought my beloved coffin with me. Why a coffin? The world has always wanted to know. I will now reveal the secret. When I became an actress, I was so ambitious, I saw myself as the best and most famous of my time, in France at least. Of course it turned out that I became the biggest star on the firmament, in the whole world, and for all times, I have been told. I did not ask for so much, but I am grateful. I decided early on to nurture a reputation for eccentricity. Although Edward Jarrett knew a thing or two about publicity stunts, there was still much he could learn from me. Ergo the coffin.
These strange notions appear to me in a flash just before I close my eyes at night, or just before I properly wake up. A hat with a stuffed bat as its motif, silk trousers and costumes for doing my sculpture in, jumping on ice floes in Canada, going for a swim in Copacabana in the flimsiest of swimming costume. Can you beat any of those eccentricities? The last caused a seismic change in their prudish mores.
I ordered my first coffin from a dear old carpenter in Belleville. At first I used it as an item of furniture likely to attract attention and become a talking point. Then after another brainwave, I had it fitted with a velvet lining, and claimed, falsely, that I slept in it. When asked for a reason, I came out with the absurd explanation that when I had to die on stage, I slept in the sarcophagus to put me in the mood. I was amazed at how people swallowed that crazy notion.
The first time I tried to sleep in it, as a dare, I was uncomfortable and had to move to a proper bed in the middle of the night. Later when my poor Jeanne was dying and I got her moved to my rather small apartment so I could care for her, I did place the pine box beside her bed and slept there, but I did this out of necessity. My room was too small for two beds, and I wanted to be able to attend to her when she woke up in the middle of the night.
I lugged the coffin all over the world. As I never travel with less than sixty suitcases, again something quite unnecessary, but which has enhanced my reputation for extravagance and eccentricity, I thought that I might as well bring my menagerie, and the box. This kept the press of the world fascinated and amused, and I am mighty glad it did.
Have I really fucked in the coffin? In Havana, I occupied the whole third floor of the Hotel Petit. I was due to give fifteen performances at the Gran Teatro de La Habana and at the magnificent Sauto in Matanzana, with a program that included La Dame Aux Camélias, Adrienne Lecouvreur, and Phèdre. Luis Mazzantini, Spain’s most famous toreador, at least in his own words, was in the audience watching me play Marguérite Gauthier. The power of my performance caused him to weep buckets of tears.
Twelve years my junior, he was born and grew up in Italy to an Italian engineer father and a Basque mother. He was no sluggard, for he had earned a Bachelor of Arts degree and began working as a private secretary to Amedeo I, King of Spain, but on an impulse he gave up this prestigious position to take up the corrida. He must have been a natural, for in no time he had risen to the position of Number One Matador in Spain. As he loved travelling, he gladly accepted the invitation to come show his skills to Cuba, a place all Spain held close to its heart. It was during one of his tours which coincided with my own visit to the island that he first saw me and fell madly in love with me.
The whole of Havana was covered with posters advertising the two shows, mine and Mazzantini’s corrida. My love for animals would never have permitted me to watch someone kill defenceless bulls, but the torero sent me flowers and a note to the Hotel Petit. He wrote, in excellent French, that my performance in La Dame had made such an impression on him, the least he could do to repay me was to dedicate a bull’s ear to me. I wasn’t even sure what that meant (was I expected to cook it and eat it?), but in those days, my heart and head were ruled by my vanity, and I could not resist. As I have admitted before, I am a republican who becomes weak at the knees in front of royalty. I am also someone who is absolutely relentless in her pursuit of lucre, but does not hesitate to fork out thousands of francs to bail out my friends, and even sometimes my enemies. I could go on and on listing my contradictions, but my contrary nature dictates against.
Anyway, I made up my mind to go to the Plaza de Toros de la Calle Aguila, on Saturday. Luis was incredibly dashing in his tight-fitting costume which enhanced the litheness of his derrière. I have always found a small shapely arse to be man’s biggest asset. The sight of him produced an immediate libidinous effect upon me. The moment he entered the arena, he seemed to be scanning the terraces, and I had no doubt that he was trying to locate me. When he did, he took two steps backwards, and removing his montera, flourished it gently in an elegant gesture, and bowed to me. All heads turned to see who he was paying homage to. I must admit to a little frisson of pride.
The bull was let into the arena and the tussle between man and beast started. I had no understanding of the process but marvelled at the movements of both protagonists. The way in which he allowed the bull to approach him before swerving was very popular with the aficionados, who better than I appreciated the risks he was taking. No doubt to impress me, at the approach of the bull for a charge, he affected not to have noticed, and instead tried to catch my eyes. Like a pantomime audience, the crowd willed him to heed the bull’s charge. He did this only at the very last second before which he would have been gored to death, but he seemed in perfect control and the crowd loved it. However, every time he did this, my heart missed a beat and I had to stop myself shouting, ‘Luis, don’t take chances.’
Anyway, he killed four bulls that day, all by his well-known technique of the volapié, in which at the moment of truth, instead of plunging his sword in the tired and near lifeless bull, he invited it to charge and went for the kill only when the beast obliged. Again this was much more dangerous than most would dare, and it attracted much admiration from the aficionados.
I was in all states at the end, and when he came to escort me downstairs to see the various quarters, I told him that I was beginning to feel uneasy. ‘Could we go to my hotel instead?’ He beamed a smile at me, and we were on our way in a caleche.
The first thing that caught his attention was my pink coffin, and he asked me about it. I replied with the usual half-truths that I told reporters.
‘It helps me understand the tragic figures that I specialise in. Also the constant the presence of the box reconciles me to my mortality.’ He asked whether I was frightened of death.
‘I love life and wish to live to a ripe old age,’ I replied, ‘but no, death holds no terror for me.’
‘It means you’ve got the soul of a matador!’ he eXclaimed.
He confided to me that before giving up his diplomatic career to embark on bullfighting, the one thing that made him hesitate was being gored to death. In the end, though, he had accepted that it was a price worth paying. He too would like to have a coffin at home for the same reason as me.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Yes, but I may choose not to answer.’
‘Have you made love in it?’ I admitted that the idea had occurred to me, but seeing how narrow it was, I decided that it would not be much fun. I had therefore declined the opportunity. He shook his head.
‘No, we both have slim waists, and you as an actress and I as a toreador, are masters of movements, I assure you that it will not be only possible, but we will enjoy it all the more. Let us try.’
I was game. While talking, we had been playing with each other’s hands, and in the most natural manner we had been holding and caressing each other. He undressed me completely and as my pussy was already wet, I hopped into the coffin and lay there on my back. He tut-tutted. He got rid of his own clothes, gently lifted me out, went in the box first, and positioned me on top of him. Amazingly we fitted in quite well. I have often thought that every time I fuck, at a certain point I die only to be resuscitated after the orgasm. Some people have conjectured that God in his mercy, in order to temper the finality of death arranges for us to have a superlative orgasm as we breathe our last. Being resuscitated in a coffin looks very attractive. Luis made sure that our privates were in contact, and with his strong arms, which had put paid to four bulls earlier, he slid me up and down. His hard verge on my wet pussy filled me with a thrill the like of which I have rarely experienced. We enjoyed the episode, and without exchanging a word or a signal, he lifted me by the waist and brought me down with the same precision with which he performed his volapié. He went straight in me like his sword into the bull’s heart. Suddenly, for the first time I became aware of the parrots squawking, as if they were enjoying the sight. It was a thoroughly delightful happening which I will never forget. Thank you Luis.
