MEMORIES OF MY LIFE Being my Personal, Professional, and Social Recollections as Woman and Artist
Transcriber’s Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
MEMORIES OF MY LIFE
SARAH BERNHARDT AS GISMONDA, FROM A PAINTING BY CHARTRAN.
By
SARAH BERNHARDT
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK MCMVII
Copyright, 1907, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Published October, 1907
CONTENTS
v
CHAPTER I
MY AUNTS
PAGE
My mother and her sisters—The “mask of butter”—The beauty of my mother—Away with my nurse—Life in a concierge’s lodge—My aunt comes for me—An accident—I must go to school—Off for Auteuil—Mme. Fressard and her boarding school—I am left alone—Life at the pension—My schoolmates—Back to Aunt Rosine—My father and Rossini—My disagreeable Aunt Faure—My delightful Uncle Faure
Grandchamps Convent—My terror of the cloister—The lovely Mother Superior—The dormitory—The garden—Farewell to my father—My new schoolmates—Compulsory soup—The despised and the beloved Sister—Pets and playthings—I rescue a playmate—Preparations for the archbishop’s visit—The play in which I was not given a part—My failure as a costumer—How I got a part—Monseigneur’s arrival—The performance—The tragedy of Monseigneur Sibour—My father dies—I am baptized and confirmed
In the Pyrénées—Goat-herding and vacation joys—Back to the convent—The Croizettes—A soldier in the convent—How I shocked the nuns—“The Angel Raphael” and César—A night of horror—I leave the convent forever—My ambition
A fateful day—Day-dreams and music lessons—The woes of making my toilet—The assembling of the family—The obnoxious notary—The council—My religious aspirations—My hopes are quenched—The Duc de Morny’s advice—My memory of Rachel—My fate is decided—The views of the family—I am introduced to the theater—My first play and its strange effect upon me
Plans for my career—The director of the Conservatoire—I study for the examination—The rules of M. Meydieu—Learning Aricie—The examination day—Dressing for the ordeal—I recite a fable—The result—How I announced it—The family rejoices
The awakening of a will—An offer of marriage—I am forced to condemn a gentleman to death—I win a prize—I go for an engagement—The embarrassment of having a naughty small sister—I lose the engagement—I find encouragement in M. Doucet—My lessons—Fencing and elocution—Tribulations with a coiffeur—I enter a competition—The prize I did not win—My rival—Legends that defy history—An humiliating homecoming—The offer of another engagement—An interview at the Théâtre Français and its happy outcome—My aunt has a celebration
viiMy first rôle—The first rehearsal—Troubles with the costumer—The arraying of Iphigénie—The make-up shop—The approach of the first night—I suffer the horrors of stage fright—“Quand-même”—The début—New rôles—The disastrous results of taking my sister to a ceremony—The arrogance of a manager—I am cheated of a part and cancel my engagement
Broken plans—I receive a new offer—I interview the manager of the Gymnase—I make a new engagement—An idiotic rôle in an imbecile play—I determine to kill myself—The allurement of Spain distracts me—I follow my star—Sardou and my letter of resignation—Marseilles and the sea—At Alicante—The night intruder—Gala days at Madrid—Back to Paris—My mother’s illness—I settle down by myself
Fate drives me back to the theater—New fields at the Porte Saint Martin—The disadvantages of being thin—New prospects—An appointment and a contract—A death and another début—Success at the Odéon—I appear as the chorus—Happy days—George Sand—The disciples of Victor Hugo disapprove of Dumas’s “Kean”—I succeed in spite of a hideous costume—François Coppée and “Le Passant”—The triumph of “Le Passant”—Our summons to the Tuileries—A rehearsal before imperial spectators—Empress Eugénie’s feet—Fêted by an Emperor and a Queen
My student adorers—I meet with some curious criticism—Gloomy presentiments—My apartments are burned—Saving my grandmother—Ruin and devastation—My benefit—Patti sings for me—My new home—Discomfort and worry—The delayed insuring—Kind words from friends—An insulting proposition—Evil days—Rumors of war—The nineteenth of July—I am taken from Paris—War news—Success of the German arms—I return to Paris under difficulties—I come across a relative—Into the siege
Paris in war times—My ambulance at the Odéon—The changes brought by war—Getting supplies—The Prefect’s coat—The lady of the Palais de l’Industrie—Provisions for my hospital—My hospital staff—Heroines of the siege—Cowards and heroes—Christmas
Sufferings from cold and hunger—Struggles for food and fuel—The bombardment of the city—The ravages of fighting—The wounded—The ambulance is fired upon—The bargaining of the children—Toto—The inventor of balloons—The burial of the maigrotte—I receive news from my family—The horrors of night-time—My fowls—The end of the siege
I find a companion for my flight from Paris—We start on our journey—Trouble at the city gates—Unwelcome acquaintances—The young cripple—A tedious railway trip—A German inn—Crowded out of a hotel—We find shelter—Some wounded admirers and a dead adorer—The cry of the woman—We start on again
At the station—German insolence—The crowd in the railway carriage—The surgeon major who was bound to smoke—We are wrecked—A dismal prospect—A dreary search for shelter—The wheelwright’s colt—Expensive hospitality—I turn cook—Crossing a battlefield by night—The robbers of the dead—The capture of a thief—Rest at Cateau—Confusion at Cologne—German kindness—How I make myself sleep—We arrive at Hombourg and start back again for Paris—Home again
Paris after the war—Gambetta, Rochefort, and Paul de Rémusat—One man’s delicacy of mind—A cowardly Prefect of Police and his revenge—The Commune—Captain O’Connor—Paris in ruins—Back to the theater—“Jean-Marie”—My success grows—My mistaken opinion of Victor Hugo—The queen and her valet—Victor Hugo improvises—Victor Hugo’s kindness—Rehearsals of “Ruy Blas”—A Parisian first night and what it meant to me—Victor Hugo’s homage
The night of the triumph—A talk with the “Master”—A forgotten luncheon—How I feel when I receive a letter—Overtures from the Comédie Française—Managerial interference—Perrin of the Comédie—I sign a new contract—I lose a lawsuit—Victor Hugo’s supper—The death of M. Chilly—Mamma Lambquin’s premonitions
My happy memories of the Odéon—I return to an old battle-ground—A Marquise who was too stout—M. Sarcey’s account of my début—The reason I was frightened—What happened to my mother—A strange distribution of rôles—My growing popularity and my delight in playing jokes—Sophie Croizette as a rival—I turn my energies to sculpture—The clash of the “Croizettists” and the “Bernhardtists”—A fight for the moon—Success in “Le Sphinx”—A childish freak of temperament—Zaïre triumphs—I learn something useful about my acting
A period of sculpturing—My success in making busts—My coffin—A superfluous hearse—A holiday in Bretagne—The delights of the shore—Painting in the country—“L’Enfer du Plogoff”—Into the abyss—“The eyes of the shipwrecked ones”—“Sarah Bernhardt’s chair”—The fête of Racine—I play the rôle of Phedre—A tangle of authors and an actress—Unforeseen success—My new hôtel
Alexandre Dumas, fils—A quarrel and a reconciliation—The partisans stir up more trouble—“L’Etrangère”—The grandmother of the sea—More sculpturing—A long search for a model—The missing hands and feet—Criticism of my group—Appeasing the god of the bourgeois—Luncheon with Victor Hugo—“Hernani”—The tear of Victor Hugo
“The Young Girl and Death”—How my energetic versatility aroused indignation—I accept an invitation to go ballooning—A trip through the clouds—Dinner among the stars—The descent—Vachère—The journey back to Paris—A storm of criticism—I send in my resignation and then withdraw it—A trip to the south—A sale in the open—A ridiculous Othello—Mr. Jarrett, impresario—I agree to do independent acting in London—More trouble with the Committee—The Times makes an announcement—The end of disputes
Our ridiculous preparations for departure—“La Quenelle,” who adored me, and his life-preserver—A carpet of flowers—We find the Prince of Wales has departed—My welcome and the journalists—Visitors—Hortense Damian and her “Chic commandments”—My shortcomings as a recipient of kindnesses—London hospitality—Rotten Row and the Avenue des Acacias—My first experience as a traqueuse—Trying my voice—My fright—My début—What the critics thought of me
xiI overtax my strength—Outwitting the doctor—The effect of a dose of opium—A lapse of memory and the talk it caused—Dumas’s judgment of his own plays—I exhibit my statues—Mr. Gladstone and “Phedre”—The success of my exhibition—A jaunt to Liverpool—I hunt for lions—My new pets—My homecoming creates a sensation—A Bedlam in Chester Square—How I suffered from the press—The tranquil lady—The company opens a campaign against me—My letter to M. Wolff—I hesitate on the brink of leaving the Comédie
The cruelties of publicity—My first interview with a reporter—A victim of caricaturists—Perrin tells me my faults—An anonymous threat—My reappearance in Paris—An intoxicating triumph—The discourtesy of actors—Coquelin, Mounet-Sully, Bartet, Réjane, and Duse—Trying times—“L’Aventurière”—An unjust attack—I send in my resignation—Cruel slanders—Mr. Jarrett offers a new proposition—I prepare for an American tour—The sad story of my costume for “Phedre”—The Comédie brings suit against me—The financial record of my London performances—Another visit to London—I overcome the critics
Coquelin deserts me—The charm of London—Brussels and Copenhagen—A Danish triumph—A visit to Elsinore—I am decorated by the King—An international supper with international complications—The fickleness of Fame—My farewell reception at Paris—Duquesnel proves himself my friend—A triumphant tour of France—I sign a contract with the “Vaudeville”—I leave Paris
The gnome-haunted ship—I embark on L’Amérique—Homesickness—The widow of President Lincoln—A snowstorm in mid-ocean—The steerage passengers—A child is born in the steerage—What if the emigrants should mutiny?—Precautions in case of shipwreck—The Promised Land of the emigrants—My fête day—The harbor of the New World—How I was welcomed—A fatiguing reception—Rest under compulsion—The kind of man Mr. Jarrett was—Another reception—The silly questions of the reporters—Press agents and slander
I go to Booth’s Theater for the first rehearsal—The crowd at the stage door—The customs officers come to examine my trunks—The treatment of my costumes—The Brooklyn Bridge—I settle with the Board of Customs—I make my first appearance in “Adrienne Lecouvreur”—I am serenaded—“La Dame aux Camélias”—My sister impersonates me—The journey to Menlo Park—I am entertained in fairyland by Mr. Edison—Mr. Edison and Napoleon I.—We start for Boston—Boston women—An extraordinary personage—My apartments—A curious experience with a whale
“Hernani” in Boston—Feminine intellectuality—The whale follows me to New Haven—Attentions from the showman—I start for Canada—My entry into Montreal—A cordial welcome—A greeting from a poet—I cause a sensation by fainting—My rescuer and his tragedy—The Bishop of Montreal condemns me—Ottawa and the Iroquois—The Montreal students—An adventure on the ice
Springfield and Springfield audiences—I inspect Colt guns—Baltimore—Philadelphia and Chicago—A pleasant sojourn—A visit to the slaughtering house—Another bishop condemns me—St. Louis—The fish without eyes—My jewels are exhibited—It nearly results in a tragedy—The attempted robbery—The man who would have robbed me
Cincinnati and then South—Crossing the Mississippi in flood-time—A brave engineer—The charm of New Orleans—The horrors of the flood—The hairdresser and the serpents—A strange reception at Mobile—“La Dame aux Camélias” under scenic difficulties—A round of smaller towns—Blocked by the snow—A snow ball fight—Pittsburg and a former friend—A long ride—A mistaken reporter
An outing at Niagara Falls—An icy excursion—I am presented with a miniature of the Falls—Vanity brings me to ridicule—A foolhardy escapade—A memorable performance at New York—I embark for home—The last of the whale man—A stowaway—The trip home—A glorious reception at Hâvre—A performance for the life savers—A turning-point
My mother was fond of traveling: she would go from
Spain to England, from London to Paris, from Paris
to Berlin, and from there to Christiania; then she
would come back, embrace me, and set out again for
Holland, her native country. She used to send my nurse clothing
for herself and cakes for me. To one of my aunts she would
write: “Look after little Sarah; I shall return in a month’s
time.” A month later she would write to another of her sisters:
“Go and see the child at her nurse’s; I shall be back in a couple
of weeks.”
My mother’s age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my
two aunts were seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt
was fifteen, and the eldest was twenty-eight, but the latter lived
at Martinique, and was the mother of six children. My grandmother
was blind, my grandfather dead, and my father had
been in China for the last two years. I have no idea why he
had gone there.
My youthful aunts were always promising to come to see me,
but rarely kept their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany and
lived near Quimperle in a little white house with a low thatched
roof, on which wild gilly-flowers grew. That was the first flower
which charmed my eyes as a child, and I have loved it ever since.
Its leaves are heavy and sad-looking, and its petals are made of
the setting sun.
2Brittany is a long way off, even in our present epoch of
velocity of travel. In those days it was the end of the world.
Fortunately, my nurse was, it appears, a good, kind woman,
and as her own child had died, she had only me to love. But she
loved after the manner of poor people—when she had time.
One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the field to
help gather in potatoes. The over-damp soil was rotting them,
and there was no time to be lost. She left me in charge of her
husband, who was lying on his Breton bed suffering from a bad
attack of lumbago. The good woman had placed me in my high
chair, and had been careful to put in the wooden peg which supported
the narrow tray for my toys. She threw a fagot in the
grate, and said to me in Breton language: (until the age of four
I only understood Breton) “Be a good girl, Milk Blossom.”
That was my only name at the time. When she had gone, I tried
to withdraw the wooden peg which she had taken so much trouble
to put in place. Finally, I succeeded in pushing aside the
little rampart. I wanted to reach the ground, but poor little
me, I fell into the fire which was burning joyfully.
The screams of my foster father, who could not move,
brought in some neighbors. I was thrown, all smoking, into a
large pail of fresh milk. My aunts were informed of what had
happened; they communicated the news to my mother, and, for
the next four days, that quiet part of the country was plowed
by stagecoaches that arrived in rapid succession. My aunts
came from all parts of the world, and my mother, in the greatest
alarm, hastened from Brussels with Baron Larrey, one of her
friends, who was a young doctor just beginning to acquire celebrity,
and a house surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought
with him. I have been told since that nothing was more painful
to witness and yet so charming, as my mother’s despair. The
doctor approved of the “mask of butter,” which was changed
every two hours.
Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now
and again we shall meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He
used to tell me in such charming fashion how those kind folk
loved Milk Blossom. And he could never refrain from laughing
3at the thought of that butter. There was butter everywhere, he
used to say: on the bedsteads, on the cupboards, on the chairs,
on the tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the neighbors
used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.
Mother, admirably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with
her golden hair and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that
they made a shadow on her cheeks when she lowered her eyes.
She distributed money on all sides. She would have given her
golden hair, her slender white fingers, her tiny feet, her life
itself, in order to save her child. And she was as sincere in her
despair and her love as in her unconscious forgetfulness. Baron
Larrey returned to Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt Rosine, and
the surgeon with me. Forty-two days later, mother took the
nurse, the foster father, and me back in triumph to Paris, and
installed us in a little house at Neuilly, on the banks of the
Seine. I had not even a scar, it appears. My skin was rather
too bright a pink, but that was all. My mother, happy and
trustful once more, began to travel again, leaving me in care of
my aunts.
Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which
was full of horrible dahlias growing close together and colored
like wooden balls. My aunts never came there. My mother
used to send money, bonbons, and toys. The foster father died
and my nurse married a concierge, who used to open the door
at 65, rue de Provence.
Not knowing where to find my mother, and not being able to
write, my nurse, without telling any of my friends, took me with
her to her new abode.
The change delighted me. I was five years old at the time,
and I remember the day as if it were yesterday. My nurse’s
abode was just over the doorway of the house, and the window
was framed in the heavy and monumental door. From outside,
I thought it was beautiful, and I began to clap my hands on
reaching the house. It was toward five o’clock in the evening, in
the month of November, when everything looks gray. I was put
to bed and no doubt I went to sleep at once, for there end my
recollections of that day.
4The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me.
There was no window in the little room in which I slept, and
I began to cry, and escaped from the arms of my nurse, who was
dressing me, so that I could go into the adjoining room. I ran
to the round window, which was an immense “bull’s eye”
above the doorway. I pressed my stubborn brow against the
glass and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees, no boxwood,
no leaves falling, nothing, nothing, but stone, cold, gray,
ugly stone, and panes of glass opposite me.
“I want to go away,” I screamed. “I don’t want to stay
here! It is all black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the
ceiling of the street!” and I burst into tears. My poor nurse
took me up in her arms and, folding me in a rug, took me down
into the courtyard.
“Lift up your head, Milk Blossom, and look! See, there is
the ceiling of the street!”
It comforted me somewhat to see that there was some sky in
this ugly place, but my little soul was very sad. I could not eat,
and I grew pale and became anæmic, and I should certainly have
died of consumption if it had not been for a mere chance, a most
unexpected incident. One day I was playing in the courtyard
with a little girl named Titine, who lived on the second floor and
whose face or real name I cannot recall, when I saw my nurse’s
husband walking across the courtyard with two ladies, one of
whom was most fashionably attired. I could only see their
backs, but the voice of the fashionably attired lady caused my
heart to stop beating. My poor little body trembled with nervous
excitement.
“Do any of the windows look on to the courtyard?” she
asked.
“Yes, madame, those four,” he replied, pointing to four
open ones on the first floor.
The lady turned to look at them, and I uttered a cry of joy.
“Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!” I exclaimed, clinging to
the skirts of the pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs,
stamping, sobbing, laughing, and tearing her wide, lace sleeves
in my frenzy of delight. She took me in her arms and tried to
5calm me, and questioning the concierge she stammered out to her
friend:
“I can’t understand what it all means! This is little Sarah!
My sister Youle’s child!”
The noise I made had attracted attention, and people opened
their windows. My aunt decided to take refuge in the concierge’s
lodge, in order to come to an explanation. My poor
nurse told her about all that had taken place, her husband’s
death, and her second marriage. I do not remember what she
said to excuse herself. I clung to my aunt, who was deliciously
perfumed, and I would not let her go. She promised to come
the following day to fetch me, but I did not want to stay any
longer in that dark place. I asked to start at once with my
nurse. My aunt stroked my hair gently, and spoke to her friend
in a language I did not understand. She tried, in vain, to explain
something to me, I do not know what it was, but I insisted
that I wanted to go away with her at once. In a gentle, tender,
caressing voice, but without any real affection, she said all kinds
of pretty things, stroked me with her gloved hands, patted my
frock, which was turned up, and made any amount of charming,
frivolous little gestures, but all without any real feeling. She
then went away, at her friend’s entreaty, after emptying her
purse in my nurse’s hands. I rushed toward the door, but the
husband of my nurse, who had opened it for her, now closed it
again. My nurse was crying, and, taking me in her arms, she
opened the window, saying to me: “Don’t cry, Milk Blossom,
look at your pretty aunt; she will come back again, and then
you can go away with her.” Great tears rolled down her calm,
round, handsome face. I could see nothing but the dark, black
hole which remained there immutable behind me, and in a fit of
despair, I rushed out to my aunt who was just getting into a
carriage. After that I knew nothing more; everything seemed
dark; there was a noise in the distance. I could hear voices
far, far away. I had managed to escape from my poor nurse,
and had fallen down on the pavement in front of my aunt. I
had broken my arm in two places, and injured my left kneecap.
I only came to myself again a few hours later, to find that
6I was in a beautiful, wide bed which smelled very nice. It stood
in the middle of a large room, with two lovely windows, which
made me very joyful, for I could see the ceiling of the street
through them.
My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take
care of me, and I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my
cousins. My poor little brain could not understand why all
these people should suddenly be so fond of me, when I had
passed so many days and nights only cared for by one single
person. As I was weakly, and my bones small and friable, I was
two years recovering from this terrible fall, and during that
time was nearly always carried about. I will pass over these
two years of my life, which have left me only a vague memory
of being petted, and of a chronic state of torpor.
One day my mother took me on her knees, and said to me:
“You are a big girl now, and you must learn to read and
write.” I was then seven years old, and could neither read,
write, nor count, as I had been five years with the old nurse,
and two years ill. “You must go to school,” continued my
mother, playing with my curly hair, “like a big girl.”
I did not know what all this meant, and I asked what a
school was.
“It’s a place where there are many little girls,” replied my
mother.
“Are they ill?” I asked.
“Oh, no! They are quite well, as you are now, and they
play together, and are very gay and happy.”
I jumped about in delight, and gave free vent to my joy,
but on seeing tears in my mother’s eyes, I flung myself in her
arms.
“But what about you, mamma?” I asked. “You will be
all alone, and you won’t have any little girl.”
She bent down to me and said:
“God has told me that he will send me some flowers, and a
little baby.”
My delight was more and more boisterous.
“Then I shall have a little brother?” I exclaimed, “or else
7a little sister? Oh, no, I don’t want that, I don’t like little
sisters!”
Mamma kissed me very affectionately, and then I was dressed,
I remember, in a blue, corded velvet frock, of which I was
very proud. Arrayed thus in all my splendor, I waited impatiently
for Aunt Rosine’s carriage, which was to take us to
Auteuil.
It was about three when she arrived. The housemaid had
gone on about an hour before, and I had watched with delight
my little trunk and my toys being packed into the carriage. The
maid climbed up and took the seat by the driver, in spite of my
mother protesting at first against this. When my aunt’s magnificent
equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in, slowly
and calmly. I got in slowly, too, giving myself airs, because
the concierge and some of the shopkeepers were watching. My
aunt then sprang in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving
her orders in English to the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman,
and handing him a paper on which the address was written.
Another carriage followed ours, in which three men were
seated: Régie L——, a friend of my father’s, General de P——
and an artist named Fleury, I think, whose pictures of horses
and sporting subjects were very much in vogue just then.
I heard on the way that these gentlemen were going to
arrange about a little dinner near Auteuil, to console mamma for
her great trouble in being separated from me. Some other
guests were to be there to meet them. I did not pay very much
attention to what my mother and my aunt said to each other.
Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either English or
German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was
greatly appreciated by me, for with my face pressed against the
window, and my eyes wide open, I gazed out eagerly at the gray,
muddy road, with its ugly houses on each side, and its bare
trees. I thought it was all very beautiful, because it kept
changing.
The carriage stopped at 18, Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the
iron gate was a long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked
up at it, and mamma said: “You will be able to read that soon,
8I hope.” My aunt whispered to me, “Boarding School, Madame
Fressard,” and, very promptly, I said to mamma: “It
says ‘Boarding School, Madame Fressard.’”
Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily
at my assurance, and we entered the house. Mme. Fressard
came forward to meet us, and I liked her at once. She was of
medium height, rather stout, with a small waist, and her hair
turning gray, en Sévigné. She had beautiful, large eyes, rather
like George Sand’s, very white teeth which showed up all the
more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked healthy,
spoke kindly, her hands were plump and her fingers long. She
took my hand gently in hers and half-kneeling so that her face
was level with mine, she said in a musical voice: “You won’t
be afraid of me, will you, little girl?” I did not answer, but
my face flushed as red as a coxcomb. She asked me several
questions, but I refused to reply. They all gathered round me—“Speak,
child—come, Sarah, be a good girl—oh, the naughty
little child!”
It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary
round was then made, to the bedrooms, the dining-hall,
the class-rooms, and the usual exaggerated compliments were
paid. “How beautifully it is all kept! How spotlessly clean
everything is!” and a hundred stupidities of this kind about
the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother went aside
with Mme. Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she could
not walk. “This is the doctor’s prescription,” she said, and
then followed a long list of things that were to be done for me.
Mme. Fressard smiled rather ironically.
“You know, madame,” she said to my mother, “we shall
not be able to curl her hair like that.”
“And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it,” replied
my mother, stroking my head with her gloved hands. “It’s a
regular wig, and they must never attempt to comb it until it
has been well brushed. They could not possibly get the knots
out otherwise, and it would hurt her too much. What do you
give the children at four o’clock?” she asked, changing the subject.
9“Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for
them.”
“There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam,” said my
mother, “but she must have jam one day and chocolate another,
as she has not a good appetite, and requires change of food.
I have brought six pounds of chocolate.” Mme. Fressard smiled
in a good-natured, but rather ironical way. She picked up a
packet of the chocolate, and looked at the mark.
“Ah! from Marquis! What a spoiled little girl it is!” She
patted my cheek with her white fingers, and then, as her eyes fell
on a large jar, she looked surprised.
“That’s cold cream,” said my mother. “I make it myself,
and I should like my little girl’s face and hands to be
rubbed with it every night when she goes to bed.”
“But——” began Mme. Fressard.
“Oh, I’ll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets,” interrupted
my mother, impatiently. Ah, my poor mother, I remember
quite well that my sheets were changed once a month,
like those of the other pupils!
The farewell moment came at last, and everyone gathered
round mamma, and finally carried her off, after a great deal of
kissing, and with all kinds of consoling words: “It will be so
good for her—it is just what she needs—you’ll find her quite
changed when you see her again, etc.”
The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his
arms and tossed me in the air.
“You little chit,” he said; “they are putting you to the barracks,
and you’ll have to mind your pace!”
I pulled his long mustache, and he said, winking, and looking
in the direction of Mme. Fressard, who had a slight mustache:
“You mustn’t do that to a lady, you know!”
My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little
stifled laugh, and the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind
of rustling skirts and farewells, while I was taken away
to the cage where I was to be imprisoned.
I spent two years at the pension. I was taught reading, writing,
and reckoning. I also learned a hundred new games. I
10learned to sing rondeaus and to embroider handkerchiefs for my
mother. I was relatively happy there, as we always went out
somewhere on Thursdays and Sundays, and this gave me the sensation
of liberty. The very ground in the street seemed to me
quite different from the ground of the large garden belonging
to the pension. Besides, there were little festivities at Mme.
Fressard’s which used to send me into raptures. Mlle. Stella
Colas, who had just made her début at the Théâtre Français,
came sometimes on Thursdays and recited poetry to us. I could
never sleep a wink the night before, and in the morning I used
to comb my hair carefully and get ready, my heart beating fast
with excitement, in order to listen to something I did not understand
at all, but which, nevertheless, left me spellbound. Then,
too, there was quite a legend attached to this pretty girl. She
had flung herself almost under the horses’ feet as the Emperor
was driving along, in order to attract his attention and obtain
the pardon of her brother who had conspired against his sovereign.
Mlle. Stella Colas had a sister at Mme. Fressard’s, and this
sister, Clothilde, is now the wife of M. Pierre Merlon, Under-Secretary
of State in the Treasury Department. Stella was
slight and fair, with blue eyes that were rather hard, but expressive.
She had a deep voice and when this pale, fragile girl
began to recite “Athalie’s Dream” it thrilled me through and
through. How many times, seated on my child’s bed, did I practice
saying in a low voice: “Tremble, fille digne de moi.” I
used to twist my head in my shoulders, swell out my cheeks and
commence:
“Tremble—trem-ble—trem-em-em—ble——”
But it always ended badly and I would begin again very
quietly in a stifled voice and then unconsciously speak louder,
and my companions, roused by the noise, were amused at my
attempts and roared with laughter. I would then rush about to
the right and left, giving them kicks and blows which they
returned with interest.
Mme. Fressard’s adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline—whom I
chanced to meet a long time after, married to the celebrated
11artist, Yvon—would then appear on the scene, angry and implacable,
and would give us all kinds of punishments for the
following day. As for me, I used to get locked up for three
days. That was followed by my being detained on the first day
we were allowed out. And, in addition, I would receive five
strokes with a ruler on my fingers. Ah! those ruler blows of
Mlle. Caroline’s! I reproached her about them when I met her
again twenty-five years later. She used to make us put all our
fingers round the thumb and hold our hands out straight near
to her and then, bang came her wide, ebony ruler. She used to
give us a cruelly hard, dry blow which made the tears spurt to
our eyes. I took a dislike to Mlle. Caroline. She was beautiful,
but with the kind of beauty I did not care for. She had
a very white complexion and very black hair which she wore
in waved bandeaux. When I saw her a long time afterwards,
one of my relatives brought her to my house and said: “I am
sure you will not recognize this lady and yet you know her
very well.”
I was leaning against the large mantelpiece in the hall and
I saw this tall woman, still beautiful, but rather provincial-looking,
coming through the first drawing-room. As she descended
the three steps into the hall, the light fell on her protruding
forehead, framed on each side with the hard, waved
bandeaux.
“Mlle. Caroline!” I exclaimed, and with a furtive, childish
movement, I hid my two hands behind my back. I never saw
her again, for the grudge I had owed her from my childhood
must have been apparent under my politeness as hostess.
As I said before, I was not unhappy at Mme. Fressard’s, and
it seemed quite natural to me that I should stay there until I
was quite grown up. My uncle, Felix Faure, who at present
has entered the Carthusian monastery, had stipulated that his
wife, my mother’s sister, should often take me out. He had a
very fine country place at Neuilly with a stream running
through the grounds, and I used to fish there for hours together,
with my two cousins, a boy and girl.
These two years of my life passed peacefully, without any
12other events than my terrible fits of temper, which upset the
whole pension and always left me in the sick-room for two or
three days. These outbursts of temper were like attacks of madness.
One day Aunt Rosine arrived suddenly, to take me away
altogether. My father had written giving orders as to where I
was to be placed, and these orders were imperative. My mother
was traveling, so she had sent word to my aunt, who had hurried
off at once, between two dances, to carry out the instructions she
had received.
The idea that I was to be ordered about, without any regard
to my own wishes or inclinations, put me into an indescribable
rage. I rolled about on the ground, uttering the most heartrending
cries. I yelled out all kinds of reproaches, blaming my
mother, my aunts, and Mme. Fressard for not finding some way
to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two hours, and, while
I was being dressed, I escaped twice into the garden and attempted
to climb the trees, and to throw myself into the pond,
in which there was more mud than water.
Finally, when I was completely exhausted and subdued, I
was taken off, sobbing, in my aunt’s carriage.
I stayed three days at her house, as I was so feverish that my
life was said to be in danger.
My father used to come to the house of my Aunt Rosine, who
was then living at 6 Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. He was on
friendly terms with Rossini, who lived at No. 4 in the same
street. He often brought him in, and Rossini made me laugh
with his clever stories and comic grimaces. My father was as
“handsome as a god,” and I used to look at him with pride.
I did not know him well, as I saw him so rarely, but I loved him
for his seductive voice and his slow, gentle gestures. He commanded
a certain respect and I noticed that even my exuberant
aunt calmed down in his presence.
I recovered, and Dr. Monod, who was attending me, said that
I could now be moved without any fear of ill effects. We had
been waiting for my mother, but she was ill at Haarlem. My
aunt offered to accompany us if my father would take me to the
13convent, but he refused, and I can hear him now with his gentle
voice, saying:
“No, her mother will take her to the convent. I have written
to the Faures and the child is to stay there a fortnight.”
My aunt was about to protest, but my father replied: “It’s
quieter there, my dear Rosine, and the child needs tranquillity
more than anything else.”
I went that very evening to my Aunt Faure’s. I did not care
much for her, as she was cold and affected, but I adored my
uncle. He was so gentle and so calm, and there was an infinite
charm in his smile. His son was as turbulent as I was myself,
adventurous and rather hare-brained, so that we always liked
being together. His sister, an adorable Greuze-like girl, was reserved
and always afraid of soiling her frocks, and even her
pinafores. The poor child married Baron Cerise and died during
her confinement, in the very flower of youth and beauty, because
her timidity, her reserve and narrow education had made
her refuse to see a doctor when the intervention of a medical
man was absolutely necessary. I was very fond of her, and
her death was a great grief to me. At present, I never see
the faintest ray of moonlight without its evoking a pale vision
of her.
I stayed three weeks at my uncle’s, roaming about with my
cousin and spending hours lying down flat, fishing for crayfish
in the little stream that ran through the park. This park was
immense and surrounded by a wide ditch. How many times I
used to have bets with my cousins that I would jump that ditch!
The bet was sometimes three sheets of paper, or five pins, or perhaps
my two pancakes, for we used to have pancakes every Tuesday.
And after the bet I jumped, more often than not falling
into the ditch and splashing about in the green water, screaming
because I was afraid of the frogs, and yelling with terror when
my cousins pretended to rush away.
When I returned to the house my aunt was always watching
anxiously at the top of the stone steps for our arrival. What a
lecture I had and what a cold look!
“Go upstairs and change your clothes, mademoiselle,” she
14would say, “and thou stay in your room. Your dinner will be
sent to you there without any dessert.”
As I passed the big glass in the hall I would catch sight of
myself, looking like a rotten tree stump, and see my cousin making
signs that he would bring me some dessert, by putting his
hand to his mouth.
His sister used to go to his mother who fondled her and
seemed to say: “Thank Heaven you are not like that little
Bohemian!” This was my aunt’s stinging epithet for me in
moments of anger. I used to go up to my room with a heavy
heart, thoroughly ashamed and vexed, vowing to myself that I
would never again jump the ditch, but on reaching my room I
would find the gardener’s daughter there—a big, awkward,
merry girl who used to wait on me.
“Oh, how comic mademoiselle looks like that!” she would
say, laughing so heartily that I was proud of looking comic and
decided that when I jumped the ditch again I would get weeds
and mud all over me. When I had undressed and washed I used
to put on a flannel gown and wait in my room until my dinner
came. Soup was sent up and then meat, bread, and water. I detested
meat then, just as I do now, and threw it out of the window,
after cutting off the fat, which I put on the rim of my plate,
as my aunt used to come up unexpectedly.
“Have you eaten your dinner, mademoiselle?” she would
ask.
“Yes, aunt,” I replied.
“Are you still hungry?”
“No, aunt.”
“Write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times,
you little heathen.” This was because I had not been baptized.
A quarter of an hour later my uncle would come
upstairs.
“Have you had enough dinner?” he would ask.
“Yes, uncle,” I replied.
“Did you eat your meat?”
“No, I threw it out of the window. I don’t like meat.”
“You told your aunt an untruth, then.”
15“No, she asked me if I had eaten my dinner and I answered
that I had, but I did not say that I had eaten my meat.”
“What punishment has she given you?”
“I am to write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three
times before going to bed.”
“Do you know them by heart?”
“No, not very well. I make mistakes always.”
And the adorable man would then dictate to me “Our
Father” and the “Creed” and I would copy it in the most devout
way, as he used to dictate with deep feeling and emotion.
He was religious, very religious indeed, this uncle of mine, and
after the death of my aunt he became a Carthusian monk. At
the present moment, ill and aged as he is, and bent with pain, I
know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of the
spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of
me, his little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him
that I owe all that is best in me! I love him devotedly and
have the greatest respect for him. How many times in the
difficult phases of my life I have thought of him and consulted
his ideas, for I never saw him again, as my aunt quarreled purposely
with my mother and me. He was always fond of me,
though, and has told his friends to assure me of this. Occasionally,
too, he has sent me his advice, which has always been very
straightforward and full of intelligence and common sense.
Recently I went to the country where the Carthusians have
taken refuge. A friend of mine went to see my uncle, and
I wept on hearing the words he had dictated to be repeated
to me.
To return to my story: after my uncle’s visit, Marie, the
gardener’s daughter, came to my room, looking quite indifferent
but with her pockets stuffed with apples, biscuits, raisins, and
nuts. My cousin had sent me some dessert, but she, the good-hearted
girl, had cleared all the dessert dishes. I told her to
sit down and crack the nuts and I would eat them when I had
finished my “Lord’s Prayer” and “Creed.” She sat down on
the floor, so that she could hide everything quickly under the
table, in case my aunt returned. But my aunt seldom came
16again, as she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at
the piano while my uncle taught his son mathematics.
Finally my mother wrote to say that she was coming. There
was great excitement in my uncle’s house, and my little trunk
was packed in readiness. The Grandchamps Convent, which I
was about to enter, had a prescribed uniform, and my cousin,
who loved sewing, marked all my things with the initials S. B. in
red cotton. My uncle gave me a silver spoon, fork, and goblet
and these were all marked 32, which was the number under which
I was registered there. Marie gave me a thick woolen muffler in
different shades of violet, which she had been knitting for me
in secret the last few days. My aunt put round my neck a
little scapulary which had been blessed, and when my mother and
father arrived everything was ready. A farewell dinner was
given to which two of my mother’s friends, Aunt Rosine, and
four other members of the family were invited.
I felt very important. I was neither sad nor gay, but had
just this feeling of importance which was quite enough for me.
Everyone at table talked about me. My uncle kept stroking
my hair and my cousin from her end of the table threw me
kisses. Suddenly my father’s musical voice made me turn
toward him.
“Listen to me, Sarah,” he said; “if you are very good at
the convent I will come in four years and fetch you away, and
you shall travel with me and see some beautiful countries.”
“Oh, I will be good!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be as good as
Aunt Henriette!”
This was my Aunt Faure. Everybody smiled.
After dinner, the weather being very fine, we all went out
to stroll in the park. My father took me with him and talked
to me very seriously. He told me things that were sad which I
had never heard before. I understood, although I was so young,
and my eyes filled with tears. He was sitting on an old bench
and I was on his knee with my head resting on his shoulder.
I listened to all he said and cried silently, my childish mind
disturbed by his words. Poor father! I was never, never to
see him again.
CHAPTER II I BEGIN MY CONVENT LIFE
17
I did not sleep well that night and the following
morning, at eight o’clock, we started by diligence
for Versailles. I can see Marie now, in tears, great
big girl as she was. All the members of the family
were assembled at the top of the stone steps. There was my
little trunk and then a wooden case of games which my mother
had brought, and a kite that my cousin had made, which he gave
me at the last moment just as the carriage was starting. I can
still see the large white house, which seemed to get smaller and
smaller the farther we drove away from it. I stood up, with
my father holding me and waved his blue silk muffler which I
had taken from his neck. After this I sat down in the carriage
and fell asleep, only rousing up again when we were at the
heavy-looking door of the Grandchamps Convent. I rubbed my
eyes and tried to collect my thoughts. I then jumped down
from the diligence and looked at everything around me. The
paving stones of the street were round and small, with grass
growing everywhere. There was a wall and then a great gateway
surmounted by a cross, and nothing behind it, nothing
whatever to be seen. To the left there was a house and to the
right the Sartory barracks. Not a sound to be heard, not a
footfall, not even an echo.
“Oh, mamma!” I exclaimed, “is it inside there I am
to go? Oh, no, I would rather go back to Mme. Fressard’s.”
My mother shrugged her shoulders and pointed to my father,
thus explaining that she was not responsible for this step. I
18rushed to him, and while ringing the bell, he took me by the
hand. The door opened, and he led me gently in, followed
by my mother and Aunt Rosine.
The courtyard was large and dreary-looking, but there
were buildings to be seen, and windows from which children’s
faces were gazing curiously at us. My father said something to
the nun who came forward, and she took us into the parlor. This
was large, with a polished floor, and was divided by an enormous
black grating which ran the whole length of the room. There
were benches covered with red velvet by the wall and a few
chairs and armchairs near the grating. On the walls were the
portraits of Pius IX., a full-length one of St. Augustine, and
one of Henri V. My teeth chattered, for it seemed to me that
I remembered reading in some book the description of a prison
and that it was just like this. I looked at my father and at my
mother and began to distrust them. I had so often heard that
I was ungovernable, that I needed an iron hand to rule me,
and that I was the devil incarnate in a child. My Aunt Faure
had so often repeated: “That child will come to a bad end, she
has such mad ideas, etc., etc.”
“Papa, papa,” I suddenly cried out, seized with terror, “I
won’t go to prison. This is a prison I am sure. I am frightened;
oh, I am so frightened!”
On the other side of the grating a door had just opened,
and I stopped to see who was coming. A little round, short
woman made her appearance and came up to the grating. Her
black veil was lowered as far as her mouth, so that I could see
scarcely anything of her face. She recognized my father, whom
she had probably seen before when matters were being arranged.
She opened the door in the grating and we all went through to
the other side of the room. On seeing me pale and my terrified
eyes full of tears, she gently took my hand in hers, and
turning her back to my father raised her veil. I then saw the
sweetest and merriest face imaginable, with large, childlike
blue eyes, a turn-up nose, a laughing mouth with full lips and
beautiful, strong, white teeth. She looked so kind, so energetic,
and so gay that I flung myself at once into her arms. It
19was Mother Ste. Sophie, the Superior of the Grandchamps
Convent.
“Ah, we are friends now, you see!” she said to my father,
lowering her veil again. What secret instinct could have told
this woman, who was not coquettish, who had no looking-glass
and never troubled about beauty, that her face was fascinating
and that her bright smile could enliven the gloom of the
convent?
“We will now go and visit the house,” she said.
We at once started, she and my father each holding one of
my hands. Two other nuns accompanied us, one of whom was
the mother-prefect, a tall, cold woman with thin lips, and Sister
Séraphine, who was as white and supple as a spray of lily of
the valley. We started by entering the building and came first
to the large class-room in which all the pupils met on Thursdays
at the lectures, which were nearly always given by Mother
Ste. Sophie. Most of them did needle-work all day long, tapestry,
embroidery, etc., and others decalcomania.
The room was very large and on St. Catherine’s Day and
other holidays we used to dance there. It was in this room, too,
that once a year the Mother Superior gave to each of the Sisters
the sou which represented her annual income. The walls were
adorned with religious engravings and with a few oil paintings
done by the pupils. The place of honor, though, belonged to
St. Augustine. A magnificent large engraving depicted the
conversion of this saint, and, oh, how often I have looked at that
engraving! St. Augustine has certainly caused me very much
emotion and greatly disturbed my childish heart. Mamma admired
the cleanliness of the refectory. She asked to see which
would be my seat at table, and when this was shown to her she
objected strongly to my having that place.
“No,” she said, “the child has not a strong chest and
she would always be in a draught. I will not let her sit
there.”
My father agreed with my mother and insisted on a change
being made. It was therefore decided that I should sit at the
end of the room, and the promise given was faithfully kept.
20When mamma saw the wide staircase leading to the dormitories
she was aghast. It was very, very wide and the steps
were low and easy to mount, but there were so many of them
before one reached the first floor. For a few seconds mamma
hesitated and stood there gazing at them, her arms hanging down
in despair.
“Stay down here, Youle,” said my aunt, “and I will go up.”
“No, no,” replied my mother in a sorrowful voice. “I
must see where the child is to sleep; she is so delicate.”
My father helped her, and indeed almost carried her up,
and we then went into one of the immense dormitories. It was
very much like the dormitory at Mme. Fressard’s, but a great
deal larger and there was a tiled floor without any carpet.
“Oh, this is quite impossible!” exclaimed mamma, “the
child cannot sleep here; it is too cold; it would kill her.”
The Mother Superior, Ste. Sophie, gave my mother a chair
and tried to soothe her. She was pale, for her heart was already
very much affected.
“We will put your little girl in this dormitory, madame,”
she said, opening a door that led into a room with eight beds.
The floor was of polished wood and this room, adjoining the
infirmary, was the one in which delicate or convalescent children
slept. Mamma was reassured on seeing this, and we then went
down and inspected the grounds. There were three woods, the
Little Wood, the Middle Wood, and the Big Wood, and then
there was an orchard that stretched along as far as the eye could
see. In this orchard was the building where the poor children
lived. They were taught gratis by the nuns, and every week
they helped with the laundry for the convent.
The sight of these immense woods with swings, hammocks,
and a gymnasium delighted me, for I thought I should be able
to roam about at pleasure there. Mother Ste. Sophie explained
to us that the Little Wood was reserved for the older pupils and
the Middle Wood for the little ones, while the Big Wood was
for the whole convent on holidays. Then after telling us about
the collecting of the chestnuts and the gathering of the acacia,
Mother Ste. Sophie informed us that every child could have
a small garden and that sometimes two or three of them had a
larger one between them.
REAR VIEW OF GRANDCHAMPS CONVENT, VERSAILLES.
21“Oh, can I have a garden of my own!” I exclaimed, “a
garden all to myself?”
“Yes,” replied my mother, “one of your own.”
The Mother Superior called the gardener, Père Larcher, the
only man, with the exception of the almoner, who was on the
convent staff.
“Père Larcher,” said the kind woman, “here is a little girl
who wants a beautiful garden. Find a nice place for it.”
“Very good, Reverend Mother,” answered the honest fellow,
and I saw my father slip a coin into his hand, for which
the man thanked him in an embarrassed way.
It was getting late and we had to separate. I remember
quite well that I did not feel any grief, as I was thinking of
nothing but my garden. The convent no longer seemed to me
like a prison but like Paradise. I kissed my mother and my
aunt. Papa drew me to him and held me a moment in a close
embrace. When I looked at him I saw that his eyes were full
of tears. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, and I gave him a
hearty kiss and whispered: “I am going to be very, very
good and work well, so that I can go with you at the end of four
years.” I then went toward my mother, who was giving
Mother Ste. Sophie the same instructions she had given to Mme.
Fressard about “cold cream, chocolate, jam, etc.” Mother
Ste. Sophie wrote down all these instructions, and it is only
fair to say that she carried them out afterwards most scrupulously.
When my parents had gone I felt inclined to cry, but the
Mother Superior took me by the hand, and leading me to the
Second Wood, showed me where my garden would be. That
was quite enough to distract my thoughts, for we found Père
Larcher there marking out my piece of ground in a corner of the
wood. There was a young birch tree against the wall. The
corner was formed by the joining of two walls, one of which
bounded the railway line of the left bank of the river which cuts
the Sartory Woods in two. The other wall was that of the
22cemetery. All the woods of the convent were part of the beautiful
Sartory Forest.
They had all given me money, my father, my mother, and
my aunt. I had altogether about forty or fifty francs, and I
wanted to give all to Père Larcher for buying seed. The Mother
Superior smiled and sent for the Mother Treasurer and Mother
Ste. Appoline. I had to hand all my money over to the former,
with the exception of twenty sous which she left me, saying:
“When that is all gone, little girl, come and get some more
from me.”
Mère Ste. Appoline, who taught botany, then asked me what
kind of flowers I wanted. What kind of flowers! Why I
wanted every sort that grew. She at once proceeded to give me
a botany lesson, by explaining that all flowers did not grow at
the same season. She then asked the Mother Treasurer for some
of my money, which she gave to Père Larcher, telling him to
buy me a spade, a rake, a hoe, and a watering-can, some seeds
and a few plants, the names of which she wrote down for him.
I was delighted, and I then went with Mother Ste. Sophie to the
refectory to have dinner. On entering the immense room I stood
still for a second, amazed and confused. More than a hundred
girls were assembled there, standing up for the benediction to be
pronounced. When the Mother Superior appeared, everyone
bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were turned on me.
Mother Ste. Sophie took me to the seat which had been chosen for
me at the end of the room and then returned to the middle of the
refectory. She stood still, made the sign of the cross, and in an
audible voice pronounced the benediction. As she left the room,
everyone bowed again and I then found myself alone, quite
alone in this cage of little wild animals. I was seated between
two little girls of from ten to twelve years old, both as dusky as
two young moles. They were twins from Jamaica, and their
names were Dolores and Pepa Cardanos. They had been in the
convent only two months and appeared to be as timid as I was.
The dinner was composed of soup, made of everything, and of
veal with haricot beans. I detested soup and I have always had
a horror of veal. I turned my plate over when the soup was
23handed round, but the nun who waited on us turned it up
again and poured the hot soup in, regardless of scalding me.
“You must drink your soup,” whispered my right-hand
neighbor, whose name was Pepa.
“I don’t like that sort and I don’t want any,” I said aloud.
The inspectress was passing by just at that moment.
“You must drink your soup, mademoiselle,” she said.
“No, I don’t like that sort of soup,” I answered.
She smiled and said in a gentle voice:
“We must like everything. I shall be coming round again
soon. Be a good girl and take your soup.”
I was getting into a rage, but Dolores gave me her empty
plate and drank the soup for me. When the inspectress came
round again she expressed her satisfaction. I was furious and
put my tongue out, and this made all the table laugh. She
turned round, and the pupil who sat at the end of the table and
was appointed to watch over us, because she was the eldest, said
to her in a low voice:
“It’s the new girl making grimaces.”
The inspectress moved away again, and when the veal was
served my portion found its way to the plate of my neighbor,
Dolores. I wanted to keep the haricot beans though, and we
almost came to a quarrel over them. She gave way finally, but
with the veal she dragged away a few beans which I tried to
keep on my plate.
An hour later we had evening prayers and afterwards all went
up to bed. My bed was placed against the wall, in which there
was a niche for the statue of the Virgin Mary. A lamp was
always kept burning in this niche, and the oil for it was provided
by the children who had been ill and were grateful for
their recovery. Two tiny flower-pots were placed at the foot
of the little statue. The pots were of terra cotta and the flowers
of paper. I made paper flowers very well, and I at once decided
that I would make all the flowers for the Virgin Mary. I fell
asleep to dream of garlands of flowers, of haricot beans, and of
distant countries, for the twins from Jamaica had made an
impression on my mind.
24The awakening was cruel. I was not accustomed to get up
so early. Daylight was scarcely visible through the opaque
windowpanes. I grumbled as I dressed, for we were allowed
only a quarter of an hour and it always took me a good half
hour to comb my hair. Sister Marie, seeing that I was not
ready, came toward me, and before I knew what she was going
to do, snatched the comb violently out of my hand.
“Come, come,” she said, “you must not dawdle like this.”
She then planted the comb in my mop of hair and tore out a
handful of it. Pain and anger at seeing myself treated in this
way threw me immediately into one of my fits of rage which
always terrified those who witnessed them. I flung myself upon
the unfortunate Sister and with feet, teeth, hands, elbows, head
and, indeed, all my poor little body I hit, thumped, and at the
same time yelled. All the pupils, all the Sisters, and indeed
everyone came running to see what was the matter. The Sisters
made the sign of the cross but did not venture to approach me.
The Mother Prefect threw some holy water over me to exorcise
the evil spirit. Finally the Mother Superior arrived on the
scene. My father had told her of my fits of wild fury, which
were my only serious fault, and my state of health was quite as
much responsible for them as the violence of my disposition.
She approached me. I was still clutching Sister Marie, but was
exhausted by this struggle with the poor woman, who although
tall and strong, only tried to ward off my blows without retaliating,
endeavoring to hold first my feet, and then my hands.
I looked up on hearing Mother Ste. Sophie’s voice. My eyes
were bathed in tears, but nevertheless I saw such an expression of
pity on her sweet face that without altogether letting go I ceased
fighting for a second, and trembling and ashamed, said very
quickly:
“She commenced it, she snatched the comb out of my hand
like a wicked woman, and tore out my hair. She was rough and
hurt me. She is a wicked, wicked woman.” I then burst into
sobs and my hands loosed their hold. The next thing I knew
was that I found myself lying on my little bed with Mother Ste.
Sophie’s hand on my forehead and her kind, deep voice lecturing
25me gently. All the others had gone and I was quite alone with
her and the Holy Virgin in the niche. From that day forth
Mother Ste. Sophie had an immense influence over me. Every
morning I went to her, and Sister Marie, whose forgiveness I
had been obliged to ask before the whole convent, combed my
hair out in her presence. Seated on a little stool I listened to
the book that the Mother Superior read to me or to the instructive
story she told me.
Ah, what an adorable woman she was, and how I love to
recall her to my memory! I adored her as a little child adores
the being who has entirely won its heart, without knowing, without
reasoning, without even being aware that it was so, but I
was simply under the spell of an infinite fascination. Since
then, though, I have understood and admired her, realizing how
unique and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the thick-set
exterior and happy face of that holy woman, I have loved her
for all that she awakened within me of nobleness. I love her
for the letters which she wrote to me, letters that I often read
over and over again. I love her, also, because imperfect as I
am, it seems to me that I should have been one hundred times
more so, had I not known and loved that pure creature. Once
only did I see her severe and feel that she was suddenly angry.
In the little room used as a parlor, leading into her cell, there
was a portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was
stamped with a certain nobility.
“Is that the Emperor?” I asked her.
“No,” she answered, turning quickly toward me, “it is the
King, it is Henri V.”
It was only later on that I understood the meaning of her
emotion. All the convent was royalist, and Henri V. was their
recognized sovereign. They all had the most utter contempt for
Napoleon III., and on the day when the Prince Imperial was
baptized there was no distribution of bonbons for us, and we
were not allowed the holiday that was accorded to all the colleges,
boarding schools, and convents. Politics were a dead letter to
me and I was happy at the convent, thanks to Mother Ste.
Sophie.
26Then, too, I was a favorite with my schoolfellows, who
frequently did my compositions for me. I did not care for any
studies except geography and drawing. Arithmetic drove me
wild, spelling plagued my life out, and I thoroughly despised
the piano. I was very timid and quite lost my head when
questioned unexpectedly.
I had a passion for animals of all kinds. I used to carry
about with me in small cardboard boxes, or cages that I manufactured
myself, adders, with which the woods were full, crickets,
that I found on the leaves of the tiger lilies, and lizards.
The latter nearly always had their tails broken, as in order to
see if they were eating, I used to lift the lid of the box a little.
On seeing this the lizards rushed to the opening. I would shut
the box very quickly, red with surprise at such assurance, when,
crack! in a twinkling, either at the right or left, there was nearly
always a tail caught. This used to grieve me for hours, and
while one of the Sisters was explaining to us, by figures on the
blackboard, the metric system, I was wondering, with my lizard’s
tail in my hand, how I could fasten it on again. I had some
death-watches in a little box, and five spiders in a cage that Père
Larcher had made for me with some wire netting. I used, very
cruelly, to give flies to my spiders and they, fat and well-fed,
would spin their webs. Very often during recreation a whole
group of us, ten or twelve little girls, would stand round, with
a cage on a bench or tree stump, and watch the wonderful work
of these little creatures. If one of my schoolfellows cut herself
I used to go quickly to her, feeling very proud and important:
“Come at once,” I would say, “I have some fresh spider-web
and I will wrap your finger in it.” Provided with a little thin
stick I would take the web and wrap it round the wounded
finger. “And now, my lady spiders,” I would say, “you must
begin your work again,” and, active and minute, mesdames, the
spiders, began their spinning once more.
I was looked upon as a little authority and was made umpire
in questions that had to be decided. I used to receive orders for
fashionable trousseaux, made of paper, for dolls. It was quite
an easy thing for me in those days to make long ermine cloaks
27with fur tippets and muff, and this filled my little playfellows
with admiration. I charged for my trousseaux, according to
their importance, two pencils, five tête-de-mort nibs, or a couple
of sheets of white paper. In short, I became a personality, and
that sufficed for my childish pride. I did not learn anything
and I received no distinctions. My name was only once on the
honor list, and that was not as a studious pupil but for a courageous
deed. I had fished a little girl out of the big pool. She
had fallen in while trying to catch frogs. The pool was
in the large orchard on the poor children’s side of the
grounds. As a punishment for some misdeed, which I do not
remember, I had been sent away for two days among the poor
children. This was supposed to be a punishment and I delighted
in it. In the first place I was looked upon by them as a “young
lady.” Then I used to give the day pupils a few sous to bring
me, on the sly, a little moist sugar. During recreation I heard
some heartrending shrieks and, rushing to the pool from whence
they came, I saw a little girl immersed in it. I jumped into
the water without reflecting. There was so much mud that we
both sank in it. The little girl was only four years old and so
small that she kept disappearing. I was over ten at that time.
I do not know how I managed to rescue her, but I dragged her
out of the water with her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes all filled
with mud. I was told afterwards that it was a long time before
she was restored to consciousness. As for me, I was carried
away with my teeth chattering, nervous and half fainting. I
was very feverish afterwards and Mother Ste. Sophie herself
sat up with me. I overheard her words to the doctor:
“This child,” she said, “is one of the best we have here.
She will be perfect when once she has received the Holy Chrism.”
This speech made such an impression on me that, from that
day forth, mysticism had a great hold on me. I had a very vivid
imagination and was extremely sensitive, and the Christian
legend took possession of me, heart and soul. The Son of God
became the object of my worship and the Mother of the Seven
Sorrows, my ideal.
An event, very simple in itself, was destined to disturb the
28silence of our secluded life and to attach me more than ever to
my convent, where I wanted to remain forever.
The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was paying a
round of visits to some of the communities and ours was among
the chosen ones. The news was told us by Mother Ste. Alexis,
the senior, who was so tall, so thin, and so old that I never looked
upon her as a human being, or as a living being. It always
seemed to me as though she were stuffed and as though she
moved by machinery. She frightened me and I never consented
to go near to her until after her death.
We were all assembled in the large room which we used on
Thursdays. Mother Ste. Alexis, supported by two lay Sisters,
stood on the little platform and, in a voice that sounded far, far
off, announced to us the approaching visit of monseigneur. He
was to come on Ste. Catherine’s Day, just a fortnight after the
speech of the Reverend Mother.
Our peaceful convent was thenceforth like a beehive in
which a hornet had entered. Our lesson hours were curtailed,
so that we might have time to make festoons of roses and lilies.
The wide, tall armchair of carved wood was uncushioned, so that
it might be varnished and polished. We made lamp shades
covered with crystalline. The grass was pulled up in the courtyard ... and I cannot tell what was not done in honor of this
visitor.
Two days after the announcement made by Mother Ste.
Alexis the programme of the fête was read to us by Mother Ste.
Sophie. The youngest of the nuns was to read a few words of
welcome to monseigneur. This was the delightful Sister Séraphine.
After that Marie Buguet was to play a pianoforte solo
by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by Louise
Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given,
entitled, “Toby Recovering His Eyesight.” It had been written
by Mother Thérèse. I have now before me the little
manuscript, all yellow with age and torn, and I can only just
make out the sense of it and a few of the phrases.
The little play was read to us by Mother Ste. Thérèse one
Thursday, in the large assembly room. We were all in tears
29at the end, and Mother Ste. Thérèse was obliged to make a great
effort in order to avoid committing, if only for a second, the
sin of pride.
Scene I. Toby’s farewell to his blind father. He vows to
bring back to him the ten talents lent to Gabelus, one of his
relatives. Scene II. Toby, asleep on the banks of the Tiber,
is being watched over by the Angel Raphael. Struggle with a
monster fish which had attacked Toby while he slept. When
the fish is killed the angel advises Toby to take its heart, its liver,
and its gall, and to preserve these religiously. Scene III. Toby’s
return to his blind father. The angel tells him to rub the old
man’s eyes with the entrails of the fish. The father’s eyesight
is restored, and when Toby begs the Angel Raphael to accept
some reward the latter makes himself known, and in a song to
the glory of God, vanishes to heaven.
I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious
comedy, for, considering that I was now treated as a
little personage, I had no doubt but that some rôle would be distributed
to me. The very thought of it made me tremble beforehand,
and I kept saying to myself: “Oh, no, I could never
say anything aloud!” I began to get quite nervous, my
hands became quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my
temples throbbed. I did not approach, but remained sulkily
seated on my stool when Mother Ste. Thérèse said in her calm
voice:
“Young ladies, please pay attention, and listen for your
names for the different parts:
Old Toby
Eugénie Charmel
Young Toby
Amelie Pluche
Gabelus
Renée d’Arville
The Angel Raphael
Louise Buguet
Toby’s mother
Eulalie Lacroix
Toby’s sister
Virginie Depaul”
I had been listening, although pretending not to, and I was
stupefied, amazed, and furious. Mother Ste. Thérèse then added:
“Here are your manuscripts, young ladies,” and a manuscript
30of the little play was handed to each pupil chosen to take part
in it.
Louise Buguet was my favorite playmate, and I went up to
her and asked her to let me see her manuscript, which I read
again enthusiastically.
“You’ll hear me rehearse, when I have learned it, won’t
you?” she asked, and I answered:
“Yes, certainly.”
“Oh, how frightened I shall be!” she said.
She had been chosen for the angel, I suppose, because she was
as pale and sweet as a moonbeam. She had a soft, timid voice,
and sometimes we used to make her cry, as she was so pretty
then. The tears used to flow limpid and pearl-like from her
gray, questioning eyes.
She began at once to learn her part, and I was like a shepherd’s
dog going from one to another among the chosen ones.
I had really nothing to do with it, but I wanted to be “in it.”
The Mother Superior passed by, and as we all courtesied to her
she patted my cheek.
“We thought of you, little girl,” she said, “but you are
so timid when you are asked anything.”
“Oh, that’s when it is history or arithmetic!” I said. “This
is not the same thing, and I should not have been afraid.”
She smiled distrustfully and moved on.
There were rehearsals during the next week. I asked to be
allowed to take the part of the monster, as I wanted to have
some rôle in the play, at any cost. It was decided, though, that
César, the convent dog, should be the fish monster.
A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to
an endless amount of trouble, cutting out scales from cardboard
that I had painted, and sewing them together afterward. I
made some enormous gills, which were to be glued on to César.
My costume was not chosen; it was passed over for that of a
stupid, big girl, whose name I cannot remember. She had made
a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but there
were no scales, and we should have to see César’s shaggy coat.
I nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet’s costume,
31and worked at it with two of the lay Sisters, Sister Ste. Cécile
and Sister Ste. Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room.
At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel
Raphael. She stood there stupefied, on the little platform,
tears dimming her beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play
to a standstill, and kept appealing to me in a weeping voice.
I prompted her, and getting up, rushed to her, kissed her, and
whispered her whole speech to her. I was beginning to be “in
it” myself, at last.
Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a
dress rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but immediately on
entering, he sank down on a bench sobbing out in an imploring
voice:
“Oh, no, I shall never be able to do it, never!”
“Quite true, she never will be able to,” sighed Mother Ste.
Sophie.
Forgetting for the moment my little friend’s grief, and wild
with joy, pride, and assurance, I ran up to the platform and
bounded on to the form on which the Angel Raphael had sunk
down weeping.
“Oh, Mother, I know her part, shall I take her place for
the rehearsal?”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed voices from all sides.
“Oh, yes, you know it so well,” said Louise Buguet, and she
wanted to put her band on my head.
“No, let me rehearse as I am, first,” I answered.
They began the second scene again and I came in carrying a
long branch of willow.
“Fear nothing, Toby,” I commenced. “I will be your
guide. I will remove from your path all thorns and stones....
You are overwhelmed with fatigue. Lie down and rest, for I
will watch over you.”
Thereupon Toby, worn out, lay down by the side of a strip of
blue muslin, about five yards of which, stretched out and winding
about, represented the Tiber.
I then continued by a prayer to God while Toby fell asleep.
César next appeared as the monster fish and the audience trembled
32with fear. César had been well taught by the gardener, Père
Larcher, and he advanced slowly from under the blue muslin.
He was wearing his mask, representing the head of a fish. Two
enormous nutshells for his eyes had been painted white, and a
hole pierced through them, so that the dog could see. The mask
was fastened with wire to his collar, which also supported two
gills as large as palm leaves. César, sniffing the ground, snorted
and growled and then leaped wildly on to Toby, who with his
cudgel, slew the monster at one blow. The dog fell on his back
with his four paws in the air, and then rolled over on his side,
pretending to be dead.
There was wild delight in the house, and the audience clapped
and stamped. The younger pupils stood up on their stools and
shouted: “Good César! Clever César! Oh, good dog, good
dog!” The Sisters, touched by the efforts of the guardian of
the convent, shook their heads with emotion. As for me, I quite
forgot that I was the Angel Raphael, and I stooped down and
stroked César affectionately. “Ah, how well he has acted his
part!” I said, kissing him and taking one paw and then the
other in my hand, while the dog, motionless, continued to be
dead.
The little bell was rung to call us to order. I stood up again,
and accompanied by the piano, we burst into a hymn of praise, a
duet to the glory of God, who had just saved Toby from the fearful
monster.
After this the little green serge curtain was drawn and I was
surrounded, petted, and praised. Mother Ste. Sophie came up
onto the platform and kissed me affectionately. As to Louise
Buguet, she was now joyful again and her angelic face beamed.
“Oh, how well you knew the part!” she said. “And then,
too, everyone can hear what you say. Oh, thank you so much!”
She kissed me and I hugged her with all my might—at last I
was in it!
The third scene began. The action took place in Father
Toby’s house. Gabelus, the Angel, and young Toby were holding
the entrails of the fish in their hands and looking at them.
The Angel explained how they must be used for rubbing the
33blind father’s eyes. I felt rather sick, for I was holding in my
hand a skate’s liver, and the heart and gizzard of a fowl. I had
never touched such things before and every now and then the sick
feeling made me heave, and the tears came into my eyes.
Finally, the blind father came in, led by Toby’s sister.
Gabelus knelt down before the old man and gave him the ten
silver talents, telling him in a long recital, of Toby’s exploits
in Media. After this Toby advanced, embraced his father and
then rubbed his eyes with the skate’s liver.
Eugénie Charmel made a grimace, but after wiping her eyes
she exclaimed:
“I can see, I can see. O God of goodness, God of mercy, I
can see, I can see!”
She came forward with outstretched arms, her eyes open, in
an ecstatic attitude, and the whole little assembly, so simple-minded
and loving, wept.
All the actors except old Toby and the Angel sank on their
knees and gave praise to God, and at the close of this thanksgiving
the public, moved by religious sentiment and discipline, repeated,
Amen!
Toby’s mother then approached the Angel and said:
“Oh, noble stranger, take up your abode from henceforth
with us; you shall be our guest, our son, our brother!”
I then advanced, and in a long speech of at least thirty lines,
made known that I was the messenger of God, that I was the
Angel Raphael. I then gathered up quickly the pale blue tarlatan,
which was being concealed for a final effect, and veiled myself
in cloudy tissue which was intended to simulate my flight
heavenward. The little green serge curtain was then closed on
this apotheosis.
Finally the solemn day arrived. I was so feverish with expectation
that I could not sleep the last three nights. The dressing
bell was rung for us earlier than usual, but I was already up
and trying to smooth my rebellious hair, which I brushed with a
wet brush by way of making it behave better.
Monseigneur was to arrive at eleven o’clock in the morning.
34We therefore lunched at ten and were then drawn up in the principal
courtyard. Only Mother Ste. Alexis, the eldest of the
nuns, was in the front and Mother Ste. Sophie just behind her.
The almoner was a little distance away from the two Superiors.
Then came the other nuns, and behind them the girls, and then
all the little children. The lay Sisters and the servants were also
there. We were all dressed in white with the respective colors of
our various classes.
The bell rang out a peal. The large carriage entered the first
courtyard. The gate of the principal courtyard was then opened
and Monseigneur appeared on the carriage steps, which the footman
lowered for him. Mother Ste. Alexis advanced, and bending
down, kissed the episcopal ring. Mother Ste. Sophie, the
Superior, who was younger, knelt down to kiss the ring. The
signal was then given to us and we all knelt to receive the benediction
of Monseigneur. When we looked up again the big gate
was closed and Monseigneur had disappeared, conducted by the
Mother Superior. Mother Ste. Alexis was exhausted, and went
back to her cell.
In obedience to the signal given we all rose from our knees.
We then went to the chapel where a short mass was celebrated,
after which we had an hour’s recreation. The concert was to
commence at half past one. The recreation hour was devoted to
preparing the large room and to getting ready to appear before
Monseigneur. I wore the Angel’s long robe with a blue sash
round my waist, and two paper wings fastened on with narrow
blue straps, that crossed over each other in front. Round my
head was a band of gold braid, fastening behind. I kept mumbling
my “part” (for in those days we did not know the word
“rôle”). We are more used to the theater at present, but at
the convent we always said “part,” and years afterwards I was
surprised, the first time I played in England, to hear a young
English girl say: “Oh, what a fine part you had in ‘Hernani.’”
The room looked beautiful, oh, so beautiful! There were
festoons of green leaves, with paper flowers at intervals, everywhere.
Then there were little lusters hung about with gold cord.
A wide piece of red velvet carpet was laid down from the door
35to Monseigneur’s armchair, upon which were two cushions of
red velvet with gold fringe.
I thought all these horrors very fine, very beautiful!
The concert began and it seemed to me that everything went
very well. Monseigneur, however, could not help smiling at the
sight of César, and it was he who led the applause when the dog
died. It was César, in fact, who had the greatest success, but we
were nevertheless sent for to appear before Monseigneur Sibour.
He was certainly the kindest and most charming of prelates and
on this occasion he gave to each of us a consecrated medal.
When my turn came he took my hand in his and said:
“It is you, my child, who are not baptized, is it not?”
“Yes, Reverend Father, yes, Monseigneur,” I replied in
confusion.
“She is to be baptized this spring,” said the Mother Superior.
“Her father is coming back specially from a very distant
country.”
She and Monseigneur then said a few words to each other in
a very low voice.
“Very well, if I can, I will come again for the ceremony,”
said the archbishop aloud.
I was trembling with emotion and pride as I kissed the old
man’s ring and then ran away to the dormitory, and cried for a
long time. I was found there, later on, fast asleep from exhaustion.
From that day forth I was a better child, more studious and
less violent. In my fits of anger I was calmed by the mention of
Monseigneur Sibour’s name, and reminded of his promise to come
for my baptism.
Alas! I was not destined to have that great joy. One morning
in January, when we were all assembled in the chapel for mass, I
was surprised, and had a foreboding of coming evil, when I saw
the Abbé Lethurgi go up into the pulpit before commencing the
mass. He was very pale, and I turned instinctively to look at
the Mother Superior. She was seated in her regular place. The
almoner then began, in a voice broken with emotion, to tell us of
the murder of Monseigneur Sibour.
36Murdered! A thrill of horror went through us and a hundred
stifled cries, forming one great sob, drowned for an instant
the priest’s voice. Murdered! The word seemed to sting me
personally even more than the others. Had I not been, for one
instant, the favorite of the kind old man! It was as though the
murderer, Verger, had struck at me, too, in my grateful love for
the prelate, in my little fame of which he had now robbed me. I
burst into sobs, and the organ accompanying the prayer for the
dead increased my grief, which became so intense that I fainted.
It was from this moment that I was taken with an ardent love
for mysticism. It was fortified by the religious exercises, the
dramatic effort of our worship and the gentle encouragement,
both fervent and sincere, of those who were educating me. They
were very fond of me and I adored them so that even now the
very memory of them, fascinating and restful as it is, thrills me
with affection.
The time appointed for my baptism drew near, and I grew
more and more excitable. My nervous attacks were more and
more frequent, fits of tears for no reason at all, and fits of terror
without any cause. Everything seemed to take strange proportions,
as far as I was concerned. One day one of my little friends
dropped a doll that I had lent her (for I played with dolls until
I was over thirteen). I began to tremble all over, as I adored
that doll, which had been given to me by my father.
“You have broken my doll’s head, you naughty girl!” I exclaimed.
“You have hurt my father!”
I would not eat anything afterwards, and in the night I woke
up in a great perspiration, with haggard eyes, sobbing:
“Papa is dead! Papa is dead!”
Three days later my mother came. She asked to see me in
the parlor, and making me stand in front of her, she said:
“My poor little girl, I have something to tell you that will
cause you great sorrow. Papa is dead.”
“I know,” I said, “I know,” and the expression in my
eyes, my mother frequently told me afterwards, was such that
she trembled a long time for my reason.
SARAH BERNHARDT AND HER MOTHER.
37I was very sad and not at all well. I refused to learn anything except the catechism and Scripture, and I wanted to be a
nun.
My mother begged to have my two sisters baptized with
me; Jeanne, who was then six years old, and Régina, who was not
three, but who had been taken as a boarder at the convent, with
the idea that her presence might cheer me a little.
I was isolated for a week before my baptism and for a week
afterwards, as I was to be confirmed the week after my baptism.
My mother, Aunt Rosine Berendt, and Aunt Henriette Faure,
my godfather, Regis Lavallée, M. Lesprin, Jeanne’s godfather,
and General Polès, Régina’s godfather, the godmothers of my
two sisters, and my various cousins all came and revolutionized
the convent. My mother and my aunts were in fashionable
mourning attire. Aunt Rosine had put a spray of lilac in her
bonnet “to enliven her mourning,” as she said. It was a
strange expression, but I have certainly heard it since used by
other people besides her.
I had never before felt so far away from all these people who
had come there on my account. I adored my mother, but with a
touching and fervent desire to leave her, never to see her again,
to sacrifice her to God. As to the others I did not see them. I
was very grave and rather moody. A short time previously a
nun had taken the veil at the convent and I could think of nothing
else.
This baptismal ceremony was the prelude to my dream. I
could see myself like the novice who had just been admitted as a
nun. I pictured myself lying down on the ground, covered over
with a heavy, black cloth, with its white cross, and four massive
candlesticks placed at the four corners of the cloth. And I
planned to die under this cloth. How I was to do this I
did not know. I did not think of killing myself, as I knew that
would be a crime. But I made up my mind to die like this, and
my ideas galloped along so that I saw in my imagination the
horror of the Sisters and heard the cries of the pupils and was
delighted at the emotion which I had caused.
After the baptismal ceremony my mother wished to take me
away with her. She had rented a small house with a garden in
38the Boulevard de la Reine, at Versailles, for my holidays, and
she had decorated it with flowers for this fête day, as she wanted
to celebrate the baptism of her three children. She was very
gently told that, as I was to be confirmed in a week’s time, I was
not to be isolated until then. My mother cried, and I can remember
now, to my sorrow, that it did not make me sad to see
her tears, but quite the contrary.
When everyone had gone and I went into the little cell, in
which I had been living for the last week and was to live for another
week, I fell on my knees in a state of exaltation and offered
up to God my mother’s sorrow.
“You saw, O Lord God, that mamma cried and that it did
not affect me.” Poor child that I was, I imagined in my wild
exaggeration of everything that what was expected from me was
the renunciation of all affection, devotion, and pity.
The following day, Mother Ste. Sophie lectured me gently
about my wrong comprehension of religious duties, and she told
me that when once I was confirmed she should give me a fortnight’s
holiday, to go and make my mother forget her sorrow and
disappointment.
My confirmation took place with the same pompous ceremonial.
All the pupils, dressed in white, carried wax tapers.
For the whole week I had refused to eat. I was pale and had
grown thinner and my eyes looked larger from my perpetual
transports, for I went to extremes in everything.
Baron Larrey, who came with my mother to my confirmation,
begged for me to have a month’s holiday to recruit, and this was
accorded.
Accordingly we started, my mother, Mme. Guérard, her son
Ernest, my sister Jeanne and I, for Cauterets in the Pyrénées.
The movement, the packing of the trunks, parcels, and packages,
the railway, the diligence, the scenery, the crowds, and the
general disturbance cured me and my nerves and my mysticism.
I clapped my hands, laughed aloud, flung myself on mamma and
nearly stifled her with kisses. I sang hymns at the top of my
voice, I was hungry and thirsty, so I ate, drank, and in a word,
lived.
CHAPTER III A PRANK AND ITS RESULTS
39
Cauterets at that time was not what it is now. It
was an abominable but charming little hole of a
place with plenty of verdure, very few houses, and a
great many huts belonging to the mountain people.
There were plenty of donkeys to be hired that took us up the
mountains by extraordinary paths. I adore the sea and the
plain, but I care neither for mountains nor for forests. Mountains
seem to crush me, and forests to stifle me. I must, at any
cost, have the horizon stretching out as far as the eye can see,
and skies to dream about.
I wanted to go up the mountains, so that they should lose
their crushing effect. And consequently we went up always
higher and higher. Mamma used to stay at home with her
sweet friend Mme. Guérard. She used to read novels while
Mme. Guérard embroidered. They would sit there together
without speaking, each dreaming her own dream, seeing it fade
away and beginning it over again. The old servant Marguerite
was the only domestic mamma had brought with her, and she used
to accompany us, and was always gay and daring. She always
knew how to make the men laugh with speeches, the sense and
crudeness of which I did not understand until much later. She
was the life of the party always. As she had been with us from
the time we were born, she was very familiar, and sometimes
objectionably so. I would not let her have her own way with me,
though, and I used to answer her back in the most cutting manner.
She would take her revenge in the evening by giving us a
dish of sweets for dinner that I did not like.
40I began to look better for the change, and although still very
religious, my mysticism was growing calmer. As I could not
exist, however, without a passion of some kind I began to get
very fond of the goats, and I asked mamma quite seriously
whether I might become a goat-herd.
“I would rather you were that than a nun,” she replied, and
then she added: “We will talk about it later on.”
Every day I brought down with me from the mountain
another little kid, and we already had seven when my mother
interfered and put a stop to my zeal.
Finally it was time to return to the convent. My holiday
was over and I was quite well again. I was to go back to work
once more. I accepted the situation willingly to the great surprise
of mamma, who loved traveling, but detested the actual
moving from one place to another.
I was delighted at the idea of the repacking of the parcels
and trunks, of being seated in things that moved along, of seeing
again all the villages, towns, people, and trees that changed all
the time. I wanted to take my goats with me but my mother
very positively refused.
“You are mad,” she exclaimed, “seven goats in a train and
in a carriage! Where could you put them? No, a hundred
times no!”
She finally consented to my taking two of them and a blackbird
that one of the mountaineers had given me.
And so we returned to the convent. I was received there
with such sincere joy that I felt very happy again immediately.
I was allowed to keep my two goats there and to have them out
at playtime. We had great fun with them; they used to bunt
us and we used to bunt them, and we laughed, frolicked, and were
very foolish. And yet I was nearly fourteen at this time, but
very puny and childish.
I stayed at the convent another ten months without learning
anything more. The idea of becoming a nun always haunted me,
but I was no longer a mystic.
My godfather looked upon me as the greatest dunce. I
worked, though, during the holidays and I used to have lessons
41with Sophie Croizette who lived near to our country house. This
gave a slight impetus to me in my studies, but it was only slight.
Sophie was very gay, and what we liked best was to go to
the Museum where her sister Pauline, who was later on to
become Mme. Carolus Duran, was copying pictures by the great
masters.
Pauline was as cold and calm as Sophie was charming, talkative,
and noisy. Pauline Croizette was beautiful, but I liked
Sophie better; she was more gracious and pretty. Mme.
Croizette, their mother, always seemed sad and resigned. She
had given up her career very early. She had been a dancer at the
Opera in St. Petersburg and had been very much adored and
flattered and spoiled. I fancy it was the birth of Sophie that had
compelled her to leave the stage. Her money then had been injudiciously
invested and she had been ruined. She was very
distinguished-looking, her face had a kind expression, there was
an infinite melancholy about her and people were instinctively
drawn toward her. Mamma had made her acquaintance while
listening to the music in the park at Versailles, and for some
time we saw a great deal of her.
Sophie and I had some fine games in that magnificent park.
Our greatest joy, though, was to go to Mme. Masson’s in the Rue
de la Gare. Mme. Masson had a curiosity shop. Her daughter
Cécile was a perfect little beauty. We three used to delight
in changing the tickets on the vases, snuffboxes, fans, and jewels,
and then, when poor M. Masson came back with a rich customer—for
Masson, the antiquary, enjoyed a world-wide reputation—Sophie
and I used to hide so that we should see his fury.
Cécile, with an innocent air, would be helping her mother and
glancing slyly at us from time to time.
The whirl of life separated me brusquely from all these
people whom I loved, and an incident, trivial in itself, caused
me to leave the convent earlier than my mother wished.
It was a fête day and we had two hours for recreation. We
were marching in procession along the wall which skirts the railway
on the left bank of the Seine and as we were burying my pet
lizard we were chanting the “De Profundis.” About twenty of
42my little playfellows were following me, when suddenly a
soldier’s cap fell at my feet.
“What’s that?” called out one of the girls.
“A soldier’s cap.”
“Did it come from over the wall?”
“Yes, yes.... Listen, there’s a quarrel going on!”
We were suddenly silent, listening with all our ears.
“Don’t be stupid! It’s idiotic!”
“It’s the Grandchamps Convent!”
“How am I to get my cap back?”
These were the words we overheard and then, as a soldier
suddenly appeared astride our wall, there were shrieks from the
terrified children and angry exclamations from the nuns.
In a second we were all about twenty yards away from the
wall, like a group of frightened sparrows flying off to land a
little farther away, inquisitive and very much on the alert.
“Have you seen my cap, young ladies?” called out the unfortunate
soldier in a beseeching tone.
“No, no!” I cried, hiding it behind my back.
“Oh, no!” echoed the other girls with peals of laughter, and
in the most tormenting, insolent, jeering way we continued shouting
“No!” “No!” running backward all the time in reply to
the Sisters who, veiled and hidden behind the trees, were in
despair.
We were only a few yards from the huge gymnasium. I
climbed up breathless at full speed and reached the wide plank
at the top. When there, I unfastened the rope ladder, but as I
could not get the wooden ladder up to me by which I had mounted,
I unfastened the rings and banged it down so that it broke,
making a great noise. I then stood up wickedly triumphant on
the plank, calling out: “Here it is—your cap, but you won’t
get it now!” I put it on my head and walked up and down,
as no one could get to me there. I suppose my first idea had
just been to have a little fun, but the girls had laughed and
clapped, and my strength had held out better than I had
hoped, so that my head was turned, and nothing could stop
me then.
43The young soldier was furious. He jumped down from the
wall and rushed in my direction, pushing the girls out of his way.
The Sisters, beside themselves, ran to the house calling for help.
The chaplain, the Mother Superior, Père Larcher and everyone
else came running out. I believe the soldier swore like a
trooper, and it was really quite excusable. Mother Ste. Sophie,
from below, besought me to come down and to give up the cap.
The soldier tried to get up to me by means of the trapeze, but on
seeing this I quickly drew up the knotted rope.
His useless efforts delighted all the pupils, whom the Sisters
had in vain tried to send away. Finally the Sister who was
doorkeeper sounded the alarm bell, and five minutes later the
soldiers from the Sartory Barracks arrived, thinking that a fire
had broken out. When the officer in command was told what was
the matter, he sent back his men and asked to see the Mother
Superior. He was brought to Mother Ste. Sophie, whom he
found at the foot of the gymnasium, crying with shame and impotence.
He ordered the soldier to return immediately to the
barracks. He obeyed after clenching his fist at me, but on looking
up he could not help laughing. His cap came down to my
eyes and was only kept back by my ears, which were bent, to prevent
it from covering my face.
I was furious and wildly excited with the turn my joke had
taken.
“There it is—your cap!” I called out, and flung it violently
over the wall which skirted the gymnasium and formed the
boundary to the cemetery.
“Oh, the young plague!” muttered the officer, and then,
apologizing to the nuns, he saluted them and went away accompanied
by Père Larcher.
As for me I felt like a fox after having its tail cut. I refused
to come down immediately.
“I shall come down when everyone has gone away,” I announced.
All the girls received punishments and I was left
alone. The sun set and the silence then terrified me, looking as
I did out on the cemetery. The dark trees took mournful or
threatening shapes. The moisture from the wood fell like a
44mantle over my shoulders and seemed to get heavier every
moment. I felt abandoned by everyone and I began to cry. I
was angry with myself, with the soldier, with Mother Ste.
Sophie, with the pupils who had excited me by their laughter,
with the officer who had humiliated me, and with the Sister who
had sounded the alarm bell.
Then I began to think about getting down the rope ladder,
which I had pulled up on the plank. Very clumsily, trembling
with fear at the least sound, listening eagerly all the time, and
with eyes looking to the right and left, I was a long time unhooking
it, being very much afraid. Finally, I managed to unroll
it, and I was just about to put my foot on the first rung when
the barking of César alarmed me. He was tearing along from
the wood. The sight of the dark figure on the gymnasium appeared
to the faithful dog to bode no good. He was furious and
began to scratch the thick wooden uprights.
“Why, César, don’t you know your friend?” I said very
gently. He growled in reply and in a louder voice I said:
“Fie, César, bad César, you ought to be ashamed! Fancy
barking at your friend!” He now began to howl and I was
seized with terror. I pulled the ladder up again and sat down at
the top. César lay down at the bottom of the gymnasium, his tail
straight out, his ears pricked up, his coat bristling, growling in a
sullen way. I appealed to the Holy Virgin to help me. I prayed
fervently, vowed to say three Aves, three Credos, and three
Paters as well every day.
When I was a little calmer I called out in a subdued voice:
“César! my dear César, my beautiful César! You know I am
the Angel Raphael!”
Ah, much César cared for him! He considered my presence,
quite alone, at so late an hour, in the garden and on the gymnasium,
quite incomprehensible. Why was I not in the refectory?
Poor César, he went on growling, and I was getting very hungry
and began to think things were most unjust. It was true
that I had been to blame for taking the soldier’s cap, but after
all he had begun it all. Why had he thrown his cap over the
45wall? My imagination now came to my aid, and in the end I
began to look upon myself as a martyr. I had been left to the
dog, and he would eat me. I was terrified at the dead people behind
me, and everyone knew I was very nervous. My chest, too,
was delicate, and there I was exposed to the biting cold with no
protection whatever. I began to think about Mother Ste. Sophie,
who evidently no longer cared for me, as she was deserting me so
cruelly. I lay with my face downward on the plank, and gave
myself up to the wildest despair, calling my mother, my father,
and Mother Ste. Sophie, sobbing, wishing I could die there and
then; between my sobs I suddenly heard my name pronounced by
a gentle voice. I got up, and peering through the gloom, caught
a glimpse of my beloved Mother Ste. Sophie. She was there, the
dear saint, and had never left her rebellious child. Concealed
behind the statue of St. Augustine, she had been praying while
awaiting the end of this crisis, which in her simplicity she had
believed might prove fatal to my reason and perhaps to my salvation.
She had sent everyone away and remained there alone
and she, too, had not dined. I came down and threw myself repentant
and wretched into her motherly arms. She did not
say a word to me about the horrible incident, but took me
quickly back to the convent. I was all damp, with the icy
evening dew, my cheeks were feverish, and my hands and feet
frozen.
I had an attack of pleurisy after this and was twenty-three
days between life and death. Mother Ste. Sophie never left me
an instant. The sweet Mother blamed herself for my illness, declaring
as she beat her breast that she had left me outside too
long.
“It’s my fault! It’s my fault!” she kept exclaiming.
My Aunt Faure came to see me nearly every day. My mother
was in Scotland and came back by short stages. My Aunt Rosine
was at Baden-Baden and was ruining the whole family. “I am
coming back,” she kept writing from time to time, when she
wrote to ask how I was. Dr. D’Espagne and Dr. Monod, who
had been called in for a consultation, did not think there was
any hope. Baron Larrey, who was very fond of me, came often.
46He had a certain influence over me and I willingly obeyed him.
My mother arrived a short time before my convalescence and did
not leave me again. As soon as I could be moved she took me to
Paris, promising to send me back to the convent as soon as I was
quite well.
It was forever, though, that I had left my dear convent, but
it was not forever that I left Mother Ste. Sophie. I seemed to
take something of her away with me. For a long time she made
part of my life and even to-day, when she has been dead for
years, the recollection of her brings back to me the simple
thoughts of former days and makes the flowers of youth to bloom
again.
Life for me now began in earnest. Cloister existence is one
of unbroken sameness for all. There may be a hundred or a
thousand individuals there, but everyone lives a life which is the
same and the only one for all. The rumor of the outside world
dies away at the heavy cloister gate. The sole ambition is to sing
more loudly than the others at Vespers, to take a little more of
the form, to be at the end of the table, to be on the list of honor.
When I was told that I was not to go back to the convent, it was
to me as though I was to be thrown into the sea when I could not
swim.
I besought my godfather to let me go back. The dowry left
to me by my father was ample enough for the dowry of a nun. I
wanted to take the veil.
“Very well,” replied my godfather, “you can take the veil
in two years’ time, but not before. In the mean time learn all
that you do not yet know, and that means everything, from the
governess your mother has chosen for you.”
That very day an elderly, unmarried lady with soft, gray,
gentle eyes came and took possession of my life, my mind, and my
conscience for eight hours every day. Her name was Mlle. De
Brabender and she had educated a grand duchess in Russia.
She had a sweet voice, an enormous sandy mustache, a grotesque
nose, but a way of walking, of expressing herself, and of bowing
which simply commanded all deference. She lived at the
convent in Rue Notre Dame des Champs, and this was why in
47spite of my mother’s entreaties she refused to come and live
with us.
She soon won my affection and I learned quite easily with her
everything that she wanted me to learn. I worked eagerly, for
my dream was to return to the convent, not as a pupil but as a
teaching Sister.
CHAPTER IV IN FAMILY COUNCIL ASSEMBLED
48
I arose one September morning, my heart leaping with
some remote joy. It was eight o’clock. I pressed
my forehead against the windowpanes and gazed
out, looking at I know not what. I had been roused
with a start in the midst of some fine dream, and I had rushed
toward the light in the hope of finding in the infinite space of the
gray sky the luminous point that would explain my anxious and
blissful expectation. Expectation of what? I could not have
answered that question then, any more than I can now, after
much reflection. I was on the eve of my fifteenth birthday and
I was in a state of expectation as to the future of my life. That
particular morning seemed to me to be the precursor of a new
era. I was not mistaken, for on that September day my fate was
settled for me.
Hypnotized by what was taking place in my mind, I remained
with my forehead pressed against the windowpane, gazing,
through the halo of vapor formed by my breath, at houses, palaces,
carriages, jewels, and pearls passing along in front of me.
Oh, what a number of pearls there were! There were princes
and kings, too; yes, I could even see kings! Oh, how fast one’s
imagination travels, and its enemy, reason, always allows it to
roam on alone! In my fancy, I proudly rejected the princes, I
rejected the kings, refused the pearls and the palaces, and declared
that I was going to be a nun, for in the infinite gray sky
I had caught a glimpse of the convent of Grandchamps, of my
white bedroom, and of the small lamp that swung to and fro
49above the little Virgin all decorated with flowers. The king
offered me a throne, but I preferred the throne of our Mother
Superior, and I entertained a vague ambition to occupy it some
far-off day in the distant future; the king was heartbroken, and
dying of despair. Yes, mon Dieu! I preferred to the pearls that
were offered me by princes the pearls of the rosary I was telling
with my fingers, and no costume could compete in my mind with
the black barège veil that fell like a soft shadow over the snowy
white cambric that encircled the beloved faces of the nuns of
Grandchamps.
I do not know how long I had been dreaming thus when I
heard my mother’s voice asking our old servant, Marguerite, if
I were awake. With one bound I was back in bed, and I buried
my face under the sheet. Mamma half opened the door very
gently and I pretended to wake up.
“How lazy you are to-day!” she said.
I kissed her and answered in a coaxing tone:
“It is Thursday and I have no music lesson.”
“And are you glad?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” I replied promptly.
My mother frowned; she adored music, and I hated the piano.
She was so fond of music, that although she was then about
thirty, she took lessons herself in order to encourage me to practice.
What horrible torture it was! I used, very wickedly, to
do my utmost to set my mother and my music mistress at variance.
They were both of them as shortsighted as possible.
When my mother had practiced a new piece three or four days
she knew it by heart, and played it fairly well, to the astonishment
of Mlle. Clarisse, my insufferable old teacher, who held the
music in her hand and read every note with her nose nearly
touching the page. One day I heard with joy a quarrel beginning
between mamma and this disagreeable Mlle. Clarisse.
“There, that’s a quaver!”
“No, there’s no quaver!”
“This is a flat!”
“No, you forget the sharp! How absurd you are, mademoiselle,”
added my mother, perfectly furious.
50A few minutes later my mother went to her room and Mlle.
Clarisse departed, muttering as she left.
As for me, I was choking with laughter in my bedroom, for
one of my cousins, who was a good musician, had helped me to
add sharps, flats, and quavers, and we had done it with such care
that even a trained eye would have had difficulty in discerning
the fraud immediately. As Mile. Clarisse had been sent off, I
had no lesson that day. Mamma gazed at me a long time with
her mysterious eyes, the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen in
my life, and then she said, speaking very slowly:
“After luncheon there is to be a family council.”
I felt myself turning pale.
“All right,” I answered, “what frock am I to put on,
mamma?” I said this merely for the sake of saying something,
and to keep myself from crying.
“Put your blue silk on, you look more staid in that.”
Just at this moment, my sister Jeanne opened the door boisterously
and with a burst of laughter jumped on my bed and
slipping under the sheets called out: “I’m there!”
Marguerite had followed her into the room, panting and
scolding. The child had escaped from her just as she was about
to bathe her and had announced that she was going into my bed.
Jeanne’s mirth at this moment, which I felt was a very serious
one for me, made me burst out crying and sobbing. My mother,
not understanding the reason of this grief, shrugged her shoulders,
told Marguerite to fetch Jeanne’s slippers, and taking the
little bare feet in her hands, kissed them tenderly.
I sobbed more bitterly than ever. It was very evident that
mamma loved my sister more than me, and this preference, which
did not trouble me ordinarily, hurt me sorely now.
Mamma went away quite out of patience with me. I fell
asleep, in order to forget, and was roused by Marguerite who
helped me to dress, as otherwise I should have been late for
luncheon. The guests that day were Aunt Rosine, Mlle. De Brabender,
my governess, a charming creature whom I have always
regretted, my godfather, and the Duc de Morny, a great friend
of my godfather and of my mother. The luncheon was a mournful
51meal for me, as I was thinking all the time about the family
council. Mlle. De Brabender, in her gentle way, and with her
affectionate words, insisted on my eating. My sister burst out
laughing when she looked at me.
“Your eyes are as little as that,” she said, putting her small
thumb on the tip of her forefinger, “and it serves you right, because
you’ve been crying, and mamma doesn’t like anyone to cry—do
you, mamma?”
“What have you been crying about?” asked the Duc de
Morny.
I did not answer in spite of the friendly nudge Mlle. De Brabender
gave me with her sharp elbow. The Duc de Morny
always awed me a little. He was gentle and kind but he was a
great quiz. I knew, too, that he occupied a high place at court,
and that my family considered his friendship a great honor.
“Because I told her that after luncheon there was to be a
family council on her behalf,” said my mother, speaking slowly.
“At times it seems to me that she is quite idiotic. She quite disheartens
me.”
“Come, come!” exclaimed my godfather, and Aunt Rosine
said something in English to the Duc de Morny which made him
smile shrewdly under his fine mustache. Mlle. De Brabender
scolded me in a low voice, and her scoldings were like words from
heaven. When at last luncheon was over, mamma told me, as
she passed, to pour the coffee. Marguerite helped me to arrange
the cups and I went into the drawing-room. Maître G——, the
notary from Hâvre, whom I detested, was already there. He
represented the family of my father, who had died at Pisa in a
way which had never been explained, but which seemed mysterious.
My childish hatred was instinctive and I learned later
on that this man had been my father’s bitter enemy. He was
very, very ugly, this notary; his whole face seemed to have moved
up higher. It was as though he had been hanging by his hair for
a long time, and his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, and his nose had
got into the habit of trying to reach the back of his head. He
ought to have had a joyful expression, as so many of his features
turned up, but instead of this his face was smooth and sinister-looking.
52He had red hair planted on his head like couch grass
and on his nose he wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Oh,
the horrible man! What a torturing nightmare the very memory
of him is, for he was the evil genius of my father, and his hatred
now pursued me. My poor grandmother, since the death of my
father, never went out, but spent her time mourning the loss of
her beloved son who had died so young. She had absolute faith
in this man, who, besides, was the executor of my father’s will.
He had the control of the money that my dear father had left
me. I was not to touch it until the day of my marriage, but my
mother was to use the interest for my education.
My uncle Félix Faure was also there. Seated near the fireplace,
buried in an armchair, M. Meydieu pulled out his watch
in a querulous way. He was an old friend of the family, and he
always called me “ma fille,” which annoyed me greatly, as did
his familiarity. He considered me stupid, and when I handed
him his coffee, he said in a jeering tone:
“And is it for you, ma fille, that so many honest people have
been hindered in their work? We have plenty of other things to
attend to, I can assure you, than to discuss the fate of a little brat
like you. Ah, if it had been her sister, there would have been no
difficulty!” and with his benumbed fingers he patted Jeanne’s
head as she remained on the floor plaiting the fringe of the sofa
upon which he was seated.
When the coffee was taken, the cups carried away, and my
sister also, there was a short silence. The Duc de Morny rose
to take his leave, but my mother begged him to stay. “You
will be able to advise us,” she urged, and the duke took his seat
again near my aunt with whom it seemed to me he was carrying
on a slight flirtation.
Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery
frame in front of her, and her beautiful, clear-cut profile showing
to advantage against the light. She looked as though she
had nothing to do with what was about to be discussed. The
hideous notary was standing up by the chimney-piece, and my
uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis seemed
to be the exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them
53had the same bourgeois mind and were equally stubborn and
obstinate. They were both devoted to whist and good wine, and
they both agreed that I was thin enough for a scarecrow.
The door opened and a pale, dark-haired woman entered, a
most poetical-looking and charming creature. It was Mme.
Guérard, “the lady of the upstairs flat,” as Marguerite always
called her. My mother had made friends with her in rather a
patronizing way certainly, but Mme. Guérard was devoted to me
and endured the little slights to which she was treated, very
patiently, for my sake. She was tall and slender as a lath, very
compliant and demure. She had come down without a hat; she
was wearing an indoor gown of indienne with a design of little
brown leaves.
M. Meydieu muttered something, I did not catch what. The
abominable notary made a very curt bow to Mme. Guérard.
The Duc de Morny was very gracious, for the newcomer was
so pretty. My godfather merely bent his head, as Mme. Guérard
was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine glanced at her from
head to foot. Mlle. De Brabender shook hands cordially with
her, for Mme. Guérard was fond of me. My uncle, Félix Faure,
gave her a chair, and asked her to sit down, and then inquired in
a kindly way about her husband, a savant, with whom my uncle
collaborated sometimes for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.”
Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising
her head, for Mme. Guérard did not prefer my sister to me.
“Well, as we have come here on account of this child,” said
my godfather, “we must begin and discuss what is to be done
with her.”
I began to tremble and drew closer to Mlle. De Brabender,
and to “ma petite dame,” as I had always called Mme. Guérard
from my infancy. They each took my hand by way of encouraging
me.
“Yes,” continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh, “it appears
you want to be a nun.”
“Ah, indeed?” said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine.
“Sh....” she retorted with a laugh. Mamma sighed and
held her wools up close to her eyes to match them.
54“You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent,” grunted
the Hâvre notary, “and you have not a sou.”
I leaned toward Mlle. De Brabender, and whispered: “I
have the money that papa left.”
The horrid man overheard.
“Your father left some money to get you married,” he said.
“Well, then, I’ll marry the Bon Dieu,” I answered, and my
voice was quite resolute now. I turned very red, and for the
second time in my life I felt a desire and a strong inclination to
fight for myself. I had no more fear, as everyone had gone too
far and provoked me too much. I slipped away from my two
kind friends, and advanced toward the other group.
“I will be a nun, I will!” I exclaimed. “I know that papa
left me some money so that I should be married, and I know that
the nuns marry the Saviour. Mamma says she does not care; it is
all the same to her, so that it won’t be vexing her at all, and they
love me better at the convent than you do here!”
“My dear child,” said my uncle, drawing me toward him,
“your religious vocation appears to me to be more a wish to
love.”
“And to be loved,” murmured Mme. Guérard, in a very low
voice.
Everyone glanced at mamma, who shrugged her shoulders
slightly. It seemed to me as though the glance they all gave her
was a reproachful one, and I felt a pang of remorse at once. I
went across to her, and throwing my arms round her neck said:
“You don’t mind my being a nun, do you? It won’t make
you unhappy, will it?”
Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud.
“Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that
after your sister, I love you better than anyone else in the world.”
She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the
sound of a little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear,
from the mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually
increasing in volume, with the thawed snow, until it sweeps along
rocks and trees in its course. This was the effect my mother’s
clear, drawling voice had upon me at that moment. I rushed
55back impulsively to the others, who were all speechless at this
unexpected and spontaneous burst of confidence. I went from
one to the other, explaining my decision, and giving reasons
which were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost to get
someone to support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny
was bored, and rose to go.
“Do you know what you ought to do with this child?” he
said. “You ought to send her to the Conservatoire.” He then
patted my cheek, kissed my aunt’s hand, and bowed to all the
others. As he bent over my mother’s hand, I heard him say to
her: “You would have made a bad diplomatist, but take my
advice, and send her to the Conservatoire.”
He then took his departure and I gazed at everyone in perfect
anguish.
The Conservatoire! What was it? What did it mean?
I went up to my governess, Mlle. De Brabender. Her lips
were firmly pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she
did sometimes when my godfather told some story that she did
not approve of, at table. My uncle, Félix Faure, was looking at
the floor in an absent-minded way; the notary had a spiteful look
in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in a very excited manner,
and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and muttering: “Perhaps ... yes.... Who knows?... Hum ... hum...!”
Mme. Guérard was very pale and sad, and she looked at me with
infinite tenderness.
What could be this Conservatoire? The word uttered so carelessly
seemed to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all
present. Each one of them seemed to me to have a different impression
about it, but none looked pleased. Suddenly in the
midst of the general embarrassment my godfather exclaimed
brutally:
“She is too thin to make an actress.”
“I won’t be an actress!” I exclaimed.
“You don’t know what an actress is,” said my aunt.
“Oh, yes, I do. Rachel is an actress!”
“You know Rachel?” asked mamma, getting up.
“Oh, yes, she came to the convent once, to see little Adèle
56Sarony. She went all over the convent and into the garden, and
she had to sit down because she could not get her breath. They
fetched her something to bring her round, and she was so pale,
oh, so pale! I was very sorry for her and Sister Appoline told
me that what she did was killing her, for she was an actress, and
so I won’t be an actress, I won’t.”
I had said all this in a breath, with my cheeks on fire and my
voice hard.
I remembered all that Sister Appoline had told me, and
Mother Ste. Sophie, too. I remembered, also, that when Rachel
had gone out of the garden, looking very pale, and holding a
lady’s arm for support, a little girl had put her tongue out at
her. I did not want people to put out their tongues at me when
I was grown up.
Conservatoire! That word alarmed me. The duke had
wanted me to be an actress and he had now gone away so that I
could not talk things over with him. He went away smiling and
tranquil, after caressing me in the usual friendly way. He had
gone—caring little about the scraggy child whose future had
been discussed.
“Send her to the Conservatoire!”
That sentence uttered so carelessly had come like a bomb into
my life. I, the dreamy child, who that morning was ready to
repulse princes and kings; I, whose trembling fingers had that
morning told over chaplets of dreams, who only a few hours ago
had felt my heart beating with emotion hitherto unknown to me;
I, who had got up expecting some great event to take place, was
to see everything disappear, thanks to that phrase as heavy as
lead and as deadly as a bullet: “Send her to the Conservatoire!”
And I divined that this phrase was to be the signpost of my
life. All those people had gathered together at the turning of
the crossroads. “Send her to the Conservatoire!” I wanted
to be a nun and this was considered absurd, idiotic, unreasonable.
“Send her to the Conservatoire” had opened out a field for discussion,
the horizon of the future. My uncle, Félix Faure, and
Mlle. Brabender were the only ones against this idea. They
tried in vain to make my mother understand that with the
57hundred thousand francs that my father had left me I might
marry. But my mother had replied that I had declared I had
a horror of marriage, and that I should wait until I was of age
to go into a convent.
“Under these conditions,” she said, “Sarah will never have
her father’s money.”
“No, certainly not,” put in the notary.
“Then,” continued my mother, “she would enter the convent
as a servant and I will not have that! My money is an
annuity, so that I cannot leave anything to my children. I,
therefore, want them to have a career of their own.” My mother
was now exhausted with so much talking and lay back in an
armchair. I got very much excited and my mother asked me to
go away.
Mlle. Brabender and Mme. Guérard were arguing in a low
voice, and I thought of the aristocratic man who had just left us.
I was very angry with him, for this idea of the Conservatoire was
his.
Mlle. Brabender tried to console me. Mme. Guérard said
that this career had its advantages. Mlle. Brabender considered
that the convent would have a great fascination for so dreamy a
nature as mine. The latter was very religious and a great
churchgoer; “ma petite dame,” was a pagan in the purest acceptation
of that word, and yet the two women got on very well
together, thanks to their affectionate devotion to me.
Mme. Guérard adored the proud rebelliousness of my nature,
my pretty face, and the slenderness of my figure; Mlle. De
Brabender was touched by my delicate health. She endeavored
to comfort me when I was jealous for not being loved as much
as my sister, but what she liked best about me was my voice. She
always declared that my voice was modulated for prayers and
my delight in the convent appeared to her quite natural. She
loved me with a gentle, pious affection, and Mme. Guérard loved
me with bursts of paganism. These two women, whose memory
is still dear to me, shared me between them and made the best of
my good qualities and my faults. I certainly owe to both of
them this study of myself and the vision I have of myself.
58The day was destined to end in the strangest of fashions.
Mme. Guérard had gone back to her apartment upstairs and I
was lying on a little straw armchair which was the most ornamental
piece of furniture in my room. I felt very drowsy and
was holding Mlle. De Brabender’s hand in mine, when the door
opened and my aunt entered, followed by my mother. I can see
them now, my aunt in her dress of puce silk trimmed with fur,
her brown velvet hat tied under her chin with long, wide strings,
and mamma, who had taken off her dress and put on a white
woolen dressing gown. She always detested keeping on her dress
in the house, and I understood by her change of costume that
everyone else had gone, and that my aunt was ready to leave. I
got up from my armchair, but mamma made me sit down again.
“Rest yourself thoroughly,” she said, “for we are going to
take you to the theater this evening, to the Français.” I felt
sure that this was just a bait and I would not show any sign of
pleasure, although in my heart I was delighted at the idea of
going to the Français. The only theater I knew anything of was
the Robert Houdin, to which I was taken sometimes with my
sister, and I fancy that it was for her benefit we went as I was
really too old to care for that kind of performance.
“Will you come with us?” mamma said, turning to Mlle.
De Brabender.
“Willingly, madame,” replied this dear creature. “I will
go home and change my dress.”
My aunt laughed at my sullen looks.
“Little fraud,” she said, as she went away, “you are hiding
your delight. Ah, well, you will see some actresses to-night!”
“Is Rachel going to act?” I asked.
“Oh, no, she is ill.”
My aunt kissed me and went away, saying she would see me
again later on, and my mother followed her out of the room.
Mlle. De Brabender then hurriedly prepared to leave me. She
had to go home to dress and to tell them that she would not be
in until quite late, for, in her convent, special permission had to
be obtained when one wished to be out later than ten at night.
When I was alone I swung myself backward and forward in my
59armchair which, by the way, was anything but a rocking-chair.
I began to think, and for the first time in my life my critical comprehension
came to my aid. And so all these serious people
had been inconvenienced, the notary fetched from Hâvre, my
uncle dragged away from working at his book, the old bachelor,
M. Meydieu, disturbed in his habits and customs, my godfather
kept away from the Stock Exchange, and that aristocratic and
skeptical Duc de Morny cramped up for two hours in the midst
of our bourgeois surroundings, and all to end in this decision:
“She shall be taken to the theater!” I do not know what part
my uncle had taken in this burlesque plan, but I doubt whether
it was to his taste. All the same, I was glad to go to the theater;
it made me feel more important. That morning on waking up I
was quite a child, and now events had taken place which had
transformed me into a young girl. I had been discussed by
everyone, and I had expressed my wishes, without any result,
certainly, but all the same I had expressed them, and now it was
deemed necessary to humor and indulge me in order to win me
over. They could not force me into agreeing to what they
wanted me to do; my consent was necessary, and I felt so joyful
and so proud about it that I was quite touched and almost ready
to yield. However, I said to myself that it would be better to
hold my own and let them ask me again.
After dinner we all squeezed into a cab—mamma, my godfather,
Mlle. De Brabender, and I. My godfather made me a
present of some white gloves.
On mounting the steps at the Théâtre Français I trod on a
lady’s dress. She turned round and called me a “stupid child.”
I moved back hastily and came into collision with a very stout
old gentleman who gave me a rough push forward.
When once we were all installed in a box facing the stage,
mamma and I in the first row with Mlle. De Brabender behind me,
I felt more reassured. I was close against the partition of the
box, and I could feel Mlle. De Brabender’s sharp knees through
the velvet of my chair. This gave me confidence, and I leaned
against the back of the chair, purposely to feel the support of
those two knees.
60When the curtain slowly rose, I thought I should have fainted.
It was as though the curtain of my future life were being raised.
Those columns—“Britannicus” was being played—were to be
my palaces, the friezes above were to be my skies, and those
boards were to bend under my frail weight. I heard nothing
of “Britannicus,” for I was far, far away, at Grandchamps in
my dormitory there.
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked my godfather, when
the curtain fell. I did not answer and he laid his hand on my
head and turned my face round toward him. I was crying, big
tears rolling slowly down my cheeks, those tears that come without
any sobs and without any hope of ever ceasing.
My godfather shrugged his shoulders, and getting up, left
the box, banging the door after him. Mamma, losing all patience
with me, proceeded to review the house through her opera glass,
Mlle. De Brabender passed me her handkerchief; my own had
fallen down and I had not the courage to pick it up.
The curtain had been raised for the second piece, “Amphytrion,”
and I made an effort to listen, for the sake of pleasing
my governess, who was so gentle and conciliating. I can
only remember one thing, and that is that Alcinène seemed to me
to be so unhappy that I burst into loud sobs, and that the whole
house, very much amused, looked at our box. My mother, deeply
annoyed, took me out, and Mlle. De Brabender went with us.
My godfather was furious, and muttered: “She ought to be
shut up in a convent and left there! Good Heavens, what a
little idiot the child is!”
This was the début of my artistic life!
CHAPTER V I RECITE “THE TWO PIGEONS”
61
I was beginning to think, though, of my new career.
Books were sent to me from everywhere: Racine,
Corneille, Molière, Casimir Delavigne.... I opened
them, but as I did not understand them at all, I
quickly closed them again, and read my little La Fontaine, which
I loved passionately. I knew all his fables, and one of my
delights was to make a bet with my godfather or with M. Meydieu,
our learned and tiresome friend. I used to bet that they
would not recognize all the fables, if I began with the last verse
and went backward to the first one, and I often won the bet.
A line from my aunt arrived one day, telling my mother
that M. Auber, who was then Director of the Conservatoire,
was expecting us the next day at nine in the morning. I was
about to put my foot in the stirrup. My mother sent me with
Mme. Guérard. M. Auber received us very affably, as the Duc
de Morny had spoken to him of me. I was very much impressed
by him, with his refined face and white hair, his ivory complexion
and magnificent black eyes, his fragile and distinguished
look, his melodious voice and the celebrity of his name. I
scarcely dared answer his questions. He spoke to me very
gently, and told me to sit down.
“You are very fond of the stage?” he began.
“Oh, no, monsieur!” I answered.
This unexpected reply amazed him. He looked at Mme.
Guérard from under his heavy eyelids, and she at once said:
“No, she does not care for the stage, but she does not want
62to marry, and consequently she will have no money, as her
father left her a hundred thousand francs, which she can only
have on her wedding-day. Her mother, therefore, wants her
to have some profession, for Mme. Bernhardt only has an annuity,
a fairly good one, but it is only an annuity, and so she
will not be able to leave her daughters anything. On that
account she wants Sarah to become independent. Sarah would
like to enter a convent.”
“But that is not an independent career, my child,” said
M. Auber, slowly. “How old is she?” he asked.
“Fourteen and a half,” replied Mme. Guérard.
“No,” I exclaimed, “I am nearly fifteen.”
The kind old man smiled.
“In twenty years from now,” he said, “you will insist less
about the exact figures,” and, evidently thinking the visit had
lasted long enough, he rose.
“It appears,” he said to Mme. Guérard, “that this little
girl’s mother is very beautiful?”
“Oh, very beautiful!” she replied.
“You will please express my regret to her that I have not
seen her, and my thanks for having so thoughtfully sent you.”
He thereupon kissed Mme. Guérard’s hand, and she colored
slightly.
This conversation remained engraved on my mind. I remember
every word of it, every movement and every gesture of
M. Auber’s, for this little man, so charming and so gentle, held
my future in his transparent-looking hand. He opened the door
for us and, touching me on my shoulder, said:
“Come, courage, little girl. Believe me, you will thank
your mother some day for driving you to it. Don’t look so sad;
life is well worth beginning, seriously, but gayly.”
I stammered out a few words of thanks, and, just as I was
making my exit, a fine-looking woman knocked against me. She
was heavy and extremely bustling, though, and M. Auber bent
his head toward me and said quietly:
“Above all things don’t let yourself get stout like this
singer. Stoutness is the enemy of a woman and of an artiste.”
63The manservant was now holding the door open for us, and,
as M. Auber returned to his visitor, I heard him say:
“Well, ... most ideal of women....”
I went away rather astounded, and did not say a word in
the carriage. Mme. Guérard told my mother about our interview,
but the latter did not even let her finish, and only said:
“Good, good; thank you.”
The examination was to take place a month after this visit.
The difficulty was to choose a piece for the examination. My
mother did not know any theatrical people. My godfather advised
me to learn “Phèdre,” but Mlle. De Brabender objected,
as she thought it a little offensive, and refused to help me if I
chose that. M. Meydieu, our old friend, wanted me to work at
Chimène, in “Le Cid,” but first he declared that I clenched
my teeth too much for it. It was quite true that I did not
make the O open enough, and did not roll the R sufficiently,
either. He wrote a little notebook for me, which I am copying
exactly, as my poor, dear Guérard kept religiously everything
concerning me, and she gave me, later on, a quantity of papers
which are very useful now.
The following are my old friend’s instructions:
“Every morning instead of do ... re ... mi ... practice
te ... de ... de ... in order to learn to vibrate....
“Before breakfast repeat forty times over: Un-très-gros-rat-dans-un-très-gros-trou—in
order to vibrate the R.
“Before dinner repeat forty times: Combien ces six saucisses-ci?
C’est six sous, ces six saucisses-ci. Six sous ces six
saucisses-ci? Six sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-ci, six sous ceux-là;
six sous ces six saucisses-ci!—in order to learn not to whizz the S.
“At night when going to bed repeat twenty times: Didon,
dina dit-on du dos d’un dodu dindon.... And twenty times:
Le plus petit papa petit pipi petit popo petit pupu.... Open
the mouth square for the D, and pout for the P....”
He gave this piece of work quite seriously to Mlle. De Brabender,
who quite seriously wanted me to practice it. My
governess was charming, and I was very fond of her, but I
64could not help yelling with laughter when, after making me go
through the “te ... de ... de” exercise, which went fairly
well, and then the “très-gros-rat,” etc., she started on the saucisses
(sausages). Ah, no, that was a cacophony of hisses in her
toothless mouth, enough to make all the dogs in Paris howl! And
when she began with the “Didon” ... accompanied by the
“plus petit papa,” I thought my dear governess was losing her
reason. She half closed her eyes, her face was red, her mustache
bristled up, she put on a sententious, hurried manner, her mouth
widened out and looked like the slit in a money box, or else
it was creased up into a little ring, and she purred and hissed
and chirped without ceasing. I flung myself exhausted into my
wicker-work chair, choking with laughter, and great tears poured
from my eyes. I stamped on the floor, flung my arms out right
and left until they were useless, and rocked myself backward
and forward, screaming with laughter.
My mother, attracted by the noise I was making, half opened
the door. Mlle. De Brabender explained to her very gravely
that she was showing me M. Meydieu’s method. My mother
expostulated with me, but I would not listen to anything, as I
was nearly beside myself with laughter. She then took Mlle.
De Brabender away and left me alone, for she feared that I
would finish with hysterics. When once I was by myself, I began
to calm down. I closed my eyes and thought of my convent
again. The “te ... de ... de” got mixed up in my enervated
brain with the “Our Father,” which I used to have to
repeat some days fifteen or twenty times as a punishment.
Finally, I came to myself again, got up, and, after bathing my
face in cold water, went to my mother, whom I found playing
whist with my governess and godfather. I kissed Mlle. De Brabender,
and she returned my kiss with such indulgent kindness
that I felt quite embarrassed by it.
Ten days passed by and I did none of M. Meydieu’s exercises,
except the “te ... de ... de” at the piano. My
mother came and woke me every morning for this, and it drove
me wild. My godfather made me learn “Aricie,” but I understood
nothing of what he told me about the verses. He considered,
65and explained to me, that poetry must be said with an
intonation, and that the value must only be put on the rhyme.
His theories were boring to listen to and impossible to execute.
Then I could not understand Aricie’s character, for it did not
seem to me that she loved Hippolyte at all, and she appeared to
me to be a scheming flirt. My godfather explained to me that
in olden times this was the way people loved each other, and
when I remarked that Phèdre appeared to love in a better way
than that, he took me by the chin, and said:
“Just look at this naughty child. She is pretending not to
understand, and would like us to explain to her....”
This was simply idiotic. I did not understand, and had not
asked anything, but this man had a bourgeois mind, and was
sly and lewd. He did not like me because I was thin, but he
was interested in me because I was going to be an actress. That
word evoked for him the weak side of our art. He did not see
the beauty, the nobleness of it, nor yet its beneficial power.
I could not fathom all this at that time, but I did not feel
at ease with this man, whom I had seen from my childhood, and
who was almost like a father to me. I did not want to continue
learning “Aricie.” In the first place, I could not talk about
it with my governess, as she would not discuss the piece at all.
I then learned the “Ecole des Femmes,” and Mlle. De Brabender
explained Agnes to me. The dear, good lady did not see
much in it, for the whole story appeared to her of childlike
simplicity, and when I said the lines: “He has taken from me,
he has taken from me the ribbon you gave me,” she smiled in
all confidence when Meydieu and my godfather laughed heartily.
Finally the examination day arrived. Everyone had given
me advice, but no one any really helpful counsel. It had not
occurred to anyone that I ought to have had a professional to
prepare me for my examination. I got up in the morning with
a heavy heart and an anxious mind. My mother had had a
black silk dress made for me. It was slightly low-necked, and
was finished with a gathered bertha. The frock was rather
short, and showed my drawers. These were trimmed with embroidery,
and came down to my brown kid boots. A white
66guimpe emerged from my black bodice and was fastened round
my throat, which was too slender. My hair was parted on my
forehead, and then fell as it liked, for it was not held by pins
or ribbons. I wore a large straw hat, although the season was
rather advanced. Everyone came to inspect my dress, and I
was turned round and round twenty times at least. I had to
make my courtesy for everyone to see. Finally I seemed to give
general satisfaction. My petite dame came downstairs, with
her grave husband, and kissed me. She was deeply affected.
Our old Marguerite made me sit down, and put before me a cup
of cold beef tea, which she had simmered so carefully for a
long time that it was then a delicious jelly, and I swallowed it
in a second. I was in a great hurry to start. On rising from
my chair I moved so brusquely that my dress caught on an invisible
splinter of wood, and was torn. My mother turned to a
visitor who had arrived about five minutes before, and had
remained in contemplative admiration ever since.
“There,” she said to him in a vexed tone, “that is a proof
of what I told you. All your silks tear with the slightest movement.”
“Oh, no,” replied our visitor quickly, “I told you that
this one was not well ‘dressed,’ and let you have it at a low
price on that account.”
The man who spoke was the most extraordinary individual
imaginable. I do not mean as regards his appearance, as he
was like a not too ugly young Jew. He was shy and a Dutchman;
never violent, but tenacious. I had known him from my
childhood. His father, who was a friend of my grandfather’s
on my mother’s side, was a rich tradesman, and the father of a
tribe of children. He gave each of his sons a small sum of
money, and sent them all out to make their fortune where they
liked. Jacques, the one of whom I am speaking, came to Paris.
He had commenced by selling Passover cakes, and, as a boy,
had often brought me some of them to the convent, together
with the dainties that my mother sent me. Later on, my surprise
was great on seeing him offer my mother rolls of oilcloth
such as is used for tablecloths for early breakfast. I remember
67one of those cloths, the border of which was formed of medallions
representing the French kings. It was from that oilcloth
that I learned my history best. For the last month he had
owned quite an elegant vehicle, and he sold “silks that were
not well dressed.” At present he is one of the leading jewelers
of Paris.
The slit in my dress was soon mended and, knowing now
that the silk was not well dressed, I treated it with respect.
Finally we started—Mlle. De Brabender, Mme. Guérard, and
I in a carriage that was only intended for two persons, and I
was glad that it was so small, for I was close to two people who
were fond of me, and my silk frock was spread carefully over
their knees.
When I entered the waiting room that leads into the recital
hall of the Conservatoire, there were about twenty young men
and about thirty girls there. All these girls were accompanied
by their mother, father, aunt, brother, or sister. There was an
odor of pomade and vanilla that made me feel sick.
When we were shown into this room, I felt that everyone
was looking at me, and I blushed to the back of my head. Mme.
Guérard drew me gently along, and I turned to take Mlle. De
Brabender’s hand. She came shyly forward, blushing more,
and still more confused than I was. Everyone looked at her,
and I saw the girls nudge each other and nod in her direction.
One of them suddenly got up and moved across to her mother.
“Oh, mercy, look at that old sight!” she said.
My poor governess felt most uncomfortable, and I was
furious. I thought she was a thousand times nicer than all
those fat, dressed-up, common-looking mothers. Certainly she
was different from other people in her appearance, for Mlle.
De Brabender was wearing a salmon-colored dress, an Indian
shawl drawn tightly across her shoulders, and fastened with a
very large cameo brooch. Her bonnet was trimmed with ruches
so close together that it looked like a nun’s headgear. She certainly
was not at all like these dreadful people in whose society
we found ourselves, and among whom there were not more than
ten exceptions to the rule. The young men were standing in
68compact groups near the windows. They were laughing and, I
suspect, making remarks in doubtful taste.
The heavy, red baize door opened, and a girl with a red
face and a young man perfectly scarlet came back after acting
their scene. They each went to their respective friends and
then chattered away, finding fault with each other. A name
was called out—Mlle. Dica Petit—and I saw a tall, fair, distinguished-looking
girl move forward without any embarrassment.
She stopped on her way to kiss a pretty woman, stout, with a
pink-and-white complexion, and very much dressed up.
“Don’t be afraid, mother dear,” she said, and then she
added a few words in Dutch before disappearing, followed by
a young man and a very thin girl who were to give her her cues.
This was explained to me by Leautaud, who called over the
names of the pupils and took down the names of those who were
to act and those who were to give the cues. I knew nothing of
all this, and wondered who was to give me the cues for Agnes.
He mentioned several young men, but I interrupted him.
“Oh, no,” I said, “I will not ask anyone. I do not know
any of them, and I will not ask.”
“Well, then, what will you recite, mademoiselle?” asked
Leautaud, with the most outré accent possible.
“I will recite a fable,” I replied.
He burst out laughing as he wrote down my name and the
title, “Deux Pigeons,” which I gave him. I heard him still
laughing under his heavy mustache as he continued his round.
He then went back into the Conservatoire, and I began to get
feverish with excitement, so that Mme. Guérard was anxious
about me, as my health, unfortunately, was very delicate. She
made me sit down, and then she put a few drops of eau de Cologne
behind my ears.
“There, that will teach you to wink like that!” were the
words I suddenly heard, and a girl with the prettiest face
imaginable had her ears boxed soundly. Nathalie Mauvoy’s
mother was correcting her daughter. I sprang up, trembling
with fright and indignation, and was as angry as a young turkey
cock. I wanted to go and box the horrible woman’s ears in
69return, and then to kiss the pretty girl who had been insulted
in this way, but I was held back firmly by my two guardians.
Dica Petit now returned, and this caused a diversion in the
waiting room. She was radiant and quite satisfied with herself.
Oh, very well satisfied, indeed! Her father held out a little
flask to her in which was some kind of cordial, and I should
have liked some of it, too, for my mouth was dry and burning.
Her mother then put a little woolen square over her chest before
fastening her coat for her, and then all three of them went away.
Several other girls and young men were called before my turn
came.
Finally, the call of my name made me jump as a sardine
does when pursued by a big fish. I tossed my head to shake
my hair back, and my petite dame stroked my “badly dressed”
silk. Mlle. De Brabender reminded me about the O and the A,
the R, the P, and the T, and I then went alone into the hall.
I had never been alone an hour in my life. As a little child I
was always clinging to the skirts of my nurse; at the convent
I was always with one of my friends or one of the Sisters; at
home either with Mlle. De Brabender or Mme. Guérard, or if
they were not there, in the kitchen with Marguerite. And now,
there I was alone in that strange-looking room, with a platform
at the end, a large table in the middle, and, seated round this
table, men who either grumbled, growled, or jeered. There
was only one woman present, and she had a loud voice. She was
holding an eyeglass, and, as I entered, she dropped it and
looked at me through her opera glass. I felt everyone’s gaze
on my back as I climbed up the few steps to the platform.
Leautaud bent forward and whispered:
“Make your bow and commence, and then stop when the
chairman rings.”
I looked at the chairman, and saw that it was M. Auber. I
had forgotten that he was Director of the Conservatoire, just
as I had forgotten everything else. I at once made my bow,
and began:
“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre
L’un d’eux s’ennuyant....”
70A low, grumbling sound was heard, and then a ventriloquist
muttered:
“It isn’t an elocution class here. What an idea to come
here reciting fables!”
It was Beauvallet, the thundering tragedian of the Comédie
Française. I stopped short, my heart beating wildly.
“Go on, my child,” said a man with silvery hair. This was
Provost.
“Yes, it won’t be as long as a scene from a play,” exclaimed
Augustine Brohan, the one woman present.
I began again:
“Deux pigeons s’aimaient d’amour tendre
L’un d’eux s’ennuyant au logis....”
“Louder, my child, louder,” said a little man with curly
white hair, in a kindly tone. This was Samson. I stopped
again, confused and frightened, seized suddenly with such a
foolish fit of nervousness that I could have shouted or howled.
Samson saw this, and said to me: “Come, come, we are not
ogres!” He had just been talking in a low voice with Auber.
“Come, now, begin again,” he said, “and speak up.”
“Ah, no,” put in Augustine Brohan, “if she is to begin
again, it will be longer than a scene!” This speech made all
the table laugh, and that gave me time to recover myself. I
thought all these people unkind to laugh like this at the expense
of a poor, little, trembling creature who had been delivered
over to them, bound hand and foot.
I felt, without exactly defining it, a slight contempt for these
pitiless judges. Since then I have very often thought of that
trial of mine, and I have come to the conclusion that individuals
who are kind, intelligent, and compassionate become less estimable
when they are together. The feeling of personal irresponsibility
encourages their evil instincts, and the fear of ridicule
chases away their good ones.
When I had recovered my will power I began my fable
again, determined not to mind what happened. My voice was
more liquid on account of emotion, and the desire to make
71myself heard caused it to be more resonant. There was silence,
and before I had finished my fable the little bell rang. I bowed,
and came down the few steps from the platform thoroughly exhausted.
M. Auber stopped me as I was passing by the table.
“Well, little girl,” he said, “that was very good indeed.
M. Provost and M. Beauvallet both want you in their class.”
I recoiled slightly when he told me which was M. Beauvallet,
for he was the “ventriloquist” who had given me such a fright.
“Well, which of these two gentlemen should you prefer?”
he asked.
I did not utter a word, but pointed to M. Provost.
“Ah, well, that’s all right! Get your handkerchief out, my
poor Beauvallet, and I shall intrust this child to you, my dear
Provost.”
It was only at that moment that I comprehended, and, wild
with joy, I exclaimed:
“Then I have passed?”
“Yes, you have passed, and there is only one thing I regret,
and that is that such a pretty voice should not be for music.”
I did not hear anything else, for I was beside myself with
joy. I did not stay to thank anyone, but bounded to the door.
“Ma petite dame! Mademoiselle! I have passed!” I exclaimed,
and when they shook hands and asked me no end of
questions I could only reply:
“Oh, it’s quite true—I have passed, I have passed!”
I was surrounded and questioned.
“How do you know that you have passed? No one knows
beforehand.”
“Yes, yes, I know, though. M. Auber told me. I am to
go into M. Provost’s class. M. Beauvallet wanted me, but his
voice is too loud for me!”
A disagreeable girl exclaimed: “Can’t you stop that? And
so they all want you!”
A pretty girl, who was too dark, though, for my taste, came
nearer and asked me gently what I had recited.
“The fable of the ‘Two Pigeons,’” I replied.
She was surprised, and so was everyone; while, as for me, I
72was wildly delighted to surprise them all. I tossed my hat on
my head, shook my frock out, and dragging my two friends
along, ran away dancing. They wanted to take me to the confectioner’s
to have something, but I refused. We got into a
cab, and I should have liked to push that cab along myself. I
fancied I saw the words “I have passed” written up over all
the shops. When, on account of the crowded streets, the cab
had to stand, it seemed to me that the people stared at me, and
I caught myself tossing my head as though telling them all
that it was quite true I had passed my examination. I never
thought any more about the convent, and only experienced a
feeling of pride at having succeeded in my first venturesome
enterprise. Venturesome, but the success had depended only
on me. It seemed to me as though the cabman would never
arrive at 265 Rue St. Honoré. I kept putting my head out of
the window and saying: “Faster, cabby; faster, please!” At
last we reached the house, and I sprang out of the cab and hurried
along to tell the good news to my mother. On the way
I was stopped by the daughter of the hall porter. She was a
staymaker, and worked in a little room on the top floor of the
house, the window of which was opposite our dining-room where
I used to do my lessons with my governess, so that I could not
help seeing her ruddy, wide-awake face constantly. I had never
spoken to her, but I knew who she was.
“Well, Mlle. Sarah, are you satisfied?” she called out.
“Oh, yes, I have passed,” I answered, and I could not
resist stopping a minute in order to enjoy the astonishment of
the hall-porter family. I then hurried on, but on reaching the
courtyard came to a dead stand, anger and grief taking possession
of me, for there I beheld my petite dame, her two hands
forming a trumpet, her head thrown back, shouting to my
mother who was leaning out of the window: “Yes, yes, she has
passed!” I gave her a thump with my clenched hand and
began to cry with rage, for I had prepared a little story for my
mother, ending up with the joyful surprise. I had intended
putting on a very sad look on arriving at the door, and pretending
to be broken-hearted and ashamed. I felt sure she would
73say: “Oh, I am not surprised, my poor child, you are so foolish!”
and then I should have thrown my arms round her neck
and said: “It isn’t true, it isn’t true; I have passed!” I had
pictured to myself her face brightening up, and then old Marguerite
and my godfather laughing heartily, and my sisters
dancing with joy, and here was Mme. Guérard sounding her
trumpet and spoiling all my effects that I had prepared so well.
I must say that the kind woman continued as long as she
lived (that is the greater part of my life) spoiling all my effects.
It was all in vain that I made scenes; she could not help herself.
Whenever I told a good story and wanted it to be very
effective, she would invariably burst into fits of laughter before
the end of it. If I started on a story with a very lamentable
ending, which was to be a surprise, she would sigh, roll her eyes,
and murmur: “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” so that I always missed
the effect I was counting on. Still more often, when anything
was being guessed and I asked people for the answer, she would
reply before anyone else, as she was always in my confidence,
and I had perhaps told her the answer a second before. All
this used to exasperate me to such a degree that, before beginning
a story or a game, I used to ask her to go out of the room, and
she would get up and go, laughing at the idea of the blunder
she would make if there.
Furious, then, on this occasion, and abusing Mme. Guérard,
I went upstairs to my mother, whom I found at the open door.
She kissed me affectionately, and on seeing my sulky face asked
if I was not satisfied.
“Yes,” I replied, “but I am furious with Guérard. Be
nice, mamma, and pretend you don’t know. Shut the door, and
I will ring.”
She did this, and I rang the bell. Marguerite opened the
door, and my mother came and pretended to be astonished. My
sisters, too, arrived, and my godfather and my aunt. When I
kissed my mother, exclaiming, “I have passed!” everyone
shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had made my effect
anyhow. It was “the career” taking possession of me unawares.
74My sister Régina, whom the Sisters would not have in the
convent and so had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had
learned this in the country when she had been put out to nurse,
and upon every occasion she danced it, finishing always with
this couplet:
My little dear, rejoice,
Everything is for you....
Nothing could be more comic than this chubby child with her
serious air. Régina never laughed, and only a suspicion of a
smile ever played over her thin lips and over her mouth, which
was too small. Nothing could be more comic than to see her, looking
grave and rough, dancing the jig. She was funnier than ever
that day, as she was excited by the general joy. She was four
years old, and nothing ever embarrassed her. She was both
timid and bold. She detested society and people generally, but
if made to go in the dining-room she embarrassed people by her
crude remarks, which were most odd, by her rough answers and
her kicks and blows. She was a terrible child, with silvery hair,
dark complexion, blue eyes too large for her face, and thick
lashes which made a shadow on her cheeks when she lowered
the lids, and joined her eyebrows when her eyes were open. She
would be four or five hours sometimes without uttering a word,
without answering any question she was asked, and then she
would jump up from her little chair, begin to sing as loud as
she could, and dance the jig. On this day she was in a good
temper, for she kissed me affectionately and opened her thin
lips to smile. My sister Jeanne kissed me, and made me tell
her about my examination. My godfather gave me a hundred
francs, and M. Meydieu, who had just arrived to find out the
result, promised to take me the next day to Barbédienne’s to
choose a clock for my room, as that was one of my dreams.
CHAPTER VI I DECLINE MATRIMONY AND WED ART
75
The great change began in me from that day. For
rather a long time, indeed, my soul remained childlike,
but my mind discerned life more distinctly. I
felt the need of creating a personality for myself.
That was the first awakening of my will. I wanted to be some
one. Mlle. De Brabender declared to me that this was pride.
It seemed to me that it was not quite that, but I could not then
define what the sentiment was which imposed this wish on me.
I did not understand until a few months later why I wished to
be some one.
A friend of my godfather’s made me an offer of marriage.
This man was a rich tanner, and very kind, but so dark and
with such long hair and such a beard that he disgusted me. I
refused him, and my godfather then asked to speak to me
alone. He made me sit down in my mother’s boudoir, and said
to me:
“My poor child, it is pure folly to refuse M. B——. He
has sixty thousand francs a year and expectations.”
It was the first time I had heard this use of the word, and
when the meaning was explained to me I wondered if that was
the right thing to say on such an occasion.
“Why, yes,” replied my godfather, “you are idiotic
with your romantic ideas. Marriage is a business affair,
and must be considered as such. Your future father and
mother-in-law will have to die, just as we shall, and it is by
no means disagreeable to know that they will leave two million
76francs to their son, and consequently to you, if you marry
him.”
“I shall not marry him, though.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not love him.”
“But you never love your husband before—” replied my
practical adviser. “You can love him after.”
“After what?”
“Ask your mother. But listen to me now, for it is not a
question of that. You must marry. Your mother has a small
income which your father left her, but this income comes from
the profits of the manufactory which belongs to your grandmother,
and she cannot bear your mother, who will therefore
lose that income, and then have nothing and three children on
her hands. It is that accursed lawyer who is arranging all this.
The whys and wherefores would take too long to explain. Your
father managed his business affairs very badly. You must
marry, therefore, if not for your own sake, for the sake of your
mother and sisters. You can then give your mother the hundred
thousand francs your father left you, which no one else
can touch. M. B—— will allow you three hundred thousand
francs. I have arranged everything, so that you can give this
to your mother if you like, and with four hundred thousand
francs she will be able to live very well.”
I cried and sobbed, and asked to have time to think it over.
I found my mother in the dining-room.
“Has your godfather told you?” she asked gently, in
rather a timid way.
“Yes, mother; yes, he has told me. Let me think it over,
will you?” I said, sobbing, as I kissed her neck lingeringly.
I then locked myself in my bedroom, and, for the first time
for many days, I regretted the separation from my convent.
All my childhood rose up before me, and I cried more and more,
and felt so unhappy that I wished I could die. Gradually, however,
I began to get calm again and realized what had happened,
and what my godfather’s words meant. Most decidedly
I did not want to marry this man. Since I had been at the
77Conservatoire, I had learned a few things vaguely, very vaguely,
for I was never alone, but I understood enough to make me not
want to marry without being in love. I was, however, destined
to be attacked in a quarter from which I should not have expected
it. Mme. Guérard asked me to go up to her room to see
the embroidery she was doing on a frame for my mother’s
birthday.
My astonishment was great to find M. B—— there. He
begged me to change my mind. He made me very wretched,
for he pleaded with tears in his eyes.
“Do you want a larger marriage settlement?” he asked.
“I would make it five hundred thousand francs.”
But it was not that at all, and I said in a very low voice:
“I do not love you, monsieur.”
“If you do not marry me, mademoiselle,” he said, “I shall
die of grief.”
I looked at him and repeated to myself the words, “die of
grief.” I was embarrassed and desperate, but at the same time
delighted, for he loved me just as a man does in a play. Phrases
that I had read or heard came to my mind vaguely, and I repeated
them without any real conviction, and then left him
without the slightest coquetry.
M. B—— did not die. He is still living, and has a very
important financial position. He is much nicer now than when
he was so black, for at present he is quite white.
I had just passed my first examination with remarkable success,
particularly in tragedy. M. Provost, my professor, had
not wanted me to compete in “Zaïre,” but I had insisted. I
thought that scene with Zaïre and her brother Nivestan very
fine, and it suited me. But when Zaïre, overwhelmed with her
brother’s reproaches, falls on her knees at his feet, Provost
wanted me to say the words, “Strike, I tell you! I love him!”
with violence, and I wanted to say them gently, perfectly resigned
to a death that was almost certain. I argued about it
for a long time with my professor, and finally I appeared to
give in to him during the lesson. But on the day of the competition
78I fell on my knees before Nerestan with a sob so real,
my arms outstretched, offering my heart so full of love to the
deadly blow that I expected, and I murmured with such tenderness,
“Strike, I tell you! I love him!” that the whole house
burst into applause and demanded it twice over.
The second prize for tragedy was awarded me, to the great
dissatisfaction of the public, as it was thought that I ought to
have had the first prize. And yet it was only just that I should
have the second, on account of my age and the short time I
had been studying. I had a first accessit for comedy in “La
Fausse Agnes,” and Sarcey wrote an article about it.
I felt, therefore, that I had the right to refuse M. B——.
My future lay open before me, and consequently my mother
would not be in want if she should lose her present income.
A few days later, M. Régnier, professor at the Conservatoire
and secretary of the Comédie Française, came to ask my mother
whether she would allow me to play in a piece of his at the
Vaudeville. The piece was “Germaine,” and the managers
would give me twenty-five francs for each performance. I was
amazed at the sum! Seven hundred and fifty francs a month
for my first appearance! I was wild with joy. I besought my
mother to accept the offer made by the Vaudeville, and she told
me to do as I liked in the matter.
I asked M. Camille Doucet, director of the Beaux-Arts, to
allow me to recite something to him, and, as my mother always
refused to accompany me, Mme. Guérard went with me. My
little sister, Régina, begged me to take her, and very unwisely
I consented. We had not been in the director’s office more than
five minutes before my sister, who was only six years old, began
to climb on the furniture. She jumped on a stool, and finally
sat down on the floor, pulling the paper basket, which was under
the desk, toward her, and proceeded to spread all the torn papers
which it contained about the room. On seeing this, Camille
Doucet mildly observed that she was not a very good little girl.
My sister, with her head in the basket, answered in her husky
voice:
“If you bother me, monsieur, I shall tell everyone that
79you are there to give out holy water that is poison—my aunt
says so.”
My face turned purple with shame, and I stammered out:
“Please do not believe that, M. Doucet, my little sister is
telling an untruth.”
Régina sprang to her feet and, clenching her fists, rushed
at me like a little fury:
“Aunt Rosine never said that?” she exclaimed. “You are
telling the untruth ... why, she said it to M. De Morny, and
he answered....”
I had forgotten this, and I have forgotten what the Duc de
Morny answered, but, beside myself with anger, I put my hand
over my sister’s mouth and took her quickly away. She howled
like a wildcat, and we rushed like a hurricane through the
waiting room which was full of people. I then gave way to
one of those violent fits of temper to which I had been subject
in my childhood. I sprang into the first cab that passed the
door, and, when once in the cab, struck my sister with such fury
that Mme. Guérard was alarmed, and protected her with her
own body, receiving all the blows I gave with my head, arms,
and feet, for in my anger, rage, and shame I flung myself about
to right and left. My rage was all the more profound from the
fact that I was very fond of Camille Doucet. He was gentle
and charming, affable and kind-hearted. He had refused my
aunt something she had asked for, and, unaccustomed to being
refused anything, she had a spite against him. This had nothing
to do with me, though, and I wondered what Camille Doucet
would think. And then, too, I had not asked him about the
Vaudeville.
All my fine dreams had come to nothing. And it was this
little monster, who looked as fair and as white as a seraph, who
had just shattered my hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression
of fear on her self-willed face, and her thin lips compressed,
she was gazing at me under her long lashes with half-closed
eyes. On reaching home I told my mother all that had
happened, and she declared that my little sister should have
no dessert for two days. Régina was greedy, but her pride
80was greater than her greediness. She turned round on her
little heels and, dancing her jig, began to sing, “My little
stomach isn’ at all glad,” until I wanted to rush at her and
shake her.
A few days later, during my lessons, I was told that the
Ministry refused to allow me to act at the Vaudeville.
M. Régnier told me how sorry he was, but he added in kindly
tone:
“Oh, but, my dear child, the Conservatoire thinks a lot of
you! Therefore you need not worry too much.”
“I am sure that Camille Doucet is at the bottom of it,” I
said.
“No, he certainly is not,” answered M. Régnier, “Camille
Doucet was our warmest advocate, but the Ministry will not,
upon any account, hear of anything that might be detrimental
to your début next year.”
I at once felt most grateful to Camille Doucet for his kindness
in bearing no ill-will after my little sister’s stupid behavior.
I began to work again with the greatest zeal, and did not miss
a single lesson. Every morning I went to the Conservatoire
with my governess. We started early, as I preferred walking
to taking the omnibus, and I kept the franc which my mother
gave me every morning, part of which was for the omnibus and
part for cakes. We were to walk home always, but every other
day we took a cab with the two francs I had saved for this
purpose. My mother never knew about this little scheme, but
it was not without remorse that my kind Brabender consented
to be my accomplice.
As I said before, I did not miss a lesson, and I even went
to the deportment class, at which poor old M. Elie, duly curled,
powdered, and adorned with lace frills, presided. This was the
most amusing lesson imaginable. Very few of us attended this
class, and M. Elie avenged himself on us for the abstention of
the others. At every lesson each one of us was called forward.
He addressed us by the familiar term of thou, and considered
us as his property. There were only five or six of us, but we
each had to mount the stage. He always stood up with his
little black stick in his hand. No one knew why he should have
this stick.
LE CONSERVATOIRE NATIONAL DE MUSIQUE ET DE DECLAMATION, PARIS.
81“Now, young ladies,” he would say, “the body thrown
back, the head up, on tiptoes—that’s it—perfect. One, two,
three, march.”
And we marched along on tiptoes with heads up and eyelids
drawn over our eyes as we tried to look down in order to see
where we were walking. We marched along like this with all
the stateliness and solemnity of camels! He then taught us to
make our exit with indifference, dignity, or fury, and it was
amusing to see us going toward the doors either with a lagging
step or in an animated or hurried way, according to the mood
in which we were supposed to be. Then we heard: “Enough!
Go! Not a word!” for M. Elie would not allow us to murmur
a single word. “Everything,” he used to say, “is in the look,
the gesture, the attitude!” Then there was what he called
“l’assiette,” which meant the way to sit down in a dignified
manner, to let oneself fall into a seat wearily, or the “assiette,”
which meant: “I am listening, monsieur; say what you wish.”
Ah, that was distractingly complicated, that way of sitting
down! We had to put everything into it: the desire to know
what was going to be said to us, the fear of hearing it, the
determination to go away, the will to stay. Oh, the tears that
this “assiette” cost me! Poor old M. Elie! I do not bear
him any ill-will, but I did my utmost later on to forget everything
he had taught me, for nothing could have been more useless
than those deportment lessons. Every human being moves
about according to his or her proportions. Women who are too
tall take long strides, those who stoop walk like the Eastern
women; stout women walk like ducks, short-legged ones trot;
very small women skip along, and the gawky ones walk like
cranes. Nothing can be done for them, and the deportment class
has very wisely been abolished. The gesture must depict the
thought, and it is harmonious or stupid, according to whether
the artiste is intelligent or null. For the theater one needs long
arms; it is better to have them too long than too short. An
artiste with short arms can never, never make a fine gesture.
82It was all in vain that poor Elie told us this or that. We were
always stupid and awkward, while he was always comic; oh, so
comic, poor old man!
I also took fencing lessons. Aunt Rosine put this idea into
my mother’s head. I had a lesson once a week from the famous
Pons. Oh, what a terrible man he was! Brutal, rude, and
always teasing, he was an incomparable fencing master, but he
disliked giving lessons to “brats” like us, as he called us. He
was not rich, though, and I believe, but am not sure of it, that
this class had been organized for him by a distinguished patron
of his. He always kept his hat on, and this horrified Mlle. De
Brabender. He smoked his cigar, too, all the time, and this
made his pupils cough, as they were already out of breath from
the fencing exercise. What torture those lessons were! He
brought with him sometimes friends of his who delighted in our
awkwardness. This gave rise to a scandal, as one day one of
these gay spectators made a most violent remark about one of
the pupils named Châtelain, and the latter turned round quickly
and gave him a blow in the face. A skirmish immediately occurred,
and Pons, on endeavoring to intervene, received a blow
or two himself. This made a great stir, and from that day forth
visitors were not allowed to be present at the lesson. I persuaded
my mother to let me discontinue attending this class,
and this was a great relief to me.
I very much preferred Régnier’s lessons to any others. He
was gentle, had nice manners, and taught us to be natural in
what we recited, but I certainly owe all that I know to the
variety of instruction which I had, and which I followed up
in the most devoted way.
Provost taught a broad style, with diction somewhat pompous
but sustained. He especially emphasized freedom of gesture
and inflection. Beauvallet, in my opinion, did not teach anything
that was good. He had a deep, effective voice, but that
he could not give to anyone. It was an admirable instrument,
but it did not give him any talent. He was awkward in his
gestures, his arms were too short, and his face common. I detested
him as a professor.
83Samson was just the opposite. His voice was not strong, but
piercing. He had a certain acquired distinction, but was very
correct. His method was simplicity. Provost emphasized
breadth; Samson exactitude, and he was very particular about
the finals. He would not allow us to drop the voice at the end
of the phrase. Coquelin, who is one of Régnier’s pupils, I believe,
has a great deal of Samson’s style, although he has retained
the essentials of his first master’s teaching. As for me, I remember
my three professors, Régnier, Provost, and Samson, as
though I had heard them only yesterday.
The year passed by without any great change in my life, but
two months before my second examination I had the misfortune
to have to change my professor. Provost was taken ill, and I
went in to Samson’s class. He counted very much on me, but
he was authoritative and persistent. He gave me two very bad
parts in two very bad pieces: Hortense, in “L’Ecole des Vieillards,”
by Casimir Delavigne, for comedy, and “La Fille du
Cid,” for tragedy. This piece was also by Casimir Delavigne.
I did not feel at all in my element in these two rôles, both of
which were written in hard, emphatic language.
The examination day arrived, and I did not look at all nice.
My mother had insisted on my having my hair done up by her
hairdresser, and I had cried and sobbed on seeing this “Figaro”
make partings all over my head in order to separate my rebellious
mane. Idiot that he was, he had suggested this style
to my mother, and my head was in his stupid hands for more
than an hour and a half, for he never before had to deal with a
mane like mine. He kept mopping his forehead every five minutes,
and muttering: “What hair! Good heavens! it is horrible—just
like tow! It might be the hair of a white negress!”
Turning to my mother, he suggested that my head should be
entirely shaved, and the hair then trained as it grew again.
“I will think about it,” replied my mother in an absent-minded
way. I turned my head so abruptly to look at her when she
said this that the curling irons burned my forehead. The man
was using the irons to uncurl my hair. He considered that it
curled naturally in such a disordered style that he must get the
84natural curl out of it and then wave it, as this would be more
becoming to the face.
“Mademoiselle’s hair is stopped in its growth by this extreme
curliness. All the Tangiers girls and negresses have hair
like this. As mademoiselle is going on the stage, she would look
better if she had hair like madame,” he said, bowing with respectful
admiration to my mother, who certainly had the most
beautiful hair imaginable. It was fair and so long that, when
standing up, she could tread on it and not bend her head. It
is only fair to say, though, that my mother was very short.
Finally, I was out of the hands of this wretched man, and
was nearly dead with fright after an hour and a half’s brushing,
combing, curling, hairpinning, with my head turned from
left to right and from right to left. I was completely disfigured
at the end of it all, and did not recognize myself. My hair
was drawn tightly back from my temples, my ears were very
visible and stood out, looking positively improper in their nakedness,
while on the top of my head was a parcel of little sausages
arranged near each other to imitate the ancient diadem.
I was perfectly hideous. My forehead, of which I caught a
glimpse under the golden mass of my hair, seemed to me immense,
implacable. I did not recognize my eyes, accustomed as
I was to see them veiled by the shadow of my hair. My head
seemed to weigh two or three pounds. I was accustomed to do
my hair as I still do, with two hairpins, and this man had put
five or six packets in it. All this was heavy for my poor head.
I was late, and so I had to dress very quickly. I cried with
anger, and my eyes grew smaller, my nose larger, and my veins
swelled. But it was the climax when I had to put my hat on.
It would not go on the pile of sausages, and my mother wrapped
my head up in a lace scarf and hurried me to the door.
On arriving at the Conservatoire, I hurried with my petite
dame to the waiting room, while my mother went direct to the
hall. When once I was in the waiting room I tore off the lace,
and, seated on a bench, after relating the Odyssey of my hairdressing,
I gave my head up to my companions. All of them
adored and envied my hair, because it was so soft and light and
85golden. All of them took pity on my sorrow, and were touched
by my ugliness. Their mothers, however, were spluttering in
their own fat with joy.
The girls began to take out my hairpins, and one of them,
Marie Lloyd, whom I liked best, took my head in her hands and
kissed it affectionately.
“Oh, your beautiful hair, what have they done to it!” she
exclaimed, pulling out the last of the hairpins. This sympathy
made me once more burst into tears.
Finally, I stood up triumphant, without any hairpins and
without any sausages. But my poor hair was heavy with the
beef marrow the wretched man had put on it, and it was full
of the partings he had made for the creation of the sausages. It
fell now in mournful-looking, greasy flakes around my face.
I shook my head for five minutes in mad rage. I then succeeded
in making the hair more loose, and I put it up as well as I
could with a couple of hairpins.
The competition had commenced, and I was the tenth to be
called. I could not remember what I had to say. Mme. Guérard
moistened my temples with cold water, and Mlle. De Brabender,
who had only just arrived, did not recognize me, and was looking
about for me everywhere. She had broken her leg nearly
three months ago, and had to support herself on a crutch, but
she had wished to come.
Mme. Guérard was just beginning to tell her about the drama
of the hair when my name echoed through the room. “Mlle.
Chara Bernhardt!” It was Leautaud, who later on was
prompter at the Comédie Française, and who had a strong
Auvergne accent. “Mlle. Chara Bernhardt!” I heard again,
and I then sprang up without an idea in my mind and without
uttering a word. I looked round for the pupil who was to give
me my answers, and together we made our entry.
I was surprised at the sound of my voice, which I did not
recognize. I had cried so much that it had affected my voice,
and I spoke through my nose.
I heard a woman’s voice say:
“Poor child, she ought not to have been allowed to compete;
86she has an atrocious cold, her nose is running, and her
face is swollen.”
I finished my scene, made my bow, and went away in the
midst of very feeble and spiritless applause. I walked like a
somnambulist, and on reaching Mme. Guérard and Mlle. De
Brabender fainted away in their arms. Some one went to the
hall in search of a doctor, and the rumor that “the little Bernhardt
had fainted” reached my mother. She was sitting far
back in a box bored to death.
When I came to myself again, I opened my eyes and saw
my mother’s pretty face, with tears hanging on her long lashes.
I laid my head against hers and cried quietly, but this time the
tears were refreshing, not salt ones that burned my eyelids.
I stood up, shook out my dress, and looked at myself in the
greenish mirror. I was certainly less ugly now, for my face
was rested, my hair was once more soft and light, and altogether
there was a general improvement in my appearance.
The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been
awarded. I had no recompense at all, but my last year’s second
prize had been mentioned. I felt confused, but it did not cause
me any disappointment, as I had quite expected things to be
like this. Several persons had protested in my favor. Camille
Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had argued a long time
for me to have a first prize in spite of my bad recitation. He
said that my examination reports ought to be taken into account,
and they were excellent; and then, too, I had the best class
reports. Nothing, however, could overcome the bad effect produced
that day by my nasal voice, my swollen face, and my
heavy flakes of hair. After half an hour’s interval, during
which I drank a glass of port wine and ate cakes, the signal was
given for the comedy competition. I was down as the fourteenth
for this, so that I had ample time to recover. My fighting
instinct now began to take possession of me, and a sense of
injustice made me feel rebellious. I had not deserved my prize
that day, but it seemed to me that I ought to have received it
nevertheless.
SARAH BERNHARDT IN THE HANDS OF HER COIFFEUR.
87I made up my mind that I would have the first prize for
comedy, and with the exaggeration that I have always put into
everything, I began to get excited, and I said to myself that if
I did not have the first prize I must give up the idea of the
stage as a career. My love of mysticism and weakness for the
convent came back to me more strongly than ever.
“Yes,” I said to myself, “I will go back to the convent,
but only if I do not get the first prize”; and then the most
foolish, illogical strike imaginable was waged in my weak, girl’s
brain. I felt a genuine vocation for the convent when distressed
about losing the prize, and a genuine vocation for the theater
when I was hopeful about winning the prize.
With a very natural partiality I discovered in myself the
gift of absolute self-sacrifice, renunciation, and devotion of every
kind—qualities which would win for me easily the post of
Mother Superior in the Grandchamps Convent. Then with the
most indulgent generosity I attributed to myself all the necessary
gifts for the fulfillment of my other dream, namely, to become
the first, the most celebrated, and the most envied of
actresses. I counted on my fingers all my qualities: gracefulness,
charm, distinction, beauty, mystery, piquancy. Oh, yes,
I found I had all these, and when my reason and my honesty
raised any doubt or suggested a “but” to this fabulous inventory
of my qualities, my combative and paradoxical ego at
once found a plain decisive answer which admitted of no further
argument.
It was under these special conditions and in this frame of
mind that I went on to the stage when my turn came. The
choice of my rôle for this competition was a very stupid one.
I had to represent a married woman who was reasonable and
given to reasoning, and I was a mere child, and looked much
younger than I was. In spite of this, I was very brilliant; I
argued well, was very gay, and had immense success. I was
transfigured with joy and wildly excited, so sure I felt of a first
prize.
I never doubted for a moment that it would be awarded to
me unanimously. When the competition was over, the committee
met to discuss the awards, and in the meantime I asked for
88something to eat. A cutlet was brought from the pastry cook
patronized by the Conservatoire, and I devoured it, to the great
joy of Mme. Guérard and Mlle. De Brabender, for I detested
meat, and always refused to eat it.
The members of the committee at last went to their places
in the state box, and there was silence in the hall. The young
men were called first on to the stage. There was no first prize
awarded to them. Parfouru’s name was called for the second
prize for comedy. Parfouru is known to-day as M. Paul Porel,
director of the Vaudeville Theater, and Réjane’s husband. After
this came the turn for the girls.
I was in the doorway, ready to rush up to the stage. The
words “first prize for comedy” were uttered, and I made a
step forward, pushing aside a girl who was a head taller than
I was. “First prize for comedy awarded unanimously to Mlle.
Marie Lloyd.” The tall girl I had pushed aside now went
forward, slender and beaming, toward the stage.
There were a few muttered protests, but her beauty, her
distinction, and her modest charm won the day with everyone,
and Marie Lloyd was cheered. She passed me on her return,
and kissed me affectionately. We were great friends, and I
liked her very, much, but I considered her a nonentity as a pupil.
I do not remember whether she had received any prize the
previous year, but certainly no one expected her to have one
now, and I was simply petrified.
“Second prize for comedy: Mlle. Bernhardt.”
I had not heard this, and was pushed forward by my companions.
On reaching the stage I bowed, and all the time I
could see hundreds of Marie Lloyds dancing before me. Some
of them were making grimaces, others were throwing me kisses—some
were fanning themselves and others bowing. They were
very tall, all these Marie Lloyds—too tall for the ceiling, and
they walked over the heads of all the people and came toward
me, crushing me, stifling me, so that I could not breathe. My
face, it seems, was whiter than my dress.
On returning to the green room, I sat down without uttering
a word and looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much
89of, and who was greatly complimented by everyone. She was
wearing a pale blue tarlatan dress, with a bunch of forget-me-nots
in the bodice and another in her black hair. She was very
tall, and her delicate, white shoulders emerged modestly from
her dress, which was cut very low, as for her this did not matter.
Her refined face, with its somewhat proud expression, was
charming and very beautiful. Although very young, she had
more womanly charm than all of us. Her large brown eyes had
a certain play in them, her little round mouth gave a smile
which was full of mischief, and the nostrils of her wonderfully
cut nose dilated. The oval of her beautiful face was intercepted
by two little pearly, transparent ears of the most exquisite shape.
She had a long, flexible white neck, and the pose of her head
was charming. It was a beauty prize that the jury had conscientiously
awarded to Marie Lloyd. She had come on the
stage gay and fascinating, in her rôle of Célimène, and in spite
of the monotony of her delivery, the carelessness of her elocution,
the impersonality of her acting, she had carried off all the
votes because she was the very personification of Célimène, that
coquette of twenty years of age who was unconsciously so cruel.
She had realized for everyone the ideal dreamed of by Molière.
All these thoughts shaped themselves later on in my brain,
and this first lesson, which was so painful at the time, was of
great service to me in my career. I never forgot Marie Lloyd’s
prize, and every time that I had to create a rôle, the physical
body of the character always appeared before me dressed, with
her hair done, walking, bowing, sitting down, getting up. But
this was only a vision which lasted a second, for my mind always
thought of the soul governing this personage. When listening
to an author reading his work, I tried to define the intention
of his idea, endeavoring to identify myself with that intention.
I have never played an author false with regard to his idea, and
I have always tried to represent the personage according to history,
whenever it is a historical personage, and when it is an
invention, according to the author.
I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the
truth, and to destroy the legendary side of certain personages
90whom history, thanks to its documents, now represents to us
as they were in reality; but the public never followed me. I
soon realized that legend remains victorious in spite of history,
and this is perhaps a good thing for the mind of the crowd.
Jesus, Joan of Arc, Shakespeare, the Virgin Mary, Mahomet,
and Napoleon I have all entered into legend.
It is impossible now for our brain to picture Jesus and the
Virgin Mary accomplishing humiliating human functions. They
lived the life that we are living. Death chilled their sacred
limbs, and it is not without rebellion and grief that we accept
this fact. We start off in pursuit of them in an ethereal heaven,
in the infinite of our dreams. We cast down all the dross of
humanity in order to let them, clothed in the ideal, be seated
on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the
rustic, bold, peasant woman, repulsing violently the old soldier
who wants to joke with her, sitting astride her big steed like a
man, laughing readily at the coarse jokes of the soldiers, submitting
to the lewd promiscuities of the barbarous epoch in
which she lived, and having, on that account, all the more merit
in remaining a most heroic maiden.
We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she
is a fragile woman guided by a divine soul. Her girl’s arm
which holds the heavy banner is sustained by an invisible angel.
In her childish eyes there is something from another world, and
it is from this that all the warriors get their strength and courage.
It is thus that we wish it to be, and so the legend remains
triumphant.
But to return to the Conservatoire. Nearly all the pupils
had gone away, and I remained quiet and embarrassed on my
bench. Marie Lloyd came and sat down by me.
“Are you unhappy?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “I wanted the first prize, and you
have it. It is unjust.”
“I do not know whether it is just or not,” answered Marie
Lloyd, “but I assure you that it is not my fault.”
I could not help laughing at this.
“Shall I come home with you to luncheon?” she asked, and
91her beautiful eyes grew moist and beseeching. She was an
orphan and unhappy, and on this day of triumph she felt the
need of a family. My heart began to melt with pity and affection.
I threw my arms round her neck, and we all four went
away together—Marie Lloyd, Mme. Guérard, Mlle. De Brabender,
and I. My mother had sent me word that she had gone
on home.
In the cab my “don’t-care” character won the day once
more, and we chatted gayly about one and another of the people
we had seen during the morning. “Oh, how ridiculous such
and such a person was!” “Did you see her mother’s bonnet?”
“And old Estebenet, did you see his white gloves? He must
have stolen them from some policeman!” And hereupon we
laughed like idiots, and then began again. “And that poor
Châtelain had had his hair curled!” said Marie Lloyd. “Did
you see his head?”
I did not laugh any more, though, for this reminded me of
how my own hair had been uncurled, and that it was thanks to
that I had not won the first prize for tragedy.
On reaching home we found my mother, my aunt, my godfather,
our old friend Meydieu, Mme. Guérard’s husband, and
my sister Jeanne with her hair all curled. This gave me a
pang, for she had straight hair, and it had been curled to make
her prettier, although she was charming without that, and the
curl had been taken out of my hair, so that I had looked uglier.
My mother spoke to Marie Lloyd with that charming and
distinguished indifference peculiar to her. My godfather made a
great fuss over her, for success was everything to this bourgeois.
He had seen my young friend a hundred times before, and had
not been struck by her beauty, nor yet touched by her poverty,
but on this particular day he assured us that he had for a long
time predicted Marie Lloyd’s triumph. He then came to me,
put his two hands on my shoulders, and held me facing him.
“Well, you were a failure,” he said. “Why persist now
in going in for the theater? You are thin and small, your face
is rather nice close to, but ugly in the distance, and your voice
does not carry!”
92“Yes, my dear girl,” put in M. Meydieu, “your godfather
is right. You had better marry the flour man who proposed, or
that imbecile of a Spanish tanner who lost his brainless head
for the sake of your pretty eyes. You will never do anything
on the stage! You’d better marry!”
M. Guérard came and shook hands with me. He was a man
of nearly sixty years of age, and Mme. Guérard was under
thirty. He was melancholy, gentle, and shy; he had been
awarded the distinction of the Legion of Honor, and he wore
a long, shabby frock coat, had aristocratic gestures, and was
private secretary to M. De la Tour Desmoulins, a deputy very
much in favor. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I owe
a great deal to his kindness.
Jeanne whispered to me:
“Sister’s godfather said when he came in that you looked
as ugly as possible.” Jeanne always spoke of my godfather in
this way. I pushed her away, and we sat down to table. All
through the meal my one wish was to go back to the convent.
I did not eat much, and directly after luncheon was so tired
that I had to go to bed.
When once I was alone in my room between the sheets, with
tired limbs, my head heavy and my heart oppressed with keeping
back my sighs, I tried to consider my wretched situation,
but sleep, the great restorer, came to the rescue and I was very
soon slumbering peacefully. When I awoke I could not collect
my thoughts at first. I wondered what time it was, and looked
at my watch. It was just ten, and I had been asleep since three
o’clock in the afternoon. I listened for a few minutes, but
everything was silent in the house. On a table near my bed
was a small tray on which was a cup of chocolate and a cake.
A sheet of writing paper was placed upright against the cup.
I trembled as I took it up, for I never received any letters. With
great difficulty, by my night light, I managed to read the following
words, written by Mme. Guérard:
“When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word
to your mother that Camille Doucet had just assured him that
93you were to be engaged for the Comédie Française. Do not
worry any more, therefore, my dear child, but have faith in
the future. Your petite dame.”
I pinched myself to make sure that I was really awake. I
got up and rushed to the window. I looked out, and the sky
was black. Yes, it was black to everyone else, but starry to me.
The stars were shining, and I looked for my own special one,
and chose the largest and brightest.
I went back toward my bed and amused myself with jumping
on to it, holding my feet together. Each time I missed
I laughed like a lunatic. I then drank my chocolate, and nearly
choked myself devouring my cake.
Standing up on my bolster, I then made a long speech to the
Virgin Mary at the head of my bed. I adored the Virgin Mary,
and I explained to her my reasons for not being able to take
the veil, in spite of my vocation. I tried to charm and persuade
her, and I kissed her very gently on her foot, which was
crushing the serpent. Then in the obscurity of the room I
looked for my mother’s portrait. I could scarcely see this,
but I threw kisses to it. I then took up the letter again
from my petite dame and went to sleep with it in my mind.
I do not remember what my dreams were that memorable
night.
The next day everyone was very kind to me. My godfather,
who arrived early, nodded his head in a contented way.
“She must have some fresh air,” he said. “I will pay for
a landau.” The drive seemed to me delicious, for I could
dream to my heart’s content, as my mother disliked talking
when in a carriage.
Two days later, our old servant, Marguerite, breathless with
excitement, brought me a letter. On the corner of the envelope
there was a wide stamp around which stood the magic words:
“Comédie Française.” I glanced at my mother and she nodded,
as a sign that I might open the letter, after blaming Marguerite
for giving me a letter before obtaining her permission
to do so.
94“It is for to-morrow, to-morrow!” I exclaimed. “I am
to go there to-morrow, look—read it!”
My sisters came rushing to me and seized my hands. I
danced round with them singing, “It is to-morrow, it’s to-morrow.”
My youngest sister was eight years old, but I was
only six that day. I went upstairs to the flat on the top floor
to tell Mme. Guérard. She was just soaping her children’s
white frocks and pinafores. She took my face in her hands
and kissed me affectionately. Her two hands were covered with
a soapy lather and left a snowy patch on each side of my head.
I rushed downstairs again in that condition, and went noisily
into the drawing-room. My godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt,
and my mother were just commencing whist. I kissed each of
them, leaving a little lather on their faces, at which I laughed
heartily. But I was allowed to do anything that day, for I had
become a personage.
The next day, Tuesday, I was to go to the Théâtre Français
at one o’clock to see M. Thierry, who was then director.
What was I to wear? That was the great question. My
mother had sent for the milliner, who had arrived with various
hats. I chose a white one trimmed with pale blue, a white
bavolet and blue strings. Aunt Rosine had sent one of her
dresses for me, for my mother thought all my frocks were too
childish. Oh, that dress! I shall see it all my life. It was
hideous cabbage green with black velvet put on in Grecian pattern.
I looked like a monkey in that dress. But I was obliged
to wear it. Fortunately it was covered by a mantle of black
grosgrain stitched all round with white. It was thought better
for me to be dressed like a grown-up person, and all my
clothes were suitable only for a child. Mlle. De Brabender gave
me a pair of white gloves, and Mme. Guérard a sunshade. My
mother gave me a very pretty turquoise ring.
Dressed up in this way, looking pretty in my white hat,
uncomfortable in my green dress, but comforted by my mantle,
I went with Mme. Guérard to M. Thierry’s. My aunt lent me
her carriage for the occasion, as she thought it would look
better to arrive in a private carriage. Later on I found that
this arrival in my own carriage, with a footman, made a very
bad impression. What all the theater people thought, I never
cared to consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth
must really have preserved me from all suspicion.
SARAH BERNHARDT WHEN SHE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY.
95M. Thierry received me very kindly and made a little nonsensical
speech. He then unfolded a paper, which he handed
to Mme. Guérard, asking her to look at it and then to sign it.
This paper was my engagement, and my petite dame explained
that she was not my mother.
“Ah!” said M. Thierry, getting up, “then will you take
it with you and have it signed by mademoiselle’s mother?”
He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at the
touch of his, for it was flabby, and there was no life or sincerity
in its grasp. I quickly took mine away and looked at
him. He was plain, with a red face, and eyes that avoided one’s
gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin, who, hearing I was
there, had waited to see me. He had made his début a year
before with great success.
“Well, it’s settled, then?” he said gayly.
I showed him the engagement and shook hands with him.
I went quickly down the stairs, and just as I was leaving the
theater, found myself in the midst of a group in the doorway.
“Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice, which I recognized
as M. Doucet’s.
“Oh, yes, monsieur, thank you so much,” I answered.
“But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it,” he said.
“Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless
we count on you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to
Camille Doucet he asked: “What do you think, your Excellency?”
“I think that this child will be a very great artiste,” he
replied.
There was silence for a moment.
“Well, you have got a turnout!” exclaimed Beauvallet
rudely. He was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the
worst-bred man in France or anywhere else.
96“This turnout belongs to mademoiselle’s aunt,” remarked
Camille Doucet, shaking hands with me gently.
“Oh, well, I would much rather it belonged to her than
to me,” answered the tragedian.
I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a
sensation at the theater, and drove away. On reaching home
I took the engagement to my mother. She signed it without
reading it, and I then fully made up my mind to be some one,
quand-même.
A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française,
my aunt gave a dinner party. Among her guests were the Duc
de Morny, Camille Doucet, the Minister of the Beaux-Arts,
M. De Walewski, Rossini, my mother, Mlle. De Brabender,
and I. During the evening a great many other people came.
My mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first
time I had worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable
I was! Everyone paid me great attention. Rossini asked me
to recite some poetry, and I consented willingly, glad and proud
to be of some little importance. I chose Casimir Delavigne’s
poem “L’âme du Purgatoire.”
“That should be said with music as an accompaniment,”
exclaimed Rossini, when I came to an end. Everyone approved
this idea, and Walewski said:
“Mademoiselle will begin again and you could improvise
an accompaniment, cher maître.”
There was great excitement, and I at once began again.
Rossini improvised the most delightful harmony, which filled
me with emotion. My tears flowed freely without my being
conscious of them, and at the end my mother kissed me, saying:
“This is the first time that you have really moved me.”
As a matter of fact, she adored music, and it was Rossini’s
improvisation that had moved her.
The Comte de Kératry was also present, an elegant young
Hussar, who paid me great compliments, and invited me to go
and recite some poetry at his mother’s house.
My aunt then sang a song which was very much in vogue,
and had great success. She was coquettish and charming and
97just a trifle jealous of this insignificant niece who had taken up
the attention of her admirers for a few minutes.
When I returned home I was quite another being. I sat
down, dressed as I was, on my bed and remained for a long
time deep in thought. Hitherto all I had known of life had
been through my family and my work. I had now just had a
glimpse of it through society, and I was struck by the hypocrisy
of some of the people, and the conceit of others. I began
to wonder uneasily what I should do, shy and frank as I was.
I thought of my mother. She did not do anything, though.
She was indifferent to everything. I thought of my Aunt Rosine,
who, on the contrary, liked to mix in everything.
I remained there looking down on the ground, my head in a
whirl, and feeling very anxious, and I did not go to bed until
I was thoroughly cold.
CHAPTER VII I MAKE MY DÉBUT AND EXIT
98
The next few days passed by without any particular
events. I was working hard at Iphigénie, as M.
Thierry had told me I was to make my début in
this rôle.
At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to
be at the rehearsal of Iphigénie. Oh, that first notice, how it
made my heart beat! I could not sleep at night, and daylight
did not come quickly enough for me. I kept getting up to look
at the time. It seemed to me that the clock had stopped. I
had dozed, and I fancied it was the same time as before. Finally,
a streak of light coming through the windowpanes was,
I thought, the triumphant sun illuminating my room. I got
up at once, pulled back the curtains, and mumbled my rôle
while dressing.
I thought of rehearsing with Mme. Devoyod, the first actress
at the Comédie Française for tragedy, with Maubant, with ... I trembled as I thought of all this, for Mme. Devoyod was
not supposed to be very indulgent. I arrived for the rehearsal
an hour before the time. The stage manager, Davenne, smiled
and asked me whether I knew my rôle.
“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed with conviction.
“Come and rehearse it. Would you like to?” and he took
me to the stage.
I went with him through the long corridor of busts which
leads from the foyer of the artistes to the stage. He told me
the names of the celebrities represented by these busts. I stood
still a moment before that of Adrienne Lecouvreur.
99“I love that artiste,” I said.
“Do you know her story?” he asked.
“Yes, I have read all that has been written about her.”
“That’s quite right, my child,” said the worthy man.
“You ought to read all that concerns your art. I will lend
you some very interesting books.”
He took me on toward the stage. The mysterious gloom, the
scenery reared up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor,
the endless number of weights, ropes, trees, friezes, harrows
overhead, the yawning house completely dark, the silence,
broken by the creaking of the floor, and the vaultlike chill that
one felt—all this together awed me. It did not seem to me to
be part of that brilliant frame for the living artistes who every
night won the applause of the house by their merriment or
their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead
glories, and the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with
the illustrious ghosts of those whom the manager had just mentioned.
With my highly strung nerves, my imagination, which
was always evoking something, now saw them advance toward
me, stretching out their hands. These specters wanted to take
me away with them. I put my hands over my eyes and stood
still.
“Are you not well?” asked M. Davenne.
“Oh, yes, thank you, it was just a little giddiness.”
His voice had chased away the specters, and I opened my
eyes and paid attention to the worthy man’s advice. Book in
hand, he explained to me where I was to stand, and my changes
of place. He was rather pleased with my way of reciting, and
he taught me a few of the traditions. At the line:
“Euripide à l’autel, conduisez la victime,” he said: “Mlle.
Favart was very effective there....”
The artistes gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or
less. They glanced at me, and then rehearsed their scenes without
taking any further notice of me at all.
I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything
else. I heard a few words that sounded to me coarse, used by
one or another of the artistes. I was not accustomed to such
100language, as at home everyone was rather scrupulous, and at
my aunt’s a trifle affected, while at the convent it is unnecessary
to say I had never heard a word that was out of place.
It is true that I had been through the Conservatoire, but I had
not associated intimately with any of the pupils, with the exception
of Marie Lloyd and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of
Blanche Baretta, who is now an associate of the Comédie Française.
When the rehearsal was over, it was decided that there
should be another one at the same hour the following day, in
the public foyer.
The costume maker came in search of me, as she wanted to
try on my costume. Mlle. De Brabender, who had arrived during
the rehearsal, went up with me to the costume room. She
wanted my arms to be covered, but the costume maker told her
gently that this was impossible for tragedy.
A dress of white woolen material was tried on me. It was
very ugly, and the veil was so stiff that I refused it. A wreath
of roses was tried on, but this, too, was so ugly that I refused
to wear it.
“Well, then, mademoiselle,” said the costume maker dryly,
“you will have to get these things and pay for them yourself,
as this is the costume supplied by the Comédie.”
“Very well,” I answered, blushing, “I will get them myself.”
On returning home I told my mother my troubles, and, as
she was always very generous, she promptly bought me a veil
of white barège that fell in beautiful, large, soft folds, and a
wreath of hedge roses which, at night, looked very soft and
white. She also ordered me buskins from the shoemaker employed
by the Comédie.
The next thing to think about was the make-up box. For
this my mother had recourse to the mother of Dica Petit, my
fellow student at the Conservatoire. I went with Mme. Dica Petit to M. Massin, a manufacturer of these make-up boxes.
He was the father of Léontine Massin, another Conservatoire
pupil.
101We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réamur,
and on a plain-looking door read the words: “Massin, Manufacturer
of Make-up Boxes.” I knocked and a little hunchback
girl opened the door. I recognized Léontine’s sister, as
she had come several times to the Conservatoire.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a surprise for us! Titine,”
she then called out, “here is Mlle. Sarah!”
Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She
was a pretty girl, very gentle and calm in demeanor. She threw
her arms round me, exclaiming:
“How glad I am to see you! And so you are coming out
at the Comédie. I saw it in the paper.”
I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in
the paper.
“I am engaged at the Variétés,” she said, and then she
talked away at such a rate that I was bewildered. Mme. Petit
did not enter into all this, and tried in vain to separate us. She
had replied by a nod and an indifferent “Thanks” to Léontine’s
inquiries about her daughter’s health. Finally, when the
young girl had finished saying all she had to say, Mme. Petit
remarked:
“You must order your box; we have come here for that,
you know.”
“Ah! then you will find my father in his workshop at the
end of the passage, and if you are not very long I shall still
be here. I am going to rehearsal at the Variétés later on.”
Mme. Petit was furious, for she did not like Léontine Massin.
“Don’t wait, mademoiselle,” she said, “it will be impossible
for us to stay afterwards.”
Léontine was annoyed, and, shrugging her shoulders, she
turned her back on my companion. She then put her hat on,
kissed me, and bowing gravely to Mme. Petit, remarked:
“Good-by, Mme. Gros-tas, and I hope I shall never see
you again.” She then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard
Mme. Petit mutter a few disagreeable words in Dutch, but I
did not understand the meaning of them at the time. We then
went to the workshop and found old Massin at his workbench,
102planing some small planks of white wood. His hunchback
daughter kept coming in and out, humming gayly all the time.
The father was glum and harassed, and had an anxious look.
As soon as we had ordered the box we took our leave. Mme.
Petit went out first and Léontine’s sister then put her hand
into mine and said quietly:
“Father was not very polite, but it is because he is jealous.
He wanted my sister to be at the Théâtre Français.”
I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague
idea of the painful drama which was acting so differently on
the various members of this humble home.
On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my début, I
was in the Rue Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They
used to be put up then just at the corner of the Rue Duphot
and the Rue St. Honoré. On the poster of the Comédie Française
I read the words: “Début of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt.”...
I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the letters
of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though
every person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards,
and I blushed to the very roots of my hair.
At five o’clock I went to the theater. I had a dressing-room
on the top floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblance. This room
was on the other side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented
by the Comédie Française. A small covered bridge over the
street served as a passage and means of communication for us
to reach the theater.
I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not
know whether I looked nice or not. My petite dame thought
I was too pale, and Mlle. De Brabender considered that I had
too much color. My mother was to go direct to her seat in the
theater, and Aunt Rosine was away in the country.
When we were told that the play was about to commence
I broke out into a cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt
ready to faint away. I went downstairs trembling, tottering,
and my teeth chattering. When I arrived on the stage the
curtain was being raised. That curtain, which was raised so
slowly and solemnly, was, to me, like the veil being torn which
103was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep, gentle voice
made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who
had come to encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad
was I to see him again. Samson was there, too; I believe that
he was playing that night in one of Molière’s comedies. The
two men were very different. Provost was tall, his silvery hair
was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson was small,
precise, dainty, his shiny white hair curled firmly and closely
round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment
of protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who
was, nevertheless, so full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal
for work, my obstinate will, which was always struggling for
the victory over my physical weakness. They knew that my
device “Quand-même” had not been adopted by me merely by
chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise
of will power on my part. My mother had told them how I had
chosen this device at the age of nine, after a formidable jump
over a ditch which no one could jump, and which my young
cousin had dared me to attempt. I had hurt my face, broken
my wrist, and was in pain all over. While I was being carried
home I exclaimed furiously: “Yes, I would do it again, quand-même,
if anyone dared me again. And I will always do what
I want to do all my life.” In the evening of that day, my
aunt, who was grieved to see me in such pain, asked me what
would give me any pleasure. My poor little body was all
bandaged, but I jumped with joy at this, and quite consoled I
whispered in a coaxing way: “I should like to have some writing
paper with a motto of my own.”
My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I
did not answer for a minute, and then, as they were all waiting
quietly, I uttered such a furious “Quand-même” that my
Aunt Faure started back muttering, “What a terrible child!”
Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to
give me courage; but my ears were buzzing so that I could not
listen to them. Provost heard my catchword on the stage and
pushed me gently forward. I made my entry and hurried toward
Agamemnon, my father. I did not want to leave him
104again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then
rushed to my mother, Clytemnestre. I got through my part,
and on leaving the stage I tore up to my room and began to
undress.
Mme. Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad.
I had only played in one scene and there were four more. I
realized then that it would really be dangerous to give way
to my nerves. I had recourse to my own motto, and, standing in
front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I ordered myself
to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a state of
confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was
very insignificant in my part.
The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had
been looking at Sarcey’s article in L’Opinion Nationale, and
she now read me the following lines.... “Mlle. Bernhardt,
who made her début yesterday in the rôle of Iphigénie, is a tall,
pretty girl with a slender figure and a very pleasing expression,
the upper part of her face is remarkably beautiful. She holds
herself well, and her enunciation is perfectly clear. This is
all that can be said for her at present.”
“The man is an idiot,” said my mother, drawing me to her.
“You were charming.”
She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made
it with cream. I was happy, but not completely so. When
my godfather arrived in the afternoon, he exclaimed:
“Good heavens! my poor child, what thin arms you have!”
As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard
them, when, stretching out my arms, I had said the famous
lines in which Favart had made her famous “effect” that was
now a tradition. I certainly had made no “effect,” unless
the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can be reckoned such.
My second appearance was in Valérie, when I did have some
slight success.
My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following
effusion from the pen of the same Sarcey:
SARAH BERNHARDT AT THE TIME OF HER DÉBUT IN “LES FEMMES SAVANTES.”
105L’Opinion Nationale, September 12th.... “The same evening
‘Les Femmes Savantes’ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt’s third appearance, and she took the rôle of Henriette.
She was just as pretty and insignificant in this as in that of
Junie (he had made a mistake, as it was Iphigénie I had played)
and of Valérie, both of which rôles had been entrusted to her
previously. This performance was a very poor affair, and gives
rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle. Bernhardt
should be insignificant does not so much matter. She is a
débutante, and among the number presented to us it is only
natural that some should be failures. The pitiful part is,
though, that the comedians playing with her were not much
better than she was, and they are Sociétaires of the Théâtre
Français. All that they had more than their young comrade
was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are just as
Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years’ time, if she stays
at the Comédie Française.”
I did not stay there, though; for one of those nothings which
change a whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comédie
expecting to remain there always. I had heard my godfather
explain to my mother all about the various stages of my career.
“The child will have so much during the first five years,”
he said, “and so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty
years she will have the pension given to Associates, that is, if
she ever becomes an Associate.” He appeared to have his
doubts about this.
My sister Régina was the cause, though quite involuntarily
this time, of the drama which made me leave the Comédie. It
was Molière’s anniversary, and all the artistes of the Français
had to salute the bust of the great writer, according to the
tradition of the theater. It was to be my first appearance at
a “ceremony” and my little sister, on hearing me tell about
it at home, besought me to take her to it.
My mother gave me permission to do so, and our old Marguerite
was to accompany us. All the members of the Comédie
were assembled in the foyer. The men and women, dressed in
different costumes, all wore the famous doctor’s cloak. The signal
was given that the ceremony was about to commence, and
everyone hurried to the corridor where the busts were. I was
106holding my little sister’s hand, and just in front of us was
the very fat and very solemn Mme. Nathalie. She was a Sociétaire
of the Comédie, old, spiteful, and surly.
Régina, in trying to avoid the train of Marie Roger’s cloak,
stepped on to Nathalie’s, and the latter turned round and gave
the child such a violent push that she was knocked against a
column holding a bust. Régina screamed out, and, as she turned
back to me, I saw that her pretty face was bleeding.
“You miserable creature!” I called out to the fat woman,
and, as she turned round to reply, I slapped her in the face.
She proceeded to faint; there was a great tumult, and an uproar
of indignation, approval, stifled laughter, satisfied revenge,
pity from those artistes who were mothers, for the poor
child, etc. Two groups were formed, one around the wretched
Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around little
Régina. And the different aspect of these two groups was
rather strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men
and women fanning the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchiefs
or fans. A young, but severe-looking Sociétaire was
sprinkling her with drops of water. Nathalie, on feeling this,
roused up suddenly, put her hands over her face and muttered
in a far-away voice:
“How stupid! You’ll spoil my make-up!”
The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her
pretty face, and the child was saying in her broken voice:
“I did not do it on purpose, sister, I am certain I didn’t.
She’s an old cow, and she just kicked for nothing at all!”
Régina was a fair-haired seraph who might have made the
angels envious, for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty—but
her language was by no means choice, and nothing in
the world could change it. Her coarse speech made the friendly
group burst out laughing, while all the members of the enemy’s
camp shrugged their shoulders. Bressant, who was the most
charming of the comedians and a general favorite, came up to
me and said:
“We must arrange this little matter, mademoiselle, for
Nathalie’s short arms are really very long. Between ourselves
107you were a trifle hasty, but I like that, and then that child
is so droll and pretty,” he added, looking at my little sister.
The house was stamping with impatience, for this little
scene had caused twenty minutes’ delay, and we were obliged
to go on to the stage at once. Marie Roger kissed me, saying:
“You are a plucky little comrade!” Rose Baretta drew me
to her, murmuring: “How dared you do it! She is a Sociétaire!”
As for me, I was not very clear about what I had done,
but my instinct warned me that I should pay dearly for it.
The following day I received a letter from the manager
asking me to call at the Comédie at one o’clock about a matter
concerning me privately. I had been crying all night long,
more through nervous excitement than from remorse, and I was
more particularly annoyed at the idea of the attacks I should
have to endure from my own family. I did not let my mother
see the letter, for from the day that I had entered the Comédie
she had given me full liberty. I received my letters now direct,
without her supervision, and I went about alone.
At one o’clock precisely I was shown into the manager’s
office. M. Thierry, his nose more congested than ever, and his
eyes more crafty, preached me a deadly sermon, blamed my
want of discipline, absence of respect, and scandalous conduct,
and finished his pitiful harangue by advising me to beg Mme.
Nathalie’s pardon.
“I have asked her to come,” he added, “and you must
apologize to her before three Sociétaires belonging to the Committee.
Is she consents to forgive you the Committee will then
consider whether to fine you or to cancel your engagement.”
I did not reply for a few minutes. I thought of my mother
in distress, my godfather laughing in his bourgeois way, and my
Aunt Faure triumphant, with her usual phrase: “That child is
terrible!” I thought, too, of my beloved Brabender with her
hands clasped, her mustache drooping sadly, her small eyes full
of tears, so touching in their mute supplication. I could hear my
gentle, timid Mme. Guérard arguing with everyone, so courageous
she was always in her confidence in my future.
108“Well, mademoiselle?” said M. Thierry curtly.
I looked at him without speaking and he began to get impatient.
“I will go and ask Mme. Nathalie to come here,” he said,
“and I beg you will do your part as quickly as possible, for I
have other things to attend to than to put your blunders right.”
“Oh, no, do not fetch Mme. Nathalie,” I said at last, “I
shall not apologize to her. I will leave. I will cancel my engagement
at once.”
He was stupefied, and his arrogance melted away in pity for
the ungovernable, willful child who was about to ruin her whole
future for the sake of a question of self-esteem. He was at once
gentler and more polite. He asked me to sit down, which he had
not hitherto done, and he sat down himself opposite to me and
spoke to me gently about the advantages of the Comédie, and of
the danger that there would be for me in leaving that illustrious
theater which had done me the honor of admitting me. He gave
me a hundred other very good, wise reasons which softened me.
When he saw the effect he had made, he wanted to send for Mme.
Nathalie, but I roused up then like a little wild animal.
“Oh, don’t let her come here, I should slap her again!” I
exclaimed.
“Well, then, I must ask your mother to come,” he said.
“My mother would never come,” I replied.
“Then I will go and call on her.”
“It will be quite useless,” I persisted, “my mother has given
me my liberty, and I am quite free to lead my own life. I alone
am responsible for all that I do.”
“Well, then, mademoiselle, I will think it over,” he said rising
to show me that the interview was at an end. I went back
home determined to say nothing to my mother, but my little
sister when questioned about her wound had told everything in
her own way, exaggerating, if possible, the brutality of Mme.
Nathalie and the audacity of what I had done. Rosa Baretta,
too, had been to see me and had burst into tears, assuring my
mother that my engagement would be canceled. The whole
family was very much excited and distressed when I arrived, and
109when they began to argue with me it made me still more nervous.
I did not take calmly the reproaches which one and another of
them addressed to me, and I was not at all willing to follow their
advice. I went to my room and locked myself in.
The following day no one spoke to me and I went up to Mme.
Guérard to be comforted and consoled.
Several days passed by and I had nothing to do at the theater.
Finally, one morning, I received a notice requesting me to be
present for the reading of a play. It was “Dolorès,” by M. De
Bornier. This was the first time I had been asked to the reading
of a new piece. I was evidently to have the creation of a rôle.
All my sorrows were at once dispersed like a cloud of butterflies.
I told my mother of my joy, and she naturally concluded that as
I was asked to go to a reading, my engagement was not to be
canceled and I was not to be asked again to apologize to Mme.
Nathalie.
I went to the theater, and to my utter surprise I received from
M. Davennes the rôle of Dolorès, the chief part in Bornier’s play.
I knew that Favart, who should have had this rôle, was not well,
but there were other artistes for it, and I could not get over my
joy and surprise. Nevertheless, I felt somewhat uneasy. A terrible
presentiment has always warned me of any troubles about
to come upon me.
I had been rehearsing for five days when one morning, on
going upstairs, I suddenly found myself face to face with Nathalie,
seated under Gérôme’s portrait of Rachel, known as “The
Red Pimento.” I did not know whether to go downstairs again
or to pass by. My hesitation was noticed by the spiteful woman.
“Oh, you can go by, mademoiselle,” she said. “I have forgiven
you, as I have avenged myself. The rôle that you like so
much is not to be left to you after all.”
I went by without uttering a word. I was thunderstruck by
her speech, which I guessed would prove true.
I did not mention this incident to anyone, but continued rehearsing.
It was on Tuesday that Nathalie had spoken to me,
and on Friday I was disappointed to hear that Davennes was not
there and that there was to be no rehearsal. Just as I was getting
110into my cab the hall porter ran out to give me a letter from
Davennes. The poor man had not ventured to come himself and
give me the news, which he was sure would be so painful to me.
He explained to me in his letter that on account of my extreme
youth—the importance of the rôle—such responsibility for
such young shoulders—as Mme. Favart had recovered from her
illness, it was wiser, etc. I finished reading the letter through
blinding tears, but very soon anger took the place of grief. I
rushed back again and up to the manager’s office. He could not
see me just then, but I said I would wait. At the end of an hour,
thoroughly impatient, taking no notice of the office boy and the
secretary, who wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door
of M. Thierry’s office and walked in. I was desperate, and all
that anger with injustice and fury with falsehood could inspire
me with, I let him have in a stream of eloquence only interrupted
by my sobs. The manager gazed at me in bewilderment. He
could not conceive of such daring and such violence in a girl so
young.
When at last, thoroughly exhausted, I sank down on an armchair,
he tried to calm me, but all in vain.
“I will leave at once,” I said. “Give me back my engagement
and I will send you back mine.”
Finally, tired of argument and persuasion, he called his
secretary in, gave him the necessary orders, and the latter soon
brought in my engagement.
“Here is your mother’s signature, mademoiselle. I leave
you free to bring it me back within forty-eight hours. After
that time if I do not receive it I shall consider that you are no
longer a member of the theater. But, believe me, you are acting
unwisely. Think it over within the next forty-eight hours.”
I did not answer but went out of his office. That very evening
I sent back to M. Thierry the engagement bearing his signature
and tore up the one with that of my mother.
I had left Molière’s Theater and was not to re-enter it until
twelve years later.
CHAPTER VIII CASTLES IN SPAIN
111
This proceeding of mine was certainly violently decisive,
and it completely upset my home life. I was
not happy from this time forth among my own
people, as I was continually being blamed for my violence.
Irritating remarks with a double meaning were constantly
being made by my aunt and my little sisters. My
godfather, whom I had once for all requested to mind his own
business, no longer dared to attack me openly, but he influenced
my mother against me. There was no longer any peace for me
except at Mme. Guerard’s, and so I was constantly with her.
I enjoyed helping her in her domestic affairs. She taught me to
make cakes, chocolate, and scrambled eggs. All this gave me
something else to think about, and I soon recovered my gayety.
One morning there was something very mysterious about my
mother. She kept looking at the clock and seemed uneasy because
my godfather, who lunched and dined with us every day,
had not arrived.
“It’s very strange,” my mother said, “for last night after
whist he said he should be with us this morning before luncheon.
It’s very strange indeed.”
She was usually calm, but she kept coming in and out of the
room, and when Marguerite put her head in at the door to ask
whether she should serve the luncheon, my mother told her to
wait.
Finally, the bell rang, startling my mother and Jeanne. My
little sister was evidently in the secret.
112“Well, it’s settled!” exclaimed my godfather, shaking the
snow from his hat. “Here, read that, you self-willed girl.”
He handed me a letter stamped with the words “Théâtre du
Gymnase.” It was from Montigny, the manager at this theater,
to M. De Gerbois, a friend of my godfather’s, whom I knew
very well. The letter was very friendly, as far as M. De Gerbois
was concerned, but it finished with the following words:
“I will engage your protégée in order to be agreeable to you ... but she appears to me to have a vile temper.”
I blushed as I read these lines and I thought my godfather
was wanting in tact, as he might have given me real delight and
avoided wounding me in this way; but he was the clumsiest-minded
man that ever lived. My mother seemed very much
pleased, so that I kissed her pretty face, and thanked my godfather.
Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face, which was always
so cool, and always slightly dewy! When I was a little
child I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with
her long lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and
open and shut her eyes, tickling my cheeks while I lay back
breathless with delight.
The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting
for some little time, together with about fifty other girls. M.
Monval, a cynical old man who was stage manager and almost
general manager, then interviewed us. I liked him at first, because
he was like M. Guérard, but I very soon disliked him. His
way of looking at me, of speaking to me, and of taking stock of
me generally, roused my ire at once. I answered his questions
curtly and our conversation, which seemed likely to take an
aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny, the
manager.
“Which of you is Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt?” he asked.
I at once rose and he continued:
“Will you come into my office, mademoiselle?”
Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humored.
He appeared to be somewhat infatuated with his own
personality, with his ego, but that did not matter to me. After
some friendly conversation, he preached a little to me about my
113outburst at the Comédie and made me a great many promises
about the rôles he should give me. He prepared my engagement
and gave it to me to take home for my mother’s signature and
that of my family.
“I am quite free,” I said to him, “so that my own signature
is all that is required.”
“Oh, very good!” he said, “but what nonsense to give such
a self-willed girl full liberty. Your parents did not do you a
good turn by that.”
I was just on the point of replying that what my parents
chose to do did not concern him, but I held my peace, signed the
engagement, and hurried home feeling very joyful.
Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria
Lafontaine, a young artiste very much in vogue just then,
who had the most delightful talent. I played in “La Maison
sans Enfants,” and I took her rôle at a moment’s notice in “Le
Démon du Jeu,” a piece which had great success. I was fairly
good in both pieces, but Montigny, in spite of my entreaties,
never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage manager
played me various tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger stirring
within me and I struggled with myself as much as possible to
keep my nerves calm.
One evening, on leaving the theater, a notice was handed to
me requesting me to be present at the reading of a play the following
day. Montigny had promised me a good rôle, and I fell
asleep that night lulled by fairies who carried me off into the land
of glory and success. On arriving at the theater I found
Blanche Pierson and Céline Montalant already there. Two of
the prettiest creatures that God has been pleased to create,
the one as fair as the rising sun, and the other as dark as
a starry night, for she was brilliant looking in spite of her
black hair. There were other women there, too, very, very
pretty ones.
The play to be read was entitled, “Un Mari qui Lance sa
Femme,” and it was by Raymond Deslandes. I listened to it
without any great pleasure and I thought it stupid. I waited
anxiously to see what rôle was to be given to me, and I discovered
114this only too soon. It was a certain Princess Dimchinka, a frivolous,
foolish, laughing individual, who was always eating or dancing.
I did not like this rôle at all. I was very inexperienced on
the stage and my timidity made me rather awkward. Then, too,
I had not worked for three years with such persistency and conviction
to create now the rôle of an idiotic woman in an imbecile
play. I was in despair, and the wildest ideas came into my head.
I wanted to give up the stage and go into business. I spoke of
this to our old family friend, Meydieu, who was so unbearable.
He approved of my idea, and wanted me to take a shop, a confectioner’s,
on the Boulevard des Italiens. This became a fixed
idea with the worthy man. He loved sweets himself, and he
knew lots of recipes for kinds that were not generally known,
and which he wanted to introduce. I remember one kind that he
wanted to call “bonbon nègre.” It was a mixture of chocolate
and essence of coffee to be rolled into grilled licorice root. It
was like black praline and was extremely good. I was very persistent
in this idea at first, and went with Meydieu to look at a
shop, but when he showed me the little flat over it where I should
have to live, it upset me so much that I gave up forever the idea
of business.
I went every day to the rehearsal of the stupid piece and was
bad-tempered all the time. Finally, the first performance took
place, and my part was neither a success nor a failure. I simply
was not noticed, and at night my mother remarked:
“My poor child, you were ridiculous in your Russian princess
rôle and I was very much grieved!”
I did not answer at all, but I should honestly have liked to
kill myself. I slept very badly that night and toward six in the
morning I rushed up to Mme. Guérard’s. I asked her to give me
some laudanum, but she refused. When she saw that I really
wanted it, the poor, dear woman understood my idea.
“Well, then,” I said, “swear by your children that you will
not tell anyone what I am going to do, and then I will not kill
myself.”
A sudden idea had just come into my mind, and without
weighing it, I wanted to carry it out at once. She promised, and
115I then told her that I should go at once to Spain, as I had wanted
to see that country for a long time.
“Go to Spain!” she exclaimed. “With whom, and when?”
“With the money I have saved,” I answered, “and this very
morning. Everyone is asleep at home. I shall go and pack my
trunk and start at once with you!”
“No, no, I cannot go!” exclaimed Mme. Guérard, nearly beside
herself. “There is my husband to think of and, then, too,
I have my children.”
Her little girl was scarcely two years old at that time.
“Well, then, ma petite dame, find me some one to go with
me.”
“I do not know anyone,” she answered, crying in her excitement.
“My dear little Sarah, give up such an idea, I beseech
you.”
But by this time it was a fixed idea with me and I was very
determined about it. I went downstairs, packed my trunk, and
then returned to Mme. Guérard’s. I had wrapped up a pewter
fork in paper and this I threw against one of the panes of glass in
a skylight window opposite. The window was opened abruptly
and the sleepy, angry face of a young woman appeared. I made
a trumpet of my two hands and called out:
“Caroline, will you start with me at once to Spain?”
The bewildered expression on the young woman’s face showed
that she had not comprehended what I had said, but she replied
at once:
“I am coming, mademoiselle.” She then closed her window
and ten minutes later Caroline was tapping at the door. Mme.
Guérard had sunk down aghast in an armchair. M. Guérard
had asked several times from his bedroom what was going on.
“Sarah is here,” his wife had replied; “I will tell you later
on.”
Caroline did dressmaking by the day at Mme. Guérard’s and
she had offered her services to me as lady’s maid. She was
agreeable and rather daring, and she now accepted my offer at
once. But as it would not do to arouse the suspicions of the concierge
it was decided that I should take her dresses in my trunk,
116and that she should put her linen into a bag that ma petite dame
should lend her. Poor, dear Mme. Guérard had given in. She
was quite conquered and soon began to help in my preparations,
which certainly did not take me long. The next thing was that I
did not know how to get to Spain.
“You go through Bordeaux,” said Mme. Guérard.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Caroline, “my brother-in-law is a
skipper and he often goes to Spain by Marseilles.”
I had saved nine hundred francs and Mme. Guérard lent me
six hundred. It was perfectly mad, but I felt ready to conquer
the world and nothing would have induced me to give up my
plan. Then, too, it seemed to me as though I had been wishing
to see Spain for a long time. I had got it into my head that my
Fate willed it, that I must obey my star, and a hundred other
ideas, each one more foolish than the other, strengthened me
in my plan. I was destined to act in this way, I thought.
I went downstairs again. The door was still ajar. With
Caroline’s help I carried the empty trunk up to Mme. Guérard’s,
and Caroline emptied my wardrobe and drawers and then
packed the trunk. I shall never forget that delightful moment.
It seemed to me as though the world was about to be mine. I was
going to start off with a woman to wait on me. I was about to
travel alone, with no one to criticise what I decided to do. I
should see an unknown country about which I had dreamed, and
I should cross the sea. Oh, how happy I was! Twenty times I
must have gone up and down the staircase which separated our
two flats. Everyone was asleep and the flat was so constructed
that not a sound of our going in and out could reach my mother.
I could go through the kitchen from my bedroom without any
difficulty.
My trunk was at last strapped, Caroline’s valise fastened, and
my little bag crammed full. I was quite ready to start, but the
fingers of the clock had moved along by this time, and to my
horror I discovered that it was eight o’clock. Marguerite would
be going down from her bedroom at the top of the house to prepare
my mother’s coffee, my chocolate, and bread and milk for
my sisters. In a fit of despair and wild determination I kissed
117Mme. Guérard with such violence as almost to stifle her and
rushed once more to my room to get my little Virgin Mary which
went with me everywhere. I threw a hundred kisses to my
mother’s room, and then, with wet eyes and a joyful heart went
downstairs. My petite dame had asked the man who polished the
floors to take the trunk and valise down, and Caroline had fetched
a cab. I went like a whirlwind past the concierge’s door. She
had her back turned toward me and was sweeping the floor. I
sprang into the cab and the driver whipped up his horse. I was
on my way to Spain. I had written an affectionate letter to my
mother begging her to forgive me and not to be grieved. I had
written a stupid letter of explanation to Montigny, the manager
of the Gymnase Theater. The letter did not explain anything
though. It was written by a child whose brain was certainly a
little affected, and I finished up with these words: “Have pity
on a poor, crazy girl.”
Sardou told me later on that he happened to be in Montigny’s
office when he received my letter.
“I had been talking to Montigny for over an hour,” he said,
“about a piece I was going to write. The conversation was very
animated, and when the door was opened Montigny exclaimed in
a fury: ‘I had given orders that I was not to be disturbed!’
He was somewhat appeased, however, on seeing old Monval’s
troubled look and he knew there was some urgent matter. ‘Oh,
what’s happened now?’ he asked, taking the letter that the old
stage manager held out to him. On recognizing my paper, with
its gray border, he said: ‘Oh, it’s from that mad child! Is she
ill?’”
“No,” said Monval, “she has gone to Spain.”
“She can go to the deuce!” exclaimed Montigny. “Send
for Mme. Dieudonnée to take her part. Bernhardt has a good
memory, and half the rôle must be cut. That will settle it.”
“Any trouble for to-night?” Sardou asked Montigny.
“Oh, nothing,” he answered. “It is that little Sarah Bernhardt
who has cleared off to Spain!”
“That girl from the Français who boxed Nathalie’s ears?”
“Yes.”
118“She’s rather amusing.”
“Yes, but not for her managers,” remarked Montigny, continuing
immediately afterwards the conversation which had been
interrupted.
This is exactly as Victorien Sardou related the incident.
On arriving at Marseilles, Caroline went to get information
about the journey. The result was that we embarked on an
abominable trading boat, a dirty coaster smelling of oil and stale
fish, a perfect horror.
I had never been on the sea, so I fancied that all the boats
were like this and that it was no good complaining. After
six days of rough sea we landed at Alicante. Oh, that landing,
how well I remember it! I had to jump from boat to boat, from
plank to plank, with the risk of falling into the water a hundred
times over, for I am naturally inclined to dizziness and the little
bridges without any rails, rope, or anything, thrown across from
one boat to another and bending under my light weight, seemed
to me like mere ropes stretched across space.
Exhausted with fatigue and hunger I went to the first hotel
recommended to us at Alicante. Oh, what a hotel it was! The
house itself was built of stone with low arcades. Rooms on the
first floor were given to me, and certainly the owners of it had
never had two ladies in their house before. The bedroom was
large, but with a low ceiling. By way of decoration there were
enormous real fish bones arranged in garlands caught up by the
heads of fish. By half shutting one’s eyes this decoration might
be taken for delicate sculpture of ancient times.
I had a bed put up for Caroline in this sinister-looking room.
We pulled the furniture across against the doors, and I did not
undress, for I could not venture on those sheets. I was accustomed
to fine sheets perfumed with iris, for my pretty little
mother, like all Dutch women, had a mania for linen and cleanliness
and she had inculcated me with this harmless mania.
It was about five in the morning when I opened my eyes, no
doubt instinctively, as there had been no sound to rouse me. A
door, leading I did not know where, opened, and a man looked
119in. I gave a shrill cry, seized my little Virgin Mary, and waved
her about, wild with terror.
Caroline roused up with a start and courageously rushed to
the window. She threw it up screaming: “Fire! Thieves!
Help.”
The man disappeared and the house was soon invaded by the
police. I leave it to be imagined what the police of Alicante
forty years ago were like. I answered all the questions asked me
by a Vice-Consul who was Hungarian and spoke French. I had
seen the man and he had a silk handkerchief on his head. He
had a beard, and on his shoulder a poncho, but that was all I
knew. The Hungarian Vice-Consul who, I believe, represented
France, Austria, and Hungary, asked me the color of the brigand’s
beard, silk handkerchief and poncho. It had been too dark
for me to distinguish the colors exactly. The worthy man was
very much annoyed at my answer. After taking down a few
notes he was very thoughtful for a moment and then gave orders
for a message to be taken to his home. It was to ask his wife to
send a carriage and to prepare a room in order to receive a young
foreigner in distress. I prepared to go with him, and after paying
my bill at the hotel, we started off in the Hungarian’s carriage,
and I was welcomed by his wife with the most touching
cordiality. I drank the coffee with thick cream which she poured
for me, and, during breakfast, told her who I was, and where I
was going. She then told me in return that her father was an
important manufacturer of cloth, that he was from Bohemia, and
a great friend of my father’s. And she took me to the room that
had been prepared for me, made me go to bed, and told me that
while I was asleep she would write me some letters of introduction
in Madrid. I slept for ten hours without waking, and at
six in the evening when I roused up, was thoroughly rested in
mind and body. I wanted to send a telegram to my mother, but
this was impossible, as there was no telegraph at Alicante. I
wrote a letter, therefore, to my poor, dear mother, telling her
that I was in the house of friends of my father.
The following day I started for Madrid with a letter for the
landlord of the Hotel de la Puerta del Sol. Nice rooms were
120given to us and I sent messengers with the letters from Mme.
Rudcouritz. I spent a fortnight in Madrid, and was made a
great deal of and generally fêted. I went to all the bullfights,
and was infatuated with them. I had the honor of being invited
to a great corrida given in honor of Victor Emmanuel who was
just then the guest of the Queen of Spain. I forgot Paris, my
sorrows, disappointments, ambitions, and everything else, and I
wanted to live in Spain. A telegram sent by Mme. Guérard
made me change all my plans. My mother was very ill, the telegram
informed me. I packed my trunk and wanted to start off
at once, but when my hotel bill was paid I had not a fraction for
the railway journey. The landlord of the hotel took my two
bank notes, prepared me a basket of provisions and gave me two
hundred francs at the station, telling me that he had received
orders from Mme. Rudcouritz not to let me want for anything.
She and her husband were certainly most delightful people.
My heart beat fast when I reached my mother’s house in
Paris. My petite dame was waiting for me downstairs in the
concierge’s room. She was very excited to see me looking so
well and kissed me with her eyes full of tears of joy. The concierge
and family poured forth their compliments. Mme. Guérard
went upstairs before me to prepare my mother, and I waited
a moment in the kitchen and was hugged by our old servant
Marguerite. My sisters both came running in. Jeanne kissed
me, then turned me round and examined me. Régina, with her
hands behind her back, leaned against the stove gazing at me
furiously.
“Well, won’t you kiss me, Régina?” I asked, stooping down
to her.
“No, don’t like you,” she answered. “You’ve went off
without me. Don’t like you now.” She turned away brusquely
to avoid my kiss and knocked her head against the stove.
Finally, Mme. Guérard appeared again, and I went with her.
Oh, how repentant I was, and how deeply affected! I knocked
gently at the door of the room which was hung with pale blue
rep. My mother looked very white, lying in her bed. Her face
was thinner, but wonderfully beautiful. She stretched out her
121arms like two wings and I rushed forward to this loving, white
nest. My mother cried silently, as she always did. Then her
hands played with my hair, which she let down and combed with
her long, taper fingers. Then we asked each other a hundred
questions. I wanted to know everything, and she did, too, so
that we had the most amusing duet of words, phrases, and kisses.
I found that my mother had had a rather severe attack of pleurisy,
that she was now getting better, but was not yet well. I,
therefore, took up my abode again with her, and for the time being
went back to my old bedroom. Mme. Guérard had told me
in a letter that my grandmother on my father’s side, had at last
agreed to the proposal made by my mother. My father had left
a certain sum of money which I was to have on my wedding-day.
My mother, at my request, had asked my grandmother to let me
have half this sum, and she had at last consented, saying that she
should use the interest of the other half, but that the half would
still be there for me if I changed my mind, and consented to
marry. I was, therefore, quite decided to live my life as I
wished, to go away from home, and be quite independent. I
adored my mother, but our ideas were quite different. Then,
too, my godfather was perfectly odious to me, and for years and
years he had been in the habit of lunching and dining with us
every day, and of playing whist every evening. He was always
hurting my feelings in one way or another. He was an old bachelor,
very rich, and with no near relatives. He adored my
mother, but she had always refused to marry him. She had put
up with him at first because he was a friend of my father.
After my father’s death she had put up with him still, because
she was then accustomed to him, until finally she quite missed
him when he was ill or traveling. But, placid as she was, my
mother was positive, and could not endure any kind of constraint.
She, therefore, rebelled against the idea of another master. She
was very gentle, but determined, and this determination of hers
ended sometimes in the most violent anger. She used then to
turn very pale and violet rings would come round her eyes, her
lips would tremble, her teeth chatter, her beautiful eyes take a
fixed gaze, the words would come at intervals from her throat, all
122chopped up, hissing and hoarse. After this she would faint, and
the veins of her throat then used to swell, and her hands and feet
turn icy cold. Sometimes she would be unconscious for hours,
and the doctors told us that she might die in one of these attacks
so that we did all ill our power to avoid these terrible accidents.
My mother knew this and rather took advantage of it, and, as I
had inherited this tendency to fits of rage from her, I could not
and did not wish to live with her. As for me I am not placid.
I am active, and always ready for fight, and what I want I
always want immediately. I have not the gentle obstinacy peculiar
to my mother. The blood begins to boil under my temples
before I have time to control it. Time has made me wiser in this
respect, but not sufficiently so. I am aware of this and it causes
me suffering.
I did not say anything about my plans to our dear invalid,
but I asked our old friend, Meydieu, to find me a flat. The old
man who had tormented me so much during my childhood had
been most kind to me ever since my début at the Théâtre Français,
and, in spite of my escapade with Nathalie and my exploit
when at the Gymnase, he was now ready to see the best in me.
When he came to see us the day after my return home, I stayed
talking with him for a time in the drawing-room and confided my
intentions to him. He quite approved and said that my intercourse
with my mother would be all the more agreeable through
this separation. I took a flat in the Rue Duphot, quite near to
my mother, and Mme. Guérard undertook to have it furnished
for me. As soon as my mother was well again I talked to her
about it, and several times over induced her to agree that it was
really better I should live by myself and in my own way. When
once she had accepted the situation everything went along satisfactorily.
My sisters were present when we were talking about
it. Jeanne was close to my mother, and Régina, who had refused
to speak to me or look at me ever since my return three weeks
ago, suddenly jumped on my lap.
“Take me with you this time,” she exclaimed suddenly.
“I will kiss you if you will.”
I glanced at my mother, rather embarrassed.
123“Oh, take her,” she said, “for she is unbearable!”
Régina jumped down again and began to dance a jig, muttering
the rudest, silliest things at the same time. She then nearly
stifled me with kisses, sprang on to my mother’s armchair and
kissed her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, saying:
“You are glad I am going, aren’t you? You can give everything
to your Jenny.”
My mother colored slightly, but as her eyes fell on Jeanne her
expression changed, and a look of unspeakable affection came
over her face. She pushed Régina gently aside, and the child
went on with her jig.
“We two will stay together,” said my mother, leaning her
head back on Jeanne’s shoulder, and she said this quite unconscious
of the full force of her words, just in the same way as she
had gazed at my sister. I was perfectly stupefied and closed my
eyes so that I should not see. I could only hear my little sister
dancing her jig and emphasizing every stamp on the floor with
the words: “And we two, as well, we two, we two!”
It was a very painful little drama that was stirring our four
hearts in this little bourgeois home, and the result of it was that
I settled down finally with my little sister in the flat in Rue
Duphot. I kept Caroline with me and engaged a cook. My
petite dame, Mme. Guérard, was with me nearly all day and I
dined every evening with my mother.
CHAPTER IX I RETURN TO THE STAGE
124
I was still on friendly terms with an actor from the
Porte Saint Martin Theater, who had been appointed
stage manager there. Marc Fournier was
at that time manager of this theater. A piece entitled
“La Biche au Bois” was then being played. It was a
fairyland story, and was having great success. A delicious actress
from the Odéon Theater, Mlle. Debay, had been engaged for
the principal rôle. She played tragedy princesses most charmingly.
I often had tickets for the Porte Saint Martin, and I
thoroughly enjoyed “La Biche au Bois.” Mme. Ulgade sang
admirably in her rôle of the young prince, and amazed me.
Then, too, Marquita charmed me with her dancing. She was
delightful in her dances, which were so animated, so characteristic,
and always so full of distinction. Thanks to old Josse
I knew everyone; but to my surprise and terror, one evening,
toward five o’clock, on arriving at the theater to take our seats,
he exclaimed on seeing me:
“Why, here is our princess, our little “Biche au Bois.”
Here she is! It is the Providence that watches over theaters
who has sent her!”
I struggled like an eel caught in a net, but it was all in vain.
M. Marc Fournier, who could be very charming, gave me to
understand that I should be doing him a veritable service and
keeping up the receipts. Josse, who guessed what my scruples
were, exclaimed:
“But, my dear child, it will still be your high art, for it
125is Mlle. Debay from the Odéon Theater who is playing this
rôle of Princess, and Mlle. Debay is the first artiste at the Odéon,
and the Odéon is an imperial theater, so that it cannot be any
disgrace after your studies.”
Marquita, who had just arrived, also persuaded me, and
Mme. Ulgade was sent for to rehearse the duos I was to
sing. Yes, and I was to sing with a veritable artiste, one
who was considered to be the first artiste of the Opéra
Comique.
The time passed by, and Josse helped me to rehearse my
rôle, which I almost knew, as I had seen the piece often, and I
had an extraordinary memory. The minutes flew, and the
half hours made up entire hours. I kept looking at the clock,
the large clock in the manager’s room, where I was studying
my rôle. Mme. Ulgade rehearsed with me. She thought my voice
was pretty, but I kept singing wrong, and she helped and encouraged
me all the time.
I was dressed up in Mlle. Debay’s clothes, and finally the
moment arrived and the curtain was raised. Poor me! I was
more dead than alive, but my courage returned after a triple
burst of applause for the couplet which I sang on waking, in
very much the same way as I should have murmured a series
of Racine’s lines.
When the performance was over Marc Fournier offered me,
through Josse, a three years’ engagement; but I asked to be
allowed to think it over. Josse had introduced me to a dramatic
author, Lambert Thiboust, a charming man who was certainly
talented, too. He thought I was just the ideal actress for his
heroine, La Bergère d’Ivry, but M. Faille, an old actor who
had become the manager of the Ambigu Theater, was not the
only person to consult. A certain M. De Chilly had some interest
in the theater. He had made his name in the rôle of
Rodin in the “Juif Errant,” and, after marrying a rather
wealthy wife, had left the stage, and was now interested in the
business side of theatrical affairs. He had, I think, just given
the Ambigu up to Faille. De Chilly was then helping on a
charming girl named Laurence Gérard. She was gentle and
126very bourgeois, rather pretty, but without any real beauty or
grace. Faille told Lambert Thiboust that he had spoken to
Laurence Gérard, but that he was ready to do as the author
wished in the matter. The only thing he stipulated was that
he should hear me before deciding. I was willing to humor
the poor fellow, who must have been as poor a manager as he
had been an artiste. I acted for him at the Ambigu Theater.
The stage was only lighted by the wretched servante, a little
transportable lamp. About a yard in front of me I could see
M. Faille balancing himself on his chair, one hand on his waistcoat
and the fingers of the other hand in his enormous nostrils.
This disgusted me horribly. Lambert Thiboust was seated near
him, his handsome face smiling, as he looked at me encouragingly.
I was playing in “On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour,” because
the play was in prose, and I did not want to take poetry.
I believe I was perfectly charming in my rôle, and Lambert
Thiboust thought so, too; but when I had finished, poor Faille
got up in a clumsy, pretentious way, said something in a low
voice to the author, and took me to his own room.
“My child,” remarked the worthy but stupid manager,
“you are not at all suitable for the stage!”
I resented this, but he continued:
“Oh, no, not at all.” And, as the door then opened, he
added, pointing to the newcomer, “Here is M. De Chilly, who
was also listening to you, and he will say just the same as I
say.”
M. De Chilly nodded and shrugged his shoulders.
“Lambert Thiboust is mad,” he remarked, “no one ever
saw such a thin shepherdess!”
He then rang the bell and told the boy to fetch Mlle. Laurence
Gérard. I understood and, without taking leave of the
two boors, I left the room.
My heart was heavy, though, as I went back to the foyer,
where I had left my hat. I found Laurence Gérard there, but
she was fetched away the next moment. I was standing near
her and, as I looked in the glass, I was struck by the contrast
127between us. She was plump, with a wide face, magnificent
black eyes, her nose was rather canaille, her mouth heavy, and
there was a very ordinary look about her generally. I was
fair, slight, and frail-looking, like a reed, with a long, pale
face, blue eyes, a rather sad mouth, and a general look of
distinction. This hasty vision consoled me for my failure,
and then, too, I felt that this Faille was a nonentity, and that
De Chilly was common. Five days later Mlle. Debay was well
again and took her rôle as usual.
I was destined to meet with both of these men again later
on in my life. Chilly, soon after, as manager at the Odéon;
and Faille, twenty years later, in such a wretched situation
that the tears came to my eyes when he appeared before me
and begged me to play for his benefit.
“I beseech you,” said the poor man. “You will be the
only attraction at this performance, and I have only you to
count on for the receipts.”
I shook hands with him. I do not know whether he remembered
our first interview, but I remembered it well, and could
only hope that he did not.
Before I would accept the engagement at the Porte Saint
Martin, I wrote to Camille Doucet. The following day I received
a letter asking me to go to the offices of the Ministry.
It was not without some emotion that I went to see this kind
man. He was standing up waiting for me when I was ushered
into the room. He held out his hands to me and drew me
gently toward him.
“Oh, what a terrible child!” he said, giving me a chair.
“Come now, you must be calmer. It will never do to waste
all these admirable gifts in voyages, escapades, and boxing
people’s ears!”
I was deeply moved by his kindness, and my eyes were full
of regret as I looked at him.
“Now, don’t cry, my dear child, don’t cry. Let us try
and find out how we are to make up for all this folly.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then, opening a drawer,
he took out a letter.
128“Here is something which will perhaps save us,” he said.
It was a letter from Duquesnel, who had just been appointed
manager at the Odéon Theater, together with Chilly.
“I am asked for some young artistes to make up the Odéon
company. Well, we must attend to this.” He got up, and accompanying
me to the door, said, as I went away: “We shall
succeed.”
I went back home, and began at once to rehearse all my
rôles in Racine’s plays. I waited very anxiously for several
days, consoled by Mme. Guérard, who succeeded in restoring
my confidence. Finally, I received a letter, and went at once
to the Ministry. Camille Doucet received me with a beaming
expression on his face.
“It’s settled,” he said. “Oh, but it has not been easy,
though,” he added. “You are very young, but very celebrated
already for your headstrong character. The only thing is, I
have pledged my word that you will be as gentle as a young
lamb.”
“Yes, I will be gentle, I promise,” I replied, “if only out
of gratitude. But what am I to do?”
“Here is a letter for Félix Duquesnel,” he replied; “he is
expecting you.”
I thanked Camille Doucet heartily, and he then said:
“I shall see you again less officially at your aunt’s on Thursday.
I have had an invitation this morning to dine there, so
you can tell me then what Duquesnel says.”
It was then half past ten in the morning. I went home to
put some pretty clothes on. I chose an underskirt of canary
yellow, a dress of black silk with the skirt scalloped round, and
a straw hat trimmed with corn and black ribbon. It must
have been delightfully mad looking. Arrayed in this style,
feeling very joyful and full of confidence, I went to call on
Félix Duquesnel. I waited a few moments in a little room very
artistically furnished. A young man appeared, looking very
elegant. He was smiling and altogether charming. I could not
grasp the fact that this fair-haired, gay young man would be
my manager.
129After a short conversation we agreed on every point we
touched.
“Come to the Odéon at two o’clock,” said Duquesnel, by
way of leavetaking, “and I will introduce you to my partner.
I ought to say it the other way round, according to society etiquette,”
he added, laughing, “but we are talking theater.”
He came a few steps down the staircase with me and stayed
there leaning over the balustrade to wish me good-by.
At two o’clock precisely I was at the Odéon, and had to
wait an hour. I began to grind my teeth, and only the remembrance
of my promise to Camille Doucet prevented me
from departing.
Finally, Duquesnel appeared and took me across to the manager’s
office.
“You will now see the other ogre,” he said, and I pictured
to myself the other ogre as charming as his partner. I was
therefore greatly disappointed on seeing a very ugly little man
whom I recognized as Chilly.
He eyed me up and down most impolitely, and pretended
not to recognize me. He signed to me to sit down and, without
a word, handed me a pen and showed me where to sign my
name on the paper before me.
Mme. Guérard interposed, laying her hand on mine.
“Do not sign without reading it,” she said.
“Are you mademoiselle’s mother?” he asked, looking up.
“No,” she said, “but it is just the same as though I were.”
“Well, yes, you are right. Read it quickly,” he continued,
“and then sign or leave it alone, but be quick.”
I felt the color coming into my face, for this man was
odious. Duquesnel whispered to me:
“There’s no ceremony about him, but he’s all right, don’t
take offense.”
I signed my engagement and handed it to his ugly partner.
“You know,” he remarked, “M. Duquesnel is responsible
for you. I should not upon any account have engaged you.”
“And if you had been alone, monsieur,” I answered, “I
should not have signed; so we are quits.”
130I went away at once and hurried to my mother’s to tell her,
for I knew this would be a great joy for her. Then, that very
day, I set off with my petite dame to buy everything necessary
for furnishing my dressing-room. The following day I went
to the convent in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs to see my
dear governess, Mlle. De Brabender. She had been ill, with
acute rheumatism in all her limbs, for the last thirteen months.
She had suffered so much that she looked like a different person.
She was lying in her little white bed, a little white cap
covering her hair, her big nose was drawn with pain, her washed-out
eyes seemed to have no color in them. Her formidable mustache
alone bristled up with constant spasms of pain. Besides
all this she was so strangely altered that I wondered what had
caused the change. I went nearer and, bending down, kissed
her gently. I then gazed at her so inquisitively that she understood
instinctively. With her eyes she signed to me to look
on the table near her, and there in a glass I saw all my dear old
friend’s teeth. I put the three roses I had brought her in the
glass and, kissing her again, I asked her forgiveness for my
impertinent curiosity. I left the convent with a very heavy
heart, for the Mother Superior took me in the garden and told
me that my beloved Mlle. De Brabender could not live much
longer. I therefore went every day for a time to see my gentle
old governess, but as soon as the rehearsals commenced at the
Odéon my visits had to be less frequent.
One morning about seven o’clock, a message came from the
convent to fetch me in great haste, and I was present at the
dear woman’s death agony. Her face lighted up at the supreme
moment with such a holy look that I suddenly longed
to die. I kissed her hands which were holding the crucifix:
they had already turned cold. I asked to be allowed to be
there when she was placed in her coffin.
On arriving at the convent the next day, at the hour fixed,
I found the Sisters in such a state of consternation that I was
alarmed. What could have happened, I wondered? They
pointed to the door of the cell without uttering a word. The
nuns were standing round the bed, on which was the most extraordinary-looking
131being imaginable. My poor governess, lying
rigid on her deathbed, had a man’s face. Her mustache
had grown longer, and she had a beard of half an inch all round
her chin. Her mustache and beard were sandy, while the long
hair framing her face was white. Her mouth, without the support
of the teeth, had sunk in so that her nose fell on the
sandy mustache. It was like a terrible and ridiculous-looking
mask, instead of the sweet face of my friend. It was the face
of a man, while the little, delicate hands were those of a woman.
There was an awestruck expression in the eyes of the nuns
in spite of the assurance of the nurse, who had declared to
them that the body was that of a woman. They had dressed
the poor dead body, but the poor little Sisters were trembling
and crossing themselves all the time.
The day after this dismal ceremony I made my début at
the Odéon in “Le Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard.” I was not
suitable for Marivand’s pieces, as they require a certain coquettishness
and an affectation which were not then among my
qualities. Then, too, I was rather too slight, so that I had no
success at all. Chilly happened to be passing along the corridor,
just as Duquesnel was talking to me and encouraging me.
Chilly pointed to me and remarked:
“They are no good, these grand folks, there is not even any
pluck about them.”
I was furious at the man’s insolence, and the blood rushed
to my face, but I saw through my half-closed eyes Camille Doucet’s
face, that face always so clean shaven and young looking,
under his crown of white hair. I thought it was a vision of
my mind, which was always on the alert, on account of the
promise I had made. But no, it was he himself, and he came
up to me.
“What a pretty voice you have,” he said. “Your second
appearance will be such a pleasure to us!”
This man was always courteous, but truthful. This début
of mine had not given him any pleasure, but he was counting
on my next appearance, and he had spoken the truth. I had
a pretty voice, and that was all that anyone could say.
132I remained at the Odéon and worked very hard. I was
always ready to take anyone’s place at a moment’s notice, for
I knew all the rôles. I had some success, and the students approved
of me. When I came on the stage I was always greeted
by applause from them. A few old sticklers looked down at
the pit to command silence, but no one cared a straw for them.
Finally, my day of triumph dawned. Duquesnel had the
happy idea of putting “Athalie” on again with Mendelssohn’s
choruses. Beauvallet, who had been odious as a professor, was
charming as a comrade. By special permission from the Ministry
he was to play Joad. The rôle of Zacharie was assigned
to me. Some of the Conservatoire pupils were to take the spoken
choruses, and the pupils who studied singing undertook the
musical part. The rehearsals were so bad that Duquesnel and
Chilly were in despair. Beauvallet, who was more agreeable
now, but not choice as regarded his language, muttered some
terrible words. We began over and over again, but it was all
to no purpose. The spoken choruses were simply abominable.
Chilly exclaimed at last:
“Well, let the young one say all the spoken choruses. That
would be right enough with her pretty voice!”
Duquesnel did not utter a word, but he pulled his mustache
to hide a smile. Chilly was coming round to his protégée after
all. He nodded his head in an indifferent way in answer to his
partner’s questioning look, and we began again, I reading all
the spoken choruses. Everyone applauded, and the conductor
of the orchestra was delighted, for the poor man had suffered
enough. The first performance was a veritable small triumph
for me! Oh! quite a small one, but still full of promise for my
future. The public, charmed with the sweetness of my voice
and its crystal purity, encored the part of the spoken choruses,
and I was rewarded by three bursts of applause.
At the end of the act Chilly came to me and said:
“You were adorable!” He addressed me familiarly, using
the French thou, and this rather annoyed me; but I answered
mischievously, using the same form of speech:
“You think I am not so thin now?”
133He burst into a fit of laughter, and from that day forth we
both used the familiar thou and became the best friends imaginable.
Oh, that Odéon Theater! It is the theater I have loved most.
I was very sorry to leave it, for everyone liked each other
there, and everyone was gay. The theater was a little like the
continuation of school. The young artistes came there, and
Duquesnel was an intelligent manager, and very polite and
young himself. During the rehearsal we often went off, several
of us together, to play at hide and seek in the Luxembourg,
during the scenes in which we were not acting. I used to think
of my few months at the Comédie Française. The little world
I had known there had been stiff, scandal-mongering, and jealous.
I recalled my few months at the Gymnase. Hats and
dresses were always discussed there, and everyone chattered
about a hundred things that had nothing to do with art.
At the Odéon I was very happy. We thought of nothing
but putting on plays, and we rehearsed morning, afternoon,
and at all hours, and I liked that very much.
For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency
at Auteuil. I went to the theater in a “little duke,”
which I drove myself. I had two wonderful ponies that Aunt
Rosine had given to me, because they had very nearly broken
her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a whirligig of wooden
horses. I used to drive at full speed along the quays, and in
spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine and
the gayety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold,
cracked steps of the theater with veritable joy, and rushed up
to my dressing-room, wishing everyone I passed “Good morning”
on my way. When I had taken off my coat and gloves
I went on the stage, delighted to be once more in that infinite
darkness with only a poor light, a servante, hanging here and
there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or placed on a bench, thrown
on the faces of the artistes for a few seconds.
There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere
full of microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity,
and nothing more brilliant than that darkness.
134One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the
scenes. I thought she would have died with horror and disgust.
“Oh, you poor child!” she murmured, “How can you live
in that?” When once she was outside again she began to
breathe freely, taking long gasps several times. Oh! yes, I could
live in it, and I could scarcely live except in it. Since then
I have changed a little, but I still have a great liking for that
gloomy workshop in which we joyous lapidaries of art cut the
precious stones supplied to us by the poets.
The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little
disappointed hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh
dreams, so that life seemed to me eternal happiness. I played
in turn in “Le Marquis de Villemer” and “François le
Champi.” In the former I took the part of the foolish Baroness,
an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely
twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece
I played Mariette, and had great success.
Those rehearsals of the “Marquis de Villemer” and
“François le Champi” have remained in my memory as so
many exquisite hours.
Mme. George Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely
timid. She did not talk much, but smoked all the time.
Her large eyes were always dreamy, and her mouth, which was
rather heavy and common, had the kindest expression. She had,
perhaps, a medium-sized figure, but she was no longer upright.
I used to watch her with the most romantic affection, for had
she not been the heroine of a fine love romance!
I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in
mine I held it as long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle
and fascinating.
Prince Napoleon, commonly known as “Plon-Plon,” often
used to come to George Sand’s rehearsals. He was extremely
fond of her. The first time I ever saw that man I turned pale,
and felt as though my heart had stopped beating. He looked
so much like Napoleon I.
Mme. Sand introduced me to him in spite of my wishes.
He looked at me in an impertinent way, and I did not like him.
I scarcely replied to his compliments, and went closer to George
Sand.
SARAH BERNHARDT IN “FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI.”
135“Why, she is in love with you!” he exclaimed, laughing.
George Sand stroked my cheek gently.
“She is my little Madonna,” she answered, “do not torment
her.”
I stayed with her, casting displeased and furtive glances
at the prince. Gradually, though, I began to enjoy listening
to him, for his conversation was brilliant, serious, and at the
same time witty. He sprinkled his discourses and his replies
with words that were a trifle crude, but all that he said was
interesting and instructive. He was not very indulgent, though,
and I have heard him say base, horrible things about little
Thiers which I believe had little truth in them. He drew such
an amusing portrait one day of that agreeable Louis Bouilhet,
that George Sand, who liked him, could not help laughing,
although she called the prince a bad man. He was very unceremonious,
too, but at the same time he did not like people to
be wanting in respect to him. One day an artiste named Paul
Deshayes, who was playing in “François le Champi,” came
into the artistes’ foyer. Prince Napoleon was there, Mme.
George Sand, the curator of the library, whose name I have
forgotten, and I. This artiste was common and something of an
anarchist. He bowed to Mme. Sand and, addressing the prince,
said:
“You are sitting on my gloves, sir.”
The prince scarcely moved, pulled the gloves out and, throwing
them on the floor, remarked:
“I thought this seat was clean.”
The actor colored, picked up the gloves, and went away
murmuring some revolutionary threat.
I played the part of Hortense in “Le Testament de César
Girôdot,” and of Anna Danby in Alexandre Dumas’ “Kean.”
On the evening of the first performance of the latter piece
the public was very disagreeable. Dumas’ père was quite out
of favor, on account of a private matter that had nothing to
do with art. Politics, for some time past, had been exciting
136everyone, and the return of Victor Hugo from exile was very
much desired. When Dumas entered his box, he was greeted
by yells. The students were there in full force, and they began
shouting for Ruy Blas. Dumas rose and asked to be allowed
to speak. “My young friends ...” he began, as soon as
there was silence. “We are quite willing to listen,” called out
some one, “but you must be alone in your box.”
Dumas protested vehemently. Several members of the orchestra
took his side, for he had invited a woman into his box,
and whoever that woman might be, no one had any right to
insult her in so outrageous a manner. I had never yet witnessed
a scene of this kind. I looked through the hole in the
curtain, and was very much interested and excited. I saw
our great Dumas, pale with anger, clenching his fists, shouting,
swearing, and storming. Then suddenly there was a burst of
applause. The woman had disappeared from the box. She
had taken advantage of the moment when Dumas, leaning well
over the front of the box, was answering:
“No, no, this woman shall not leave the box!”
Just at this moment she slipped away, and the whole house,
delighted, shouted: “Bravo!” Dumas was then allowed to
continue, but only for a few seconds. Cries of “Ruy Blas!Ruy Blas! Victor Hugo! Hugo!” could then be heard again
in the midst of an uproar truly infernal. We had been ready
to commence the play for an hour, and I was greatly excited.
Chilly and Duquesnel then came to us on the stage.
“Courage, mes enfants, for the house has gone mad,”
they said. “We will commence, anyhow, let what will
happen!”
“I’m afraid I shall faint,” I said to Duquesnel. My hands
were as cold as ice and my heart was beating wildly. “What
am I to do,” I asked him, “if I get too frightened?”
“There’s nothing to be done,” he replied. “Be frightened,
but go on playing, and don’t faint upon any account!”
The curtain was drawn up in the midst of a veritable tempest,
bird cries, mewing of cats, and a heavy rhythmical refrain
of “Ruy Blas!Ruy Blas! Victor Hugo! Victor Hugo!”
137My turn came. Berton père, who was playing Kean, had
been received badly. I was wearing the eccentric costume of
an Englishwoman in the year 1820. As soon as I appeared I
heard a burst of laughter, and I stood still, rooted to the spot
in the doorway. But the very same instant the cheers of my
dear friends, the students, drowned the laughter of the disagreeable
people. I took courage, and even felt a desire to fight.
But it was not necessary, for after the second, endlessly long,
harangue, in which I give an idea of my love for Kean, the
house was delighted, and gave me an ovation. Ignotus wrote
the following paragraph in the Figaro:
“Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt appeared wearing an eccentric
costume, which increased the tumult, but her rich voice—that
astonishing voice of hers—appealed to the public, and she
charmed them like a little Orpheus.”
After “Kean” I played in “La Loterie du Mariage.”
When we were rehearsing the piece, Agar came up to me one
day, in the corner where I usually sat. I had a little armchair
there from my dressing-room, and put my feet up on a straw
chair. I liked this place, because there was a little gas burner
there, and I could work while waiting for my turn to go on
the stage. I loved embroidering and tapestry work. I had a
quantity of different kinds of fancy work commenced, and could
take up one or the other as I felt inclined.
Mlle. Agar was an admirable creature. She had evidently
been created for the joy of the eyes. She was a brunette, tall,
pale, with large, dark, gentle eyes, a very small mouth with
full rounded lips, which went up at the corners in an almost
imperceptible smile. She had exquisite teeth, and her head
was covered with thick, glossy hair. She was the living incarnation
of one of the most beautiful types of ancient Greece.
Her pretty hands were long and rather soft, while her slow
and rather heavy walk completed the evocation. She was the
great tragedian of the Odéon Theater. She approached me
with her measured tread, followed by a young man of from
twenty-four to twenty-six years of age.
“Well, my dear,” she said, kissing me, “there is a chance
138for you to make a poet happy.” She then introduced François
Coppée. I invited the young man to sit down, and then I looked
at him more thoroughly. His handsome face, emaciated and
pale, was that of the immortal Bonaparte. A thrill of emotion
went through me, for I adored Napoleon I.
“Are you a poet, monsieur?” I asked.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
His voice, too, trembled, for he was still more timid than
I was.
“I have written a little piece,” he continued, “and Mlle.
Agar is sure that you will play it with her.”
“Yes, my dear,” put in Agar, “you are going to play it
for him. It is a little masterpiece, and I am sure you will
have a gigantic success!”
“Oh, and you, too! You will be so beautiful in it!” said
the poet, gazing rapturously at Agar.
I was called on to the stage just at this moment, and on
returning a few minutes later I found the young poet talking
in a low voice to the beautiful tragedian. I coughed, and Agar,
who had taken my armchair, wanted to give it back. On my
refusing it she pulled me down on her lap. The young man
drew up his chair and we chatted away together, our three
heads almost touching. It was decided that after reading the
piece I should show it to Duquesnel, who alone was capable
of judging poetry, and that we should then get permission from
both managers to play it for the benefit of M. X—— after the
first performance. The young man was delighted, and his pale
face lighted up with a grateful smile as he shook hands excitedly.
Agar walked away with him as far as the little landing
which projected over the stage. I watched them as they
went, the magnificent, statuelike woman and the slender outline
of the young writer. Agar was perhaps thirty-five at that time.
She was certainly very beautiful, but to me there was no charm
about her, and I could not understand why this poetical Bonaparte
was in love with this matronly woman. It was as clear as
daylight that he was, and she, too, appeared to be, in love. This
interested me infinitely. I watched them clasp each other’s
139hands, and then, with an abrupt and almost awkward movement,
the young poet bent over the beautiful hand he was
holding and kissed it fervently. Agar came back to me with
a faint color in her cheeks. This was rare with her, for she
had a marblelike complexion. “Here is the manuscript,” she
said, giving me a little roll of paper.
The rehearsal was over and I wished Agar good-by; and,
on my way home, read the piece while driving. I was so delighted
with it that I drove straight back to the theater to give
it to Duquesnel at once. I met him coming downstairs.
“Do come back again, please,” I exclaimed.
“Good heavens, my dear girl, what is the matter?” he
asked. “You look as though you have won a big lottery
prize!”
“Well, it is something like that,” I said, and entering his
office I produced the manuscript.
“Read this, please,” I continued.
“I’ll take it with me,” he said.
“Oh, no, read it here at once!” I insisted. “Shall I read
it to you?”
“No, no,” he replied, “your voice is treacherous. It makes
charming poetry of the worst lines possible. Well, let me have
it,” he continued, sitting down in his armchair. He began to
read, while I looked at the newspapers.
“It’s delicious,” he soon exclaimed. “It’s a perfect masterpiece!”
I sprang to my feet in my joy.
“And you will get Chilly to accept it?”
“Oh, yes, you can make your mind easy! But when do you
want to play it?”
“Well, the author seems to be in a great hurry,” I said,
“and Agar, too——”
“And you as well,” he put in, laughing, “for this is a rôle
that just suits your fancy.”
“Yes, my dear Duq,” I acknowledged. “I, too, want it
put on at once. Do you want to be very nice?” I added. “If
so, let us have it for the benefit of M. X—— in a fortnight from
140now. That would not make any difference to other arrangements,
and our poet would be so happy.”
“Good!” said Duquesnel, “I will settle it like that. What
about the scenery, though?” he muttered, meditatively, biting
his nails, which were his favorite meal when disturbed in his
mind.
I had already thought that out, so I offered to drive him
home and on the way I put my plan before him.
We might have the scenery of “Jeanne de Signoris,” a
piece that had recently been put on and taken off again immediately,
after being jeered at by the public. The scenery
consisted of a superb Italian park, with flowers, statues, and
even a flight of steps. As to costumes, if we spoke of them
to Chilly, no matter how little they might cost, he would shriek,
as he had done in his rôle of Rodin. The only thing for it
was that Agar and I would have to supply our own costumes.
On arriving at Duquesnel’s house, he suddenly asked me to
go in with him and discuss the costumes with his wife. I accepted
his invitation, and, after kissing the prettiest face imaginable,
I told the owner of the face about our plot. She approved
of everything, and promised to begin at once to look
out for pretty designs for our costumes. While she was talking
I compared her with Agar. Oh, how much I preferred that
charming head with its fair hair, those large, limpid eyes, and
the whole face, with its two little pink dimples! Her hair was
soft and light, and formed a halo round her forehead. I admired,
too, her delicate wrists, finishing with the prettiest hands
imaginable, hands that were, later on, quite famous.
On leaving the friendly couple I drove straight to Agar’s,
to tell her what had happened. She kissed me over and over
again, and a cousin of hers, a priest, who happened to be there,
appeared to be very delighted with my story. He seemed to
know about everything. Presently there was a timid ring at
the bell, and François Coppée was announced.
“I am just going away,” I said to him, as I met him in
the doorway and shook hands. “Agar will tell you everything.”
141The rehearsals of his piece, “Le Passant,” commenced very
soon after this, and were delightful, for the shy young poet was
a most interesting and intelligent talker.
The first performance took place as arranged, and “Le
Passant” was a veritable triumph. The whole house cheered
over and over again, and the curtain was raised eight times
for Agar and me. We tried in vain to bring the author forward,
as the public wished to see him. François Coppée was
not to be found. The young poet, hitherto unknown, had become
famous within a few hours. His name was on all lips. As
for Agar and myself, we were simply overwhelmed with praise,
and Chilly wanted to pay for our costumes. We played this
one-act piece more than a hundred times consecutively, to a full
house. We were asked to give it at the Tuileries, and at the
house of the Princess Mathilde. Oh, that first performance at
the Tuileries! It is stamped on my brain forever, and with my
eyes shut I can see every detail again, even now.
It had been managed, between Duquesnel and the official
sent from the court, that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries
to see the room where we were to play, in order to have it arranged
according to the requirements of the piece. The Comte
de Laferrière was to introduce me to the Emperor, who would
then introduce me to the Empress Eugénie. Agar was to be
introduced by the Princess Mathilde, for whom she was then
sitting as Minerva.
M. De Laferrière came for me at nine o’clock in a state
carriage, and Mme. Guérard accompanied me.
M. De Laferrière was a very agreeable man with rather stiff
manners. As we were turning round the Rue Royale the carriage
had to draw up an instant, and General Fleury approached
us. I knew him, as he had been introduced to me by
Morny. He spoke to us, and the Comte de Laferrière explained
where we were going. As he left us he said to me: “Good
luck!” Just at that moment a man who was passing by took
up the words and called out: “Good luck, perhaps, but not
for long, you crowd of good-for-nothings!”
On arriving at the Tuileries Palace we all three got out of
142the carriage, and were shown into a small yellow drawing-room
on the ground floor.
“I will go and inform his majesty that you are here,” said
M. De Laferrière, leaving us.
When alone with Mme. Guérard, I thought I would rehearse
my three courtesies:
“Now, ma petite dame,” I said, “tell me whether they are
right.”
I made the courtesies, murmuring, “Sire—Sire.” I began
over again several times, looking down at my dress, as I said
“Sire,” when suddenly I heard a stifled laugh.
I stood up quickly, furious with Mme. Guérard, but I saw
that she, too, was bent over in a half circle. I turned round
quickly, and behind me was—the Emperor. He was clapping
his hands silently and laughing quietly, but still he was laughing.
My face flushed, and I was embarrassed, for I wondered
how long he had been there. I had been courtesying I do not
know how many times, trying to get my reverence to my mind,
and saying: “There—that’s too low, though—There, is that
right, Guérard?” “Good heavens!” I now said to myself,
“has he heard all that?” In spite of my confusion, I now
made my courtesy again, but the Emperor said, smiling:
“It’s no use, it could not be better than it was just now.
Save them for the Empress, who is expecting you.”
Oh! that “just now,” I wondered when it had been.
I could not question Mme. Guérard, as she was following at
some distance with M. De Laferrière. The Emperor was at my
side, talking to me of a hundred things, but I could only answer
in an absent-minded way on account of that “just now.”
I liked him much better like this, quite near, than in his
portraits. He had such fine eyes, which he half closed while
looking through his long lashes. His smile was sad and rather
mocking. His face was pale, and his voice faint, but seductive.
We found the Empress seated in a large armchair. Her body
was encased in a gray dress, and seemed to have been molded
into the material. I thought her very beautiful. She, too,
was more beautiful than her portrait. I made my three courtesies
143under the laughing eyes of the Emperor. The Empress
spoke, and the spell was then broken. That rough, hard voice
coming from that brilliant woman gave me a shock.
From that moment I felt ill at ease with her, in spite of her
graciousness and her kindness. As soon as Agar arrived and
had been introduced, the Empress had us conducted to the large
drawing-room, where the performance was to take place. The
measurements were taken for the platform, and there was to
be the flight of steps, where Agar had to pose as the unhappy
courtesan cursing mercenary love, and longing for ideal love.
This flight of steps was quite a problem. They were supposed
to represent the first three steps of a huge flight, leading
up to a Florentine palace, and had to be half hidden in some
way. I asked for some shrubs and flowering plants, which I
arranged along all three of the steps.
The Prince Imperial, who had come in, was then about thirteen
years of age. He helped me to arrange the plants, and
laughed wildly when Agar mounted the steps to try the effect.
He was delicious, with his magnificent eyes with heavy lids
like those of his mother, and with his father’s long eyelashes.
He was witty, like the Emperor, whom people surnamed “Louis
the Imbecile,” and who certainly had the most refined, subtle,
and at the same time the most generous wit.
We arranged everything as well as we could, and it was decided
that we should return two days later for a rehearsal before
their majesties.
How gracefully the Prince Imperial asked permission to be
present at the rehearsal! His request was granted, and the
Empress then took leave of us in the most charming manner;
but her voice was very ugly. She told the two ladies who were
with her to give us wine and biscuits and to show us over the
palace if we wished to see it. I did not care much about this,
but ma petite dame and Agar seemed so delighted at the offer
that I gave in to them.
I have regretted ever since that I did so, for nothing could
have been uglier than the private rooms, with the exception
of the Emperor’s study and the staircases. This inspection of
144the palace bored me terribly. A few of the pictures consoled
me, and I stayed some time gazing at Winterhalter’s portrait
representing the Empress Eugénie. She looked beautiful, and
I thanked Heaven that the portrait could not speak, for it served
to explain and justify the wonderful good luck of her majesty.
The rehearsal took place without any special incident. The
young prince did his utmost to prove to us his gratitude and
delight, for it was a dress rehearsal on his account, as he was
not to be present at the soirée. He sketched my costume, and
intended to have it copied for a costume ball which was to be
given for the imperial child. Our performance was in honor
of the Queen of Holland, accompanied by the Prince of Orange,
commonly known in Paris as “Prince Citron.”
A rather amusing incident occurred during the evening.
The Empress had remarkably small feet, and, in order to make
them look still smaller, she forced them into shoes that were too
narrow. She looked wonderfully beautiful that night, with her
pretty sloping shoulders emerging from a dress of pale blue
satin, embroidered with silver. On her lovely hair she was
wearing a little diadem of turquoises and diamonds, and her
small feet were on a cushion of silver brocade. All through
Coppée’s piece, my eyes wandered frequently to this cushion,
and I saw the two little feet moving restlessly about. Finally,
I saw one of the shoes pushing its little brother very, very
gently, and then I saw the heel of the empress come out of its
prison. The foot was then only covered at the toe, and I was
very anxious to know how it would get back, for, under such
circumstances, the foot swells and cannot go into a shoe that
is too narrow. When the piece was over, we were recalled twice,
and as it was the Empress who gave the signal for the applause,
I thought she was putting off the moment for getting up, and
I saw her pretty little sore foot trying in vain to get back into
its shoe. The light curtain went down, and as I had told Agar
about the cushion drama, we watched the various phases through
the divisions in the curtains.
The Emperor rose and everyone followed his example. He
offered his arm to the Queen of Holland, but she looked at the
145Empress, who had not yet risen. The Emperor’s face lighted
up with that smile which I had already seen. He said a word
to General Fleury, and immediately the generals and other
officers on duty, who were seated behind the sovereigns, formed
a rampart between the crowd and the Empress. The Emperor
and the Queen of Holland then passed on, without appearing
to have noticed her majesty’s distress, and the Prince of Orange,
with one knee on the ground, helped the beautiful sovereign
to put on her Cinderella-like slipper. I saw that the Empress
leaned more heavily on the prince’s arm than she liked, for
her pretty foot was evidently rather painful.
We were then sent for to be complimented, and we were
surrounded and fêted so much that we were delighted with our
evening.
CHAPTER X IN FIRE AND WAR
146
After “Le Passant” and the famous success of that
adorable piece, a success in which Agar and I had
our share, Chilly thought more of me and began
to like me. He insisted on paying for our costumes,
which was great extravagance for him. I had become the
adored queen of the students, and I used to receive little bouquets
of violets, sonnets, and long, long poems—too long to read.
Sometimes, on arriving at the theater, as I was getting out of
my carriage, I received a shower of flowers which simply covered
me, and I was delighted and used to thank my worshipers.
The only thing was that their admiration blinded them, so that
when in some pieces I was not so good, and the house was rather
chary of applause, my little army of students would be indignant,
and would cheer wildly, without rhyme or reason. I can
understand quite well that this used to exasperate the regular
subscribers of the Odéon, who were very kindly disposed toward
me, nevertheless. They, too, used to spoil me, but they
would have liked me to be more humble and meek, and less
headstrong. How many times one or another of those old subscribers
would come and give me a word of advice! “Mademoiselle, you
were charming in ‘Junie,’” one of them observed,
“but you bite your lips, and the Roman women never did
that!” “My dear girl,” another one said, “you were delicious
in ‘François le Champi,’ but there is not a single Breton
woman in the whole of Brittany with her hair frizzed.”
A professor from the Sorbonne said to me one day, rather
147curtly: “It is a want of respect, mademoiselle, to turn your
back on the public!”
“But, monsieur,” I replied, “I was accompanying an old
lady to a door at the back of the stage. I could not walk along
with her backward.”
“The artistes we had before you, mademoiselle, who were
quite as talented, found a way of going across the stage without
turning their backs on the public.” With this he turned
quickly on his heels and was going away, but I stopped him.
“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you
intended to pass, without turning your back on me?”
He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on
me and disappeared, slamming the door after him.
I lived for some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first
floor, which was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old
Dutch furniture which my grandmother had sent me. My godfather
advised me to insure against fire, as this furniture, he
assured me, constituted a small fortune. I decided to follow
his advice, and asked my petite dame to take the necessary steps
for me. A few days later, she told me that some one would
call about it on the 12th. On the day in question, toward
two o’clock, a gentleman called, but I was in an extremely nervous
condition, and could not see anyone. I had refused to be
disturbed, and had shut myself up in my bedroom in a frightfully
depressed state. That same evening, I received a letter
from the fire insurance company, asking me which day their
agent might call to have the agreement signed. I replied that
he might come on Saturday. On Friday I was so utterly
wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come and lunch with
me. I was not playing that day, as I never used to play on
Tuesdays and Fridays, the days we went through our repertory,
for, as I was playing every other day in new pieces, it was
feared that I should be overtired.
My mother, on arriving, thought I looked very pale.
“Yes,” I replied, “I do not know what is the matter
with me, but I am in a very nervous state and most
depressed.”
148The governess came to fetch my little boy to take him out
for a walk, but I would not let him go.
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “the child must not leave me to-day,
I am afraid of something happening.”
What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than
I, with my love for my family, was dreading.
I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she
was blind. It was the grandmother who had given me most
of my furniture. She was a spectral-looking woman, and her
beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was fearfully tall, and
she looked like a giantess. She was thin, and very upright,
and her long arms were always stretched in front of her,
feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not
knock herself, although she was always accompanied by the
attendant whom I had engaged for her. Above this long lady
was her little face, with two immense, pale blue eyes, which
were always open, even when asleep through the night. She was
generally dressed from head to foot in gray, and this neutral
color gave something unreal to her general appearance. My
mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two
o’clock. My grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire
armchair, questioned me:
“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Why are you
so mournful? I have not heard you laugh all day.”
I did not answer, but looked at my grandmother. It seemed
to me that the trouble I was dreading would come through her.
“Are you not there?” she persisted.
“Yes, I am here,” I answered, “but please do not talk to
me.”
She did not utter another word, but, with her two hands on
her lap, sat there for hours. I sketched her strange, prophet-like
face.
It began to grow dusk, and I thought I would go and
dress, after being present at the meal taken by my grandmother
and the child. My friend, Rose Baretta, was dining with me
that evening, and I had also invited a most charming man, who
was very intelligent and distinguished. His name was Charles
149Haas. Arthur Meyer came, too, a young journalist already
very much in vogue. I told them about my forebodings with
regard to that day, and begged them not to leave me before
midnight.
“After that,” I said, “it will not be to-day, and the wicked
sprites who are watching me will have missed their chance.”
They agreed to humor my fancy, and Arthur Meyer, who
ought to have gone to some first night at one of the theaters,
gave it up. Dinner was more animated than luncheon had been,
and it was nine o’clock when we left the table. Rose Baretta
sang us some delightful old songs. I went away for a minute
to see that all was right in my grandmother’s room. I found
my maid with her head wrapped up in cloths soaked in sedative
water. I asked what was the matter, and she said that she had
a terrible headache. I told her to prepare my bath and everything
for me for the night and then to go to bed. She thanked
me and obeyed.
I went back to the drawing-room, and sitting down to the
piano, played “Il Bacio,” Mendelssohn’s “Bells,” and Weber’s
“Last Thought.” I had not come to the end of this last melody,
when I stopped, suddenly hearing cries in the street of
“Fire! Fire!”
“They are shouting ‘Fire!’” exclaimed Arthur Meyer.
“That’s all the same to me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“It is not midnight yet and I am expecting my own misfortune.”
Charles Haas had opened the drawing-room window to see
where the shouts were coming from. He stepped out on the
balcony, and then came quickly in again.
“The fire is here!” he exclaimed. “Look!”
I rushed to the window and saw the flames coming from
the two windows of my bedroom. I ran back through the
drawing-room to the corridor and then to the room where my
child was sleeping with his governess and his nurse. They were
all fast asleep. Arthur Meyer opened the hall door, the bell
of which was being rung violently. I roused the two women
quickly, wrapped the sleeping child in his blankets, and rushed
150to the door with my precious burden. I then ran downstairs
and, crossing the street, took him to Guadacelli’s chocolate shop
opposite, just at the corner of the Rue de Caumartin. The
kind man took my little slumberer in, let him lie on a couch,
where the child continued his sleep without any break. I left
him in charge of his governess and his nurse, and went quickly
back to the flaming house.
The firemen, who had been sent for, had not yet arrived,
and at all costs I was determined to rescue my poor grandmother.
It was impossible to go back up the principal staircase,
as it was filled with smoke. Charles Haas, bareheaded
and in evening dress, a flower still in his buttonhole, started
with me up the narrow back staircase. We were soon on the
first floor, but when once there my knees shook, it seemed as
though my heart had stopped, and I was seized with despair.
The kitchen door, at the top of the first flight of stairs, was
locked with a triple turn of the key. My willing companion
was tall, slight, and elegant, but not strong. I besought him
to go down and fetch a hammer, a hatchet, or something, but
just at that moment a newcomer wrenched the door open by
a violent plunge with his shoulder against it.
This new arrival was no other than M. Sohège, a friend of
mine. He was a most charming and excellent man, a broad-shouldered
Alsatian, well known in Paris, very lively and kind,
and always ready to do anyone a service. I took my friends
to my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, out of
breath with calling Catherine, the servant who waited upon
her. This maid was about twenty-five years of age, a big,
strapping girl from Burgundy, and she was now sleeping peacefully,
in spite of the uproar in the street, the noise of the fire
engines, which had arrived at last, and the wild shrieks of
the occupants of the house. Sohège shook the maid, while I
explained to my grandmother the reason of the tumult and
why we were in her room.
“Very good,” she said: and then she added, calmly, “will
you give me the box, Sarah, that you will find at the bottom
of the wardrobe? The key of it is here.”
151“But, grandmother,” I exclaimed, “the smoke is beginning
to come in here. We have not any time to lose.”
“Well, do as you like, I shall not leave without my box!”
With the help of Charles Haas and of Arthur Meyer, we put
my grandmother on Sohège’s back, in spite of herself. He was
of medium height, and she was extremely tall, so that her long
legs touched the ground, and I was afraid she might get them
injured. Sohège, therefore, took her in his arms, and Charles
Haas carried her legs. We then set off, but the smoke stifled
us, and after descending about ten stairs I fell down in a faint.
When I came to myself, I was in my mother’s bed. My
little boy was asleep in my sister’s room, and my grandmother
was installed in a large armchair. She sat bolt upright, frowning,
and with an angry expression on her lips. She did not
trouble about anything but her box, until at last my mother was
angry, and reproached her severely in Dutch with only caring
for herself. She answered excitedly, and her neck craned forward,
as though to help her head to peer through the perpetual
darkness which surrounded her. Her thin body wrapped in
an Indian shawl of many colors, the hissing of her strident
words, which flowed freely, all contributed to make her resemble
a serpent in some terrible nightmare. My mother did not
like this woman, who had married my grandfather when he
had six big children, the eldest of whom was sixteen and the
youngest, my uncle, five years. This second wife had never
had any children of her own, and she had been indifferent and
even hard toward those of her husband, and consequently she
was not liked in the family. I had taken her in because smallpox
had broken out in the family with whom she had been
boarding. She had then wished to stay with me, and I had
not had courage enough to oppose her. On the occasion of the
fire, though, I considered she behaved so badly that a strong
dislike to her came over me, and I resolved not to have her any
longer in my house.
News of the fire was brought to us. It continued to rage,
and burned everything in my flat, absolutely everything, even
to the very last book in my library. My greatest trouble was
152that I lost a magnificent portrait of my mother by Bassompierre
Severin, a pastelist very much in vogue under the
Empire; an oil portrait of my father, and a very pretty pastel
of my sister Jeanne. I had not much jewelry, and all that was
found of the bracelet given to me by the Emperor was a huge
shapeless mass which I still have. I had a very pretty diadem,
set with diamonds and pearls, given to me by Kabil Bey, after
a performance at his house. The ashes of this had to be riddled
in order to find the stones. The diamonds were there,
but the pearls had melted.
I was absolutely ruined, for the money that my father and
his mother had left me I had spent in furniture, curiosities,
and a hundred other useless things, which were the delight of
my life. I had, too, and I own it was absurd, a tortoise named
Chrysagère. Its back was covered with a shell of gold, set with
very small blue, pink, and yellow topazes. Oh, how beautiful
it was and how droll! It used to wander round my flat, accompanied
by a small tortoise named Zerbinette, which was its servant,
and I amused myself for hours watching Chrysagère, flashing
with a hundred lights under the rays of the sun or the
moon. Both my tortoises died in this fire.
Duquesnel, who was very kind to me at that time, came to
see me a few weeks later, for he had just received a summons
from the fire insurance company, whose papers I had refused
to sign the day before the catastrophe. The company claimed a
heavy sum from me for damages to the other tenants of the house.
The second story was almost entirely destroyed, and for many
months the whole building had to be propped up. I did not possess
the forty thousand francs claimed. Duquesnel offered to
give a benefit performance for me, which would, he said, free
me from my difficulty. De Chilly was very walling to agree
to anything that would be of service to me. This benefit was
a wonderful success, thanks to the presence of the adorable
Adelina Patti. The young singer, who was then the Marquise
de Caux, had never before sung at a benefit performance, and
it was Arthur Meyer who brought me the news that “La Patti”
was going to sing for me. Her husband came during the afternoon,
153to tell me how glad she was of this opportunity of proving
to me her sympathy. As soon as the “fairy bird” was
announced, every seat in the house was promptly taken, at prices
which were higher than those originally fixed. She had no
reason to regret her friendly action, for never was any triumph
more complete. The students greeted her with three cheers
as she came on the stage. She was a little surprised at this noise
of bravos in rhythm. I can see her now coming forward, her
two little feet encased in pink satin. She was like a bird hesitating
as to whether it would fly or remain on the ground. She
looked so pretty, so smiling, and when she trilled out the gemlike
notes of her wonderful voice the whole house was delirious
with excitement. Everyone sprang up and the students stood
on their seats, waved their hats and handkerchiefs, nodded their
young heads, in their feverish enthusiasm for art, and encored
with intonations of the most touching supplication. The divine
singer then began again, and three times over she had to sing
the cavatina from the “Barber of Seville,” Una voce poco fa.
I thanked her affectionately afterwards, and she left the
theater escorted by the students, who followed her carriage
for a long way, shouting over and over again: “Long live
Adelina Patti!” Thanks to that evening’s performance I was
able to pay the insurance company. I was ruined all the same,
or very nearly so.
I stayed a few days with my mother, but we were so cramped
for room there that I took a furnished flat in the Rue de l’Arcade.
It was a wretched house and the flat was dark. I was wondering
how I should get out of my difficulties, when one morning
M. C——, my father’s notary, was announced. This was the
man I disliked so much, but I gave orders that he should be shown
in. I was surprised that I had not seen him for so long a time.
He told me that he had just returned from Hombourg, that he
had seen in the newspaper an account of my misfortune, and
had now come to put himself at my service. In spite of my
distrust, I was touched by this, and I related to him the whole
drama of my fire. I did not know how it had started, but I
vaguely suspected my maid Josephine of having placed my
154lighted candle on the little table to the left of the head of my
bed. I had frequently warned her not to do this, but it was
on this little piece of furniture that she always placed my water
bottle and glass, and a dessert dish with a couple of raw apples,
for I like eating apples when I wake in the night. On opening
the door there was always a terrible draught, as the windows
were left open until I went to bed. On closing the door after
her the lace bed curtains had probably caught fire. I could not
explain the catastrophe in any other way. I had several times
seen the young servant do this stupid thing, and I supposed
that on the night in question she had been in a hurry to go to
bed on account of her bad headache. As a rule, when I was
going to undress myself, she prepared everything and then
came in and told me, but this time she had not done so. As
a rule, too, I just went into the room myself to see that everything
was right, and several times I had been obliged to move
the candle. That day, however, was destined to bring me misfortune
of some kind, though it was not a very great one.
“But,” said the notary, “you were not insured, then?”
“No, I was to sign my policy the day after the event.”
“Ah,” exclaimed the man of law; “and to think that I
have been told you set the flat on fire yourself, for the sake of
picking up a large sum for damages!”
I shrugged my shoulders, for I had seen insinuations to this
effect in a newspaper. I was very young at this time, but I
already had a certain disdain for tittle-tattle.
“Oh, well, I must arrange matters for you, if things are
like this,” said Maître C——. “You are really better off than
you imagine as regards the money on your father’s side,” he
continued. “As your grandmother leaves you an annuity,
you can get a good amount for this by agreeing to insure your
life for 250,000 francs for forty years, for the benefit of the
purchaser.” I agreed to everything, and was only too delighted
at such a windfall. This man promised to send me,
two days after his return, 120,000 francs, and he kept his
word.
My reason for giving the details of this little episode, which
155after all belongs to my life, is to show how differently things
turn out from what seems likely, according to logic or according
to our own expectations. It is quite certain that the accident,
which just then happened to me, scattered to the winds the hopes
and plans of my life. I had arranged for myself a luxurious
home with the money that my father and his mother had left
me. I had reserved and placed out the amount necessary to
complete my monthly salary for the next two years, and I was
reckoning that at the end of the two years I should be in a
position to demand a very large salary. And all these arrangements
had been upset by the carelessness of a domestic. I had
rich relatives and very rich friends, but not one among them
stretched out a hand to help me out of the ditch into which I
had fallen. My rich relatives had not forgiven me for going
on to the stage. And yet, Heaven knows what tears it had cost
me to take up this career that had been forced upon me! My
Uncle Faure came to see me at my mother’s house, but my aunt
would not listen to a word about me. I used to see my cousin
secretly, and sometimes his pretty sister. My rich friends considered
that I was wildly extravagant, and could not understand
why I did not place the money I had inherited in good,
sound investments.
I received a great deal of poetry on the subject of my fire.
Most of the pieces were anonymous; I have kept them, however,
and I quote the following one, which is rather nice:
Passant, te voilà sans abri:
La flamme a ravagé ton gîte.
Hier plus léger qu’un colibri;
Ton esprit aujourd’hui s’agite,
S’exhalant en gémissements
Sur tout ce que le feu dévore.
Tu pleures tes beaux diamants?...
Non, tes grands yeux les ont encore!
Ne regrette pas ces colliers;
Qu’on a leur cou les riches dames!
Tu trouveras dans les halliers,
Des tissus verts, aux fines trames!
156Ta perle?... Mais, c’est le jais noir
Qui sur l’envers du fossépousse!
Et le cadre de ton miroir
Est une bordure de mousse!
Tes bracelets?... Mais, tes bras nus:
Tu paraitras cent fois plus belle!
Sur les bras polis de Vénus,
Aucun cercle d’or n’étincelle!
Garde ton charme si puissant!
Ton parfum de plante sauvage!
Laisse les bijoux, O Passant,
A celles que le temps ravage!
Avec ta guitare à ton cou,
Va, par la France et par l’Espagne!
Suis ton chemin; je ne sais où....
Par la plaine et par la montagne!
Passe, comme la plume au vent!
Comme le son de ta mandore!
Comme un flot qui baise en rêvant
Les flancs d’une barque sonore!
The proprietor of one of the hotels now very much in vogue
sent me the following letter, which I quote word for word:
Madame: If you would consent to dine every evening for a month in
our large dining-room, I would place at your service a suite of rooms on the
first floor, consisting of two bedrooms, a large drawing-room, a small boudoir
and a bath room. It is of course, understood that this suite of rooms
would be yours free of charge if you would consent to do as I ask.
Yours truly, etc....
P. S.—You would only have to pay for the fresh supplies of plants for
your drawing-room.
This was the extent of the man’s coarseness. I asked one
of my friends to go and give the low fellow his answer.
I was in despair, though, for I felt that I could not live without
comfort and luxury.
I soon made up my mind as to what I must do, but not without
157great sorrow. I had been offered a magnificent engagement
in Russia, and I should have to accept it. Mme. Guérard
was my sole confidant, and I did not mention my plan to anyone
else. The idea of Russia terrified her, for at that time my
chest was very delicate and cold was my most cruel enemy.
It was just as I had made up my mind to this that the lawyer
arrived. His avaricious and crafty mind had schemed out the
clever and, for him, profitable combination, which was to change
my whole life once more.
I took a pretty flat on the first floor of a house in the Rue
de Rome. It was very sunny, and that delighted me more than
anything else. There were two drawing-rooms and a large dining-room. I arranged for my grandmother to live at a home
kept by lay Sisters and nuns. She was a Jewess, and carried
out very strictly all the laws laid down by her religion. The
house was very comfortable, and my grandmother took with
her her own maid, the young girl from Burgundy, to whom
she was accustomed. When I went to see her she told me that
she was much better off there than with me. “When I was with
you,” she said, “I found your boy too noisy.” I very rarely
went to visit her there, for after seeing my mother turn pale
at her unkind words I never cared any more for her. She was
happy, and that was the essential thing.
I now played in “Le Bâtard,” in which I had great success;
in “L’Affranchi,” in “L’Autre,” by George Sand, and in
“Jean-Marie,” a little masterpiece by André Theuriet, which
had the most brilliant success. Porel played the part of Jean-Marie.
He was at that time slender, and full of hope as regarded
his future. Since then his slenderness has developed
into plumpness and his hope into certitude.
Evil days then came upon us! Paris began to get feverish
and excited. The streets were black with groups of people, discussing
and gesticulating. And all this noise was only the echo
of far-distant groups gathered together in German streets.
These other groups were yelling, gesticulating, and discussing,
but—they knew; while we—did not know!
158I could not keep calm, but was extremely excited, until
finally I was ill. War was declared, and I hate war! It exasperates
me and makes me shudder from head to foot. At times
I used to spring up terrified, upset by the distant cries of
human voices.
Oh, war! What infamy, shame, and sorrow! War! What
theft and crime, abetted, forgiven, and glorified!
On the 19th of July, war was seriously declared and Paris
then became the theater of the most touching and burlesque
scenes. Excitable and delicate as I was, I could not bear the
sight of all these young men gone wild, who were yelling the
“Marseillaise,” and rushing along the streets in close file, shouting
over and over again; “To Berlin! To Berlin!”
My heart used to beat wildly for I, too, thought that they
were going to Berlin. I understood the fury they felt, for these
people had provoked us without plausible reasons, but at the same
time it seemed to me that they were getting ready for this great
occasion without sufficient respect and dignity. My own impotence
made me feel rebellious, and when I saw all the mothers,
with pale faces and eyes swollen with crying, holding their boys
in their arms and kissing them in despair, the most frightful
anguish seemed to choke me. I cried, too, almost unceasingly,
and I was wearing myself away with anxiety, but I did not foresee
the horrible catastrophe that was to take place.
The doctors decided that I must go to Eaux-Bonnes. I did
not want to leave Paris, for I had caught the general fever of
excitement. My weakness increased though, day by day, and on
the 27th day of July I was taken away in spite of myself. Mme.
Guérard, my manservant, and my maid accompanied me, and I
also took my child with me.
At the stations there were posters everywhere, announcing
that the Emperor Napoleon had gone to Metz to take command
of the army.
On arriving at Eaux-Bonnes, I was obliged to go to bed. My
condition was considered very serious by Dr. Langlet, who told
me afterwards that he certainly thought I was going to die. I
vomited blood and had to have a piece of ice in my mouth all the
159time. At the end of about twelve days, however, I began to get
up, and after this I soon recovered my strength and my calmness,
and went for long rides.
The war news led us to hope for victory. There was great
joy and a certain emotion felt by everyone on hearing that the
young Prince Imperial had received his baptism of fire at Saarbruck,
in the engagement commanded by General Frossard.
Life seemed to me beautiful again, for I had great confidence
in the issue of the war. I pitied the Germans for having embarked
on such an adventure. But, alas! the glorious progress
which my brain had been so active in imagining was cut short
by the atrocious news from St. Privat. The political news
was posted up every day in the little garden of the Casino at
Eaux-Bonnes. The public went there to get information. Detesting
tranquillity, as I did, I used to send my manservant to
copy the telegrams. Oh, how grievous it was, that terrible telegram
from St. Privat, informing us laconically of the frightful
butchery, of Marshal Canrobert’s heroic defense, and of Bazaine’s
first treachery in not going to the rescue of his comrades.
I knew Canrobert and liked him immensely. Later on he
was one of my faithful friends, and I shall always remember the
exquisite hours spent in listening to his accounts of the bravery
of others—never of his own. And what an abundance of anecdotes,
what wit, what charm!
This news of the battle of St. Privat caused my feverishness
to return. My sleep was full of nightmares and I had a relapse.
The news was worse every day. After St. Privat came Gravelotte
where 36,000 men, French and German, were cut down in
a few hours. Then came the sublime but powerless efforts of
MacMahon, who was repulsed as far as Sedan, and finally Sedan!
Sedan! Ah, the horrible awakening! The month of August
had finished the night before amid a tumult of weapons and
dying groans. But the groans of the dying men were mingled
still with hopeful cries. The month of September, though, was
cursed from its very birth. Its first war cry was stifled back by
the brutal and cowardly hand of Destiny.
A hundred thousand men! A hundred thousand Frenchmen
160had to capitulate, and the Emperor of France had to hand
his sword over to the King of Prussia!
Ah, that cry of grief, that cry of rage uttered by the whole
nation! It can never be forgotten!
On the first of September toward ten o’clock Claude, my
manservant, knocked at my door. I was not asleep, and he gave
me his copy of the first telegrams: “Battle of Sedan commenced....
MacMahon wounded ... etc., etc.” “Ah, go back
again!” I said, “and as soon as a fresh telegram comes, bring
me the news. I feel that something unheard of, something great—and
quite different—is going to happen. We have suffered so
terribly this last month that there can only be something good
now, something fine; for God’s scales mete out joy and suffering
equally. Go at once, Claude,” I added, and then full of confidence,
I soon fell asleep again, and was so tired that I slept
until one o’clock. When I awoke, my maid Elicie, the most
delightful girl imaginable, was seated near my bed. Her pretty
face and her large, dark eyes were so mournful that my heart
stopped beating. I gazed at her anxiously, and she put into my
hands the copy of the last telegram: “The Emperor Napoleon
has just handed over his sword....”
The blood rushed to my head, and my lungs were too weak to
control it. I lay back on my pillow, and the blood escaped
through my lips with the groans of my whole being.
For three days I was between life and death. Dr. Langlet
sent for one of my father’s friends, a shipowner named M. Mannoir.
He came at once, bringing with him his young wife. She,
too, was very ill, worse in reality than I was, in spite of her fresh
look, for she died six months later. Thanks to their care and to
the energetic treatment of Dr. Langlet I came through alive from
this attack.
I decided to return at once to Paris, as the siege was about
to be proclaimed and I did not want my mother and my sisters
to remain in the capital. Independently of this, everyone at
Eaux-Bonnes was seized with a desire to get away, invalids and
tourists alike. A post chaise was found, the owner of which
agreed, for an exorbitant price, to take me to the next train that
161came. When once in it, we were more or less comfortably seated
as far as Bordeaux, but it was impossible to find five seats in the
express from there. My manservant was allowed to travel with
the engine driver. I do not know where Mme. Guérard and my
maid found room, but in the compartment I entered, with my
little boy, there were already nine persons. An ugly old man
tried to push my child back when I had put him in, but I pushed
him again energetically in my turn.
“No human force will make us get out of this carriage
again,” I said; “do you hear that, you ugly old man? We are
here and we shall stay.”
A stout lady, who took up more room herself than three
ordinary persons, exclaimed:
“Well, that is lively, for we are suffocated already. It’s
shameful to let eleven persons get into a compartment where
there are only seats for eight!”
“Will you get out, then?” I retorted, turning to her
quickly, “for without you there would only be seven of us.”
The stifled laughter of the other travelers showed me that I
had won over my audience. Three young men offered me their
places, but I refused, declaring that I was going to stand. The
three young men had risen and they declared that they would
also stand, then. The stout lady called a railway official.
“Come here, please,” she began. The official stopped an instant
at the door.
“It is perfectly shameful,” she went on. “There are
eleven in this compartment, and it is impossible to move.”
“Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed one of the young men.
“Just look for yourself; we are standing up and there are three
seats empty; send us some more people in here!”
The official went away laughing and muttering something
about the woman who had complained. She turned to the
young man and began to talk abusively to him. He bowed very
respectfully in reply, and said:
“Madame, if you will calm down you shall be satisfied. We
will seat seven on the other side, including the child, and then
you will only be four on your side.”
162The ugly old man was short and slight. He looked sideways
at the stout lady and murmured: “Four! four!” His look
and tone showed that he considered the stout lady took up more
than one seat. This look and tone were not lost on the young
man, and before the ugly old man had comprehended he said to
him: “Will you come over here, and have this corner? All
the thin people will be together, then,” he added, inviting a
placid, calm-looking young Englishman of about eighteen to
twenty years of age to take the old man’s seat. The Englishman
had the body of a prize fighter with a face like that of a fair-haired
baby. A very young woman, opposite the stout one,
laughed till the tears came. All six of us then found room on
the thin people’s side of the carriage. We were a little crushed,
but had been considerably enlivened by this little entertainment,
and we certainly needed something to enliven us. The young
man who had taken the matter in hand in such a witty way, was
tall and nice-looking. He had blue eyes, and his hair was almost
white, and this gave to his face a most attractive freshness and
youthfulness. My boy was on his knee during the night. With
the exception of the child, the stout lady, and the young Englishman,
no one went to sleep. The heat was overpowering, and the
war was of course discussed. After some hesitation, one of the
young men told me that I resembled Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt. I
answered that there was every reason why I should resemble her.
The young men then introduced themselves. The one who had
recognized me was Albert Delpit, the second was a Dutchman,
Baron von Zelern or Von Zelen, I do not remember exactly
which, and the young man with the white hair was Felix Faure.
He told me that he was from Hâvre, and that he knew my grandmother
very well. I kept up a certain friendship with these
three men afterwards, but later on Albert Delpit became my
enemy. All three are now dead; Albert Delpit died a disappointed
man, for he had tried everything, and succeeded in
nothing; the Dutch baron died in a railway accident, and Felix
Faure as President of the French Republic.
The young woman, on hearing my name, introduced herself
in her turn:
163“I think we are slightly related,” she said. “I am Mme.
Laroque....”
“Of Bordeaux?” I asked.
“Yes.”
My mother’s brother had married a Mlle. Laroque of Bordeaux,
so that we were able to talk of our family. Altogether
the journey did not seem very long, in spite of the heat, the overcrowding,
and our thirst.
The arrival in Paris was more gloomy. We shook hands
warmly with each other. The stout lady’s husband was awaiting
her with a telegram in his hand. The unfortunate woman
read it, and then, uttering a cry, burst into sobs and fell into his
arms. I gazed at her, wandering what sorrow had come upon
her. Poor woman, I could no longer see anything ridiculous
about her! I felt a pang of remorse at the thought that we had
been laughing at her so much, when misfortune had already
singled her out.
On reaching home I sent word to my mother that I should
be with her sometime during the day. She came at once, as she
wanted to know how my health was. We then arranged about
the departure of the whole family, with the exception of myself,
as I wanted to stay in Paris during the siege. My mother, my
little boy, and his nurse, my sisters, my Aunt Annette, who kept
house for me, and my mother’s maid, were all ready to start two
days later. I had taken rooms at Frascati’s, at Hâvre, for the
whole tribe. But the desire to leave Paris was one thing, and
the possibility of doing so, another. The stations were invaded
by families like mine, who thought it more prudent to emigrate.
I sent my manservant to engage a compartment, and he came
back three hours later with his clothes torn, after receiving
various kicks and blows.
“Madame cannot go into that crowd,” he assured me. “It
is quite impossible. I should not be able to protect her. And
then, too, madame will not be alone; there is madame’s mother,
the other ladies, and the children. It is really quite impossible.”
I sent at once for three of my friends, explained my difficulty,
164and asked them to accompany me. I told my butler to be ready,
as well as my other manservant, and my mother’s footman. He,
in his turn, invited his younger brother, who was a priest and
who was very willing to go with us. We all set off in a railway
omnibus. There were seventeen of us in all, and only nine who
were really traveling. Our eight protectors were not too many,
for they were not human beings who were taking tickets, but
wild beasts, haunted by fear, and spurred on by a desire to
escape. These brutes saw nothing but the little ticket office, the
door leading to the train, and then the train which would insure
their escape. The presence of the young priest was a great help
to us, for his religious character made people refrain sometimes
from blows.
When once all my people were installed in the compartment
which had been reserved for them, they waved their farewells,
threw kisses, and the train started. A shudder of terror then
ran through me, for I suddenly felt so absolutely alone. It was
the first time I had been separated from the little child who was
dearer to me than the whole world.
Two arms were then thrown affectionately round me, and a
voice murmured: “My dear Sarah, why did you not go, too?
You are so delicate. Will you be able to bear the solitude without
the dear child?”
It was Mme. Guérard, who had arrived too late to kiss the
boy, but was there now to comfort the mother. I gave way to
my despair, regretting that I had sent him away. And yet, as
I said to myself, there might be fighting in Paris! The idea
never for an instant occurred to me that I might have gone away
with him. I thought that I might be of some use in Paris. Of
some use, but in what way? This I did not know. The idea
seemed stupid, but nevertheless that was my idea. It seemed to
me that everyone who was well ought to stay in Paris. In spite
of my weakness I felt that I was well, and with reason, as I
proved later on. I therefore stayed, not knowing at all what I
was going to do.
CHAPTER XI I ESTABLISH MY WAR HOSPITAL
165
For some days I was perfectly dazed, missing the usual
life around me, and missing the affection of those I
loved. The defense, however, was being organized,
and I decided to use my strength and intelligence in
tending the wounded. The question was where could we install
an ambulance?
The Odéon Theater had closed its doors, but I moved heaven
and earth to get permission to organize an ambulance at the
Odéon, and, thanks to Emile de Girardin and Duquesnel, my
wish was granted. I went to the War Office and made my
declaration, and my request and my offers were accepted for a
military ambulance.
The next difficulty was that I wanted food. I wrote a line
to the Prefect of Police. A military courier arrived very soon
after my letter, bringing me a note from the prefect, containing
the following lines:
Madame: If you could possibly come at once I would wait for you until
six o’clock. Excuse the earliness of the hour, but I have to be at the
Chamber at nine in the morning, and as your note seems to be urgent, I am
anxious to do all I can to be of service to you.
Comte de Kératry.
I remembered a Comte de Kératry who had been introduced
to me at my aunt’s house the evening I had recited poetry accompanied
by Rossini. He was a young lieutenant, good-looking,
witty, and lively. He had introduced me to his mother, a
very charming woman, and I had recited poetry at her soirées.
166The young lieutenant had gone to Mexico and for some time
we had kept up a correspondence, but this had gradually ceased,
and we had not met again. I asked Mme. Guérard whether she
thought that the prefect might be a near relative of my young
friend’s. “It may be so,” she replied, and we discussed this in
the carriage which was taking us at once to the Tuileries Palace,
where the prefect had his offices. My heart was very heavy when
we came to the stone steps. Only a few months previously, one
April morning, I had been there with Mme. Guérard. Then, as
now, a footman had come forward to open the door of my carriage,
but the April sunshine had then lighted up the steps,
caught the shining lamps of the state carriages, and sent its rays
in all directions. There had been a busy, joyful coming and
going of the officers, and elegant salutes had been exchanged.
On this occasion the misty, crafty-looking November sun fell
heavily on all it touched. Black, dirty-looking cabs drove up
one after the other, knocking against the iron gate, grazing the
steps, advancing or moving back, according to the coarse shouts
of their drivers. Instead of the elegant salutations, I heard now
such phrases as:
“Well, how are you, old chap?” “Oh, the wooden jaws!”
“Well, any news?” “Yes, it’s the very deuce with us!”
etc., etc.... The palace was no longer the same. The very atmosphere
had changed. The faint perfume which elegant
women leave in the air as they pass was no longer there. A
vague odor of tobacco, of greasy clothes, of hair plastered with
pomatum made the atmosphere seem heavy. Ah, the beautiful
French Empress! I could see her again in her blue dress embroidered
with silver, calling to her aid Cinderella’s good fairy
to help her on again with her little slipper. The delightful
young Prince Imperial, too; I could see him helping me to
place the pots of verbena and Marguerites, and holding in his
arms, which were not strong enough for it, a huge pot of rhododendrons,
behind which his handsome face completely disappeared.
I could see the Emperor Napoleon III himself, with
his half-closed eyes, clapping his hands at the rehearsal of the
courtesies intended for him.
167The fair Empress, dressed in strange clothes, had rushed
away in the carriage of her American dentist, for it was not
even a Frenchman, but a foreigner, who had had the courage
to protect the unfortunate woman. And the gentle Utopian
Emperor had tried in vain to be killed on the battlefield. Two
horses had been killed under him, but he had not received so
much as a scratch. And after this he had given up his sword.
And we, at home, had all wept with anger, shame, and grief
at this giving up of the sword. Yet what courage it must have
required for this brave man to carry out such an act! He had
wanted to save a hundred thousand men, to spare a hundred
thousand lives, and to reassure a hundred thousand mothers.
Our poor, beloved Emperor! History will some day do him
justice, for he was good, humane, and confiding. Alas! alas!
he was too confiding!
I stopped a minute before entering the prefect’s suite of
rooms. I was obliged to wipe my eyes, and, in order to change
the current of my thoughts, I said to my petite dame:
“Tell me, should you think me pretty if you saw me now
for the first time?”
“Oh, yes!” she replied warmly.
“So much the better!” I said, “for I want this old prefect
to think me pretty. There are so many things I must ask
him for.”
On entering his room, what was my surprise to recognize
in him the lieutenant I knew. He had become captain and
then prefect of the Seine. When my name was announced by
the usher, he sprang up from his chair and came forward with
his face beaming and both hands stretched out.
“Ah, you had forgotten me!” he said; and then he turned
to greet Mme. Guérard in a friendly way.
“But I never thought I was coming to see you,” I replied;
“and I am delighted,” I continued, “for you will let
me have everything I ask for.”
“Only that!” he remarked, with a short burst of laughter.
“Well, will you give your orders, madame?” he continued.
168“Yes, I want bread, milk, meat, vegetables, sugar, wine,
brandy, potatoes, eggs, coffee,” I said in one breath.
“Oh, let me get my breath!” exclaimed the count-prefect.
“You speak so quickly that I am gasping.”
I was quiet a moment, and then I continued:
“I have started an ambulance at the Odéon, but as it is
a military ambulance, the municipal authorities refuse me food.
I have five wounded men already, and I can manage for them,
but other wounded men are being sent to me, and I shall have
to give them food.”
“You shall be supplied above and beyond all your wishes,”
said the prefect. “There is food in the palace which was being
stored by the unfortunate Empress. She had prepared enough
for months and months. I will have all you want sent to you,
except meat, bread, and milk, and as regards these I will give
orders that your ambulance shall be included in the municipal
service, although it is a military one. Then I will give you
an order for salt and some other things, which you will be able
to get from the Opera.”
“From the Opera!” I repeated, looking at him incredulously.
“But it is only being built, and there is nothing but
scaffolding there yet.”
“Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under
the scaffolding opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the
little spiral staircase leading to the provision office, and there
you will be supplied with what you want.”
“There is still something else I want to ask,” I said.
“Go on, I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders,”
he replied.
“Well, I am very uneasy,” I said, “for they have put a
stock of powder in the cellars under the Odéon. If Paris were
to be bombarded and a shell should fall on the building, we
should all be blown up, and that is not the aim and object of
an ambulance.”
“You are quite right,” said the kind man, “and nothing
could be more stupid than to store powder there. I shall have
more difficulty about that, though,” he continued, “for I shall
169have to deal with a crowd of stubborn bourgeois, who want to
organize the defense in their own way. You must try to get
a petition for me, signed by the most influential householders
and tradespeople in the neighborhood. Now are you satisfied?”
he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, shaking hands with him cordially with
both hands. “You have been most kind and charming. Thank
you very much.”
I then moved toward the door, but I stood still again suddenly,
as though hypnotized by an overcoat hanging over a chair.
Mme. Guérard saw what had attracted my attention, and she
pulled my sleeve gently:
“My dear Sarah,” she whispered, “do not do that.”
I looked beseechingly at the young prefect, but he did not
understand.
“What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?”
he asked.
I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible.
“I am very sorry,” he said, bewildered, “but I do not understand
at all.”
I was still pointing to the coat.
“Give it me, will you?” I said.
“My overcoat?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want it for?”
“For my wounded men when they are convalescent.”
He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather
vexed at this uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation.
“There is nothing so funny about it,” I said. “I have a
poor fellow, for instance, whose two fingers have been taken
off. He does not need to stay in bed for that, naturally, and
his soldier’s cape is not warm enough. It is very difficult to
warm the big foyer of the Odéon sufficiently, and those who
are well enough have to be there. The man I tell you about
is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould’s overcoat,
170when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier
is huge, and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had
such an opportunity again. I shall want a great many overcoats,
though, and this looks like a very warm one.”
I stroked the furry lining of the coveted garment, and the
young prefect, still choking with laughter, began to empty the
pockets of his overcoat. He pulled out a magnificent white silk
muffler from the largest pocket.
“Will you allow me to keep my muffler?” he asked.
I put on a resigned expression and nodded my consent. Our
host then rang, and when the usher appeared he handed him
the overcoat, and said in a solemn voice, in spite of the laughter
in his eyes:
“Will you carry this to the carriage for these ladies?”
I thanked him again and went away feeling very happy.
Twelve days later I returned, taking with me a letter covered
with the signatures of the householders and tradesmen living
near the Odéon.
On entering the prefect’s room I was petrified to see him,
instead of advancing to meet me, rush toward a cupboard, open
the door, and fling something hastily into it. After this he
leaned back against the door as though to prevent my opening it.
“Excuse me,” he said, in a witty, mocking tone, “but I
took a violent cold after your first visit. I have just put my
overcoat—oh, only an ugly, old overcoat, not a warm one,”
he added quickly, “but still an overcoat, inside there, and
there it is now, and I will take the key out of the lock.”
He put the key carefully into his pocket, and then came
forward and found me a chair. Our conversation soon took a
more serious turn, though, for the news was very bad. For
the last twelve days the ambulances had been crowded with the
wounded. Everything was in a bad way, home politics as well
as foreign politics. The Germans were advancing on Paris.
The Army of the Loire was being formed. Gambetta, Chanzy,
Bourbaki, and Trochn were organizing a desperate defense. We
talked for some time about all these sad things, and I told him
about the painful impression I had had on my last visit to the
Tuileries, of my remembrance of everyone, so brilliant, so considerate,
and so happy formerly, and so deeply to be pitied at
present. We were silent for a moment, and then I shook hands
with him, told him I had received all he had sent, and returned
to my ambulance.
AN EARLY PORTRAIT OF SARAH BERNHARDT.
171The prefect had sent me ten barrels of wine and two of
brandy; 30,000 eggs all packed in boxes with lime and bran;
a hundred bags of coffee, boxes of tea, forty boxes of Albert
biscuits, a thousand tins of preserve, and a quantity of
other things. M. Menier, the great chocolate manufacturer,
had sent me five hundred pounds of chocolate. One of my
friends, who was a flour dealer, had made me a present of
twenty sacks of flour, ten of which were maize flour. Félix
Potin, my neighbor when I was living at 11 Boulevard Malesherbes,
had responded to my appeal by sending two barrels
of raisins, a hundred boxes of sardines, three sacks of rice, two
sacks of lentils, and twenty sugar loaves. From M. De Rothschild
I had received two barrels of brandy and a hundred
bottles of his own wine for the convalescents. I also received
a very unexpected present. Léonie Dubourg, an old schoolfellow
of mine at the Grandchamps Convent, sent me fifty
tin boxes, each containing four pounds of salt butter. She
had married a very wealthy gentleman farmer, who cultivated
his own farms, which it seems were very numerous. I was very
much touched at her remembering me, for I had never seen
her since the old days at the convent. I had also asked for all
the overcoats and slippers of my various friends, and I had
bought up a job lot of two hundred flannel vests. My Aunt
Betty, my blind grandmother’s sister, who is still living in
Holland, and is now ninety-three years of age, managed to get
for me, through the delightful Dutch Ambassador, Baron ——,
three hundred night shirts of magnificent Dutch linen, and a
hundred pairs of sheets. I received lint and bandages from every
corner of Paris, but it was more particularly from the Palais
de l’Industrie that I used to get my provisions of lint and linen
for binding wounds. There was an adorable woman there,
named Mlle. Hocquigny, who was at the head of all the ambulances.
172All that she did was done with a cheerful gracefulness,
and all that she was obliged to refuse she refused sorrowfully,
but still in a gracious manner. She was at that time more than
thirty years of age, and although unmarried she looked more
like a young married woman. She had large, blue, dreamy eyes,
and a laughing mouth, a deliciously oval face, little dimples,
and crowning all this grace, this dreamy expression and this coquettish,
inviting mouth, a wide forehead like that of the virgins
painted by the early painters, a wide and rather prominent forehead,
encircled by hair worn in smooth, wide, flat bandeaux,
separated by a faultless parting. The forehead seemed like
the protecting rampart of this delicious face. Mlle. Hocquigny
was adored by everyone, and made much of, but she remained
invulnerable to all homage. She was happy in being beloved,
but she would not allow anyone to express affection for her.
At the Palais de l’Industrie a remarkable number of celebrated
doctors and surgeons were on duty, and they, as well as
the convalescents, were all more or less in love with Mlle. Hocquigny.
As she and I were great friends, she confided to me
her observations and her sorrowful disdain. Thanks to her
I was never short of linen nor of lint. I had organized my
ambulance with a very small staff. My cook was installed in
the public foyer. I had bought her an immense cooking range,
so that she could make soups and herb tea for fifty men. Her
husband was chief attendant. I had given him two assistants,
and Mme. Guérard, Mme. Lambquin, and I were the nurses.
Two of us sat up at night, so that we each went to bed every
third night. I preferred this to taking on some woman whom
I did not know. Mme. Lambquin belonged to the Odéon, where
she used to take the part of the duennas. She was plain and
had a common face, but she was very talented. She talked loud
and was very plain spoken. She called a spade a spade, and
liked frankness and no under meaning to things. At times she
was a trifle embarrassing with the crudeness of her words and
her remarks, but she was kind, active, alert, and devoted. My
various friends who were on service at the fortifications came
to me in their free time to do my secretarial work. I had to
173keep a book, which was shown every day to a sergeant who came
from the Val-de-Grâce military hospital, giving all details as
to how many men came into our ambulance, how many died, and
how many recovered and left. Paris was in a state of siege,
and no one could go far outside the walls, and no news from
outside could be received. The Germans were not, however,
round the gates of the city. Baron Larrey came now and then
to see me, and I had, as head surgeon, Dr. Duchesne, who gave
up his whole time, night and day, to the care of my poor men
during the five months that this truly frightful nightmare
lasted.
I cannot recall those terrible days without the deepest emotion.
It was no longer the country in danger that kept my
nerves strung up, but the sufferings of all her children. There
were all those who were away fighting, those who were brought
in to us wounded or dying, the noble women of the people, who
stood for hours and hours in the queue to get the necessary dole
of bread, meat, and milk for their poor little ones at home.
Ah, those poor women! I could see them from the theater
windows, pressing up close to each other, blue with cold, and
stamping their feet on the ground to keep them from freezing,
for that winter was the most cruel one we had had for twenty
years. Frequently one of these poor, silent heroines was brought
in to me, either in a swoon from fatigue, or struck down suddenly
with congestion caused by cold. On the 20th of December,
three of these unfortunate women were brought into the
ambulance. One of them had her feet frozen, and she lost
the big toe of her right foot. The second was an enormously
stout woman, who was suckling her child, and her poor breasts
were harder than wood. She simply howled with pain. The
youngest of the three was a girl of sixteen to eighteen years of
age. She died of cold, on the trestle on which I had had her
placed to send her home. On the 24th of December, there were
fifteen degrees of cold. I often sent William, our attendant,
out with a little brandy to warm the poor women. Oh, the suffering
they must have endured, those heartbroken mothers,
those sisters, and fiancées, in their terrible dread! How excusable
174their rebellion seems during the Commune, and even
their bloodthirsty madness!
My ambulance was full. I had sixty beds and was obliged
to improvise ten more. The soldiers were installed in the
artistes’ foyer and in the general foyer, and the officers in a
room which had formerly been used for refreshments.
One day a young Breton named Marie le Gallec was brought
in. He had been struck by a bullet in the chest and another in
the wrist. Dr. Duchesne bound up his chest firmly and splintered
his wrist. He then said to me very simply:
“Let him have everything he likes, he is dying.”
I bent over his bed and said to him:
“Tell me anything that would give you pleasure, Marie le
Gallec?”
“Soup,” he answered promptly, in the most comic way.
Mme. Guérard hurried away to the kitchen and soon returned
with a bowl of broth and pieces of toast. I placed the
bowl on the little wooden shelf with four short legs which was
so convenient for the meals of our poor sufferers. The wounded
man looked up at me and said:
“Barra!” I did not understand, and he repeated:
“Barra!” His poor chest caused him to hiss out the word,
and he made the greatest efforts to repeat his emphatic request.
I sent immediately to the Marine Office thinking that there
would surely be some Breton seamen there, and I explained my
difficulty, and my ignorance of the Breton dialect. I was informed
that the word “barra” meant bread. I hurried at
once to Le Gallec with a large piece of bread. His face lighted
up and, taking it from me with his sound hand, he broke it
up with his teeth and let the pieces fall in the bowl. He then
plunged his spoon into the middle of the broth and filled it up
with bread until the spoon could stand upright in it. When
it stood up without shaking about, the young soldier smiled.
He was just preparing to eat this horrible concoction when
the young priest from St. Sulpice, who had my ambulance in
charge, arrived. I had sent for him on hearing the doctor’s
sad verdict. He laid his hand gently on the young man’s shoulder,
175thus stopping the movement of his arm. The poor fellow
looked up at the priest, who showed him the Holy Cup.
“Oh!” he said simply, and then, placing his coarse handkerchief
over the steaming soup, he put his hands together. We
had arranged the two screens, which we used for isolating the
dead or dying, around his bed. He was left alone with the
priest while I went on my rounds to calm the murmurers, or
help the believers to raise themselves for the prayer. The young
priest soon pushed aside the partition, and I then saw Marie
le Gallec, with a beaming face, eating his abominable bread
sop. He fell asleep soon afterward, roused up to ask for something
to drink, and died immediately, in a slight fit of choking.
Fortunately I did not lose many men out of the three hundred
who came into my ambulance, for the death of the unfortunate
ones completely upset me. I was very young at that
time, only twenty-four years of age, but I could nevertheless
see the cowardliness of some of the men, and the heroism of
many of the others. A young Savoyard eighteen years old
had had his forefinger taken off. Baron Larrey was quite sure
that he had shot it off himself with his own gun, but I could
not believe that. I noticed, though, that in spite of our nursing
and care the wound did not heal. I bound it up in a different
way, and the following day I saw that the bandage had been
altered. I mentioned this to Mme. Lambquin, who was sitting
up that night together with Mme. Guérard.
“Good; I will keep my eye on him; you go to sleep, my child,
and count on me.”
The next day when I arrived she told me that she had caught
the young man scraping the wound on his finger with his knife.
I called him and told him that I should have to report this to
the Val-de-Grâce Hospital. He began to weep and vowed to
me that he would never do it again, and five days later he was
well. I signed the paper authorizing him to leave the ambulance,
and he was sent to the army of the defense. I often
wondered what became of him.
Another of our patients bewildered us, too. Each time that
his wound seemed to be just on the point of healing up, he had
176a violent attack of dysentery which threw him back. This
seemed suspicious to Dr. Duchesne, and he asked me to watch
the man. At the end of a considerable time, we were convinced
that our wounded man had thought out the most comical scheme.
He slept next the wall and therefore had no neighbor on the
one side. During the night, he managed to file the brass of
his bedstead. He put the filings in a little pot which had been
used for ointment of some kind. A few drops of water and some
salt mixed with this powdered brass formed a poison, which
might have cost its inventor his life. I was furious at this
stratagem. I wrote to the Val-de-Grâce, and an ambulance
conveyance was sent to take this unpatriotic Frenchman away.
But side by side with these despicable men, what heroism
we saw! A young captain was brought in one day. He was a
tall fellow, a regular Hercules, with a superb head, and a frank
expression. On my book he was described as Captain Menesson.
He had been struck by a bullet at the top of the arm, just at
the shoulder. With a nurse’s assistance I was trying as gently
as possible to take off his cloak, when three bullets fell from the
hood which he had pulled over his head, and I counted sixteen
bullet holes in the cloak. The young officer had stood upright
for three hours, serving as a target himself, while covering
the retreat of his men as they fired all the time on the enemy.
This had taken place among the Champigny vines. He had been
brought in unconscious in a hospital conveyance. He had lost
a great deal of blood, and was half dead with fatigue and weakness.
He was very gentle and charming, and thought himself
sufficiently well two days later to return to the fight. The doctor,
however, would not allow this, and his sister, who was a
nun, besought him to wait until he was something like well
again.
“Oh, not quite well,” she said, smiling; “but just well
enough to have strength to fight.”
Soon after he came into the ambulance the Cross of the
Legion of Honor was brought for him, and this was a moment
of intense emotion for everyone. The unfortunate wounded
men who could not move turned their suffering faces toward
177him and, with their eyes shining through a mist of tears, gave
him a fraternal look. The more convalescent among them held
out their hands to the young giant.
It was Christmas Eve, and I had decorated the ambulance
with festoons of green leaves. I had made pretty little chapels
in front of the Virgin Mary, and the young priest from St.
Sulpice came to take part in our poor but poetical Christmas
service. He repeated some beautiful prayers, and the wounded
men, many of whom were from Brittany, sang some sad, solemn
songs, full of charm. Porel, the present manager of the Vaudeville
Theater, had been wounded on the Avron Plateau. He
was then convalescent, and was one of my guests, together with
two officers now ready to leave the ambulance. That Christmas
supper is one of my most charming and at the same time most
melancholy memories. It was served in the small room which
we had made into a bedroom. Our three beds were covered with
draperies and skins which I had fetched from home, and we
used them as seats.
Mlle. Hocquigny had sent me five yards of white pigs’ pudding,[1]
the famous Christmas dish, and all my poor soldiers who
were well enough, were delighted with this delicacy. One of
my friends had had twenty large brioche cakes made for me,
and I had ordered some large bowls of punch, the colored flames
from which amused the grown-up sick children immensely.
The young priest from St. Sulpice accepted a piece of brioche
and, after taking a little white wine, left us. Ah, how charming
and good he was, that poor young priest! And how well
he managed to make that unbearable Fortin cease talking.
Gradually the latter began to get humanized, until finally he
began to think the priest was a good sort of fellow. Poor young
priest! He was shot by the Communists, and I cried for days
and days over his murder.
1. In France “white pudding” is as often eaten as “black pudding,” and is
somewhat similar in taste.
CHAPTER XII MORE HOSPITAL DAYS
178
The month of January arrived. The army of the enemy
held Paris day by day in a still closer grip.
Food was getting scarce. Bitter cold enveloped the
city, and the poor soldiers who fell, sometimes only
slightly wounded, passed away gently in a sleep that was eternal,
their brains numbed and their bodies half frozen.
No more news could be received from outside; but thanks
to the United States Minister, who had chosen to remain in
Paris, a letter arrived from time to time. It was in this way
that I received a thin slip of paper, as delicate as a primrose
petal, bringing me the following message: “Everyone well.
Courage. A thousand kisses. Your mother.” This impalpable
missive dated from seventeen days previously.
And so my mother, my sisters, and my little boy were at
The Hague all this time, and my mind which had been continually
traveling in their direction had been wandering along the
wrong route, toward Hâvre, where I thought they were established
tranquilly at the house of a cousin of my father’s mother.
I had my two aunts living at The Hague, but the question
was, Were they there at this time? I no longer knew, and from
that moment I never ceased suffering the most anxious and torturing
mental distress.
I was doing all in my power just then to have some wood
for burning. Comte de Kératry had sent me a large provision
before his departure to the provinces, in a balloon, on the 9th
of October. I was now very short, and I would not allow the
179stock we had in the cellars to be touched, so that we should
not be quite without fuel in case of an emergency. I had all
the little footstools belonging to the theater used for firewood,
all the wooden cases in which the accessories were kept, a good
number of old Roman benches, armchairs, and curule chairs that
were stowed away under the Odéon, and, indeed, everything
which came to hand. Finally, taking pity on my despair, pretty
Mlle. Hocquigny sent me about twenty thousand pounds’ weight
of wood, and I then took courage again.
I had been told about some new system of keeping meat,
by which the meat neither lost its juices nor its nutritive quality.
I sent Mme. Guérard to the Council House, in the neighborhood
of the Odéon, where such provisions were distributed, but some
brute answered her that when I had removed all the Buddhistic
images from my ambulance I should receive the necessary food.
M. Herisson, the mayor, with some functionary holding an influential
post, had been to inspect my ambulance. The important
personage had requested me to have the beautiful white
Virgins, which were on the mantelpieces and tables, taken away,
as well as the Divine Crucified One, hanging on the wall of each
room in which there were any of the wounded. I refused in
a somewhat insolent and very decided way to act in accordance
with the wish of my visitor; whereupon, the famous republican
turned his back on me, and gave orders that I should be refused
everything at the Council House. I was very determined, however,
and I moved heaven and earth until I succeeded in being
included for the distribution of food, in spite of the orders
of the chief. It is only fair to say that the mayor was a charming
man. Mme. Guérard returned after her third visit, with
a child pushing a hand barrow containing ten enormous bottles
of the miraculous meat. I received the precious consignment
with infinite joy, for my men had been almost without meat
for the last three days; and the beloved pot-au-feu was an almost
necessary resource for the poor wounded fellows. On all the
bottles were directions as to opening them: “Let the meat soak
so many hours, etc., etc.”
Mme. Lambquin, Mme. Guérard, and I, together with all the
180staff of the infirmary, were soon grouped, anxiously and inquisitively,
around these glass receptacles.
I told the head attendant to open the largest of the bottles,
in which through the glass we could see an enormous piece of
beef, surrounded by thick, muddy-looking water. The string,
fastened round the rough paper which hid the cork, was cut and
then, just as the man was about to put the corkscrew in, a deafening
explosion was heard, and a rank odor filled the room.
Everyone rushed away terrified. I called them all back, scared
and disgusted as they were, and showed them the following words
on the directions: “Do not be alarmed at the bad odor on opening
the bottle.” Courageously, and with resignation, we took up
our work once more, though we felt sick all the time from the
abominable exhalation. I took the beef out and placed it on a
dish that had been brought for the purpose. Five minutes later
this meat turned blue, and then black, and the stench from it was
so unbearable that I decided to throw it away. Mme. Lambquin
was wiser, though, and more reasonable.
“No, oh, no, my dear girl,” she said; “in these times it will
not do to throw meat away, even though it may be rotten. Let
us put it in the glass bottle again and send it back to the Council
House.” I followed her wise advice, and it was a very good thing
I did, for another ambulance, installed at Boulevard de Medicis,
on opening these bottles of meat had been as horrified as we were
and had thrown the contents into the street. A few minutes after
the crowd had gathered round in a mob and, refusing to listen
to anything, had yelled out insults addressed to “the aristocrats,”
“the clericals,” and “the traitors,” who were throwing
good meat, intended for the sick, into the street, so that the
dogs were enjoying it, while the people were starving with
hunger. It was with the greatest difficulty that the wretched,
mad people had been prevented from invading the ambulance,
and when one of the unfortunate nurses had gone out, later on,
she had been mobbed, and beaten, until she was left half dead
from fright and blows. She did not want to be carried back to
her own ambulance, and the druggist begged me to take her in.
I kept her for a few days, in one of the boxes in the second gallery
181of the theater, and when she was better she asked if she might stay
with me as a nurse. I granted her wish, and kept her with me
afterwards as a maid.
She was a fair-haired girl, gentle and timid, and was predestined
for misfortune. She was found dead in the Père
Lachaise Cemetery after the skirmish between the Communists
and the Versailles troop. A stray bullet had struck her in the
back of the neck as she was praying at the grave of her little
sister, who had died two days before from smallpox. I had
taken her with me to St. Germain, where I had gone to stay during
the horrors of the Commune. Poor girl! I had allowed her
to go to Paris very much against my own will.
As we could not count on this preserved meat for our food,
I made a contract with a knacker, who agreed to supply me, at
rather a high price, with horseflesh, and until the end this was
the only meat we had to eat. Well prepared and well seasoned,
it was very good.
Hope had now fled from all hearts and we were living in the
expectation of we knew not what. An atmosphere of misfortune
seemed to hang like lead over us, and it was a sort of relief when
the bombardment commenced on the 27th of December. At last,
we felt that something fresh was happening. It was an era of
fresh suffering. There was some stir, at any rate, for the
last fortnight the fact of not knowing anything had been killing
us.
On the 1st of January, 1871, we lifted our glasses to the
health of the absent ones, to the repose of the dead; and the toast
choked us with a lump in our throats.
Every night we used to hear the dismal cry of “Ambulance!
Ambulance!” underneath the windows of the Odéon. We went
down to meet the pitiful procession, and one, two, or sometimes
three conveyances would be there, full of our poor, wounded
soldiers. There would be ten or twelve rows of them, lying or
sitting up on the straw. I said that I had one or two places, and
lifting the lantern, I looked into the conveyance, and the faces
would then turn slowly toward the lamp. Some of the men
would close their eyes, as they were too weak to bear even that
182feeble light. With the help of the sergeant who accompanied
the conveyance, and our attendant, one of the unfortunates
would with difficulty he lifted to the narrow litter on which he
was to be carried up to the hospital.
Oh, what sorrowful anguish it was for me when, on lifting
the patient’s head, I discovered that it was getting heavy, oh,
so heavy; and when bending over that inert face I felt that there
was no longer any breath! The sergeant would then give the
order to take him back, and the poor dead man was put back in
his place, and another wounded man was lifted out. The other
dying men would then move back a little, in order not to profane
the dead. Ah, what grief it was when the sergeant said: “Do
try to take one or two more in! It is a pity to drag these poor
chaps about from one hospital to another. The Val-de-Grâce is
full.”
“Very well, I will take two more,” I would say, and then I
wondered where we should put them. We had to give up our
own beds, and in this way the poor fellows were saved. Ever
since the first of January, we had all three been sleeping every
night at the hospital. We had some loose dressing-gowns of
gray swanskin, not unlike the soldiers’ cloaks. The first of us
who heard a cry or a groan sprang out of bed, and if necessary,
called the other two.
On the 10th of January, Mme. Guérard and I were sitting up
at night, on one of the lounges in the artistes’ foyer, awaiting
the dismal cry of “Ambulance!” There had been a fierce
affray at Clamart and we knew that there would be many
wounded. I was telling her of my fear that the bombs, which
had already reached the Museum, the Sorbonne, the Salpétrière,
the Val-de-Grâce, would fall on the Odéon.
“Oh, but my dear Sarah,” said the sweet woman, “the
hospital flag is waving so high above it, that there could be no
mistake. If it were struck it would be purposely, and that
would be abominable.”
“But Guérard,” I replied, “why should you expect these
execrable enemies of ours to be better than we are ourselves?
Did we not behave like savages at Berlin, in 1806?”
183“But at Paris there are such admirable public monuments,”
she urged.
“Well, and was not Moscow full of masterpieces? The
Kremlin is one of the finest buildings in the world. That did
not prevent us giving that admirable city up to pillage. Oh,
no, my poor petite dame, do not deceive yourself! Armies may
be Russian, German, French or Spanish, but they are armies,
that is, they are beings who form an impersonal ‘whole’—a
‘whole’ that is ferocious and irresponsible. The Germans
will bombard the whole of Paris, if the possibility of doing so
should be offered them. You must make up your mind to that,
my dear Guérard.”
I had not finished my sentence when a terrible detonation
roused the sleeping neighborhood. Mme. Guérard and I had
been seated opposite each other. We found ourselves standing
up, close together in the middle of the room, terrified. My poor
cook, her face quite white, came to me for safety. The reports
continued rather frequently. The bombarding had commenced
from our side that night. I went round to the wounded men,
but they did not seem to be much disturbed. Only one, a boy
of fifteen, whom we had surnamed “pink baby,” was sitting up
in bed. When I went to him to soothe him, he showed me his
little medal of the Holy Virgin.
“It is thanks to her that I was not killed,” he said. “If
they would put the Holy Virgin on the ramparts of Paris the
bombs would not come.”
He lay down again then, holding his little medal in his hand,
and the bombarding continued until six in the morning.
“Ambulance! Ambulance!” we then heard, and Mme.
Guérard and I went down.
“Here,” said the sergeant, “take this man. He is losing
all his blood, and if I take him any farther he will not arrive
living.”
The wounded man was put on the litter, but, as he was
German, I asked the subofficer to take all his papers and give
them in at the Ministry. We gave the man the place of one of
the convalescents, whom I installed elsewhere. I asked him his
184name and he told me that it was Frantz Mayer, and that he was
the first soldier of the Silesian Landwehr. He then fainted,
from weakness caused by loss of blood. He soon came to himself
again, with our care, and I then asked him whether he wanted
anything, but he did not answer a word. I supposed that he
did not speak French, and as there was no one at the hospital
who spoke German, I waited until the next day to send for some
one who knew his language. I must own that the poor man was
not welcomed by his dormitory companions. A soldier named
Fortin, who was twenty-three years of age, and a veritable child
of Paris, a comical fellow, mischievous, droll, and good-natured,
never ceased railing against the young German, who on his side
never flinched. I went several times to Fortin, and begged
him to be quiet, but it was all in vain. Every fresh outbreak of
his was greeted with wild laughter, and his success put him into
the gayest of humors, so that he continued, getting more and
more excited all the time. The others were prevented from
sleeping and he moved about wildly in his bed, bursting out into
abusive language when too abrupt a movement intensified his
suffering. The unfortunate fellow had had his sciatic nerve
torn by a bullet, and he had to endure the most atrocious pain.
After my third fruitless appeal for silence, I ordered the
two men attendants to carry him into a room where he would be
alone. He sent for me, and when I went to him, promised to
behave well all night long. I therefore countermanded the
order I had given, and he kept his word. The following day I
had Frantz Mayer carried into a room where there was a young
Breton who had had his skull fractured by the bursting of a
shell, and therefore needed the utmost tranquillity.
One of my friends, who spoke German very well, came to
see whether the Silesian wanted anything. The wounded man’s
face lighted up on hearing his own language and then, turning
to me, he said:
“I understand French quite well, madame, and if I listened
calmly to the horrors poured forth by your French soldier it was
because I know that you cannot hold out two days longer, and I
can understand his exasperation.”
185“And why do you think that we cannot hold out?”
“Because I know that you are reduced to eating rats.” Dr.
Duchesne had just arrived, and he was dressing the horrible
wound which the patient had above his thigh.
“Well,” he said, “my friend, as soon as your fever has gone
down you shall eat an excellent wing of chicken.” The German
shrugged his shoulders and the doctor continued: “Meanwhile
drink this, and tell me what you think of it.”
Dr. Duchesne gave him a glass of water with a little of the
excellent cognac which the prefect had sent me. That was the
only tisane that my soldiers took. The Silesian said no more,
but he put on the reserved, circumspect manner of people who
know and will not speak.
The bombardment continued, and the hospital flag certainly
served as a target for our enemies, for they fired with surprising
exactitude, and altered their firing directly a bomb fell a little
away from the neighborhood of the Luxembourg. Thanks to
this, we had more than twelve bombs one night. These dismal
shells, when they burst in the air, were like the fireworks at a
fête. The shining splinters then fell down black and deadly.
George Boyer, who at that time was a young journalist, came to
call on me at the hospital, and I told him about the terrifying
splendors of the night.
“Oh, how much I should like to see all that!” he said.
“Come this evening, toward nine or ten o’clock, and you will
see,” I replied.
We spent several hours at the little round window of my
dressing-room, which looked out toward Châtillon. It was from
there that the Germans fired the most.
We listened, in the silence of the night, to the muffled sounds
coming from there, right over yonder, then there would be a
light, a formidable noise in the distance, and the bomb arrived,
falling in front of us or behind, bursting either in the air or on
reaching its goal. Once we had only just time to draw back
quickly, and even then the disturbance in the atmosphere affected
us so violently that for a second we were under the impression
we had been struck.
186The shell had fallen just underneath my dressing-room, grazing
the cornice, which it dragged down in its fall to the ground,
and bursting there feebly. But what was our amazement to see
a little crowd of children swoop down on the burning pieces, just
like a lot of sparrows on fresh manure when the carriage has
passed! The little vagabonds were quarreling over the débris of
these engines of warfare. I wondered what they could possibly
do with them.
“Oh, there is not much mystery about it!” said Boyer;
“these little starving urchins will sell them.”
This proved to be true. One of the men attendants, whom I
sent to find out, brought back with him a child of about ten
years old.
“What are you going to do with that, my little man?” I
asked him, picking up the piece of shell, which was warm and
still dangerous, by the edge where it had burst.
“I am going to sell it,” he replied.
“What for?”
“To buy my turn in the queue, when the meat is being distributed.”
“But you risk your life, my poor child. Sometimes the
shells come quickly, one after the other. Where were you when
this one fell?”
“Lying down on the stone of the wall that supports the iron
railings.” He pointed across to the Luxembourg gardens, opposite
the artistes’ entrance to the Odéon.
We bought up all the débris that the child had, without attempting
to give him advice which might have sounded wise.
What was the use of preaching wisdom to this poor little creature
who heard of nothing but massacres, fire, revenge, retaliation and
all the rest of it, for the sake of honor, for the sake of religion,
for the sake of right! And then, too, how was it possible to keep
out of the way? All the people living in the Faubourg St. Germain
were liable to be blown to pieces, as the enemy, very luckily,
could only bombard Paris on that side and not everywhere even
there. No, we were certainly in the most dangerous neighborhood.
187One day Baron Larrey came to see Frantz Mayer, who was
very ill. He wrote a prescription, which a young errand boy
was told to wait for, and bring back very, very quickly. As the
boy was rather given to loitering, I went to the window. His
name was Victor, but we called him Toto. The druggist lived
at the corner of the Place Medicis. It was then six o’clock in
the evening. Toto looked up, and on seeing me, he began to
laugh and jump as he hurried to the druggist’s. He had only
five or six more yards to go, and as he turned round to look up at
my window, I clapped my hands and called out: “Good, be back
soon!” Alas! Before the poor boy could open his mouth to
reply, he was cut in two by a shell which had just fallen. It
did not burst, but bounced a yard high, and then struck poor
Toto right in the middle of the chest. I uttered such a shriek
that everyone came rushing to me. I could not speak, but
pushed everyone aside and rushed downstairs, beckoning for
some one to come with me.
“A litter—the boy—the druggist’s,” I managed to
articulate.
Ah, what a horror, what an awful horror! When we
reached the poor child, his intestines were all over the ground,
his chest, and his poor little red, chubby face had the flesh entirely
taken off. He had neither eyes, nose, nor mouth, nothing,
nothing but some hair, at the end of a shapeless bleeding mass,
a yard away from his body. And it was as though a tiger’s
two claws had opened the body and emptied it with fury and
a refinement of cruelty, leaving nothing but the poor little
skeleton.
Baron Larrey, who was the best of men, turned slightly pale
at this sight. He saw many such sights certainly, but this poor
little fellow was a holocaust which had been terribly mutilated.
Ah, the injustice, the infamy of war! Will the much dreamed-of
time never come, when wars are no longer possible, when the
monarch who wants war will be dethroned and imprisoned as
a malefactor? Will the time never come when there will be a
cosmopolitan council, where the wise man of every country will
represent his nation, and where the rights of humanity will be
188discussed and respected! So many men think as I do. So many
women talk as I do, and yet nothing is done.
A man, whom I liked very much, was engaged in certain inventions
for balloons. To find out how to steer balloons means,
for me, finding out how to realize my dream, namely, to fly in the
air, to approach the sky, and have under one’s feet the moist
downlike clouds. Ah, how interested I was in my friend’s researches!
One day, though, he came to me very much excited
with a new discovery.
“I have discovered something about which I am wild with
delight!” he said. He then began to explain to me that his
balloon would be able to carry inflammable matter without the
least danger, thanks to this, and thanks to that.
“But what for?” I asked, bewildered by his explanations
and half crazy with so many technical words.
“What for?” he repeated; “why, for war!” he replied.
“We shall be able to fire, and to throw terrible bombs to a distance
of a thousand, twelve hundred, and even fifteen hundred
yards, and it would be impossible for us to be harmed at such a
distance. My balloon, thanks to a substance which is my invention,
with which the covering would be coated, would have
nothing to fear from fire nor yet from gas.”
“I do not want to know anything more about you or your invention,”
I said, interrupting him brusquely. “I thought you
were a humane savant, and you are a wild beast. Your researches
were in connection with the most beautiful manifestation of
human genius, with those fêtes of the skies which I loved so
dearly. You want to transform these now into cowardly attacks
turned against the earth. You horrify me! Do go!”
With this I left my friend to himself and his cruel invention,
ashamed for a moment. His efforts have not succeeded, though,
according to his wishes.
The remains of the poor lad were put into a small coffin, and
Mme. Guérard and I followed the pauper’s hearse to the grave.
The morning was so cold that the driver had to stop and take a
glass of hot wine, as otherwise he might have died of congestion.
We were alone in the carriage, for the boy had been brought up
189by his grandmother who could not walk at all, and who knitted
vests and stockings. It was by going to order some vests and
socks for my men that I had made the acquaintance of Mère
Tricottin, as she was called. At her request I had engaged her
grandson, Victor Durieux, as an errand boy, and the poor old
woman had been so grateful that I did not dare go now to tell
her of his death. My petite dame went for me to the Rue de
Vaurigard, where the old woman lived. As soon as Mme. Guérard
arrived, the poor grandmother could see by her sad face
that something had happened.
“Bon Dieu! my dear lady, is the poor little maigrotte
dead?”
This was her name for me. Mme. Guérard then told her, as
gently as possible, the sad news. The old woman took off her
spectacles, looked at Mme. Guérard, wiped them and put them
on her nose again. She then began to grumble violently about
her son, the father of the dead boy. He had taken up with some
low girl, by whom he had had this child, and she had always
foreseen that misfortune would come upon them through it. She
continued in this strain, not sorrowing for the poor boy, but
abusing her son, who was a soldier in the Army of the Loire.
Although the grandmother seemed to feel so little grief, I went
to see her after the funeral.
“It is all over, Mme. Durieux,” I said, “but I have secured
the grave for a period of five years for the poor boy.”
She turned toward me, quite comic in her vexation.
“What madness!” she exclaimed; “now that he’s with
the bon Dieu he won’t want for anything. It would have been
better to have taken a bit of land that would have brought
something in. Dead folks don’t make vegetables grow.”
This outburst was so terribly logical that, in spite of the
odious brutality of it, I yielded to Mère Tricottin’s desire,
and gave her the same present I had given to the boy. They
should each have their bit of land, the child who had had
a right to a longer life should sleep his eternal sleep in
his, while the old woman could wrest from hers what fruits she
might.
190I returned to the ambulance sad and unnerved. A joyful
surprise was awaiting me. A friend of mine was there, holding
in his hand a very small piece of tissue paper, on which were
the following two lines in my mother’s handwriting: “We are
all very well and at Hombourg.” I was furious on reading
this. At Hombourg! All my family at Hombourg, settling
down tranquilly in the enemy’s country! I racked my brains
to think by what extraordinary combination my mother had
gone to Hombourg. I knew that my pretty Aunt Rosine had
a friend there, with whom she stayed every year, for she always
went for two months to Hombourg, two months to Baden-Baden,
and a month to Spa, as she was the greatest gambler that the
bon Dieu ever created. Anyhow, those who were so dear to
me were all well, and that was the principal thing. But I was
nevertheless annoyed with my mother for going to Hombourg.
I heartily thanked the friend who had brought me the little
slip of paper. It was sent to me by the American Minister,
who had put himself to no end of trouble in order to give help
and consolation to the Parisians. I then gave him a few lines
for my mother, in case he should be able to send them to her.
The bombardment of Paris continued. One night the
Brothers from the Ecole Chrétienne came to ask us for conveyances
and help, in order to collect the dead on the Châtillon
Plateau. I let them have my two conveyances, and I went with
them to the battlefield. Ah, what a horrible remembrance!
It was like a scene from Dante! It was an icy cold night and
we could scarcely get along. Finally, by the light of torches
and lanterns we saw that we had arrived. I got out of the
vehicle with the infirmary attendant and his assistant. We
had to move slowly, as at every step we trod upon the dying
or the dead. We passed along murmuring: “Ambulance!
Ambulance!” When we heard a groan we turned our steps
in the direction whence it came. Ah, the first man that I found
in this way! He was half lying down, his body supported by
a heap of dead. I raised my lantern to look at his face and
found that his ear and part of his jaw had been blown off.
Great clots of blood, coagulated by the cold, hung from his lower
191jaw. There was a wild look in his eyes. I took a wisp of
straw, dipped it in my flask, drew up a few drops of brandy
and blew them into the poor fellow’s mouth between his teeth.
I repeated this three or four times. A little life then came back
to him and we took him away in one of the vehicles. The same
thing was done for the others. Some of them could drink from
the flask, which made our work shorter. One of these unfortunate
men was frightful to look at. A shell had taken all the
clothes from the upper part of his body, with the exception
of two ragged sleeves, which hung from the arms at the shoulders.
There was no trace of a wound, but his poor body was
marked all over with great black patches, and the blood was
oozing slowly from the corners of his mouth. I went nearer
to him, for it seemed to me that he was breathing. I had a
few drops of the vivifying cordial given to him, and he then
half opened his eyes and said: “Thank you.” He was lifted
into the conveyance, but the poor fellow died from a hemorrhage,
covering all the other wounded men with a stream of
dark blood.
Daylight gradually began to appear, a misty, dull dawn.
The lanterns had burned out, but we could now distinguish each
other. There were about a hundred persons there: Sisters of
Charity, military and civil men-nurses, the Brothers from the
Ecole Chrétienne, other priests and a few ladies who like myself
had given themselves up, heart and soul, to the service of the
wounded.
The sight was still more dismal by daylight, for all that the
night had hidden in its shadows appeared then in the tardy,
wan light of that January morning.
There were so many wounded that it was impossible to transport
them all, and I sobbed at the thought of my helplessness.
Other vehicles kept arriving, but there were so many wounded,
so very many. Many of those who had only slight wounds had
died of cold.
On returning to the hospital I met one of my friends at the
door. He was a naval officer, and he had brought me a sailor
who had been wounded at the Fort of Ivry. He had been shot
192below the right eye. He was entered as Désiré Bloas, boatswain’s
mate, aged twenty-seven. He was a magnificent fellow, very
frank looking, and a man of few words.
As soon as he was in bed, Dr. Duchesne sent for a barber to
shave him, as his bushy whiskers had been ravaged by a bullet
that had lodged itself in the salivary gland, carrying with it hair
and flesh into the wound. The surgeon took up his pincers to
extract the pieces of flesh which had stopped up the opening of
the wound. He then had to take some very fine pincers to extract
the hairs which were mixed up inextricably in the torn
mass of flesh. When the barber laid his razor very gently near
the wound, the unfortunate man turned livid, and an oath escaped
his lips. He immediately glanced at me and muttered:
“Pardon, mademoiselle.” I was very young, but I appeared
much younger than my age. I looked like a very young girl, in
fact. I was holding the poor fellow’s hand in mine and trying
to comfort him with the hundreds of consoling words that spring
from a woman’s heart to her lips, when she has to soothe moral
or physical suffering.
“Ah, mademoiselle,” said poor Bloas, when the wound was
finally dressed, “you gave me courage.”
When he was more easy I asked him if he would like something
to eat.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?”
asked Mme. Lambquin.
“Sweets,” replied the strong, powerful-looking fellow,
smiling.
Désiré Bloas often talked to me about his mother, who lived
near Brest. He had a veritable adoration for this mother, but
he seemed to have a terrible grudge against his father, for one
day, when I asked him whether his father was still living, he
looked up with his fearless eyes and appeared to fix them on a
being visible only to himself, as though challenging him, with an
expression of the most pitiful contempt. Alas, the brave fellow
was destined to a cruel end, but I will return to that later on.
The sufferings endured through the siege began to have their
193effect on the “morale” of the Parisians. Bread had just been
rationed out; there were to be three hundred grammes for adults,
and one hundred and fifty grammes for children. A silent fury
took possession of the people at this news. Women were the
most courageous, the men were excited. Quarrels grew bitter,
for some wanted war to the very death, and others wanted peace.
One day when I entered Frantz Mayer’s room to take him his
meal, he went into the most ridiculous rage. He threw his piece
of fowl down on the ground and declared that he would not eat
anything, nothing more at all, for they had deceived him by
telling him that the Parisians had not enough food to last two
days before surrendering, and he had been in the ambulance
seventeen days now, and was having fowl. What the poor
fellow did not know was that I had bought about forty fowls
and six geese at the beginning of the siege, and I was feeding
them up in my dressing-room in the Rue de Rome. Oh, my
dressing room was very pretty just then, and I let Frantz believe
that all Paris was full of fowls, ducks, geese, and other domestic
bipeds.
The bombardment continued, and one night I had to have all
my patients transported to the Odéon cellars, for when Mme.
Guérard was helping one of the sick men to get back into bed a
shell fell on the bed itself, between her and the officer. It makes
me shudder even now to think that three minutes previously the
unfortunate man would have been killed as he lay in bed, although
the shell did not burst.
We could not stay long in the cellars. The water was getting
deeper in them and rats tormented us. I therefore decided
that the ambulance must be moved, and I had the worst of the
patients taken to the Val-de-Grâce Hospital. I kept about
twenty men who were on the way to convalescence. I rented an
immense empty flat for them in the Rue de Provence, and it was
there that we awaited the armistice.
I was half dead with anxiety, as I had had no news from my
own family for so long. I could not sleep and had become the
very shadow of my former self.
Jules Favre was entrusted with the negotiations with Bismarck.
194Oh, those two days of preliminaries! They were the
most unnerving days of any for the besieged. False reports
were spread. We were told of the maddest, and most exorbitant
demands on the part of the Germans, who certainly were not
tender to the vanquished.
There was a moment of stupor when we heard that we had to
pay two hundred million francs down, for our finances were in
such a pitiful state that we shuddered at the idea that we might
not be able to make up the sum of two hundred millions immediately.
Baron Alphonse de Rothschild, who was shut up in Paris
with his wife and brothers, gave his signature for the two
hundred millions. This fine deed was soon forgotten, and there
are even people who gainsay it.
When we heard in Paris that the armistice was signed for
twenty days, a frightful sadness took possession of us all, even
of those who most ardently wished for peace.
Every Parisian felt on his cheek the hand of the conqueror.
It was the brand of shame, the blow given by the abominable
treaty of peace.
Oh, that 31st of January, 1871! I was anæmic from the
siege, undermined by grief, tortured with anxiety about my
family, and I went out with Mme. Guérard and two friends
toward the Parc Monceau. Suddenly one of my friends, M. De
Plancy, turned pale as death. I looked to see what was the
matter, and noticed a soldier passing by. He had no weapons.
Two others passed and they, also, had no weapons. And they
were so pale, too, these poor, disarmed soldiers, these humble
heroes. There was such evident grief and hopelessness in their
very gait; and their eyes, as they looked at us women, seemed to
say: “It is not our fault!” It was all so pitiful, so touching
I burst out sobbing, and went back home at once, for I did not
want to meet any more disarmed French soldiers.
CHAPTER XIII A WARTIME JOURNEY
195
I decided to set off now as quickly as possible in
search of my family. I asked Paul de Rémusat to
get me an audience with M. Thiers, in order to obtain
from him a passport for leaving Paris. I
trusted Mme. Guérard and Mme. Lambquin with disbanding my
ambulance.
M. Thiers gave me the passport, and I was ready to go, but I
could not start alone. I felt that the journey I was about to
undertake was a very dangerous one, and M. Thiers and Paul de
Rémusat had also warned me of this. I could see, therefore,
that I should be very dependent on my traveling companion all
the time, and on this account I decided not to take a servant
with me, but a friend. I very naturally went at once to Mme.
Guérard. Her husband, gentle though he was, refused absolutely
to let her go with me, as he considered this expedition mad
and dangerous. Mad it certainly was, and dangerous, too.
I did not insist, but I sent for my son’s governess, Mlle. Soubise.
I asked her whether she would go with me, and did not
attempt to conceal from her any of the dangers of the journey.
She jumped with joy, and said she would be ready within twelve
hours. This girl is at present the wife of Commandant Monfils-Chesneau.
And how strange life is, for she is now teaching the
two daughters of my son, her former pupil.
Mlle. Soubise was then very young, and she looked like a
Creole. She had very beautiful, dark eyes, with a gentle, timid
expression, and the voice of a child. Her head, however, was
full of adventure, romance, and day dreams.
196In appearance we might both have been taken for quite young
girls, for, although I was older than she was, my slenderness
and my face made me look younger. It would have been absurd
to try to take a trunk with us, so I took a bag for us both. We
had only a change of linen and some stockings. I had my revolver,
and I offered one to Mlle. Soubise, but she refused it with
horror, and showed me an enormous pair of scissors in an enormous
case.
“But what are you going to do with them?” I asked.
“I shall kill myself if we are attacked,” she replied.
I was surprised at the difference in our characters. I was
taking a revolver determined to protect myself by killing others;
she was determined to protect herself by killing herself.
On the 24th of February, we started on this journey, which
was to have lasted three days, and lasted eleven. At the first
gate at which I presented myself in leaving Paris, I was sent
back in the most brutal fashion! Permissions to go outside the
city had to be submitted for signature at the German outposts.
I went to another gate, but it was only at the postern gate of
Poissonniers that I could get my passport signed.
We were taken into a little shed, which had been transformed
into an office. A Prussian general was seated there. He looked
me up and down, and then said:
“Are you Sarah Bernhardt?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And this young lady is with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you think you are going to cross easily?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, then, you are mistaken, and you had better stay inside
Paris.”
“No, I want to leave. I see myself what may happen, but
I want to leave.”
He shrugged his shoulders, called an officer, said something
I did not understand in German, and then went out, leaving us
alone without our passports.
We had been there about a quarter of an hour when I
197suddenly heard a voice I knew. It was one of my friends, René
Griffon, who had heard of my departure, and had come after me
to try to dissuade me. The trouble he had taken was all in vain,
though, as I was determined to leave. The general returned
soon after, and Griffon was anxious to know what might happen
to us.
“Everything!” answered the officer. “And worse than
everything!”
Griffon spoke German, and had a short colloquy with the
officer about us. This rather annoyed me, for as I did not understand,
I imagined that he was urging the general to prevent our
starting. I nevertheless resisted all persuasions, supplications,
and even threats. A few minutes later, a well-appointed vehicle
drew up at the door of the shed.
“There you are,” said the German officer roughly. “I am
sending you to Gonesse, where you will find the provision train
which starts in an hour. I am recommending you to the care of
the station master, the Commandant—after that may God take
care of you!”
I stepped into the general’s carriage, and said farewell to my
friend, who was in despair. We arrived at Gonesse, and got out
at the station, where we saw a little group of people talking in
low voices. The coachman made me a military salute, refused
what I wished to give him, and drove away at full speed. I advanced
toward the group, wondering to whom I ought to speak,
when a friendly voice exclaimed: “What, you here! Where
have you come from? Where are you going?” It was Villaret,
the tenor in vogue at the Opera. He was going to his
young wife, I believe, of whom he had had no news for five
months. He introduced one of his friends, who was traveling
with him, and whose name I do not remember, General Pelissier’s
son, and a very old man, so pale and so sad-looking and woebegone
that I felt sorry for him. It was M. Gerson, and he was
going to Belgium, to take his grandson to his godmother’s. His
two sons had been killed during this pitiful war. One of the
sons was married, and his wife had died of sorrow and despair.
He was taking the orphan boy to his godmother, and he hoped to
198die himself as soon as possible afterwards. Ah, the poor fellow,
his wish must have been accomplished very quickly, for he was
only fifty-nine then, and he was so cruelly ravaged by his grief
that I took him for seventy.
Besides these five persons, there was an unbearable chatterer,
named Théodore Joussiau, a wine dealer. He did not require
any introduction.
“How do you do, madame!” he began. “How lucky we
are that you are going to travel with us! Ah! the journey will
be a difficult one. Where are you going? Two women alone!
It is not at all prudent, especially as all the routes are crowded
with German and French sharpshooters, marauders, and thieves.
Oh, haven’t I demolished some of those German sharpshooters!
Sh—we must speak quietly, though. These sly fellows are very
quick of hearing!...” He then pointed to the German officers
who were walking up and down. “Ah, the rascals!” he went
on. “If I had my military costume and my gun they would
not walk so boldly in front of Théodore Joussiau. I have no less
than six helmets at home....”
The man got on my nerves, and I turned my back on him and
looked to see which of the men before me could be the station
master. A tall young man with his arm in a sling, came
toward me with an open letter. It was the one which the
general’s coachman had handed to him, recommending me to his
care. He held out his well arm to me but I refused it. He
bowed and led the way, and I followed him, accompanied by
Mlle. Soubise.
On arriving in his office he gave us seats at a little table, upon
which knives and forks were placed for two persons. It was
then three o’clock in the afternoon, and we had had nothing, not
even a drop of water, since the evening before. I was very much
touched by this thoughtfulness, and we did honor to the very
simple but refreshing meal prepared for us by the young officer.
While we lunched I looked at him when he was not noticing.
He was very young, and his face bore traces of recent suffering.
I felt a compassionate tenderness for this unfortunate man who
was crippled for life, and my hatred for war increased still more.
199He suddenly said to me, in rather bad French:
“I think I can give you news of one of your friends.”
“What is his name?” I asked.
“Emmanuel Bocher.”
“Oh, yes, he is certainly a great friend of mine. How
is he?”
“He is still a prisoner, but he is very well.”
“But I thought he had been released,” I said.
“Some of those who were taken with him were released, on
giving their word never to take up arms against us again, but he
refused to give his word.”
“Oh, the brave soldier!” I exclaimed, in spite of myself.
The young German looked at me with his clear, sad eyes.
“Yes,” he said simply, “the brave soldier!”
When we had finished our luncheon, I rose to return to the
other travelers.
“The compartment reserved for you will not be here for two
hours,” said the young officer. “If you would like to rest,
ladies, I will come for you at the right time.” He went away, and
before long I was sound asleep. I was nearly dead with fatigue.
Mlle. Soubise touched me on the shoulder to rouse me. The train
was ready to start, and the young officer walked with me to it.
I was a little amazed when I saw the carriage in which I was to
travel. It had no roof, and was filled with coal. The officer had
several sacks put in, one on the top of the other, to make our
seats less hard. He sent for his officer’s cloak, begging me to
take it with us, and send it back, but I refused this odious disguise
most energetically. It was a deadly cold day, but I preferred
dying of cold to muffling up in a cloak belonging to the
enemy.
The whistle was blown, the wounded officer saluted, and the
train started. There were Prussian soldiers in the carriages.
The subordinates, the employés, and the soldiers were just as
brutish and rude as the German officers were polite and
courteous.
The train stopped without any plausible reason; it started
again to stop again, and it then stood still for an hour on this
200icy cold night. On arriving at Creil, the stoker, the engine driver,
the soldiers, and everyone else got out. I watched all these men,
whistling, bawling to each other, spitting, and bursting into
laughter as they pointed to us. Were they not the conquerors
and we the conquered?
At Creil we stayed more than two hours. We could hear the
distant sound of foreign music, and the hurrahs of Germans who
were making merry. All this hubbub came from a white house
about five hundred yards away. We could distinguish the outlines
of human beings locked in each others’ arms, waltzing, and
turning round and round in a giddy revel.
It began to get on my nerves, for it seemed likely to continue
until daylight. I got out with Villaret, intending at any rate to
stretch my limbs. We went toward the white house, and then,
as I did not want to tell him my plan, I asked him to wait there
for me.
Very fortunately, though, for me, I had not time to cross the
threshold of this vile lodging-house, for an officer, smoking a
cigarette, was just coming out of a small door. He spoke to me
in German.
“I am French,” I replied, and he then came up to me, speaking
my language, for they could all talk French.
He asked me what I was doing there, and my nerves were so
overstrung that I burst out sobbing, and told him, through my
sobs, of our lamentable odyssey since our departure from
Gonesse, and finally of our waiting two hours in an icy cold carriage,
while the stokers, engine drivers, and conductors, were all
dancing in this house.
“But I had no idea that there were passengers in those carriages,
and it was I who gave permission to these men to dance,
and drink. The guard of the train told me that he was taking
cattle and goods, and that he did not need to arrive before eight
in the morning, and I believed him....”
“Well, monsieur,” I said, “the only cattle in the train will
be the eight French passengers, and I should be very much
obliged if you would give orders that the journey should be continued.”
201“Make your mind easy about that, madame,” he replied.
“Will you come in and rest? I am here just now on a round of
inspection, and am staying for a few days in this inn. You shall
have a cup of tea, and that will refresh you.”
I told him that I had a friend waiting for me in the road, and
a lady in the railway carriage.
“But that makes no difference,” he said, “let us go and
fetch them.”
A few minutes later we found poor Villaret seated on a milestone.
His head was on his knees and he was asleep. I asked
him to fetch Mlle. Soubise.
“And if your other traveling companions will come and take
a cup of tea, they will be welcome,” said the officer. I went back
with him, and we entered by the little door through which I had
seen him come out. It was a fairly large room which we entered,
on a level with the meadow; there were some mats on the
floor, a very low bed, and an enormous table, on which were two
large maps of France. One of these was studded over with pins
and small flags. There was also a portrait of the Emperor
William, mounted, and fastened up with four pins, and all this
belonged to the officer.
On the chimney-piece, under an enormous glass shade, were a
bride’s wreath, a military medal, and a plait of white hair. On
each side of the glass shade was a china vase, containing a branch
of box. All this, together with the table and the bed, belonged
to the landlady, who had given up her room to the officer. There
were five cane chairs round the table, a velvet armchair, and a
wooden bench covered with books against the wall. A sword
and belt were lying on the table, and two horse pistols.
I was philosophizing to myself on all these heterogeneous
objects, when the others arrived: Mlle. Soubise, Villaret, young
Gerson, and that unbearable Théodore Joussiau. I hope he will
forgive me if he is living now, poor man, but the thought of
him still irritates me.
The officer had some boiling hot tea brought in for us, and it
was a veritable treat, as we were exhausted with hunger and cold.
When the door was opened for the tea to come in, Théodore
202Joussiau caught a glimpse of the throng of girls, soldiers, and
other people.
“Ah, my friends,” he exclaimed, with a burst of laughter,
“we are at his majesty William’s; there is a reception on, and
it’s chic—I can tell you that!...” With this he smacked his
tongue twice. Villaret reminded him that we were the guests of
a German, and that it was preferable to be quiet.
“That’s enough, that’s enough!” he replied, lighting a
cigarette.
A frightful uproar of oaths and shouts now took the place of
the deafening sound of the orchestra, and the incorrigible Southerner
half opened the door.
I could see the officer giving orders to two subofficers who, in
their turn, separated the groups, seizing the stoker, the engine driver,
and the other men belonging to the train, so roughly that
I was sorry for them. They were kicked in the back, they received
blows with the flat of the sword on the shoulder, and a
blow with the butt end of a gun knocked the guard of the train
down. He was the ugliest brute, though, that I have ever seen.
All these people were sobered in a few seconds, and went back
toward our carriage, with a hangdog look and a threatening
mien.
We followed them, but I did not feel any too satisfied as to
what might happen to us on the way with this queer lot. The
officer evidently had a similar idea, for he ordered one of the subofficers
to accompany us as far as Amiens. This subofficer got
into our carriage and we set off again. We arrived at Amiens at
six in the morning. Daylight had not yet succeeded in piercing
through the night clouds. A fine rain was falling, which was
hardened by the cold. There was no carriage to be had and
not even a porter. I wanted to go to the Hotel du Cheval-Blanc,
but a man who happened to be there said to me:
“It’s no use, my little young lady, there’s no way of putting
up even a lath like you. Go to the house over there with a
balcony; they can put some people up.”
With these words he turned his back on me. Villaret had
gone off without saying a word. M. Gerson and his grandson
203had been stowed away silently in a covered country cart, hermetically
closed. A stout, ruddy, thick-set matronly woman was
waiting for them, but the coachman looked as though he belonged
to nice people. General Pelissier’s son, who had not uttered a
word since we had left Gonesse, had disappeared like a ball from
the hands of a conjurer.
Théodore Joussiau politely offered to accompany us, and I
was so weary that I accepted his offer. He picked up our bag,
and began to walk at full speed, so that we had difficulty in keeping
up with him. He was so breathless with the walk that he
could not talk, which was a great relief to me.
Finally, we arrived at the house, and entered, but my horror
was great on seeing that the hall of the hotel had been transformed
into a dormitory. We could scarcely walk between the
mattresses laid down on the ground, and the grumbling of the
people was by no means promising.
When once we were in the office, a young girl in mourning
told us that there was not a corner vacant. I sank down on a
chair, and Mlle. Soubise leaned against the wall, with her arms
hanging down, looking most dejected.
The odious Joussiau then yelled out that they could not let
two women, as young as we were, be out in the street all night.
He went to the proprietress of the hotel and said something
quietly about me. I do not know what it was, but I heard my
name distinctly. The young woman in mourning then looked
at me with misty eyes. “My brother was a poet,” she said.
“He wrote a very pretty sonnet about you, after seeing you play
‘Le Passant’ more than ten times. He took me, too, to see you
and I enjoyed myself so much that night. It is all over
though.” She lifted her hands toward her head and sobbed,
trying to stifle her cries.
“It’s all over!” she repeated. “He is dead! They have
killed him! It is all over! All over!”
I got up, moved to the depths of my being by this horrible
grief. I put my arms round her, and kissed her, crying myself,
and whispering to her words that soothe, and hopes that comfort.
Lulled by my words, and touched by my sisterliness, she
204wiped her eyes, and taking my hand, led me gently away. Soubise
followed. I signed to Joussiau in an authoritative way to
stay where he was. And we went up the two flights of stairs of
the hotel, in silence. At the end of a narrow corridor she opened
a door. We found ourselves in rather a large room, reeking with
the smell of tobacco. A small night lamp, placed on a little table
by the bed, was all the light in this large room. The wheezing
respiration of a human breast disturbed the silence. I looked
toward the bed, and by the faint light from the little lamp, I saw
a man half seated, propped up by a heap of pillows. The man
was aged-looking, rather than really old. His beard and hair
were white and his face bore traces of suffering. Two large furrows
were formed, from the eyes to the corners of the mouth.
What tears must have rolled down that poor emaciated face!
The girl went quietly toward the bed, signed to us to come
inside the room, and then shut the door. We walked across on
tiptoes to the far end of the room, our arms stretched out to
maintain our equilibrium. I sat down with precaution on a
large Empire couch, and Soubise took a seat beside me. The man
in bed half opened his eyes. “What is it, my child?” he asked.
“Nothing, father, nothing serious,” she replied. “I wanted
to tell you, so that you should not be surprised when you woke
up. I have just given hospitality in our room to two ladies who
are here.”
He turned his head in an annoyed way, and tried to look
at us at the end of the room.
“The lady with fair hair,” continued the girl, “is Sarah
Bernhardt, whom Lucien liked so much, you remember?”
The man sat up and, shading his eyes with his hand, peered
at us. I went near to him. He gazed at me silently, and then
made a gesture with his hand. His daughter understood the
gesture and brought him an envelope from a small bureau.
The unhappy father’s hands trembled as he took it. He drew
three sheets of paper out, slowly, and a photograph. He fixed
his gaze on me and then on the portrait.
“Yes, yes, it certainly is you, it certainly is you,” he murmured.
205I recognized my photograph, taken in “Le Passant,” smelling
a rose.
“You see,” said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears,
“you were this child’s idol. These are the lines he wrote about
you.”
He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian
accent, a very pretty sonnet.
He then unfolded a second paper, on which some verses to
Sarah Bernhardt were scrawled. The third paper was a sort
of triumphant chant, celebrating all our victories over the
enemy.
“The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed,” said the
father, “and yet he has only been dead five weeks. He had
three shots in his head. The first shattered his jaw, but he did
not fall. He continued firing on the scoundrels like a man
possessed. The second took his ear off, and the third struck
him in his right eye. He fell then, never to rise again. His
comrade told us all this. He was twenty-two years old. And
now—it’s all over!”
The unhappy man’s head fell back on the heap of pillows.
His two inert hands had let the papers fall, and great tears
rolled down his pale cheeks, in the furrows formed by grief.
A stifled groan burst from his lips. The girl had fallen on her
knees and buried her head in the bedclothes, to deaden the sound
of her sobs. Soubise and I were completely upset. Ah, those
stifled sobs, those deadened groans seemed to buzz in my ears,
and I felt everything giving way under me. I stretched my
hands out into space and closed my eyes. Soon there was a
distant rumbling noise, which increased and came nearer, then
yells of pain, bones knocking against each other, horses’ feet
making human brains gush out with a dull, flabby sound; men
barbed with iron passed by like a destructive whirlwind, shouting:
“Vive the war!” And women on their knees, with outstretched
arms, crying out: “War is infamous! In the name
of our wombs which bore you, of our breasts which suckled you,
in the name of our pain in childbirth, in the name of our anguish
over your cradles, let this cease!”
206But the savage whirlwind passed by, riding over the women.
I stretched my arms out in a supreme effort which woke me
suddenly. I was lying in the girl’s bed. Mlle. Soubise, who
was near me, was holding my hand. A man whom I did not
know, but whom some one called “doctor,” laid me gently down
again on the bed. I had some difficulty in collecting my
thoughts.
“How long have I been here?” I asked.
“Since last night,” replied the gentle voice of Soubise.
“You fainted, and the doctor told us that you had an attack of
fever. Oh, I have been very frightened!” I turned my face
to the doctor.
“Yes, dear lady,” he said, “you must be very prudent
still for the next forty-eight hours, and then you can set out
again. But you have had a great many shocks for one with
such delicate health. You must be careful.” I took the draught
that he was holding out to me, apologized to the owner of the
house, who had just come in, and then turned round with my
face to the wall. I needed rest so very, very much.
Two days later I left our sad but congenial hosts. My traveling
companions had all disappeared. When I went downstairs
I kept meeting Prussians, for the unfortunate proprietor
had been invaded compulsorily by the German army. He looked
at each soldier and at each officer, trying to find out whether he
were not the one who had killed his poor boy. He did not tell
me this, but it was my idea. It seemed to me that such was his
thought and such the meaning of his gaze.
In the vehicle in which I drove to the station, the kind
man had put a basket of food. He also gave me a copy of the
sonnet and a tracing of his son’s photograph.
I left the desolate couple with the deepest emotion, and
I kissed the girl on taking our departure. Soubise and I did
not exchange a word on our journey to the station; we were
both preoccupied with the same distressing thoughts.
CHAPTER XIV HOMBOURG AND RETURN
207
At the station we found that the Germans were masters
there, too. I asked for a first-class compartment to
ourselves, or for a coupé—whatever they liked, provided
we were alone.
I could not make myself understood. I saw a man oiling the
wheels of the carriages, who looked to me like a Frenchman.
I was not mistaken. He was an old man, who had been kept on,
partly out of charity and partly because he knew every nook
and corner, and being Alsatian, spoke German. This good man
took me to the booking office and explained my wish to have a
first-class compartment to myself. The man who had charge
of the ticket office burst out laughing. There was neither first
nor second class, he said; it was a German train, and I should
have to travel like everyone else. The wheel oiler turned purple
with rage, which he quickly suppressed. (He had to keep
his place. His consumptive wife was nursing their son, who
had just been sent home from the hospital with his leg cut off
and the wound not yet healed up. There were so many in the
hospital....) All this he told me as he took me to the station
master. The latter spoke French very well, but he was not at
all like the other German officers I had met. He scarcely
saluted me, and when I expressed my desire he replied curtly:
“It is impossible. Two places shall be reserved for you in
the officers’ carriage.”
“But that is what I want to avoid,” I exclaimed. “I do
not want to travel with German officers.”
“Well, then, you shall be put with German soldiers,” he
208growled angrily, and putting on his hat, he went out, slamming
the door.
I remained there, amazed and confused by his insolence.
I turned so pale, it appears, and the blue of my eyes became
so clear, that Soubise, who was acquainted with my fits of anger,
was very much alarmed.
“Do be calm, madame, I implore,” she said. “We are
two women alone among these people. If they liked to harm us
they could, and we must accomplish the aim and object of
our journey, we must see little Maurice again.”
She was very clever, this charming Mlle. Soubise, and her
little speech had the desired effect. To see the child again was
my aim and object. I calmed down and vowed that I would
not allow myself to get angry during this journey, which promised
to be fertile in incidents, and I almost kept my word. I
left the station master’s office and found the poor Alsatian
waiting at the door. I gave him a couple of louis which he hid
away quickly, and then shook my hand as though he would
break it off.
“You ought not to have that so visible, madame,” he said,
pointing to the little bag I had hanging at my side. “It is
very dangerous.”
I thanked him, but did not pay any attention to his advice.
Just as the train was about to start we entered the only first-class
compartment. There were two young German officers
in it. They saluted, and I took this as a good omen. The
train whistled, and I thought what good luck we had had, as
no one else would get in! Well, the wheels had not turned
round ten times when the door opened violently, and five German
officers leaped into our carriage.
We were nine then, and I thought, What torture! The
station master waved a farewell to one of the officers, and both
of them burst out laughing as they looked at us. I glanced
at the station master’s friend. He was a surgeon major and was
wearing the ambulance badge on his sleeve. His wide face
was congested, and a ring of sandy, bushy beard surrounded
the lower part of it. Two little bright, light-colored eyes in
209perpetual movement lit up this ruddy face and gave him a
sly look. He was broad shouldered and thick-set, and gave one
the idea of having strength without nerves. The horrid man
was still laughing when the station and its station master were
far away from us, but what the other one had said was evidently
very droll. I was in a corner seat, with Soubise opposite
me, and the two young German officers on the other side
of each of us. They were both very gentle and polite, and
one of them was quite delightful in his youthful charm. The
surgeon major took off his helmet. He was very bald and had
a very small, stubborn-looking forehead. He began to talk in
a loud voice to the other officers. Our two young bodyguards
took very little part in the conversation. Among the others was
a tall, affected young man whom they addressed as Baron. He
was slender, very elegant, and very strong. When he saw that
we did not understand German, he spoke to us in English.
But Soubise was too timid to answer, and I speak English very
badly. He therefore resigned himself regretfully to talking
French. He was agreeable, too agreeable; he certainly had not
bad manners, but he was deficient in tact. I made him understand
this by turning my face toward the scenery we were
passing.
We were very much absorbed in our thoughts and had been
traveling for a long time when I suddenly felt suffocated by
smoke which was filling the carriage. I looked round and saw
that the surgeon major had lighted his pipe and, with his eyes
half closed, was sending up puffs of smoke to the ceiling. My
throat was smarting with it, and I was choking with indignation,
so that I was seized with a fit of coughing, which I exaggerated
in order to attract the attention of the impolite man.
The baron, however, slapped him on the knee and endeavored
to make him comprehend that smoke annoyed me. He answered
by an insult which I did not understand, shrugged his shoulders,
and continued to smoke. Exasperated by this, I lowered
the window on my side. The intense cold made itself felt in
the carriage, but I preferred that to the nauseous smoke of the
pipe. Suddenly the surgeon major got up, putting his hand
210to his ear. I then saw that his ear was filled with cotton wool.
He swore like an ox-driver and, pushing past everyone, and
stepping on my loot and on Soubise’s, he shut the window violently,
cursing and swearing all the time—quite uselessly, for
I did not understand him. He went back to his seat, continued
his pipe, and sent out enormous clouds of smoke in the most
insolent way. The baron and the two young Germans who
had been the first in the carriage appeared to ask him something,
and then to remonstrate with him, but he evidently told
them to mind their own business and began to abuse them.
Very much calmer myself on seeing the increasing anger of
the disagreeable man, and very much amused by his earache,
I again opened the window. He got up again, furious, showed
me his ear and his swollen cheek, and I comprehended the word
periostitis in the explanation he gave me on shutting the window
again. I then made him understand that I had a weak
chest and that the smoke made me cough. The baron acted
as my interpreter and explained this to him. But it was easy
to see that he did not care a bit about that, and he once more
took up his favorite attitude and his pipe. I left him in peace
for five minutes, during which time he was able to imagine
himself triumphant until, with a sudden jerk of my elbow,
I broke the pane of glass. Stupefaction was then depicted on
the major’s face, and he became livid. He got straight up,
but the two young men rose at the same time, while the baron
burst out laughing in the most brutal manner. The surgeon
moved a step in our direction, but he found a rampart before
him; another officer had joined the two young men, and he
was a strong, hardy-looking fellow, just cut out for an obstacle.
I do not know what he said to the surgeon major, but it was
something clear and decisive. The latter, not knowing how
to expend his anger, turned on the baron, who was still laughing,
and abused him so violently that the latter calmed down
suddenly, and answered in such a way that I quite understood
the two men were calling each other out. That affected me but
little. They might very well kill each other, these two men, for
they were equally ill-mannered.
211The carriage was now quiet and icy cold, for the wind blew
in wildly through the broken pane. The sun had set. The
sky was getting cloudy. It was about half past five and we were
approaching Tergnier. The major had changed seats with his
friend, in order to shelter his ear as much as possible. He kept
moaning like a half-dead cow.
Suddenly, the repeated whistling of a distant locomotive
made us listen attentively. We then heard two, three, and four
petards bursting under our wheels. We could perfectly well
feel the efforts the engine driver was making to slacken speed,
but before he could succeed we were thrown against each other
by a frightful shock. There were cracks and creaks, the hiccoughs
of the locomotive spitting out its smoke in irregular
fits, desperate cries, shouts, oaths, sudden downfalls, a lull, then
a thick smoke, broken by the flames of a fire. Our carriage was
standing up like a horse kicking up its hind legs. It was impossible
to get our balance again.
Who was wounded and who was not wounded? We were
nine in the compartment. For my part, I fancied that all
my bones were broken. I moved one leg and then I tried the
other. Then, delighted at finding them without any broken
places, I tried my arms in the same way. I had nothing broken
and neither had Mlle. Soubise. She had bitten her tongue and
it was bleeding, and this had frightened me. She did not seem
to understand anything. The tremendous shaking up had made
her dizzy, and she lost her memory for some days. I had a
rather deep scratch between my eyes. I had not had time
to stretch out my arms, and my forehead had knocked against
the hilt of the sword which the officer seated by Soubise had
been holding upright.
Assistance arrived from all sides. For some time the door
of our compartment could not be opened. The darkness had
come on when it finally yielded, and a lantern shone feebly
on our poor, broken-up carriage. I looked round for our one
bag, but on finding it I let it go immediately, for my hand was
red with blood. Whose blood was it? Three men did not move,
and one of them was the major. His face looked to me livid.
212I closed my eyes, in order not to know, and I let the man who
had come to our aid pull me out of the compartment. One
of the young officers got out after me. He took Soubise, who
was almost in a fainting condition, from his friend. The imbecile
baron then got out; his shoulder was out of joint. A
doctor came forward among the rescuers. The baron held
his arm out to him and told him to pull it, which he did at
once. The French doctor took off the officer’s cloak, told two
of the railway men to hold him, and then, pushing against him
himself, pulled at the poor arm. The baron was very pale and
gave a low whistle. When the arm was back in its place the
doctor shook the baron’s other hand. “Cristi!” he said, “I
must have hurt you very much. You have a precious lot of
courage.” The German saluted and I helped him on again
with his cloak.
The doctor was then fetched away, and I saw that he was
taken back to our compartment. I shuddered in spite of myself.
We were now able to find out what had been the cause of our
accident. A locomotive attached to two vans of coal had been
shunting, in order to get on to the siding and let us pass, when
one of the vans got off the rails and the locomotive tired its
lungs with whistling the alarm, while men ran to meet us scattering
petards. Everything had been in vain, and we had run
against the overturned van.
What were we to do? The soft roads were all broken up
by the cannon. We were about four miles from Tergnier, and
a fine, penetrating rain was making our clothes stick to our
bodies.
There were four carriages, but the wounded had to be conveyed.
Other carriages would come, but there were the dead
to be carried away. An improvised litter was just being borne
along by two workmen. The major was lying on it, so livid
that I clenched my hands until my nails entered the flesh.
One of the officers wanted to question the doctor who was following.
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “please, please do not. I do not
want to know. The poor fellow!”
213I stopped my ears as though some one was about to shout
out something horrible to me, and I never knew his fate.
We were obliged to resign ourselves to setting out on foot.
We went about two kilometers as bravely as possible, and then
I stopped quite exhausted. The mud which clung to our shoes
made them very heavy. The effort we had to make at every
step to get each foot out of the dirt tired us out. I sat down
on a milestone and declared that I would not go any farther.
My companion wept, and the two young German officers,
who had acted as bodyguards, made a seat for me by crossing
their hands, and we went nearly another mile like that. My
companion could not walk any farther. I offered her my place,
but she refused it. “Well, then, let us wait here!” I said, and
quite at the end of our strength, we rested against a little
broken tree.
It was now night, and such a cold night! Huddled close to
Soubise, trying to keep warm, I began to fall asleep, seeing
before my eyes the wounded men of Châtillon, who had died
seated against the little shrubs. I did not want to move again,
and the torpor seemed to me thoroughly delicious.
A cart passed by, however, on its way to Tergnier. One of
the young men hailed it and, when the terms were made, I felt
myself picked up from the ground, lifted into the vehicle and
carried along by the jerky, rolling movement of two loose
wheels which climbed the hills, sank into the mire, and jumped
over the heaps of stones, while the driver whipped up his beasts
and urged them on with his voice. He had a “don’t care,
let what will happen” way of driving, which was quite the
note of the times. I was aware of all this in my semi-sleep,
for I was not really asleep, but I did not want to answer any
questions. I gave myself up to this prostration of my whole
being with a certain enjoyment.
A rough jerk, however, indicated that we had arrived at
Tergnier. The cart had drawn up at the hotel, and we had
to get out. I pretended to be still asleep. But it was no use,
I had to wake up. The two young men helped me up to my
room.
214I asked Soubise to arrange about the payment of the cart
before the departure of our excellent young companions, who
were sorry to leave us. I signed for each of them a voucher,
on a sheet of the hotel paper, for a photograph. Only one of
them ever claimed it. This was six years later, and I sent it
to him.
The Tergnier Hotel could only give us one room between
us. I let Soubise go to bed, and I slept in an armchair, dressed
as I was. The following morning I asked about a train for
Cateau, but was told that there was no train. We had to work
marvels to get a vehicle, but finally, Dr. Meunier, or Mesnier,
agreed to lend us a two-wheeled conveyance. That was something,
but there was no horse. The poor doctor’s horse had
been requisitioned by the enemy. A wheelwright, for an exorbitant
price, let me hire a colt that had never been in the
shafts, and which went wild when the harness was put on. The
poor little beast calmed down after being well lashed, but his
wildness then changed into stubbornness. He stood still on his
four legs, which were trembling with fury, and refused to move.
With his neck stretched forward toward the ground, his eye
fixed, and his nostrils dilating, he would not budge any more
than a stake in the earth. Two men then held the light carriage
back, the halter was taken off the colt’s neck, he shook his head
for an instant and, thinking himself free and without any impediments,
he began to step out. The men were scarcely holding
the vehicle. He gave two little kicks and then began to
trot. It was only a very short trot. A boy then stopped him,
some carrots were given to him, his mane was stroked, and the
halter was put on again. He stopped suddenly, but the boy,
jumping into the gig and holding the reins lightly, spoke to
him and encouraged him to move on. The colt tried timidly
and, not feeling any resistance, began to trot along for about
a quarter of an hour, and then came back to us at the door
of the hotel. I had to leave a deposit of four hundred francs
with the notary of the place, in case the colt should die.
Ah, what a journey that was with the boy! Soubise and
I sitting close together in that little gig, the wheels of which
215creaked at every jolt! The unhappy colt was steaming like
a pot-au-feu when the lid is raised. We started at eleven in
the morning, and when we had to stop, because of the poor
beast who could not go any farther, it was five in the afternoon
and we had not gone five miles. Oh, that poor colt, he was certainly
to be pitied! We were not very heavy, all three of us
together, but we were too much for him. We were just a few
yards away from a sordid-looking house. I knocked and an
enormous old woman opened the door.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Hospitality for an hour and shelter for our horse.”
She looked out on the road and saw our turnout. “Hey,
father,” she called out in a husky voice, “come and look here!”
A fat man, quite as fat, but older than she was, came hobbling
heavily along. She pointed to the gig, so oddly equipped,
and he burst out laughing and said to me in an insolent way:
“Well, what do you want?”
I repeated my phrase, “Hospitality for an hour, etc., etc.”
“P’raps we can do it, but it’ll want paying for.”
I showed him twenty francs. The old woman gave him a
nudge.
“Oh, but in these times, you know, it’s well worth forty
francs!”
“Very good,” I said, “agreed, forty francs.”
He then let me go inside the house with Mlle. Soubise, and
sent his son forward to the boy, who was coming along holding
the colt by his mane. He had taken off the halter very considerately,
and thrown my rug over its steaming sides. On
reaching the house, the poor beast was quickly unharnessed,
and taken into a little inclosure, at the far end of which a
few badly joined planks served as a stable for an old mule,
which was aroused by the fat woman with kicks, and turned
out into the inclosure. The colt took its place, and when I
asked for some oats for it she replied: “P’raps we could get
it some, but that isn’t in the price of the forty francs.”
“Very well,” I said; and I gave our boy five francs to fetch
the oats, but the old shrew took the money from him and handed
216it to her lad, saying: “You go, you know where to find them,
and come back quick.”
Our boy stayed with the colt, drying it and rubbing it down
as well as he could. I went back to the house, where I found
my charming Soubise with her sleeves turned up, and her delicate
hands washing two glasses and two plates for us. I asked
if it would be possible to have some eggs.
“Yes, but——”
I interrupted our monstrous hostess.
“Don’t tire yourself, madame, I beg,” I said. “It is understood
that the forty francs are your tip and that I am to
pay for everything else.”
She was confused for a moment, shaking her head and trying
to find words, but I asked her to give me the eggs. She brought
me five eggs and I began to prepare my omelette, as my culinary
glory is an omelette.
The water was nauseous, so we drank cider. I sent for the
boy and let him have something to eat in our presence, for I was
afraid that the ogress would give him too economical a meal.
When I paid the fabulous bill of seventy-five francs, inclusive,
of course, of the forty francs, the matron put on her
spectacles and, taking one of the gold pieces, looked at it on
one side, then on the other, made it ring on a plate and then on
the ground. She did this with each of the three gold pieces.
I could not help laughing. “Oh, there’s nothing to laugh at!”
she grunted. “For the last six months we’ve had nothing but
thieves here.”
“And you know something about theft!” I said.
She looked at me, trying to make out what I meant, but the
laughing expression in my eyes took away her suspicions. This
was very fortunate, as they were people capable of doing us
harm. I had taken the precaution, when sitting down to table,
of putting my revolver near me.
“You know how to fire that?” asked the lame man.
“Oh, yes, I shoot very well!” I answered, but this was not
true. Our steed was then put in again in a few seconds, and
we proceeded on our way. The colt appeared to be quite joyful.
217He stamped, kicked a little, and began to go at a pretty
steady pace. Our disagreeable hosts had told us the way to
St. Quentin, and we set off, after our poor colt had made attempts
to stand still. I was dead tired and fell asleep, but
after about an hour the vehicle stopped abruptly, and the
wretched beast began to snort and put his back up, supporting
himself on his four stiff, trembling legs.
It had been a gloomy day, and a lowering sky seemed to
be shedding tears slowly over the earth. We had stopped in
the middle of a field, which had been plowed up all over by
the heavy wheels of cannon. The rest of the ground had been
trampled by horses’ feet, and the cold had hardened the little
ridges of earth, leaving icicles here and there which glittered
dismally in the thick atmosphere.
We got down from the vehicle to try to discover what was
making our little animal tremble in this way. I gave a cry
of horror for, only about five yards away, some dogs were pulling
wildly at a dead body, half of which was still underground.
It was a soldier and, fortunately, one of the enemy. I took the
whip from our young driver and lashed the horrid animals as
hard as I could. They moved away for a second, showing their
teeth, and then returned to their voracious and abominable
work, growling sullenly at us.
Our boy got down and led the snorting pony by the bridle.
We went on with some difficulty, trying to find the road in these
devastated plains. Darkness came over us and it was icy cold.
The moon feebly pushed aside her veils and shone over the landscape
with a wan, sad light. I was half dead with fright. It
seemed to me that the silence was broken by cries from underground,
and every little mound of earth appeared to me to be
a head. Soubise was crying, with her face hidden in her hands.
After going along for half an hour, we saw, in the distance,
a little group of people coming along carrying lanterns. I
went toward them, as I wanted to find out which way to go.
I was embarrassed on getting nearer to them, for I could hear
sobs. I saw a poor woman, who was very corpulent, being
helped along by a young priest. The whole of her body was
218shaken by her fits of grief. She was followed by two subofficers
and by three other persons. I let her pass by, and then
questioned those who were following her. I was told that she
was looking for the bodies of her husband and son, who had
both been killed a few days before on the St. Quentin plains.
She came each day at dusk, in order to avoid inquisitive people,
and she had not yet met with any success. It was hoped that
she would find them this time, as one of these subofficers, who
had just left the hospital, was taking them to the spot where
he had seen the poor creature’s husband fall, mortally wounded.
He had fallen there himself, and had been picked up by the
ambulance people.
I thanked these persons, who told me the wretched road we
must take, the best one there was, lay through this cemetery.
We could now distinguish groups of people searching about,
and it was all so horrible that it made me want to scream out.
Suddenly, the boy who was driving us pulled my coat sleeve.
“Oh, madame,” he said, “look at that scoundrel stealing!”
I looked and saw a man lying down full length, with a large
bag near him. He had a dark lantern, which he held toward the
ground. He then got up, looked around him, for his outline
could be seen distinctly on the horizon, and began his work again.
When he caught sight of us he put out his lamp, and crouched
down on the ground. We walked on in silence straight toward
him. I took the colt by the bridle, on the other side from the
boy, who no doubt understood my idea, for he let himself be
guided by me. I walked straight toward the man, pretending
not to know he was there. The colt backed, but we pulled hard
and made it advance. We were so near to him that I shuddered
at the thought that the wretch would perhaps allow himself to
be trampled over by the animal and the light vehicle rather than
reveal his presence. Fortunately, though, I was mistaken; a
stifled voice murmured:
“Take care there! I am wounded. You will run over me.”
I took the gig lantern down. We had covered it with a jacket, as
the moon lighted us better, and I turned it now on the face
of this wretch. I was stupefied to see a man of from sixty-five
219to seventy years of age, with a hollow-looking face,
framed with long, dirty, white whiskers. He had a muffler round
his neck, and was wearing a peasant’s cloak of a dark color.
Around him, shown up by the moon, were sword belts, brass
buttons, sword hilts, and other objects that the infamous old man
had torn from the poor dead men.
“You are not wounded. You are a thief, and a violator of
tombs! I shall call out and you will be killed. Do you hear
that, you miserable wretch!” I exclaimed, and went so near to
him that I could feel his breath sully mine. He crouched down
on his knees, and, clasping his criminal hands, implored me in a
trembling, tearful voice.
“Leave your bag there, then,” I said, “and all those things.
Empty your pockets, leave everything and go. Run, for as soon
as you are out of sight I shall call one of those soldiers who
are searching, and I shall give them your plunder. I know
I am doing wrong, though, in letting you off and not giving
you up.”
He emptied his pockets, groaning all the time, and was just
going away when the lad whispered: “He’s hiding some boots
under his cloak.” I was furious with rage with this vile thief
and I pulled his big cloak off.
“Leave everything, you wretched man,” I exclaimed, “or
I will call out.”
Six pairs of boots, taken from the corpses, fell noisily on to
the hard ground. The man stooped down for his revolver,
which he had taken out of his pocket at the same time as the
stolen objects.
“Will you leave that, and get away quickly?” I said, “my
patience is at an end.”
“But if I am caught I shan’t be able to defend myself,” he
exclaimed, in a fit of desperate rage.
“It will be because God willed it so,” I answered. “Go at
once or I will call.” The man then made off, abusing me as he
went.
Our little driver then fetched a soldier to whom I related
the adventure, showing him the objects.
220“Which way did the rascal go?” asked a sergeant who had
come with the soldier.
“I can’t say,” I replied.
“Oh, well, I don’t care to run after him,” he said, “there
are enough dead men here.”
We continued our way until we came to a place where several
roads met, and it was then possible for us to take a road a little
more suitable for vehicles.
After going through Busigny, and a wood, where there were
bogs in which we only just escaped being swallowed up, our
painful journey came to an end, and we arrived at Cateau in the
night, half dead with fatigue, fright, and despair.
I was obliged to take a day’s rest there, for I was prostrate
with feverishness. We had two little rooms, roughly whitewashed
but quite clean. The floor was of red, shiny bricks, and
there was a polished wood bed, and curtains of white sateen.
I sent for a doctor for my nice little Mlle. Soubise, who, it
seemed to me, was worse than I was. He thought we were both
in a very bad state, though. A nervous feverishness had taken
all the use out of my limbs and made my head burn. Soubise
could not keep still, but kept seeing specters and fires, hearing
shouts, and turning round quickly, imagining that some one had
touched her on the shoulder. The good man gave us a soothing
draught to overcome our fatigue, and the next day a very hot
bath brought back the suppleness to our limbs. It was then six
days since we had left Paris, and it would take about twenty
more hours to reach Hombourg, for in those days trains went
much less quickly than at present. I took the train for Brussels,
where I was counting on buying a trunk, and a few necessary
things.
From Cateau to Brussels there was no hindrance to our
journey, and we were able to take the train again the same
evening.
I had replenished our wardrobe, which certainly needed it,
and we continued our journey without much difficulty as far as
Cologne, although on passing through Strasbourg I had a
nervous attack from sorrow and despair. On arriving at Cologne
221we had a cruel disappointment. The train had only just
entered the station, when a railway official, passing quickly in
front of the carriages, shouted something in German, which I did
not catch. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, and men and
women pushed each other without any courtesy. I addressed
another official and showed him our tickets. He took up my bag
very obligingly, and hurried after the crowd. We followed, but
I did not understand the excitement, until the man flung my bag
into a compartment, and signed to me to get in as quickly as
possible. Mlle. Soubise was already on the step, when she was
pushed aside violently by a railway porter, who slammed the
door, and before I was fully aware of what had happened, the
train had disappeared. My bag had gone in the carriage, and
my trunk was with all the other trunks, in a luggage van that
had been unhooked from the train which had arrived and fastened
on to the express which had left. I began to cry with
rage. An official took pity on us and led us to the station master.
He was a very superior sort of man, who spoke French fairly
well. I sank down in his great leather armchair, and told him
my misadventure, sobbing nervously. He looked kind and
sympathetic. He immediately telegraphed for my bag and
trunk to be given into the care of the station master at the first
station. “You will have them again to-morrow, toward midday,”
he said.
“Then I cannot start this evening?” I asked.
“Oh, no, that is impossible,” he replied. “There is no
train, for the express that will take you to Hombourg does not
start before to-morrow morning.”
“O God, God!” I exclaimed, and I was seized with veritable
despair, which soon affected Mlle. Soubise, too.
The poor station master was rather embarrassed and tried to
soothe me. “Do you know anyone here?” he asked.
“No, no one. I have only been to Baden-Baden. That was
three years ago, and I do not know anyone in Cologne.”
“Well, then, I will have you driven to the Hôtel du Nord.
My sister-in-law has been there for two days and she will look
after you.”
222Half an hour later his carriage arrived and he took us to the
Hôtel du Nord, after driving a long way around to show us the
city. But at that time I did not admire anything belonging to
the Germans.
On arriving at the Hôtel du Nord, he introduced us to his
sister-in-law, a fair-haired young woman, pretty, but too tall and
too big for my taste. I must say, though, that she was very
sweet and affable. She engaged two bedrooms for us near her
own rooms. She had a flat on the ground floor, and she invited
us to dinner, which was served in her drawing-room. Her
brother-in-law joined us in the evening. The charming woman
was very musical. She played to us from Berlioz, Gounod, and
even Auber. I thoroughly appreciated the delicacy of this
woman, in letting us hear only French composers. I asked
her to play something from Mozart and Wagner. At
that name she turned to me and exclaimed: “Do you like
Wagner!”
“I like his music,” I replied, “but I detest the man.”
Mlle. Soubise whispered to me: “Ask her to play Liszt.”
She overheard, and complied with infinite graciousness. I
must own that I spent a delicious evening there.
At ten o’clock the station master (whose name I have very
stupidly forgotten, and I cannot find it in any of my notes)
told me he would call for us at eight the following morning, and
then took leave of us. I fell asleep, lulled by Mozart, Gounod,
etc.
At eight o’clock the next morning, a servant came to tell me
that the carriage was waiting for us. There was a gentle knock
at my door, and our pretty hostess of the previous evening said
sweetly: “Come, you must start!” I was really very much
touched by the delicacy of this pretty German woman.
It was such a fine day that I asked her if we should have time
to walk and, on her reply in the affirmative, we all three started
for the station, which is not far from the hotel. An engaged carriage
had been reserved for us, and we installed ourselves in it as
comfortably as possible. The brother and sister shook hands
with us and wished us a pleasant journey.
223When the train had started, I discovered, in one of the
corners, a bouquet of forget-me-nots with the sister’s card, and
a box of chocolates from the station master.
I was at last about to arrive at my goal and was in a state of
wild excitement at the idea of seeing, once more, all my beloved
ones. My eyes, which had grown larger with anxiety, traveled
more rapidly than the train. I fumed each time it stopped, and
envied the birds I saw flying along. I laughed with delight as I
thought of the surprised faces of those I was going to see again,
and then I began to tremble with anxiety. What had happened
to them? and should I find them all? I should if ... ah,
those “ifs,” those “becauses,” and those “buts”! My mind
became full of them, they bristled with illnesses, and accidents,
and I began to weep. My poor little traveling companion began
to weep, too.
Finally, we came within sight of Hombourg. Twenty more
minutes of this turning of wheels and we entered the station.
But just as though all the spirites and devils from the infernal
regions had concerted to torture my patience, we stopped short.
All heads were out of the windows. “What is it?” “What’s
the matter?” “Why are we not going on?” There was a
train in front of us at a standstill, with a broken brake, and the
line had to be cleared. I fell back on my seat, clenching my
teeth and hands and looking up in the air to distinguish the evil
spirits which were so bent on tormenting me, and then I
resolutely closed my eyes. I muttered some invectives against
the invisible sprites, and declared that as I would not suffer any
more, I was now going to rest. I then fell fast asleep, for the
power of sleeping when I wish is a precious gift which God has
bestowed on me. In the most frightful circumstances and the
most cruel moments of life, when I have felt that my reason was
giving way under shocks that have been too great or too painful,
my will has laid hold of my reason, just as one holds a bad-tempered
little dog that wants to bite, and subjugating it, my
will has said to my reason: “Enough, you can take up again
to-morrow your suffering and your plans, your anxiety, your
sorrow and your anguish. You have had enough for to-day.
224You would give way altogether under the weight of so many
troubles, and you would drag me along with you. I will not
have it! We will forget everything for a while and go to
sleep together!” And I have gone to sleep. This is absolutely
true.
Mlle. Soubise roused me as soon as the train had really arrived.
I was refreshed and calmer. A minute later we were in
a carriage, and had given the address: 7 Obere Strasse.
We were soon there, and I found all my adored ones, big and
little, and they were all very well. Oh, what happiness it was!
The blood pulsed in all my arteries. I had suffered so much
that I burst out into delicious sobs.
Who can ever describe the infinite pleasure of tears of joy!
During the next two days the maddest things occurred, which I
will not relate, so incredible would they sound. Among others,
fire broke out in the house; we had to escape in our night clothes,
camp out for six hours in five feet of snow, etc., etc., but everyone
was safe and sound.
We then set out for Paris, but on arriving at St. Denis there
were no more trains. It was four o’clock in the morning. The
Germans were masters of all the suburbs of Paris and the trains
ran only for their service. After an hour spent in running about,
in discussions and rebuffs, I found an officer of higher rank, who
was better educated and more agreeable. He had a locomotive
prepared to take me to the Gare du Hâvre.
The journey was very amusing. My mother, my aunt, my
sister Régina, Mlle. Soubise, the two maids, the children, and I
all squeezed into a little square space, in which there was a very
small, narrow bench, which I think was the place for the signalman
in those days. The engine went very slowly, as the rails
were frequently obstructed by carts or railway carriages.
We left at five in the morning and reached the Gare du
Hâvre at seven. At a place which I cannot locate, our German
conductors were exchanged for French. I questioned them and
learned that Paris was just then disturbed by revolutionary
movements.
The stoker with whom I was talking was a very intelligent
225and very advanced individual. “You would do better to go
somewhere else, and not to Paris,” he said, “for before long they
will come to blows there.”
We had arrived by this time, but at this hour, as no train was
expected in, it was impossible to find a carriage. I got down
with my tribe from the locomotive, to the great amazement of
the station officials.
I was no longer very rich, but I offered twenty francs to one
of the men if he would see to our six bags. We were to send
for my trunk and those belonging to my family later on.
There was not a single carriage outside the station. What
was to be done? I was then living at No. 4 Rue de Rome, and
this was not far away, but my mother scarcely ever walked, for
she was delicate and had a weak heart. The children, too, were
very, very tired. Their eyes were puffed up and scarcely open,
and their little limbs benumbed by the cold and the sitting still.
I began to get desperate, but a milk cart was just passing by,
and I sent the porter to hail it. I offered twenty francs if the
man would drive my mother and the two children to 4 Rue
de Rome.
“And you, too, if you like, young lady,” said the milkman.
“You are thinner than a grasshopper, you won’t make it any
heavier.” I did not want inviting twice, although rather annoyed
by the man’s speech.
When once my mother was installed, in spite of her hesitation,
by the side of the milkman, and the children and I were
in among the full and empty milk pails, I said to the man:
“Would it be all the same to you to come back and fetch the
others?” I pointed to the remaining group, and added: “You
shall have twenty francs more.”
“Right you are!” said the worthy fellow. “A good day’s
work! Don’t you tire your legs, you others. I’ll be back for
you directly!”
He then whipped up his horse and took us off at a wild rate.
The children rolled about and I held on. My mother set her
teeth and did not utter a word, but from under her long lashes
she glanced at me with a displeased look.
226On arriving at my door the milkman drew up his horse so
short that I thought my mother would fall out on to the animal’s
back. We had arrived, though, and we got out. The
cart started off again at full speed. My mother would not
speak to me for about an hour. Poor, pretty mother, it was
not my fault after all.
CHAPTER XV THE COMMUNE AND VICTOR HUGO
227
I had gone away from Paris eleven days before, and
had then left a sad city. The sadness had been painful,
the result of a great misfortune which had been
unexpected. No one had dared to look up, fearing
to be blown upon by the same wind which was blowing the
German flag floating over yonder beyond the Arc de Triomphe.
I found Paris now effervescent and grumbling. The walls
were placarded with many-colored posters, and all these posters
contained the wildest harangues. Fine, noble ideas were side
by side with absurd threats. Workmen, on their way to their
daily toil, stopped in front of these bills. One would read aloud,
and the gathering crowd would begin the reading over again.
And all these human beings, who had just been suffering so
much through this abominable war, now echoed these appeals
for vengeance. They were very much to be excused. This war,
alas! had hollowed out under their very feet a gulf of ruin and
of mourning. Poverty had brought the women to rags, the
privations of the siege had lowered the vitality of the children,
and the shame of the defeat had discouraged the men. Well,
these appeals to rebellion, these anarchist shouts, these yells from
the crowd, shrieking: “Down with thrones! Down with the
Republic! Down with the rich! Down with the priests! Down
with the Jews! Down with the army! Down with the masters!
Down with those who work! Down with everything!”—all
these cries roused the benumbed hearers. The Germans, who
fomented all these riots, rendered us a real service without intending
228it. Those who had given themselves up to resignation
were stirred out of their torpor. Others, who were asking for
“revenge,” found an aliment for their inactive forces. None of
them agreed. There were ten or twenty different parties, devouring
each other and threatening each other. It was terrible!
But it was the awakening. It was life after death. I had
among my friends about ten of the leaders of different opinions,
and all of them interested me, the maddest and the wisest
of them. I often saw Gambetta at Girardin’s, and it was a
joy to me to listen to this admirable man. What he said was
so wise, so well balanced and so captivating! This man with
his heavy stomach, his short arms, and huge head, had a halo
of beauty round him when he spoke. And he was never common,
never ordinary. He took snuff, and the gesture of his
hand when he brushed away the stray grains, was full of grace,
He smoked huge cigars, but could smoke them without annoying
anyone. When he was tired of politics and talked literature,
it was a rare charm, for he knew everything and quoted
poetry admirably. One evening, after dinner at Girardin’s,
we played together the whole of the scene in the first act between
Hernani and Doña Sol. He was not handsome, like
Mounet-Sully, but he was just as admirable in it.
Another time he recited the whole of “Ruth and Boaz.”
But I preferred his political discussions to all that, especially
when he criticised the speech of some one whose opinion was
opposed to his own. The eminent qualities of this politician’s
talent were logic and balance, and his seductive force was
chauvinism. The obscure death of so great a thinker is a disconcerting
challenge flung at human pride.
I sometimes saw Rochefort, whose wit delighted me. I was
not at ease with him, though, for he was the cause of the fall
of the Empire, and, although I am very Republican, I liked the
Emperor, Napoleon III. He had been too trustful, but very
unfortunate, and it seemed to me that Rochefort insulted him
too much after his misfortune.
I also frequently saw Paul de Rémusat, the favorite of Thiers.
He had great refinement of mind, broad ideas, and fascinating
229manners. Some people accused him of Orleanism. He was a
Republican, and a much more advanced Republican than Thiers.
Anyone must have known him very little to believe him anything
else but what he said he was. Paul de Rémusat had a
horror of untruth. He was sensitive, and had a very straightforward,
strong character. He took no active part in politics,
except in private circles; and his advice always prevailed, even
in the Chamber and in the Senate. He would never speak except
in the office. The Ministry of Fine Arts was offered to
him a hundred times, but he repeatedly refused it. Finally,
after my repeated entreaties, he almost allowed himself to be
appointed Minister of Fine Arts, but at the last moment he
declined, and wrote me a delicious letter, from which I quote
a few passages. As the letter was not written for publication,
I do not consider that I have a right to give the whole of it,
but there seems to be no harm in publishing these few lines:
Allow me, my charming friend, to remain in the shade. I can see
better there than in the dazzling brilliancy of men. You are grateful to me,
sometimes, for being attentive to the miseries you point out to me. Let me
keep my independence. It is more agreeable to me to have the right to
relieve everyone than to be obliged to relieve no matter whom.... In
matters of art, I have made for myself an ideal of beauty which would
naturally seem too partial....
It is a great pity that the scruples of this delicate-minded
man did not allow him to accept this office. The reforms that
he pointed out to me were, and still are, very necessary ones.
However, that cannot be helped.
I also knew, and frequently saw, a great, foolish fellow full
of dreams and Utopian follies. His name was Flourens, and
he was tall and nice looking. He wanted everyone to be happy
and everyone to have money, and he shot down the soldiers
without reflecting that he was commencing by making one or
more of them unhappy. Reasoning with him was impossible,
but he was charming and brave. I saw him two days before
his death. He came to see me with a very young girl, who
wanted to devote herself to dramatic art. I promised him to help
230her. Two days later the poor child came to tell me of the
heroic death of Flourens. He had refused to surrender, and,
stretching out his arms, and shouted to the hesitating soldiers:
“Shoot! shoot! I would not have spared you!” And he had
then fallen under the bullets.
Another man, not so interesting, whom I looked upon as
a dangerous madman, was a certain Raoul Rigault. For a
short time he was Prefect of Police. He was very young and
very daring, wildly ambitious, determined to do anything to
succeed, and it seemed to him more easy to do harm than good.
That man was a real danger. He belonged to that band of
students who used to send me verses every day. I came across
them everywhere, enthusiastic and mad. They had been nicknamed
in Paris “the drivelers.” One day he brought me a
little one-act play. This piece was so stupid and the verses so
insipid that I sent it back to him with a few words, which he
no doubt considered unkind, for he bore me malice for them
and attempted to avenge himself in the following way. He
called on me one day. Mme. Guérard was there when he was
shown in.
“Do you know that I am all-powerful at present?” he said.
“In these days there is nothing surprising in that,” I replied.
“I have come to see you, either to make peace or declare
war,” he continued.
This way of talking did not suit me, and I sprang up. “As
I can foresee that your conditions of peace would not suit
me, cher monsieur, I will not give you time to declare war.
You are one of the men one would prefer, no matter how spiteful
they might be, to have for enemies, rather than for friends.”
With these words I rang for my footman to show the Prefect
of Police to the door.
Mme. Guérard was in despair. “That man will do us some
harm, my dear Sarah, I assure you,” she said.
She was not mistaken in her presentiment, except that she
was thinking of me and not of herself, for his first vengeance
was taken on her, by sending away one of her relatives, who
231was a police commissioner, to an inferior and dangerous post.
He then began to invent a hundred miseries for me. One day
I received an order to go at once to the Prefecture of Police,
on urgent business. I took no notice. The following day a
mounted courier brought me a note from Sire Raoul Rigault,
threatening to send a prison van for me. I took no notice whatever
of the threats of this wretch, who was shot shortly after,
and died without showing any courage.
Life, however, was no longer possible in Paris, and I decided
to go to St. Germain en Laye. I asked my mother to go with
me, but she went to Switzerland with my youngest sister.
The departure from Paris was not as easy as I had hoped.
Communists, with gun on shoulder, stopped the trains and
searched in all our bags and pockets, and even under the cushions
of the railway carriages. They were afraid that the passengers
were taking newspapers to Versailles. This was monstrously
stupid.
The installation at St. Germain was not easy. Nearly all
Paris had taken refuge in this little place, which is as pretty
as it is dull. From the height of the terrace, where the crowd
remained morning and night, we could see the alarming progress
of the Commune. On all sides of Paris the flames rose,
proud and destructive. The wind often brought us burnt papers,
which we took to the Council House. The Seine brought
quantities along with it, and the boatmen collected these in sacks.
Some days—and these were the most distressing of any—an
opaque veil of smoke enveloped Paris. There was no breeze to
allow the flames to pierce through. The city then burned
stealthily, without our anxious eyes being able to discover what
fresh homes these furious madmen had set alight.
I went for a ride every day in the forest. Sometimes I
would go as far as Versailles, but this was not without danger.
We often came across poor starving wretches in the forest,
whom we joyfully helped, but often, too, there were prisoners
who had escaped from Poissy, or Communist sharp shooters
trying to shoot a Versailles soldier. One day on the way back
from Triel, where Captain O’Connor and I had been for a
232gallop over all the hills, we entered the forest rather late in the
evening, as it was a shorter way. A shot wits fired from a
neighboring thicket, which made my horse bound so sharply
toward the left that I was thrown. Fortunately my horse was
quiet. O’Connor hurried to me, but I was already up and
ready to mount again. “Just a second,” he said, “I want
to search that thicket.” With a short gallop he was soon at
the spot, and I then heard a shot, some branches breaking under
flying feet, then another shot, not at all like the two former
ones, and my friend appeared again with a pistol in his hand.
“It has not touched you?” I asked.
“Yes, the first shot just touched my leg, but the fellow
aimed too low. The second he fired haphazard. I fancy, though,
that he has a bullet from my revolver in his body.”
“But I heard some one running away,” I said.
“Oh,” replied the elegant captain, chuckling, “he will
not go far!”
“Poor wretch!” I murmured.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed O’Connor, “do not pity them, I beg.
They kill numbers of our men every day; only yesterday five
soldiers from my regiment were found on the Versailles road,
not only killed, but mutilated,” and, gnashing his teeth, he finished
his sentence with an oath.
I turned toward him rather surprised, but he took no notice.
We continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles
in the forest would allow us. All at once, our horses stopped
short, snorting and sniffing. O’Connor took his revolver in his
hand, got off and led his horse. A few yards from us there was
a man lying on the ground. “That must be my wretch of
just now,” said my companion and, bending down over the
man, he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O’Connor
had not seen his man, so he could not have recognized him.
He lighted a match, and we saw that this one had no gun. I
had dismounted and was trying to raise the unfortunate man’s
head, but I withdrew my hand covered with blood. He had
opened his eyes and fixed them on O’Connor.
SARAH BERNHARDT IN RIDING HABIT.
233“Ah, it’s you, Versailles dog!” he said. “It was you who
shot me! I missed you, but—” He tried to pull out the revolver
from his belt, but the effort was too great, and his hand
fell down inert. O’Connor, on his side, had cocked his revolver,
but I placed myself in front of the man and besought
him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely recognize
my friend, for this nice-looking, fair-haired man, so correct,
rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into
a brute. Leaning forward toward the unfortunate man, his
under jaw advancing, he was muttering under his teeth some
inarticulate words; his clenched hand seemed to be grasping
his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter, before flinging
it away in disgust.
“O’Connor, let this man alone, please!” I said.
He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave
way and seemed to become aware of the situation again.
“Good!;” he said, helping me to mount once more. “When I
have taken you back to your hotel, I will come back with some
men to pick up this wretch.” Half an hour later we were back
home, without having exchanged another word during our ride.
I kept up my friendship with O’Connor, but I could never
see him again without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when
he was talking to me, the brutelike mask, under which I had
seen him for a second, would fix itself again over his laughing
face. Quite recently, in March, 1905, General O’Connor, who
was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one evening in
my dressing-room at the theater. He told me about his difficulties
with some of the great Arab chiefs.
“I fancy,” he said, laughing, “that we shall have to have
a brush together.”
The captain’s mask, for me, then fixed itself on the general’s
face. I never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards.
We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable
and shameful peace had been signed, the wretched Commune
crushed. Everything was supposed to be in order again. But
what blood and ashes! what women in mourning! what ruins!
The bitter odor of smoke was what we inhaled in Paris.
All that I touched at home left on my fingers a somewhat
234greasy and almost imperceptible color. A general uneasiness
beset France, and more especially Paris. The theaters, however,
opened their doors once more, and that was a general relief.
One morning I received from the Odéon a notice of rehearsal.
I shook out my hair, stamped my feet, and sniffed the air
like a young horse snorting. The race ground was to be opened
for us again. We should be able to gallop afresh through our
dreams. The lists were open. The contest was beginning. Life
was commencing again. It is truly strange that man’s mind
should have made of life a perpetual strife. When there is
no longer War there is Battle, for there are a hundred thousand
of us for the same object, God has created the earth and man
for each other. The earth is vast. What ground there is uncultivated!
Miles upon miles, acres upon acres of new land,
waiting for arms that will take from its bosom the treasures
of inexhaustible nature. And we remain grouped round each
other; crowds of famishing people watching other groups, which
are also lying in wait.
The Odéon opened its doors to the public, offering them its
repertory. Some new pieces were given us to study. One of
these, more particularly, had great success. It was André
Theuriet’s “Jean-Marie,” and was given in October, 1871.
This little one-act play is a veritable masterpiece, and it took
its author straight to the Academy. Porel, who played the part
of Jean-Marie, had huge success. He was at that time slender,
nimble, and full of youthful ardor. He needed a little more
poetry, but the joyous laughter of his thirty-two teeth made
up in ardor for what was wanting in poetic desire. It was
very good, anyhow.
My rôle of the young Breton girl, submissive to the elderly
husband forced upon her, and living eternally with the memory
of the fiancé who was absent, perhaps dead, was pretty, poetical,
and touching through the final sacrifice. There was even a certain
grandeur in the end of the piece. It had, I must repeat,
an immense success and increased my growing reputation.
I was, however, awaiting the event which was to consecrate
me a star. I did not quite know what I was expecting, but I
235knew that my Messiah had to come. And it was the greatest
poet of the last century who was to place on my head the crown
of the Elect.
At the end of that year, 1871, we were told, in rather a
mysterious and solemn way, that we were going to play a piece
of Victor Hugo’s. My mind, at that time of my life, was still
closed to great ideas. What with my somewhat cosmopolitan
family, their rather snobbish acquaintances and friends, and the
acquaintances and friends I had chosen in my independent
life as an artiste, I was living in rather a bourgeois atmosphere.
I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my
childhood as a rebel and a renegade, and his works, which I
had read with passion, did not prevent my judging him with
very great severity. And I blush to-day with anger and shame,
when I think of all my absurd prejudices, nourished by the
imbecile or insincere little court which flattered me. I had a
great wish, nevertheless, to play in “Ruy Blas.” The rôle of
the queen seemed so charming to me.
I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already
thought of it. Jane Essler, an artiste then in vogue, but a
trifle vulgar, had great chances, though, against me. She was
on very friendly terms with Paul Meurice, Victor Hugo’s intimate
friend and adviser. A friend brought Auguste Vacquerie
to my house. He was the other friend, and even a relative
of the “illustrious master.”
Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak for me to Victor Hugo,
and two days later he came again, assuring me that I had every
chance in my favor. Paul Meurice himself, a very straightforward
man with a delightful mind, had proposed me to the
author. Then, too, Geffroy, the admirable artiste taken from
the Comédie Française to play “Don Salluste,” had said, it appears,
that he could see only one little Queen of Spain worthy
to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know Geffroy,
and I did not know Paul Meurice, and was rather astonished
that they should know me.
The reading was to be at Victor Hugo’s the next day at
two o’clock. I was very much spoiled and very much praised
236and flattered, so that I felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a
man who did not condescend to disturb himself, but asked
women to go to his house, when there was neutral ground, the
theater, for the reading of plays. I told this unheard of thing
at five o’clock to my little court, and men and women alike exclaimed:
“What! That man who was only the other day an
outlaw! That man who has only just been pardoned! That
nobody dares to ask the little Idol, the Queen of Hearts, the
Fairy of Fairies to inconvenience herself!”
All my little sanctuary was in a tumult, men and women
alike could not keep still. “She must not go,” they said.
“Write him this ... write him that.” And they were composing
impertinent, disdainful letters when Marshal Canrobert was
announced. He belonged at that time to my little five o’clock
court, and he was soon posted by my turbulent visitors. He
was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered against the
great poet.
“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for
it seems to me that he has no reason to deviate from the regular
customs. But make an excuse of sudden illness—follow my
advice, and show the respect for him that we owe to genius.”
I followed my great friend’s counsel and sent the following
letter to the poet:
Monsieur: The Queen has taken a chill and her Camerara Mayor
forbids her to go out. You know better than anyone else the etiquette of
this Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.
I sent the letter, and the following is the poet’s reply:
I am your valet, Madame.
Victor Hugo.
The next day the play was read on the stage to the artistes.
I believe that the reading did not take place, or at least not
entirely, at the master’s house.
I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what
a grudge I had for a long time against all those silly people
who had prejudiced me!
237The monster was charming, so witty and refined, and so
gallant, with a gallantry that was an homage and not an insult.
He was so good, too, to the humble, and always so gay.
He was not, certainly, the ideal of elegance, but there was a
moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in his way of speaking,
which savored of the old French peer. He was quick at repartee,
and his observations were gentle but persistent. He
recited poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited.
He often spoke in verse when he wanted to reprimand an
artiste. One day, during a rehearsal, he was trying to convince
poor Tallien about his bad elocution. I was bored by the length
of the colloquy, and sat down on the table swinging my legs.
He understood my impatience and, getting up from the middle
of the orchestra, exclaimed:
“Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable
Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table.”
I sprang from the table, slightly embarrassed, and wanted
to answer him in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could
not find anything to say, and remained there, confused and in
a bad temper.
One day when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than
usual, I was waiting, my forehead pressed against the window
pane, for the arrival of Mme. Guérard, who was coming to fetch
me. I was gazing idly at the footpath opposite, which is
bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor Hugo had just
crossed the road and was about to walk on. An old woman
attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of
linen down on the ground and was wiping her forehead, on
which were great beads of perspiration.
In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open, as
she was panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing
anxiety, as she looked at the wide road she had to cross, with
carriages and omnibuses passing each other. Victor Hugo approached
her, and after a short conversation, he drew a piece
of money from his pocket, handed it to her, then taking off his
hat he confided it to her and, with a quick movement and a
238laughing face, lifted the bundle to his shoulder and crossed
the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I rushed downstairs
to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached the
passage, jostled against De Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and
descended the staircase, Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could
see only the old woman’s back, but it seemed to me that she
hobbled along now more briskly.
The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate,
good deed. “Oh,” said Paul Maurice, his eyes wet with
emotion, “every day that dawns is a day of kindness for him!”
I embraced Victor Hugo and we went to the rehearsal.
Oh, those rehearsals of “Ruy Blas”! I shall never forget
them, for there was such good grace and charm about everything.
When Victor Hugo arrived everything brightened up.
His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie and Paul Maurice,
scarcely ever left him, and when the master was absent they
kept up the divine fire. Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished,
often gave me advice. Then, during the intervals of rest, I
posed for him in various attitudes, for he was a painter. In
the foyer of the Comédie Française there are two pictures representing
the members of both sexes for two generations. The
pictures are not of very original composition, neither are they
of beautiful coloring, but they are faithful likenesses, it appears,
and rather happily grouped.
Lafontaine, who was playing Ruy Blas, often had long discussions
with the master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded.
And I must confess that he was always right. Lafontaine had
conviction and self-assurance, but his elocution was very bad
for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they were replaced by
a set of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to his delivery,
and there was a little odd, clacking sound between his real
palate and his artificial rubber palate, which often distracted
the ear listening attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry.
As to that poor Tallien, who was playing Don Guritan, he
made a hash of it every minute. He had understood his rôle
quite wrongly. Victor Hugo explained it to him clearly and
intelligently. Tallien was a well-intentioned comedian, a hard
239worker, always conscientious, but as stupid as a goose. What
he did not understand at first, he never understood. It was
finished for life. But, as he was straightforward and loyal, he
put himself into the hands of the author, and gave himself
up then in complete self-abnegation. “That is not as I understood
it,” he would say, “but I will do as you tell me.”
He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture,
with the inflexions and movements required. This got on
my nerves in the most painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt
at the solidarity of my artistic pride. I often took this poor
Tallien aside and tried to urge him on to rebellion, but it was all
in vain. He was tall, and his arms were too long and his eyes
tired, his nose was weary with having grown too long, and it
sank over his lips with heartrending dejection. His forehead
was covered with thick hair, and his chin seemed to be running
away in a hurry from this ill-built face. A great kindliness
was diffused all over his being, and this kindliness was just
himself. Everyone was therefore infinitely fond of him.
The 26th of January, 1872, was an artistic fête for the
Odéon. The Tout-Paris of first nights and all youthful Paris
were to meet in the large, solemn, dusty theater. Ah, what
a splendid, stirring performance it was! What a triumph for
Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe looking in his black costume
as Don Salluste! Mélingue rather disappointed the public as
Don César de Bazan, and the public was in the wrong.... The
rôle of Don César de Bazan is a treacherously good rôle, which
always tempts artistes by the brilliancy of the first act; but the
fourth act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy
and useless. It might be taken out of the piece, just like a
periwinkle out of its shell, and the piece would be none the
less clear and complete.
This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me, the thin
veil which still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was
destined for celebrity. Until that day I had remained the
students’ little Fairy. I became then the Elect of the Public.
Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not
know to whom to reply, in the ever-changing stream of men and
240women admirers. All at once, I saw the crowd separating and
forming two lines, and I caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and
Girardin coming toward me. In a second all the stupid ideas
I had had about this immense genius flashed across me. I remembered
my first interview, when I had been stiff and barely
polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all
my life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out
to him my repentance, and to tell him of my devout gratitude.
Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and,
raising my two hands to his lips, he murmured: “Thank you!
Thank you!”
And so it was he who said thank you. He, the great Victor
Hugo, whose mind was so fine, whose universal genius filled the
world! He, whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to
all his insulters. Ah, how small I felt, how ashamed and yet
how happy! He then rose, shook the hands that were held out
to him, finding for everyone the right word.
He was so handsome that night, with his wide forehead,
which seemed to retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair,
and his laughing, luminous eyes.
Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into
Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and burst into
tears. He took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not
let yourself be intoxicated with this great success, now,” he said.
“There must be no more risky jumps, now that you are crowned
with laurels. You will have to be more yielding, more docile,
more sociable.”
“I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,”
I answered, looking at him. “I will try to be more sociable, but
that is all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that
in spite of my risky jumps—and I feel that I shall always be
making jumps—the crown will not shake off.”
Paul Maurice, who had come up to me, overheard this conversation
and reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance
of “Angelo,” at the Sarah Bernhardt Theater, on the
7th of February, 1905.
CHAPTER XVI I LEAVE THE ODÉON
241
On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Mme.
Guérard, and when she wanted to go I begged her to
stay longer. I had become so rich in hopes and
future that I was afraid of thieves. My petite dame
stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven
o’clock we took a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then
continued driving for another hour. I had already achieved a
fair number of successes: “Le Passant,” and “Le Drame de
la Rue de la Paix”; Anna Danby in “Kean,” and “Jean-Marie,”
but I felt that the “Ruy Blas” success was greater
than any of the others, and that this time I had become some one
likely to be criticised, but not to be overlooked.
I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s and he was
always very charming and kind.
When I was quite at my ease with him, I told him about my
first impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard
to him, about all that I had been told and all that I had
believed, in my naïve ignorance about political matters.
On this particular morning, the master took great delight in
my conversation. He sent for Mme. Drouet, the sweet soul, the
companion of his glorious and rebellious mind. He told her,
in a laughing, but melancholy way, about the evil work of bad
people, in sowing error in every soil, whether favorable or not.
That morning is engraved forever in my mind, for the great man
talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me, but for what I
represented in his eyes! Was I not, as a matter of fact, the
242young generation, in whom a bourgeois and clerical education
had warped the intelligence, by closing the mind to every generous
idea, to every flight toward the New?
When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more
worthy of his friendship.
I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some being
who loved the poet, but he was out.
I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great
surprise. Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell
into the arms of the marshal, who was coming out of his house.
“What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he
asked laughing.
I did not understand and gazed at him rather bewildered.
“Well, have you forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?”
he asked.
I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it. “Well,
all the better!” I said. “I very much wanted to talk to you.
Come, I am going to take you with me now.”
I then described my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all
the fine things he had said to me, forgetting that I was constantly
saying things that were contrary to his ideas. This admirable
man could admire, though, and if he could not change his
opinions, he approved the great ideas which were to bring about
great changes.
One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there
had been a political discussion which became rather violent. I
was afraid for a moment that things might take a wrong turn, as
Busnach was the most witty, and at the same time the rudest
man in France.... It is only fair to say, though, that if
Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well bred, he was
not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was
worked up by the teasing speeches of the marshal.
“I challenge you, monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about
the odious Utopias that you have just been supporting!” “Oh,
M. Busnach,” replied Canrobert, coldly, “we do not use the
same steel for writing history! You use a pen and I a sword.”
The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless
243a luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching
home we found there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle.
Hocquigny, and M. De Montbel, a young attaché of the Embassy.
I explained my lateness as well as I could and the morning
finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas.
I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy
of listening.
During a silence, Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the marshal and
said: “Are you not of the opinion that our young friend ought
to enter the Comédie Française?”
“Ah, no, no!” I exclaimed, “I am so happy at the Odéon.
I began at the Comédie and the short time I stayed there I was
so unhappy.”
“You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend—obliged!
Believe me, it will be better early than late.”
“Well, do not spoil to-day’s pleasure for me, for I have
never been happier!”
One morning after this my maid brought me a letter. The
large round stamp, on which the words “Comédie Française”
are to be read, was on the corner of the envelope.
I remembered that just ten years ago that very day, our old
servant Marguerite had, without my mother’s permission, handed
me a letter in the same kind of envelope. My face then had
flushed with joy, but this time I felt a faint tinge of pallor touch
my cheeks. When events occur which disturb my life, I always
have a movement of recoil toward the past. I cling for a second
to what is, and then I fling myself headlong into what is to
be. It is like a gymnast who clings first to his trapeze bar in
order to fling himself afterwards with full force into space. In
one second the “now” becomes for me the “has been,” and I
love it with tender emotion as something dead. But I adore
what is to be without seeking even to know about it, for what is
to be is the unknown, the mysterious attraction. I always fancy
that it will be something unheard of, and I shudder from head to
foot in delicious uneasiness.
I receive quantities of letters, and it seems to me that I never
receive enough. I watch them accumulating just as I watch the
244waves of the sea. What are they going to bring me, these
mysterious envelopes, large, small, pink, blue, yellow, white?
What are they going to fling upon the rock, these great wild
waves, dark with seaweed? What sailor-boy’s corpse? What
remains of a wreck? What are these little brisk waves going to
leave on the beach, these reflections of a blue sky, little laughing
waves? What pink “seastar”? What mauve anemone?
What pearly shell?
So I never open my letters immediately. I look at the envelopes,
try to recognize the handwriting, the seal, and it is
only when I am quite certain from whom the letter comes that I
open it. The others I leave my secretary to open or a kind
friend, Suzanne Leylor. My friends know this so well that they
always put their initials in the corner of their envelopes. At
that time, I had no secretary, but my petite dame served me as
such. I looked at the envelope a long time and gave it at last
to Mme. Guérard.
“It is a letter from M. Perrin, director of the ‘Comédie
Française,’” she said. “He asks if you can fix a time to see
him on Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon at the ‘Comédie
Française,’ or at your own house.”
“Thanks, what day is it to-day?” I asked.
“Monday,” she replied.
I then installed Mme. Guérard at my desk and asked her to
reply that I would go there the following day at three o’clock.
I was earning very little at that time at the Odéon. I was
living on what my father had left me, that is, on the transaction
made by the Hâvre notary, and not much remained. I therefore
went to see Duquesnel and showed him the letter.
“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked.
“Nothing. I have come to ask your advice.”
“Oh, well, I shall advise you to stay at the Odéon! Besides,
your engagement does not terminate for another year, and I
shall not let you leave!”
“Well, raise my salary, then,” I said. “I am offered twelve
thousand francs a year at the Comédie. Give me fifteen thousand
here and I will stay, for I do not want to leave.”
245“Listen to me,” said the charming manager in a friendly
way. “You know that I am not free to act alone, but I will do
my best, I promise you,” and Duquesnel certainly kept his word.
“Come here to-morrow before going to the Comédie, and I will
give you Chilly’s reply. But take my advice and if he obstinately
refuses to increase your salary, do not leave, we shall
find a way. And besides ... anyhow, I cannot say any more!”
I returned the following day according to arrangement. I
found Duquesnel and Chilly in the manager’s office. Chilly began
at once somewhat roughly: “And so you want to leave,
Duquesnel tells me. Where are you going? It is most stupid,
for your place is here. Just consider and think it over for
yourself. At the Gymnase they only give modern pieces, pieces
for dressy plays. That is not your style. At the Vaudeville it is
the same. At the Gaieté you would spoil your voice. You are
too distinguished for the Ambigu.”
I looked at him without replying and he felt awkward and
mumbled:
“Well, then, you are of my opinion?”
“No,” I answered, “you have forgotten the Comédie.”
He was sitting in his big armchair and he burst out laughing.
“Ah, no, my dear girl!” he said, “you must not tell me
that! They’ve had enough of your queer character at the
Comédie. I dined the other night with Maubant and when
some one said that you ought to be engaged at the Comédie Française
he nearly choked with rage. I can assure you he did not
show much affection as far as you were concerned, the great
tragedian!”
“Oh, well, you ought to have taken my part!” I exclaimed,
irritated. “You know very well that I am very reliable.”
“But I did take your part,” he said, “and I added even
that it would be a very fortunate thing for the Comédie if it
could have an artiste with your will power, that perhaps might
relieve the monotonous tone of the house, and I only spoke as I
thought, but the poor tragedian was beside himself. He does
not consider that you have any talent. In the first place, he
maintains that you do not know how to recite poetry. He declares
246that you make all your A’s too broad. Finally, when he
had no arguments left, he declared that as long as he lives you
will never enter the Comédie Française.”
I was silent for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the
probable result of my experiment. Finally coming to a decision,
I murmured somewhat waveringly: “Well, then, you will not
give me a higher salary?”
“No, a thousand times no!” yelled Chilly. “You will try
to make me sing when your engagement comes to an end and then
we will see. But I have your signature until then. You have
mine, too, and I hold to our engagement. The Théâtre Français
is the only one that would suit you besides ours, and I am
quite easy in my mind with regard to that theater.”
“You make a mistake, perhaps,” I answered. He got up
brusquely and came and stood opposite me, his two hands in his
pockets. He then said in an odious and familiar tone: “Ah!
that’s it, is it? You think I am an idiot, then?”
I got up, too, and said coldly, pushing him gently back:
“I think you are a triple idiot.” I then hurried away toward
the staircase, and all Duquesnel’s shouting was in vain. I ran
down the stairs two at a time.
On arriving under the Odéon Arcade I was stopped by Paul
Maurice, who was just going to invite Duquesnel and Chilly for
Victor Hugo to a supper to celebrate the hundredth presentation
of “Ruy Blas.”
“I have just come away from your house,” he said. “I
have left you a few lines from Victor Hugo.”
“Good, good, that’s all right,” I replied, getting into my
carriage. “I shall see you to-morrow, then, my friend.”
“Good heavens, what a hurry you are in!” he said.
“Yes!” I replied; and then, leaning out of the window,
I said to my coachman: “Drive to the Comédie Française.”
I looked at Paul Maurice to wish him farewell. He was
standing stupefied on the arcade steps.
On arriving at the Comédie I sent my card to Perrin, and
five minutes later was ushered in to that icy manikin. There
were two very distinct personages in this man. The one was
247the man he was himself, and the other the one he had created
for the requirements of his profession. Perrin himself was gallant,
pleasant, witty, and slightly timid; the manikin was cold
and somewhat given to posing.
I was first received by Perrin, the manikin. He was standing
up, his head bent to bow to a woman, his arm outstretched
to indicate the hospitable armchair. He waited, with a certain
affectation, until I was seated, before sitting down himself. He
then picked up a paper knife, in order to have something to
do with his hands, and in a rather weak voice, the voice of the
manikin, he remarked:
“Have you thought it over, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, monsieur, and here I am to give my signature.”
Before he had time to give me any encouragement to dabble
with the things on his desk, I drew up my chair, picked up a
pen and prepared to sign the paper. I did not take enough
ink at first, and I stretched my arm out across the whole width
of the writing table and dipped my pen this time resolutely
to the bottom of the ink pot. I took too much ink, however,
this time, and on the return journey a huge drop of it fell
on the large sheet of white paper in front of the manikin.
He bent his head, for he was slightly shortsighted, and looked
for a moment like a bird when it discovers a hempseed in its
grain. He then proceeded to put aside the blotted sheet.
“Wait a minute! oh, wait a minute!” I exclaimed, seizing
the inky paper. “I want to see whether I am doing right or
not to sign. If that is a butterfly I am right, and if anything
else, no matter what, I am wrong.” I took the sheet, doubled it
in the middle of the enormous blot and pressed it firmly together.
Emile Perrin thereupon began to laugh, giving up his
manikin attitude entirely. He leaned over to examine the
paper with me, and we opened it very gently, just as one opens
one’s hand after imprisoning a fly. When the paper was spread
open, in the midst of its whiteness, a magnificent black butterfly
with outspread wings was to be seen.
“Well, then,” said Perrin, with nothing of the manikin
left, “we were quite right in signing.”
248After this we talked for some time, like two friends who
meet again, for this man was charming and very fascinating
in spite of his ugliness. When I left him we were friends and
delighted with each other.
I was playing “Ruy Blas” that night at the Odéon. Toward
ten o’clock Duquesnel came to my dressing-room.
“You were rather rough on that poor Chilly,” he said.
“And then, too, you really were not nice. You ought to have
come back when I called you. Is it true, as Paul Maurice tells
us, that you went straight to the Théâtre Française?”
“Here, read for yourself,” I said, handing him my engagement
with the Comédie.
Duquesnel took the paper and read it.
“Will you let me show it to Chilly?” he asked.
“Show it him, certainly,” I replied.
He came nearer and said in a grave, hurt tone:
“You ought never to have done that without telling me
first. It shows a lack of confidence, and I did not deserve that.”
He was right, but the thing was done. A moment later
Chilly arrived, furious, gesticulating, shouting, stammering in
his anger.
“It is abominable!” he said. “It is treason, and you had
not even the right to do it! I shall make you pay damages!”
As I felt in a bad humor, I turned my back on him and
excused myself in as poor a way as possible to Duquesnel. He
was hurt, and I was a little ashamed, for this man had given
me nothing but proofs of kindliness; and it was he who, in
spite of Chilly and many other unwilling people, had held the
door open for my future.
Chilly kept his word and brought an action against me and
the Comédie. I lost and had to pay six thousand francs damage
to the managers of the Odéon.
A few months later Victor Hugo invited the interpreters of
“Ruy Blas” to a big supper in honor of the one hundredth
performance. This was a great delight to me, as I had never
been present at a supper of this kind.
SKULL IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S LIBRARY, WITH AUTOGRAPH VERSES BY VICTOR HUGO.
249I had scarcely spoken to Chilly since our last scene. On the
night in question he was placed at my right, and we had to get
reconciled. I was seated at the right of Victor Hugo, and at
his left was Mme. Lambquin, who was playing the Camerara
Mayor. Duquesnel was next to Mme. Lambquin. Opposite
the illustrious poet was another poet, Théophile Gautier, with
his lion’s head on an elephant’s body. He had a brilliant mind
and said the choicest things with a horse laugh. The flesh of
his fat, flabby, wan face was pierced by two eyes veiled by
heavy lids. The expression of them was charming, but far away.
There was in this man an Oriental nobility choked by Western
fashion and customs. I knew nearly all his poetry, and I gazed
at him with affection, the fond lover of the Beautiful.
It amused me to imagine him dressed in superb Oriental
costumes. I could see him lying down on huge cushions, his
beautiful hands playing with gems of all colors, and some of
his verses came in murmurs to my lips. I was just setting off
with him in a dream that was infinite, when a word from my
neighbor, Victor Hugo, made me turn toward him. What a
difference! He was just himself, the great poet, the most ordinary
of beings, except for his luminous forehead. He was
heavy looking, although very active. His nose was common,
his eyes lewd, and his mouth without any beauty; his voice
alone had nobility and charm. I liked to listen to him while
looking at Théophile Gautier.
I was a little embarrassed, though, when I looked across
the table, for at the side of the poet was an odious individual,
Paul de Ste. Victor. His cheeks looked like two bladders from
which the oil was oozing out. His nose was sharp and like a
crow’s beak, his eyes evil looking and hard, his arms too short,
and he was too stout. He had plenty of wit and talent, but
he employed both in saying and writing more harm than good.
I knew that this man hated me, and I promptly returned him
hatred for hatred.
In the toast proposed by Victor Hugo in thanking everyone
for such zealous help on the reappearance of his work, every
person raised his glass and looked toward the poet, but the
illustrious master turned toward me and continued: “As to
250you, madame——” Just at this moment Paul de St. Victor
put his glass down so violently on the table that it broke. There
was an instant of stupor, and then I leaned across the table
and held my glass out toward Paul de St. Victor.
“Take mine,” I said, “monsieur, and then when you drink
you will know what my thoughts are in reply to yours, which
you have just expressed so clearly!”
The horrid man took my glass, but with what a look!
Victor Hugo finished his speech in the midst of applause and
cheers. Duquesnel then leaned back and spoke to me quietly.
He asked me to tell Chilly to reply, that it was his turn to
speak.
“Come, get up,” I said to him. He gazed at me with a
glassy look and in a far-away voice replied:
“My legs are being held.” I looked at him more attentively,
while Duquesnel asked for silence for M. De Chilly’s
speech. I saw that his fingers were grasping a fork desperately,
the tips of his fingers were white, the rest of the hand was violet.
I took his hand, and it was icy cold, the other was hanging down
inert under the table. There was silence and all eyes turned
toward Chilly.
“Get up,” I said, seized with terror. He made a movement,
and his head suddenly fell forward with his face on his plate.
There was a muffled uproar, and the few women present surrounded
the poor man. Stupid, commonplace, indifferent things
were uttered in the same way that one mutters familiar prayers.
His son was sent for, and then two of the waiters came and
carried the body away, living, but inert, and placed it in a small
drawing-room.
Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back
to the poet’s guests. I returned to the room where the supper
had taken place. Groups had been formed, and when I was
seen entering I was asked if he was no better.
“The doctor has just arrived and he cannot yet say,” I
replied.
“It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (Ruy Blas), tossing
off a glass of liqueur brandy.
251“It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Tallien (Don Guritan)
clumsily, for he was always losing his memory.
Victor Hugo approached and said very simply:
“It is a beautiful kind of death.”
He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of
the room, trying to chase my sadness away by gallant and poetical
whispers. Some little time passed with this gloom weighing
on us, and then Duquesnel returned. He was pale, but
had put on the attitude of a man of the world, and was ready
to answer all questions.
“Oh, yes, he had just been taken home. It would be nothing,
it appeared. He only needed rest for a couple of days.
Probably his feet had been cold during the meal.”
“Yes,” put in one of the “Ruy Blas” guests, “there certainly
was a fine draught from some chink under the table!”
“Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was
worrying him. “Yes, no doubt, there was too much heat for
his head.”
“Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were
nearly on fire with that wretched gas.”
I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would
be reproached by all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the
food, and the wine of his banquet. All these imbecile remarks
got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He shrugged his shoulders, and
drawing me away from the crowd said:
“It’s all over with him.”
I had had a presentiment of this, but the certainty of it
now caused me intense grief.
“I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Would you kindly
tell some one to ask for my carriage?”
I moved toward the small drawing-room which served as
a cloak room for our wraps, and there old Mme. Lambquin
knocked up against me. Slightly intoxicated by the heat and
the wine, she was waltzing with Tallien.
“Ah! I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said, “I
nearly knocked you over.”
I pulled her toward me and, without reflecting, whispered
252to her, “Don’t dance any more, Mamma Lambquin, Chilly
is dying.” She was purple, but her face turned as white as
chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she did not utter a
word.
“Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured, “I did not know
I should make you so wretched!”
But she was not listening to me any longer. She was putting
on her cloak.
“Are you leaving?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Will you drive me home? I will then tell you....”
She wrapped a black fichu round her head and we both went
downstairs, accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Maurice, who
saw us into the carriage.
She lived in the St. Germain neighborhood and I in the Rue
de Rome. On the way the poor woman told me the following
details:
“You know, my dear,” she began, “I have a mania for
somnambulists, and fortune tellers of all kinds. Well, last
Friday (you see, I only consult them on a Friday) a woman
who tells fortunes by cards said to me: ‘You will die a week
after a man who is dark and not young and whose life is connected
with yours.’ Well, my dear, I thought she was just
making game, for there is no man whose life is connected with
mine, as I am a widow and have never had any liaison. I therefore
abused her for this, as I paid her seven francs. She charges
ten francs to other people but seven francs to artistes. She
was furious at my not believing her, and she seized my hands
and said: ‘It’s no good yelling at me, for it is as I say. And
if you want me to tell you the exact truth, it is a man who
supports you, and even to be more exact still, there are two
men who support you, the one dark and the other fair—It’s
a nice thing, that!’ She had not finished her speech before
I had given her such a slap as she had never had in her life,
I can assure you. Afterwards, though, I puzzled my head to
find out what the wretched woman could have meant. And all
I could find was that the two men who support me, the one
253dark and the other fair, are our two managers: Chilly and Duquesnel.
And, now you tell me that Chilly——”
She stopped short, breathless with her story, and again
seized with terror. “I feel stifled,” she murmured, and, in
spite of the freezing cold, we lowered both the windows. On
arriving I helped her up her four flights of stairs and after
telling the concierge to look after her, and giving the woman
a twenty-franc piece to make sure that she would do so, I went
home myself very much upset by all these incidents, as dramatic
as they were unexpected, in the midst of a fête.
Three days later Chilly died without ever recovering consciousness.
Twelve days later poor Lambquin died. To the priest who
gave her absolution she said: “I am dying because I listened
to and believed the demon.”
CHAPTER XVII I RETURN TO THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
254
I left the Odéon with very great regret, for I adored
and still adore that theater. It always seems as
though in itself it were a little provincial town.
Its hospitable arcades, under which so many poor
old savants take the air and are sheltered at the same time from
the sun; the large flags all round, between the crevices of which
microscopic yellow grass grows; its tall pillars, blackened by
time, by hands, and by the dirt from the road; the uninterrupted
noise going on all around, the departure of the omnibuses, like
the departure of the old coaches; the fraternity of the people
who meet there, everything, even to the very railings of the
Luxembourg, give it a quite special aspect in the midst of Paris.
Then, too, there is a kind of odor of the colleges there, the very
walls are impregnated with youthful hopes. People are not
always talking there of yesterday as they do in the other theaters.
The young artistes who come there talk of to-morrow.
In short, my mind never goes back to those few years of
my life without a childish emotion, without thinking of laughter
and without a dilation of the nostrils, inhaling again the
odor of little ordinary bouquets, clumsily tied up, bouquets
which had all the freshness of flowers that grow in the open air,
flowers that were the offerings of the hearts of twenty summers,
little bouquets paid for out of the purses of students.
I would not take anything away with me from the Odéon.
I left the furniture of my dressing-room to a young artiste.
I left my costumes, all the little toilette knickknacks. I divided
255them and gave them away. I felt that my life of hopes and
dreams was to cease there. I felt that the ground was now ready
for the fruition of all the dreams, that life was about to commence,
and I divined rightly.
My first experience at the Comédie Française had not been
a success. I knew that I was going into the lion’s den. I
counted few friends in this house, except Laroche, Coquelin, and
Mounet-Sully; the two first my friends of the Conservatoire,
and the latter of the Odéon. Among the women Marie Lloyd
and Sophie Croizette, both friends of my childhood, the disagreeable
Jouassain, who was nice only to me, and the adorable
Mlle. Brohan, whose goodness delighted the soul, whose wit
charmed the mind, and whose indifference rebuffed devotion.
M. Perrin decided that I should make my début in “Mademoiselle
de Belle Isle,” according to Sarcey’s wish. The rehearsals
began in the foyer, which troubled me very much. Mlle.
Brohan was to play the part of the Marquise de Prie. At this
time she was so fat as to be almost unsightly, while I was so
thin that the composers of popular and comic verses took my
meager proportions as their theme and the cartoonists as a subject
for their albums. It was therefore impossible for the Duc
de Richelieu to mistake the Marquise de Prie (Madeleine Brohan)
for Mademoiselle de Belle Isle (Sarah Bernhardt) in the
inconvenient and conclusive nocturnal rendezvous given by the
Marquise to the Duc, who thinks he embraces the chaste Mademoiselle
de Belle Isle.
At each rehearsal, Bressant, who took the part of the Duc
de Richelieu, would stop, saying: “No, it is too ridiculous. I
must play the Duc de Richelieu with both my arms cut off!”
And Madeleine left the rehearsal to go to the director’s room,
in order to try and get rid of the rôle.
This was exactly what Perrin wanted; he had from the earliest
moment thought of Croizette, but he wanted to have his
hand forced for private and underhand reasons which he knew
and which others guessed.
At last the change took place, and the serious rehearsals commenced.
Then the first performance was announced for November
2566 (1872). I have always had, from the very beginning,
and still have, a terrible fear, especially when I know that much
is expected from me. And I knew a long time beforehand that
the Salle had been let; I knew that the Press counted on a big
success, and that Perrin himself was reckoning on a succession
of good takings.
Alas! all these hopes and predictions went for nothing, and
my débuts at the Comédie Française were only mediocre.
The following is an extract from the Temps of November
11, 1872. It was written by Francisque Sarcey, with whom I
was not then acquainted, but who was following my career with
very great interest:
“It was a very brilliant assembly, as this début had attracted
all theater lovers. The fact is, besides the special merit
of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, a whole crowd of true or false stories
had been circulated about her personally, and all this had excited
the curiosity of the Parisian public. Her appearance was
a disappointment. She had, by her costume, exaggerated in
a most ostentatious way a slenderness which is elegant under
the veils and ample drapery of the Grecian and Roman heroines,
but which is objectionable in modern dress. Then, too,
either powder does not suit her, or stage fright had made her
terribly pale. The effect of this long, white face emerging from
a long, black sheath was certainly unpleasant” (I looked like
an ant), “particularly as the eyes had lost their brilliancy,
and all that relieved the face were the sparkling white teeth.
She went through the first three acts with a convulsive tremor,
and we recognized the Sarah of ‘Ruy Blas’ only by two couplets
which she gave in her enchanting voice with the most wonderful
grace; but in all the more powerful passages she was
a failure. I doubt whether Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt will ever,
with her delicious voice, be able to render those deep, thrilling
notes, expressive of paroxysms of violent passion, which are
capable of carrying away an audience. If only nature had
endowed her with this gift, she would be a perfect artiste, and
there are none such on the stage. Roused by the coldness of
257her public, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt was entirely herself in the
fifth act. This was certainly our Sarah once more, the Sarah
of ‘Ruy Blas,’ whom we had admired so much at the Odéon,”
etc., etc.
As Sarcey said, I made a complete failure of my début. My
excuse, though, was not the “stage fright” to which he attributed
it, but the terrible anxiety I felt on seeing my mother hurriedly
leave her seat in the dress circle five minutes after my
appearance on the stage. I had glanced at her on entering, and
had noticed her deathlike pallor. When she went out, I felt
that she was about to have one of those attacks which endangered
her life, so that my first act seemed to me interminable.
I uttered one word after another, stammering through my sentences
haphazard, with only one idea in my head, a longing
to know what had happened. Oh, the public cannot conceive
of the tortures endured by the unfortunate comedians who are
there before them in flesh and blood on the stage, gesticulating
and uttering phrases, while their heart, all torn with anguish,
is with the beloved absent one who is suffering! As a rule,
one can fling away the worries and anxieties of everyday life,
put off one’s own personality for a few hours, take on another
and, forgetting everything else, enter as it were into another
life. But that is impossible when our dear ones are suffering;
anxiety then lays hold of us, attenuating the bright side, magnifying
the dark, maddening our brain, which is living two lives
at once, and tormenting our heart, which is beating as though it
would burst. These were the sensations I experienced during
that first act.
“Mamma? What has happened to mamma?” were my
first words on leaving the stage. No one could tell me anything.
Croizette came up to me and said: “What’s the matter?
I hardly recognize you, and you weren’t yourself at all just now
in the play.”
In a few words I told her what I had seen, and all that I
had felt. Frédéric Febvre sent at once to get news, and the
doctor came hurrying to me.
258“Your mother had a fainting fit, mademoiselle,” he said,
“but they have just taken her home.”
“It was her heart, wasn’t it?” I asked, looking at him.
“Yes,” he replied, “madame’s heart is in a very agitated
state.”
“Oh, I know how ill she is!” I said, and not being able to
control myself any longer, I burst into sobs. Croizette helped me
back to my dressing-room. She was very kind, for we had
known each other from childhood, and were very fond of each
other. Nothing ever estranged us, in spite of all the malicious
gossip of envious people, and all the little miseries due to vanity.
My dear Mme. Guérard (ma petite dame) took a cab and
hurried away to my mother to get news for me. I put a little
more powder on, but the public, not knowing what was taking
place, were annoyed with me, thinking I was guilty of some fresh
caprice, and received me still more coldly than before. It was
all the same to me, as I was thinking of something else. I went
on saying Mademoiselle de Belle Isle’s words (a most stupid and
tiresome rôle), but all the time, I, Sarah, was waiting for news
about my mother. I was watching for the return of ma petite
dame. “Open the door on the O. P. side, just a little way,”
I had said to her, “and make a sign like this, if mamma is better,
and like that, if she is worse.” But I had forgotten which
of the signs was to stand for better, and when, at the end of
the third act, I saw Mme. Guérard opening the door and nodding
her head for “yes,” I became quite idiotic. It was in
the big scene of the third act when Mademoiselle de Belle Isle
reproaches the Duc de Richelieu (Bressant) with doing her such
irreparable harm. The Duc replies, “Why did you not say that
some one was listening, that some one was hidden?” I exclaimed:
“It’s Guérard bringing me news!” The public had
not time to understand, for Bressant went on quickly, and so
saved the situation.
After an unenthusiastic recall, I heard that my mother was
better, but that she had had a very serious attack. Poor mamma,
she had thought me such a fright when I made my appearance
on the stage that her superb indifference had given way to
grievous astonishment, and that, in its turn, to rage, on hearing
a lady seated near her say in a jeering tone: “Why, she’s
like a dried bone, this little Bernhardt!”
“OPHELIA”—SCULPTURE BY SARAH BERNHARDT.
259I was greatly relieved on getting the news, and I played my
last act with confidence. The great success of the evening,
though, was Croizette’s, who was charming as the Marquise de
Prie. My success, nevertheless, was assured in the performances
which followed, and it became so marked that I was accused
of paying for applause. I laughed heartily at this, and never
even contradicted the report, as I have a horror of useless words.
I continued my débuts in “Junie de Britannicus,” having
for hero Mounet-Sully, who played admirably. In this delicious
rôle of Junie I obtained an immense and incredible success.
Then, in 1873 I played Chérubin in “Le Mariage de Figaro.”
Croizette played Suzanne, and it was a real treat for
the public to see the delicious creature play a part so full of
gayety and charm. Chérubin was for me the opportunity of
a fresh success.
In the month of March, 1873, Perrin took it into his head
to stage “Dalila,” by Octave Feuillet. I was then taking the
part of young girls, young princesses, or young boys. My slight
frame, my pale face, my delicate aspect marked me out, for the
time being, for the rôle of victim. When suddenly Perrin, finding
that the victims attracted the pity of the public, and thinking
that it was for this reason I pleased them, made the most
ridiculous change in the distribution of the parts; he gave me
the rôle of Dalila, the swarthy, wicked, and ferocious princess,
and to Sophie Croizette he gave the rôle of the fair young
dying girl.
The piece, under this strange distribution, was turned upside
down. I forced my nature in order to appear the haughty and
voluptuous siren; I stuffed my bodice with wadding, and the
hips under my skirt with horsehair; but I kept my small, thin,
sorrowful face. Croizette was obliged to repress the advantages
of her bust by bands which oppressed and suffocated her, but
she kept her pretty plump face with its dimples.
260I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers.
In fact, it was absurd, and the piece was only a partial
success.
After that I created “L’Absent,” a pretty piece in verse by
Eugène Manuel, “Chez l’Avocat,” a very amusing thing in
verse, by Paul Ferrier, where Coquelin and I quarreled beautifully.
Then, August 22d, I played with immense success the
rôle of Andromaque. I shall never forget the first performance,
in which Mounet-Sully obtained a delirious triumph. Oh,
how fine he was, Mounet-Sully, in his rôle of Oreste! His
entrance, his fury, his madness, and the plastic beauty of this
marvelous artiste—how fine it was! How magnificent!
After Andromaque I played Aricie in “Phedre”; and that
evening in this secondary rôle, it was I who obtained, in reality,
the success of the evening.
I took such a position, in a very short time, at the Comédie,
that some of the artistes began to feel uneasy, and the management
shared the anxiety. M. Perrin, an extremely intelligent
man, whom I have always remembered with great affection, was
horribly authoritative. I was authoritative, also, so that there
was always perpetual warfare between us. He wanted to impose
his will on me, and I would not submit to it. He was
always ready to laugh at my outbursts when they were against
the others, but he was furious when they were directed against
himself. As for me, I will own that to get Perrin in a fury
was one of my delights. He stammered so when he tried to talk
quickly, he who weighed every word on ordinary occasions; the
expression of his eyes, which was generally wavering, grew
irritated and deceitful, and his pale, distinguished-looking face
became mottled with patches of color, like the dregs of wine.
His fury made him take his hat off and put it on again fifteen
times in as many minutes, and his extremely smooth hair stood
on end with this mad gallop of his headgear. Although I had
certainly arrived at the age of discretion, I delighted in my
wicked mischievousness, which I always regretted after, but
which I was always ready to recommence, and even now after all
the days, weeks, months, and years that I have lived since then,
261it still gives me infinite pleasure to play a joke on anyone. All
the same, life at the Comédie began to affect my nerves.
I wanted to play Camille in “On ne Badine pas avec
l’Amour.” The rôle was given to Croizette. I wanted to play
Célimène; that rôle was Croizette’s. Perrin was very partial to
Croizette. He admired her, and as she was very ambitious, she
was most thoughtful and docile, which charmed the authoritative
old man. She always obtained everything she wanted, and
as Sophie Croizette was frank and straightforward, she often
said to me when I was grumbling: “Do as I do, be more yielding,
you pass your time in rebelling; I appear to be doing
everything that Perrin wants me to do, but in reality I make
him do all I want him to. Try the same thing.” I accordingly
screwed up my courage and went to see Perrin. He nearly
always said to me when we met:
“Ah, how do you do, Mlle. Revolt? Are you calm to-day?”
“Yes, very calm,” I replied; “but be amiable and grant
me what I am going to ask you.” I tried to be charming, and
spoke in my prettiest way. He almost purred with satisfaction,
and was witty (this was no effort to him, as he was naturally
so), and we got on very well together for a quarter of an hour.
I then made my petition:
“Let me play Camille in ‘On ne Badine pas avec
l’Amour.’”
“That’s impossible, my dear child,” he replied; “Croizette
is playing it.”
“Well, then, we’ll both play it, we’ll take it in turns.”
“But Mlle. Croizette wouldn’t like that.”
“I’ve spoken to her about it, and she would not mind.”
“You ought not to have spoken to her about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because the distribution of parts concerns the management
and not the artistes.”
He didn’t purr any more, he only growled. As for me, I
was in a fury, and a few minutes later, I went out of the room,
banging the door after me. All this preyed on my mind,
though, and I used to cry all night. I then decided to take
262a studio and devote myself to sculpture. As I was not able
to use my intelligence and my energy in creating rôles at the
theater, as I wished, I gave myself up to another art, and began
working at sculpture with frantic enthusiasm. I soon made
great progress, and started on an enormous composition: “After
the Storm.” I was indifferent now to the theater. Every
morning at eight my horse was brought round and I went for
a ride, and at ten I was back in my studio, 11 Boulevard de
Clichy. I was very delicate, and my health suffered from the
double effort I was making. I used to vomit blood in the most
alarming way, and for hours together I was unconscious. I
never went to the Comédie, except when obliged to by my
duties there. My friends were seriously concerned about me,
and Perrin was told what was going on. Finally, urged on
by the Press and the Department of Fine Arts, he decided
to give me a rôle to create in Octave Feuillet’s play “Le
Sphinx.”
The principal rôle was for Croizette, but on hearing it read,
I thought the part destined for me charming, and I resolved that
it should also be the principal rôle. There would have to be two
principal ones, that was all. The rehearsals went along very
smoothly at the start, but it soon became evident that my rôle
was more important than had been imagined, and friction soon
began.
Croizette, herself, got nervous; Perrin was annoyed, and all
this by-play had the effect of calming me. Octave Feuillet, a
shrewd, charming man, extremely well bred and slightly ironical,
thoroughly enjoyed the skirmishes that took place. War
was doomed to break out, however, and the first hostilities came
from Sophie Croizette.
I always wore in my bodice three or four roses which were
apt to open under the influence of the warmth, and some of
the petals naturally fell. One day, Sophie Croizette slipped
down full length on the stage, and as she was tall and not slim,
she fell rather indecently, and got up again ungracefully. The
stifled laughter of some of the subordinate persons present
stung her to the quick, and turning to me, she said: “It’s your
263fault, your roses fall and make everyone slip.” I began to
laugh.
“Three petals of my roses have fallen,” I replied, “and
there they all three are by the armchair on the prompt side, and
you fell on the O. P. side. It isn’t my fault, therefore; it is
just your own awkwardness.” The discussion continued and
was rather heated on both sides. Two clans were formed, the
“Croizettists,” and the “Bernhardtists,” war was declared, not
between Sophie and me, but between our respective admirers
and detractors. The rumor of these little quarrels spread in the
world outside the theater and the public, too, began to form
clans. Croizette had on her side all the bankers and all the
people who were suffering from congestion. I had all the
artists, the students, dying folks, and the failures. When once
war was declared there was no drawing back from the strife.
The first, the most fierce, and the definitive battle was fought
over the moon.
We had begun the full-dress rehearsals. In the third act the
scene was laid in a forest glade. In the middle of the stage was
a huge rock upon which was Blanche (Croizette) kissing Savigny
(Delaunay), who was supposed to be my husband. I (Berthe
de Savigny) had to arrive by a little bridge over a stream of
water. The glade was bathed in moonlight. Croizette had just
played her part and her kiss had been greeted with a burst of
applause by the house. This was rather daring in those days
for the Comédie Française.
Suddenly a fresh burst of applause was heard. Amazement
could be read on some faces, and Perrin stood up terrified. I
was crossing the bridge, my pale face ravaged with grief, and the
sortie de bal which was intended to cover my shoulders was
dragging along, just held by my limp fingers; my arms were
hanging down as though despair had taken the use out of them.
I was bathed in the white light of the moon and the effect, it
seems, was striking and deeply impressive. A nasal, aggressive
voice cried out: “One moon effect is enough. Turn it off for
Mlle. Bernhardt.”
I sprang forward to the front of the stage. “Excuse me, M.
264Perrin,” I exclaimed, “you had no right to take my moon away.
The manuscript reads: ‘Berthe advances, pale, convulsed with
emotion, the rays of the moon falling on her’... I am pale and
I am convulsed ... I must have my moon!...”
“It is impossible,” roared Perrin. “Mlle. Croizette’s
‘You love me, then!’ and her kiss must have this moonlight.
She is playing the Sphinx, that is the chief part in the play and
we must leave her the principal effect....”
“Very well, then, give Croizette a brilliant moon, and
give me a less brilliant one. I don’t mind that, but I must have
my moon.” All the artistes and all the employés of the theater
put their heads in at all the doorways and openings both on the
stage and in the house itself. The “Croizettists” and the
“Bernhardtists” began to comment on the discussion.
Octave Feuillet was appealed to, and got up in his turn.
“I grant that Mlle. Croizette is very beautiful in her moon
effect. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is ideal, too, with her ray of
moonlight. I want the moon, therefore, for both of them.”
Perrin could not control his anger. There was a discussion
between the author and the director, followed by others between
the artistes, and between the doorkeeper and the journalists who
were questioning him. The rehearsal was interrupted; I declared
that I would not play the part if I did not have my moon.
For the next two days I received no notice of another rehearsal
but through Croizette I heard that they were trying my
rôle of Berthe privately. They had given it to a young woman
whom we had nicknamed “the Crocodile,” because she followed
all the rehearsals just as that animal follows boats—she was always
hoping to snatch up some rôle that might happen to be
thrown overboard. Octave Feuillet refused to accept the change
of artistes and he came himself to fetch me, accompanied by
Delaunay, who had negotiated matters.
“It’s all settled,” he said, kissing my hands, “there will be
a moon for both of you.”
The first night was a triumph for both Croizette and for
me. The party strife between the two clans waxed warmer and
warmer, and this added to our success and amused us both immensely,
265for Croizette was always a delightful friend and
a loyal comrade. She worked for her own ends, but never
against anyone else.
After the “Sphinx” I played a pretty piece in one act by a
young pupil of the Polytechnical School, Louis Denayrouse—“La
Belle Paule.” This author has now become a renowned
scientific man and has renounced his poetry.
I had begged Perrin to give me a month’s holiday, but he
refused energetically, and compelled me to take part in the rehearsal
of “Zaïre,” during the trying months of June and July,
and in spite of my reluctance, announced the first performance
for the 6th of August. That year it was fearfully hot in Paris.
I believe that Perrin, who could not tame me alive, had, without
really any bad intention, but by pure autocracy, the desire to
tame me dead. Doctor Parrot went to see him and told him
that my state of weakness was such that it would be positively
dangerous for me to act during the trying heat. Perrin would
hear nothing of it. Then, furious at the obstinacy of this intellectual
bourgeois, I swore I would play on to the death.
Often, when I was a child, I wished to kill myself in order to
vex others. I remember once having swallowed the contents of
a large ink pot after being compelled by mamma to swallow a
“panade”[2] because she imagined that panades were good for
the health. Our nurse had told her my dislike to this form of
nourishment, adding that every morning I emptied the panade
into the slop pail. I had, of course, a very bad stomach ache,
and screamed out in pain. I cried to mamma: “It is you who
have killed me”—and my poor mother wept. She never knew
the truth, but they never again made me swallow anything
against my will.
2. Bread stewed a long time in water and flavored with a little butter and
sugar; a kind of “sops” given to children in France.
Well, after so many years had gone over my head, I experienced
the same bitter and childish sentiment. “I don’t
care,” I said, “I shall certainly fall senseless, vomiting blood,
and perhaps I shall die! And it will serve Perrin right. He
266will be furious!” Yes, that is what I thought. I am, at
times, very foolish. Why? I don’t know how to explain it, but
I admit it.
The 6th of August, therefore, I played, in tropical heat, the
part of Zaïre. The entire audience was bathed in perspiration.
I saw the spectators through a mist. The piece, badly staged as
regards scenery, but very well presented as regards costumes,
was particularly well played by Mounet-Sully, Orosmane, Laroche,
Nerestan, and myself—Zaïre—and obtained an immense
success.
I was determined to faint, determined to vomit blood, determined
to die, in order to enrage Perrin. I gave myself entirely
up to it. I had sobbed, I had loved, I had suffered, and I
had been stabbed by the poignard of Orosmane, uttering a true
cry of suffering, for I had felt the steel penetrate my breast;
then falling panting, dying, on the Oriental divan, I had meant
to die in reality, and dared scarcely move my arms, convinced as
I was that I was in my death agony and somewhat afraid, I must
admit, at having succeeded in playing such a nasty trick on
Perrin. But my surprise was great when the curtain fell at the
close of the piece, and I got up quickly to answer to the call and
salute the public without languor, without fainting, ready to
recommence the piece.
And I marked this performance with a little white stone—for
that day I learned that my vital force was at the service of
my intellect. I had desired to follow the impulse of my brain,
whose conceptions seemed to me to be too forceful for my physical
strength to carry out and I found myself, having given
out all of which I was capable—and more—in perfect equilibrium.
Then I saw the possibility of the longed-for future.
I had fancied, and up to this performance of Zaïre I had
always heard, and read in the papers that my voice was pretty,
but weak; that my gestures were gracious, but vague; that my
supple movements lacked authority, and that my glance lost in
heavenward contemplation, could not tame the lion (the public).
I thought then of all that. I had received proof that I could
267count on my physical strength, for I had commenced the performance
of Zaïre in such a state of weakness that it was easy
to predict that I should not finish the first act without fainting.
On the other hand, although the rôle was easy, it required
two or three shrieks which might have provoked the vomiting of
blood which frequently troubled me at that time. That evening,
therefore, I acquired the certainty that I could count on the
strength of my vocal cords, for I had uttered my shrieks with
real rage and suffering, hoping to break something in my wild
desire to be revenged on Perrin.
Thus, this little comedy turned to my profit. Not being able
to die at will, I faced about and resolved to be strong, vivacious,
and active, to the great annoyance of some of my contemporaries,
who had put up with me only because they thought I would soon
die, but who began to hate me as soon as they acquired the conviction
that I should perhaps live for a long time. I will give
only one example, related by Alexandre Dumas, fils, who was
present at the death of his intimate friend, Charles Narrey, and
heard his dying words: “I am content to die because I shall
hear no more of Sarah Bernhardt and of the great Français”
(Ferdinand de Lesseps).
CHAPTER XVIII A HOLIDAY AND NEW SUCCESSES
268
But this revelation of my strength rendered more painful
to me the sort of idleness to which Perrin condemned
me. In fact, after Zaïre, I remained months
without anything of importance—playing here and
there. Then, discouraged and disgusted with the theater, I renewed
my passion for sculpture. After my ride I took a light
repast and then fled to my studio where I remained till the
evening.
Friends came to see me, sat around me, played the piano,
sang, warmly discussed politics—for in this modest studio I received
the most illustrious men of all parties. Several ladies
came to take tea, which was abominable and badly served; but I
did not care about that. I was absorbed by that admirable art.
I saw nothing, or to speak more truly. I would not see anything.
At this time I was making the bust of an adorable young
girl, Mlle. Emmy de X——. Her slow and measured conversation
had an infinite charm. She was a foreigner but spoke
French so perfectly that I was stupefied. She smoked a cigarette
all the time and had a profound disdain for those who did not
understand her.
I made the sittings last as long as possible, for I felt that this
delicate spirit was imbuing me with her science of seeing into
the beyond, and often in the serious steps of my life I have
said to myself: “What would Emmy have done?... What
would she have thought?...”
I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de
269Rothschild, who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced
the work immediately. But I had not properly considered
this admirable man—he had nothing of the æsthetic, but
the contrary. I tried, nevertheless, and I brought all my will to
bear in order to succeed in this first order of which I was so
proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on the
ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave it up, stammering
idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my
model, for he never returned to me. When we met, in our
morning rides, he saluted me with a cold and rather severe bow.
After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child,
Mlle. Multon, a delicious little American whom later on I came
across in Denmark, married and the mother of a family—but
still as pretty as ever. Then I made a bust of Mlle. Hocquigny,
that admirable person who was keeper of the linen in the
hospital cars during the war and who had so efficiently helped
me and my wounded at that time.
Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who
had, alas, a weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by
the hand of God! Two leonine eyes, shaded by long brown
lashes—so long that they made a shadow on her cheeks when she
lowered them—a slender nose with delicate nostrils, a tiny
mouth, a willful chin and a pearly skin, crowned by meshes of
sun rays, for I have never seen hair so blond and so pale, so
bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without
charm: the expression was hard and the mouth without smile.
I tried my best to reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it
needed a great artist and I was only a humble amateur.
When I exhibited the bust of my little sister, it was five
months after her death, which occurred after a six months’ illness
full of false hopes. I had taken her to my home, No. 4
Rue de Rome, to the little entresol which I had inhabited since
the terrible fire which had destroyed my furniture, my books,
my pictures, and all my scant possessions. This apartment in the
Rue de Rome was small. My bedroom was very tiny. The big
bamboo bed took up all the room. In front of the window was
my coffin, where I frequently installed myself to learn my parts.
270Therefore when I took my sister to my home I found it quite
natural to sleep every night in this little bed of white satin which
was to be my last couch, and to put my sister in the big bamboo
bed under the lace hangings. She herself found it quite natural,
also, for I would not leave her at night and it was impossible to
put another bed in this room. Besides, she was accustomed to
my coffin.
Three days after this new arrangement my manicure came
into the room to do my hands and my sister asked her to enter
quietly because I was still asleep. The woman turned her head,
believing that I was asleep in the armchair, but seeing me in my
coffin she rushed away, shrieking wildly. From that moment all
Paris knew that I slept in my coffin, and gossip with its thistledown
wings took flight in all directions.
I was so accustomed to the turpitudes which were written
about me that I did not trouble about this. But at the death of
my poor little sister a tragic-comic incident happened: when
the undertaker’s men came to the room to take away the body
they found themselves confronted with two coffins, and losing
his wits, the master of ceremonies sent in haste for a second
hearse. I was at that moment with my mother, who had lost
consciousness, and I got back just in time to prevent the black-clothed
men taking away my coffin. The second hearse was sent
back, but the papers got hold of this incident. I was blamed,
criticised, etc.
After the death of my sister I fell seriously ill. I had tended
her day and night, and this, in addition to the grief I was suffering,
made me anæmic. I was ordered to the South for two
months. I promised to go to Mentone and I turned immediately
toward Bretagne, the country of my dreams. I had with me
my little boy, my butler and his wife. My poor Guérard, who
had helped me to tend my sister, was in bed ill with phlebitis.
I would have much liked to have had her with me.
SARAH BERNHARDT IN HER COFFIN.
271Oh, the lovely holiday that we had there! Thirty-five years
ago Bretagne was wild, inhospitable, but as beautiful—perhaps
more beautiful than at present, for it was not furrowed with
roads, its green slopes were not dotted with small white villas,
its inhabitants—the men—were not dressed in the abominable
modern trousers, nor the women in the miserable little hat and
feathers. No, the Bretons proudly displayed their well-shaped
legs in gaiters or rough stockings, their feet shod with buckled
shoes, their long hair was brought down on the temples, hiding
any awkward ears, and giving to the face a nobility which the
modern style does not admit of. The women, with their short
skirts, which showed their slender ankles in black stockings, and
with their small heads under the wings of the headdress, resembled
seagulls. I am not speaking, of course, of the inhabitants
of Pont l’Abbé or of Bourg de Batz, who have entirely
different aspects.
I visited nearly the whole of Bretagne and stayed especially
at Finistère. The Pointe du Raz enchanted me. I remained
twelve days at Audierne, in the house of the Père Batifoulé, so
big and so fat that they had been obliged to cut a piece out of
the table to take in his immense abdomen. I set out every morning
at ten o’clock. My butler Claude himself prepared my
lunch, which he packed up very carefully in three little baskets;
then climbing into the comical vehicle of the Père Batifoulé, my
little boy driving, we set out for the Baie des Trépassés. Ah,
that beautiful and mysterious shore, all bristling with rocks, all
pale and sorrowful! The lighthouse keeper would be looking
out for me and would come to meet me. Claude gave him my
provisions with a thousand recommendations as to the manner
of cooking the eggs, warming up the lentils, and toasting the
bread. He carried off everything, then returned with two old
sticks in which he had stuck nails to make them into picks and
we recommenced the terrifying ascension of the Pointe du Raz,
a kind of labyrinth full of disagreeable surprises; of crevasses
across which we had to jump, over the gaping and roaring abyss;
of arches and tunnels through which we had to crawl on all
fours, having overhead—touching even—a rock which had fallen
there in unknown ages and was only held in equilibrium by some
inexplicable phenomena. Then, all at once, the way became so
narrow that it was impossible to walk straight forward; we had
to turn and put our backs against the rock and advance with
272both arms spread out and fingers holding on to the few projections
of the rock.
When I think of what I did in those moments, I tremble, for
I have always been and still am, subject to fits of dizziness. I
went over this path along a steep precipitous rock, thirty meters
high, in the midst of the infernal noise of the sea, at this place
eternally furious and raging fearfully against indestructible
rock. And I must have taken a mad pleasure in it, for I accomplished
this journey five times in eleven days.
After this challenge thrown down to reason, we descended
and installed ourselves in the Baie des Trépassés. After a bath
we had lunch and I painted till sunset.
The first day there was nobody there. The second day a child
came to look at us. The third day about ten children stood
around asking for sous. I was foolish enough to give them
some, and the following day there was a crowd of twenty or
thirty boys, some of them from sixteen to eighteen years old.
I had the ugly band routed by Claude and the lighthouse
keeper and as they took to throwing stones at us I pointed my
gun at the little troop. They fled howling. Only two boys,
of six and ten years of age, stayed. We did not take any notice
of them and I installed myself a little farther on, sheltered by
a rock which kept the wind away. The two boys followed.
Claude and the lighthouse keeper were on the lookout to see
that the boys did not come back. They were stooping down over
the extreme point of the rock which was above our heads.
They seemed peaceful, when suddenly my young maid jumped
up: “Horrors! Madame! Horrors! They are throwing lice
down on us!” And, in fact, the two little good-for-nothings
had been for the last hour searching for all the vermin they
could find on themselves and throwing them on us.
I had the two little beggars seized and they got a well-deserved
correction.
There was a crevasse which was called the “Enfer du
Plogoff.” I had a wild desire to go down this crevasse, but the
guardian dissuaded me, constantly giving as objections the
danger of slipping and his fear of responsibility in case of accident.
273I persisted, nevertheless, in my intention, and after a
thousand promises, in addition to a certificate to testify that
notwithstanding the supplications of the guardian and the certainty
of the danger that I ran, I had persisted all the same, etc.,
and after having made a small present of ten louis to the brave
man, I obtained the facilities for descending the “Enfer du
Plogoff”—that is to say a wide belt to which a strong rope was
fastened. I buckled this belt round my waist, which was then
so slender (forty-three centimeters) that it was necessary to
make additional holes in order to fasten it.
Then the guardian put on each of my hands a wooden shoe,
the sole of which was bordered with big nails jutting out two
centimeters. I stared at these wooden shoes and asked for an
explanation before putting them on.
“Well,” said the guardian Lucas, “when I let you down,
as you are no fatter than a herringbone, you will get shaken
about in the crevasse and will risk breaking your bones; while if
you have the sabots on your hands you can protect yourself
against the walls by putting out your arms to the right and the
left, according as you are shaken up against them. I do not say
that you will not have a few—bangs—but that is your own fault,
you will go. Now, listen, my little lady: when you are at the
bottom, on the rock in the middle, mind you don’t slip, for that
is the most dangerous of all; if you fell in the water I might pull
the rope, for sure, but I don’t answer for anything. In that
cursed whirlpool of water you might be caught between two
stones and it would be no use for me to pull—I should break the
rope and that would be all.”
Then the man grew pale and making the sign of the cross, he
leaned toward me, murmuring in a faint voice: “It is the
shipwrecked ones who are there, under the stones, down there.
It is they who dance in the moonlight on the shore of the dead
(‘Trépassés’). It is they who put the slippery seaweed on
the little rock, down there, in order to make travelers slip, and
then they drag them to the bottom of the sea.” Then, looking
me in the eyes, he said: “Will you go down all the same?”
“Yes, certainly, Père Lucas, I will go down at once.”
274My little boy was building forts and castles on the sand with
Félicie. Only Claude was with me. He did not say a word,
knowing my unbridled desire to meet danger. He looked to see
if the belt was properly fastened, and asked my permission to tie
the tongue of the belt firmly, then he passed a strong cord several
times around to strengthen the leather, and I was let down, suspended
by the rope in the blackness of the crevasse. I extended
my arms to the right and the left, as the guardian had told me to
do, and even then I got my elbows scraped. At first I thought
that the noise I heard was the reverberation of the echo of the
blows of the wooden shoes against the edges of the crevasse but
suddenly a frightful din filled my ears: successive firings of cannon,
strident, ringing, crackings of a whip, plaintive howlings
and repeated monotonous cries as of a hundred fishermen drawing
up a net filled with fish, seaweed, and pebbles. All the noises
mingled under the mad violence of the wind. I became furious
with myself, for I was really afraid. The lower I went, the
louder the howlings became in my ears and my brain; and my
heart beat the order of retreat. The wind swept through the
narrow tunnel and blew in all directions round my legs, my
body, my neck. A horrible fear took possession of me. I
descended slowly and at each little shock I felt that the four
hands holding me above had come to a knot. I tried to remember
the number of knots, for it seemed to me that I was
making no progress. Then, filled with terror, I opened my
mouth to call out to be drawn up again, but the wind, which
danced in mad folly around me, filled my mouth and drove back
the words. I was nearly suffocated. Then I shut my eyes and
ceased to struggle. I would not even put out my arms. A few
moments after I pulled up my legs in unspeakable terror. The
sea had just seized them in a brutal embrace which had wet me
through. However, I recovered courage, for now I could see
clearly. I stretched out my legs and found myself upright on
the little rock. It is true it was very slippery. I took hold of
a large ring fixed in the vault which overhung the rock and
looked round. The long and narrow crevasse grew suddenly
larger at its base and terminated in a large grotto which looked
275out over the open sea; but the entrance of this grotto was protected
by a quantity of both large and small rocks which could
be seen for a distance of a league in front on the surface of the
water—which explains the terrible noise of the sea dashing into
the labyrinth and the possibility of standing upright on a rock
with the wild dance of the waves all around.
However, I saw very plainly that a false step might be fatal
in the brutal whirl of waters which came rushing in from afar
with dizzy speed and broke against the insurmountable obstacle,
and in receding dashed against other waves which followed
them. From this cause proceeded the perpetual fusillade of
waters which rushed into the crevasse without danger of drowning
me.
The night commenced to fall, and I experienced a fearful
anguish in discovering on the crest of a little rock two enormous
eyes which looked fixedly at me. Then a little farther,
near a tuft of seaweed, two more large, fixed eyes. I saw no
body to these beings—nothing but the eyes. I thought for a
minute that I was losing my senses, and I bit my tongue till
the blood came, then I pulled violently at the rope, as I had
agreed to do, in order to give the signal for being drawn up.
I felt the trembling joy of the four hands pulling me, and my
feet lost their hold as I was lifted up by my guardians. The
eyes were lifted up also, troubled to see me go. And while I
mounted through the air I saw nothing but eyes everywhere—eyes
throwing out long feelers to reach me. I had never seen
an octopus, and I did not even know of the existence of these
horrible beasts.
During the ascension, which seemed to me interminable, I
imagined I saw these beasts along the walls, and my teeth were
chattering when I was drawn on to the green hillock.
I immediately told the guardian the cause of my terror, and
he crossed himself, saying: “Those were the eyes of the shipwrecked
ones. No one must stay there!”
I knew very well that they were not the eyes of shipwrecked
ones, but I did not know what they were. For I thought I
had seen some strange beasts that no one had ever seen before.
276It was only at the hotel, with Père Batifoulé, that I learned
to know the octopus.
Only five more days of holiday were left to me, and I passed
them at the Pointe du Raz, seated in a niche of rock which has
been since named “Sarah Bernhardt’s armchair.” Many tourists
have sat there since, and many have sent me verses.
I returned to Paris when my holiday was finished. But I
was still very weak and could not take up my work until
toward the month of November. I played all the pieces of my
répertoire, and I was annoyed at not having any new rôles.
One day Perrin came to see me in my sculptor’s studio.
He began to talk at first about my busts; he told me that I ought
to do his medallion, and asked me, incidentally, if I knew the
rôle of Phèdre. Up to this time I had played only Aricie, and
the part of Phèdre seemed formidable to me. I had, however,
studied it for my own pleasure.
“Yes, I know the rôle of Phèdre. But I think if ever I had
to play it I should die of fright.”
He laughed with his silly little laugh and said to me, squeezing
my hand (for he was very gallant): “Work it up; I think
that you will play it.”
In fact, eight days after I was called to the directorial office,
and Perrin told me that he had announced “Phèdre” for
the 21st of December, the fête of Racine, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt
in the part of Phèdre. I thought I should fall.
“Well, but what about Mlle. Rousseil?” I asked.
“Mlle. Rousseil wishes to have the Committee promise that
she shall become an Associate in the month of January, and
the Committee, which will without doubt appoint her, refuses
to make this promise, and declares that this demand is like a
threat. But perhaps Mlle. Rousseil will change her plans, and
in that case you will play Aricie and I will change the bill.”
Coming out from Perrin’s I ran up against M. Regnier. I
told him of my conversation with the director and of my fears.
“No, no,” said the great artiste to me, “you must not be
afraid! I see very well what you are going to make of this
277rôle. But all you have to do is to be careful and not force your
voice. Make the rôle sorrowful rather than furious—it will be
better for everyone—even Racine.”
Then, joining my hands, I said: “Dear M. Regnier, help me
to work up Phèdre and I shall not be so much afraid.”
He looked at me rather surprised, for in general I was
neither docile nor apt to be guided by advice. I own that I
was wrong, but I could not help it. But the responsibility
which this put upon me made me timid. Regnier accepted and
gave me a rendezvous for the following morning at nine o’clock.
Roselia Rousseil persisted in her demand to the Committee,
and “Phèdre” was billed for the 21st of December, with Mlle.
Sarah Bernhardt for the first time in the rôle of Phèdre.
This caused quite a sensation in the artistic set and in the
theater-loving world. That evening over two hundred people
were turned away at the ticket office. And when I was told
that I began to tremble so much that my teeth chattered.
Regnier comforted me as best he could, saying: “Courage!
Cheer up! Are you not the spoiled darling of the public?
They will take into consideration your inexperience in important
first parts, etc....”
These were the last words he should have said to me. I
should have felt stronger if I had known that the public were
come to oppose and not to encourage me.
I began to cry bitterly, like a child. Perrin was called and
consoled me as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting
powder on my face so awkwardly that I was blinded and
suffocated.
Everybody in the theater knew about it and stood at the
door of my dressing-room wishing to comfort me. Mounet-Sully,
who was playing Hippolyte, told me that he had dreamed:
“We were playing ‘Phèdre’ and you were hissed, and my
dreams always go by contraries—so,” he cried, “we shall have
a tremendous success!”
But what put me completely in a good humor was the arrival
of the worthy Martel, who was playing Théramène, and who
had come so quickly, believing me ill, that he had not had time
278to finish his nose. The sight of this gray face with a wide bar
of red wax commencing between the two eyebrows, coming down
to half a centimeter below his nose and leaving behind it the
end of the nose with two large black nostrils—this face was
indescribable! And everybody laughed irrepressibly. I knew
that Martel made up his nose, for I had already seen this poor
nose change shape at the second performance of “Zaïre,” under
the tropical depression of the atmosphere; but I had never
realized how much he lengthened it. This comical apparition
restored all my gayety, and from henceforth I was in full possession
of my faculties.
The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press
was unanimous in praise, with the exception of the article of
Paul de St. Victor, who was on very good terms with a sister
of Rachel, and could not get over my impertinent presumption
in daring to measure myself with the great dead artiste; these
are his own words, addressed to Girardin, who immediately told
me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had never seen
Rachel act, but I worshiped her talent, for I had surrounded
myself with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought
of comparing me with their idol.
A few days after this performance of “Phèdre,” the new
piece of Bornier was read to us—“La Fille de Roland.” The
part of Berthe was confided to me, and we immediately began
the rehearsals of this fine piece, whose verses were, nevertheless,
a little flat, but which had a real breath of patriotism. There
was in this piece a terrible duel, which the public did not see,
but which was related by Berthe, the daughter of Roland, while
the incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy girl, who,
from a window of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes
of the encounter. This scene was the only important one of
my much sacrificed rôle.
The piece was ready to be passed when Bornier asked that
his friend, Emile Augier, should be present at a general rehearsal.
When the play was finished Perrin came to me; he
had an affectionate and constrained air. As to Bornier, he
came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome manner.
279Emile Augier followed him. “Well,” he said to me. I
looked straight at him, feeling in this moment that he was my
enemy. He stopped short and scratched his head, then turned
toward Augier and said:
“I beg you, cher Maître, explain to mademoiselle yourself.”
Emile Augier was a broad man with wide shoulders and a
common appearance, at this time rather fat. He was in very
good repute at the Théâtre Français, of which he was, for
the moment, the successful author. He came near me: “You
managed the part at the window very well, mademoiselle, but
it is ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of the author,
who has written a most improbable scene. The public would
laugh immoderately; this scene must be taken out.”
I turned toward Perrin, who was listening silently: “Are
you of the same opinion, sir?”
“I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but
the author is master of his work.”
Then addressing myself to Bornier, I said: “Well, my dear
author, what have you decided?”
Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in
this beseeching and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at
having to cut out a scene which he prized, and of fear to vex an
Academician just at the time when he was hoping to become
a member of the Academy.
“Cut it out! cut it out! or you are done for!” brutally
replied Augier, and turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who
resembled a Breton gnome, came up to me. He scratched himself
desperately, for the unfortunate man had a skin disease
which itched terribly. He did not speak. He looked at us
questioningly. A poignant anxiety was expressed on his face.
Perrin, who had come up to me, guessed the private little drama
which was taking place in the heart of the mild Bornier.
“Refuse energetically,” murmured Perrin to me.
I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this
scene was taken out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier
seized both my hands which he kissed ardently, and running
up to Augier he cried with comical emphasis:
280“But I cannot take it out! I cannot take it out! She will
not play! And the day after to-morrow the play is to be
passed!” Then as Emile Augier made a gesture, and would
have spoken—“No! No! To put back my play eight days
would be to kill it! I cannot take it out! Oh, my God!” And
he cried and gesticulated with his two long arms, and stamped
with his short legs. His large hairy head went from right to
left. He was at the same time funny and pitiful. Emile Augier
was irritated, and turned on me like a hunted boar on a pursuing
dog:
“You will take the responsibility, mademoiselle, of the absurd
window scene at the first presentation?”
“Certainly, monsieur, and I even promise to make of this
scene, which I find very fine, an enormous success!”
He rudely shrugged his shoulders, muttering something very
disagreeable between his teeth.
When I left the theater I met poor Bornier quite transfigured.
He thanked me a thousand times, for he thought very
highly of this scene, but dared not thwart Emile Augier. Both
Perrin and myself had divined the legitimate emotions of this
poor poet, so gentle and so well brought up, but a trifle
Jesuitical.
The play was a big success. But the window scene on the
night of the first presentation was a veritable triumph.
It was a short time after the terrible war of 1870. The
play contained frequent allusions to this, and, owing to the
patriotism of the public, had an even greater success than it
deserved as a play. I had Emile Augier called. He came into
my dressing-room with a surly air and called to me from the
door:
“So much the worse for the public! It only proves that
the public is an idiot to make a success of such vileness!” And
he disappeared without having even entered my dressing-room.
His outburst made me laugh, and as the triumphant Bornier
had embraced me repeatedly, I hugged myself in glee.
SARAH BERNHARDT PAINTING, 1878–9.
281Two months later I played “Gabrielle,” by this same Augier,
and I had incessant quarrels with him. I found the verses
of this play execrable. Coquelin, who took the part of my husband,
had a grand success. As for me, I was as mediocre as
the play itself, which is saying much.
I had been admitted Associate in the month of January, and
since then it seemed to me that I was in prison, for I had
undertaken the engagement not to leave Molière’s Theater for
several years. This idea made me sad. It was Perrin who had
instigated me to ask to become Associate, and now I regretted
it very much.
Almost all the latter part of the year I played only occasionally.
My time was then occupied in looking after the building
of a pretty hôtel which I was having constructed at the corner
of the Avenue de Villiers and the Rue Fontuny. A sister of
my grandmother had left me in her will a nice legacy which
I used to buy the ground. My great desire was to have a house
that should be entirely my own, and I was then realizing it.
The son-in-law of M. Regnier, Félix Escalier, a fashionable
architect, was building me a ravishing hôtel! Nothing amused
me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished
house. Then afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then
I went on the roofs. I forgot my worries of the theater in this
new occupation. The thing I most desired just now was to
become an architect. Then, when the building was finished,
the interior had to be thought of. I spent my strength in
helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings
in my bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall—Georges Clairin,
the architect Escalier, who was also a talented painter, Duez,
Picard, Butin, Jadin, Jourdain, and Parrot. I was deeply interested,
and I recollect a joke which I played on one of my
relations. My Aunt Betsy had come from Holland, her native
country, to pass a few days in Paris. She was staying with my
mother. I invited her to lunch in my new, unfinished habitation.
Five of my painter friends were working, some in one
room, some in another, and everywhere lofty scaffoldings were
erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more easily
I was wearing my sculptor’s costume. My aunt, seeing me thus
282arrayed, was horribly shocked and told me so. But I was preparing
yet another surprise for her. She thought these young
workers were ordinary house painters and considered I was
too familiar with them. But she nearly fainted when midday
came and I rushed to the piano to play “The Complaint of
the Hungry Stomachs.” This wild melody had been improvised
by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet
friends. When the song was finished I mounted into my bedroom
and made myself into a fine lady for lunch.
My aunt had followed me: “But, my dear,” said she, “you
are mad to think I am going to eat with all these workmen.
Certainly in all Paris there is no one but yourself who would
do such a thing.”
“No, no, aunt, it is all right.”
And I dragged her off, when I was dressed, to the dining-room,
which was the most habitable room of the house. Five
young men solemnly bowed to my aunt, who did not recognize
them at first, for they had changed their working clothes and
looked like five respectable young men of society. Mme. Guérard
lunched with us. Suddenly, in the middle of lunch, my
aunt, cried out: “But these are the workmen!” The five young
men rose and bowed low. Then my poor aunt understood her
mistake and excused herself in every possible manner, so confused
was she.
CHAPTER XIX BUSY DAYS
283
One day Alexandre Dumas, fils, was announced. He
came to bring me the good news that he had finished
his play for the Comédie Française: “L’Etrangère,”
and that my rôle, the Duchess de Septmonts,
had come out very well. “You can,” he said to me, “make a
fine success out of it.” I expressed my gratitude to him.
A month after this visit we were convoked to the Comédie
for the reading of this piece.
The reading was a great success, and I was delighted with
my rôle: Catherine de Septmonts. I also liked the rôle of Croizette:
Mistress Clarkson. Got gave us each our parts, and
thinking that he had made a mistake I passed on to Croizette
the rôle of l’Etrangère, which he had just given me,
saying to her: “Here, Got has made a mistake—here is your
rôle.”
“But he is not making any mistake, it is I who am to play
the Duchess de Septmonts.”
I burst out into irrepressible laughter, which surprised everybody
present, and when Perrin, annoyed, asked me why I was
laughing like that, I exclaimed:
“At all of you—you, Dumas, Got, Croizette—and all of
you who are in the plot, and who are all a little afraid of the
result of your cowardice. Well, you need not alarm yourselves.
I was delighted to play the Duchesse de Septmonts, but I shall
be ten times more delighted to play the Stranger. And this
time, my dear Sophie, I make no account of you; you are not
284worth considering, for you have played me a little trick which
was quite unworthy of our friendship!”
The rehearsals were strained on all sides. Perrin, who was
a warm partisan of Croizette, bewailed the want of suppleness
of her talent, so much so that one day Croizette, out of all
patience, burst out:
“Well, monsieur, you should have left the rôle to Sarah,
she would have taken the part in the love scenes as you wish;
I cannot do any better. You irritate me too much, I have had
enough of it!” And she ran off, sobbing, into the little guignol,
where she had an attack of hysteria. I followed her and
consoled her as well as I could. And in the midst of her tears
she kissed me, murmuring: “It is true, it is they who instigated
me to do this nasty trick, and now they are bothering
me.” Croizette spoke broadly—very broadly—and sometimes
she had quite a provincial accent.
Then we made up our quarrel entirely.
A week before the first performance I received an anonymous
letter informing me that Perrin was trying his very best
to get Dumas to change the name of the piece. He wished—it
goes without saying—to have the piece called “La Duchesse
de Septmonts.” I rushed off to the theater to find Perrin at
once. At the door I met Coquelin, who was taking the part
of the Duc de Septmonts, which he did marvelously well. I
showed him the letter. He shrugged his shoulders. “It is
infamous! But why do you take any notice of an anonymous
letter? It is not worthy of you!” We were talking at the
foot of the staircase when the manager arrived.
“Here, show the letter to Perrin.” And he took it from
my hands in order to show it to him. Perrin reddened slightly.
“I know this writing,” he said. “It is some one from the
theater who has written this letter.”
I snatched it back from him. “Then it is some one who is
well informed, and what he says is perhaps true, is it not so?
Tell me, I have the right to know.”
“I detest anonymous letters.” And he went up the stairs
with a slight bow, without saying anything further.
285“Ah, if it is true,” said Coquelin, “it is too much! Would
you like me to go to see Dumas? I will find out at once.”
“No, thank you. But you have put an idea into my head.”
And shaking hands with him I went off immediately to see
Dumas, fils. He was just going out.
“Well, well! What is the matter? Your eyes are blazing!”
I went with him into the drawing-room and asked my question
at once. He had kept his hat on and took it off to recover
his self-possession. Before he could speak a word I got furiously
angry—one of those rages which I sometimes have, and
which are more like attacks of madness. With all that I felt
of bitterness toward this man, toward Perrin, toward all this
theatrical world who should have loved me and upheld me,
and who betrayed me on every occasion—all that I had been
accumulating of hot anger during the rehearsals, the cries of
revolt against the perpetual injustice of these two men, Perrin
and Dumas—I burst out with everything, in an avalanche of
stinging words, which were both furious and sincere. I reminded
him of his promise made in former days; of his visit
to my hôtel in the Avenue de Villiers; of the cowardly and
underhand manner in which he had written of me, at Perrin’s
request, and on the wishes of the friends of Sophie.... I spoke
vehemently, without allowing him to edge in a single word.
And when, worn out, I was forced to stop, I murmured, out of
breath with fatigue: “What—what—what have you to say
for yourself?”
“My dear child,” he replied, much touched, “if I had
examined my own conscience I should have said to myself all
that you have just said to me so eloquently. But I can truly
say, in order to excuse myself a little, that I really believed
that you did not care at all about your theater; that you much
preferred your sculpture, your painting, and your court. We
have seldom talked together, and people led me to believe all
that which I was perhaps too ready to believe. Your grief and
anger have touched me deeply. I give you my word that the
play shall keep its title of ‘L’Etrangère.’ And now, embrace me
286with a good grace, to show that you are no longer angry
with me.”
I embraced him, and from that day we were good friends.
That evening I told the whole tale to Croizette, and I saw
that she knew nothing about this wicked scheme. I was very
pleased to know that.
The play was very successful. Coquelin, Febvre, and I carried
off the laurels of the day.
I had just commenced in my studio, in the Avenue de Clichy,
a large group, the inspiration for which I had gathered from
the sad history of an old woman whom I often saw at nightfall
in the Baie des Trépassés. One day I went up to her wishing
to speak to her, but I was so terrified by her aspect of madness
that I rushed off at once, and the guardian told me her history.
She was the mother of five sons—all sailors. Two had
been killed by the Germans in 1870, and three had been
drowned. She had brought up the little son of her youngest
boy, always keeping him far from the sea and teaching him
to hate the water. She had never left the little lad; but he
became so sad that he was really ill, and he said he was dying
because he wanted to see the sea. “Well, make haste and get
well,” said the grandmother tenderly, “and we will go and
visit the sea together.” Two days later the child was better,
and the grandmother left the valley in the company of her
little grandson to go and see the ocean, the grave of her three
sons.
It was a November day. A low sky hung over the sea limiting
the horizon. The child jumped with joy. He ran, gamboled,
and sang for happiness when he saw all this living water.
The grandmother sat on the sand and hid her tearful eyes in
her two trembling hands; then, suddenly, struck by the silence,
she looked up in terror. There, in front of her she saw a boat
drifting, and in the boat her boy, her little lad of eight years
old, who was laughing right merrily, paddling as well as he could
with one oar that he could hardly hold, and crying out: “I am
going to see what there is behind the mist and I will come back.”
He never came back. And the following day they found the
287poor old woman talking low to the waves which came and bathed
her feet. She came every day to the water’s edge, throwing in
the bread which kindly folk gave her and saying to the waves:
“You must carry that to the little lad.”
This touching narrative had remained in my memory. I can
still see the tall old woman with her brown cape and hood. I
worked feverishly at the group. It seemed to me now that I was
destined to be a sculptor and I began to despise my theater. I
went there only when I was compelled by my duties and I left it
as soon as possible.
I had made several designs, none of which pleased me. Just
when I was going to throw down the last one in discouragement,
the painter Georges Clairin, who came to see me, begged me not
to do so. And my good friend, Mathieu Mensiner, who was a
man of talent, also joined his voice against the destruction of my
design.
Excited by their encouragement I decided to push on with
the work and to make a large group. I asked Lourdier if he
knew any tall, bony old woman, and he sent me two, but neither
of them suited me. Then I asked all my painter and sculptor
friends, and during eight days all sorts of old and infirm women
came for my inspection. I fixed at last on a charwoman who
was about sixty years old. She was very tall and had very
sharply cut features. When she came in I felt a slight sentiment
of fear. The idea of remaining alone with this female
gendarme for hours together made me feel uneasy. But when
I heard her speak I was more comfortable. Her timid, gentle
voice and frightened gestures, like a shy young girl, contrasted
strangely with the build of the poor woman. When I showed
her the design she was stupefied: “Do you want me to have my
neck and shoulders bare? I really cannot.” I told her that
nobody ever came in when I worked and I asked to see her neck
immediately.
Oh, that neck! I clapped my hands with joy when I saw it.
It was long, emaciated, terrible. The bones literally stood out
almost bare of flesh, the Adam’s apple looked as if it would come
through the skin. It was just what I wanted. I went up to her
288and gently bared her shoulder. What a treasure I had found!
the bones of the shoulder were entirely visible under the skin
and she had two immense “salt cellars.” The woman was ideal
for my work. She seemed destined for it. She blushed when I
told her so. I asked to see her feet. She took off her thick boots
and showed a dirty foot which had no character. “No,” I
said, “thank you. Your feet are too small, I will take only your
head and shoulders.”
After having fixed the price I engaged her for three months.
At the idea of earning so much money for three months the poor
woman began to cry and I felt so sorry for her that I told her
she would not have to seek for work that winter, because she had
already told me that she generally passed six months of the year
in the country, at Sologne, near her grandchildren.
Having found the grandmother I now needed the grandchild.
I then had passed in review before me a whole army of little
Italians, professional models. There were some lovely children,
real little Jupins. The mothers undressed their children in one
moment and the children posed quite naturally and took attitudes
which showed off their muscles and the development of
the torso. I chose a fine little boy of seven years, but who
looked more like nine. I had already had the workmen in to put
up the scaffolding required to make it sufficiently stable to sustain
the necessary weight. Enormous iron supports were fixed
into the plaster by bolts, and pillars of wood and iron wherever
needed. The skeleton of a large piece of sculpture looks like
a giant trap put up to catch rats and mice by the thousand.
I gave myself up to this enormous work with the courage of
ignorance. Nothing discouraged me. Often I worked on till
midnight, sometimes till four o’clock in the morning. And as
one, humble gas burner was totally insufficient for working by,
I had a crown or rather a silver circlet made, each bud of which
was a candlestick with a candle burning, those of the back
row a little higher than those of the front; and with this help I
was able to work almost without ceasing. I had no watch or
clock in the room, as I wished to ignore time altogether. Then
my maid would come to seek me. How many times I have gone
without lunch or dinner! Then I would perhaps faint and so
be compelled to send for something to eat to restore my strength.
SARAH BERNHARDT AT WORK ON HER “MÊDÉE.”
289I had almost finished my group, but I had done neither the
feet nor the hands of the grandmother. She was holding her
little dead grandson on her knees, but her arms had no hands and
her legs had no feet. I looked in vain for the hands and the feet
of my ideal, large and bony. One day when my friend Martel
came to see me at my studio and to look at this group which was
much talked of, I had an inspiration: Martel was big, and thin
enough to make Death jealous. I watched him walking round
my work. He was looking at it as a connoisseur. But I was
looking at him. Suddenly I said:
“My dear Martel, I beg you ... I beseech you ... to
pose for the hands and feet of my grandmother.”
He burst out laughing, and with perfectly good grace took
off his shoes and took the place of my model.
He came ten days running and gave me three hours each day.
Thanks to him I was able to finish my group. I had it molded
and sent to the Salon (1876) where it had a veritable success.
Is there any need to say that I was accused of having got some
one else to make this group for me? I asked one critic to meet
me. This was no other than Jules Claretie, who had declared
that this work, which was very interesting, could not have been
done by me. Jules Claretie excused himself very politely and
that was the end of it.
The jury, after being fully informed on the subject, awarded
me “honorable mention,” and I was wild with joy.
I was very much criticised, but also very much praised.
Nearly all the criticisms were directed to the neck of my old
Breton woman—that neck on which I had worked with such
eagerness.
The following is from an article by Réné Delorme:
“The work of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt deserves to be studied
in detail. The head of the grandmother, well worked out as to
the profound wrinkles it bears, expresses that intense sorrow
in which everything else counts as nothing. The only reproach
I have to bring against this artist is that she has brought too
290much into prominence the muscles of the neck of the old grandmother.
This shows a lack of experience. She is pleased with
herself for having studied anatomy so well and is not sorry for
the opportunity of showing it. It is,” etc., etc....
Certainly this gentleman was right—I had studied anatomy
eagerly and in a very amusing manner. I had had lessons from
Doctor Parrot who was so good to me. I had continually with
me a book of anatomical designs, and when I was at home I stood
before the glass and said suddenly to myself, putting my finger
on some part of my body: “Now, then, what is that?” I had
to answer immediately, without hesitation, and when I hesitated
I compelled myself to learn by heart the muscles of the head or
the arm and did not sleep till this was done.
A month after the exhibition there was a reading of Parodi’s
play, “Rome Vaincue,” at the Comédie Française. I refused
the rôle of the young vestal Opïmia, which had been allotted to
me, and energetically demanded that of Posthumia, an old blind
Roman woman with a superb and noble face. No doubt there
was some connection in my mind between my old Breton weeping
over her son, and the august patrician claiming pardon for her
granddaughter.
Perrin was at first astounded. Afterwards he acceded to my
request. But his order-loving mind, and his taste for symmetry
made him anxious about Mounet-Sully, who was also playing in
the piece. He was accustomed to seeing Mounet-Sully and me
playing the two heroes, the two lovers, the two victims. How
was he to arrange matters so that we should still be the two ...
together? Eureka! There was in the play an old idiot named
Vastaepor, who was quite unnecessary for the action of the piece,
but had been brought in to satisfy Perrin. “Eureka!” cried
the director of the Comédie, “Mounet-Sully shall play Vestaepor!”
Equilibrium was restored. The God of the bourgeois
was content.
The piece, which was really quite mediocre, obtained a big
success at the first presentation (27th September, 1876), and
personally I was very successful in the fourth act. The crowd
291was decidedly in my favor in spite of everything and everybody.
The performance of “Hernani” made me more the favorite
of the public than ever. I had already gone through it with
Victor Hugo and it was a real pleasure to me to visit the great
poet each day. I had never discontinued my visits to him, but
I was never able to have any conversation with him in his own
house. There were always men in red ties gesticulating, or
women in tears reciting. He was very good; he listened to me
with half-closed eyes and I thought he was asleep. Then when I
stopped he roused up at the silence and said a consoling word,
for Victor Hugo would not have promised to hear me without
keeping his word. He was not like me; I promise everything
with the firm intention of keeping my promises, and two hours
after I have forgotten all about them. If anybody reminds me
of what I have promised I tear my hair and to make up for my
forgetfulness I say anything, I buy presents, in fact I complicate
my life with useless worries. It has always been so and always
will.
As I was grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never
could have a chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch,
saying that after lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted
with this lunch, to which Paul Maurice the poet, Léon
Gladel, Gustave Doré and the Cummunard X— (a Russian lady
whose name I do not remember) were also invited. In front
of Victor Hugo sat Mme. Drouet, the friend of his unlucky days.
But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly
served. My feet were frozen by the draughts from the three
doors, which fitted badly, and one could positively hear the wind
blowing under the table. Near me was Mr. X——, the German
architect, who is to-day a very successful man. This man had
such dirty hands and ate so badly that he made me feel sick. I
met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean and proper,
and I believe an Imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling
this uncongenial neighbor inspired in me, the cold draughts
blowing on my feet, the boredom I was afflicted with—all reduced
me to a state of positive suffering and I lost consciousness.
292When I recovered I found myself on a couch, my hand in that
of Mme. Drouet and in front of me, sketching me, Gustave
Doré.
“Oh, don’t move,” he cried, “you are so pretty like that!”
These words, though they were so inappropriate, pleased me,
nevertheless, and I complied with the wish of the great artist.
From that day we were the best of friends.
I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-by to
him, a trifle ashamed of myself. The next day he came to see
me. I told him some tale to account for my illness and I saw no
more of him except at the rehearsals of “Hernani.”
The first performance of “Hernani” took place on the 21st
November, 1877. It was a triumph alike for the author and the
actors. “Hernani” had already been played ten years earlier,
but Delaunay, who then took the part of Hernani, was the exact
contrary of what this part should have been. He was neither
epic, romantic, nor poetic. He had not the style of these grand
times. He was charming, gracious, and with a perpetual smile,
of middle height, with studied movements, ideal in Musset, perfect
in Emile Augier, charming in Molière, but execrable in
Victor Hugo.
Bressant, who took the part of Charles-Quint, was worst
of all. His amiable and flabby style and his weak and wandering
eyes effectively prevented all grandeur. His two enormous
feet, generally half hidden under his trousers, took on immense
proportions. I could see nothing else. They were very large,
flat, and slightly turned in at the toes. They were a nightmare!
But think of their possessor repeating the admirable couplet of
Charles-Quint to the shade of Charlemagne! It was absurd!
The public coughed, wriggled, and showed that they found the
whole thing painful and ridiculous.
In our performance (in 1877) it was Mounet-Sully in all the
splendor of his talent who played Hernani. And it was
Worms, that admirable artiste who played Charles-Quint—and
how well he took the part! How he rolled out the lines! What
a splendid diction he had! This performance of the 21st of
November, 1877, was a triumph. The public received me very
293well in my rôle. I played Doña Sol. Victor Hugo sent me this
letter:
Madame: You have been great and charming; you have moved me—me,
the old man, and at one part, while the public whom you had enchanted
cheered you, I wept. This tear which I shed for you, and through
you, is at your feet, where I place myself.
Victor Hugo.
With this letter came a small box containing a fine chain
bracelet, from which hung one diamond drop. I lost this bracelet
at the rich nabob’s, Alfred Sassoon. He would have given
me another, but I refused. He could not give me back the tear
of Victor Hugo.
My success at the Comédie was assured, and the public
treated me as a spoiled child. My friends were a little jealous
of me. Perrin made trouble for me at every turn. He had
a sort of friendship for me, but he could not believe that I could
get on without him, and as he always refused to do as I wanted
I did not go to him for anything. I sent a letter to the Ministère
and I always won my cause.
CHAPTER XX A BALLOON ASCENSION
294
As I had a continual thirst for what was new, I now
tried my hand at painting. I knew how to draw a
little and had a well-developed sense of color. I
first did two or three small pictures—then I undertook
the portrait of my dear Guérard. Alfred Stevens thought
it was vigorously done, and Georges Clairin encouraged me to
continue with painting. Then I launched out courageously,
boldly. I began a picture which was nearly two meters in size:
“The Young Girl and Death.”
Then there was a cry of indignation against me.
Why did I want to do anything else but act, since that was
my career?
Why did I always want to be before the public?
Perrin came to see me one day when I was very ill. He
began to preach. “You are killing yourself, my dear child,”
he said. “Why do you go in for sculpture, painting, etc.? Is
it to prove that you can do it?”
“Oh, no, no,” I answered; “it is merely to create a necessity
for staying here!”
“I don’t understand,” said Perrin, listening very attentively.
“This is how it is. I have a wild desire to travel, to see
something else, to breathe another air, and to see skies that are
higher than ours and trees that are bigger; something different,
in short. I have therefore had to create for myself some tasks
which will hold me to my chains. If I did not do this, I feel
295that my desire to see other things in the world would win the
day and I should do something foolish.”
This conversation was destined to go against me some years
later when the Comédie brought an action against me.
The Exhibition of 1878 put the finishing stroke to the state
of exasperation that Perrin and some of the artistes of the theater
were in with regard to me. They blamed me for everything, for
my painting, my sculpture, and my health. I had a terrible
scene with Perrin and it was the last one, for from that time
forth we did not speak to each other again; a formal bow was the
most that we exchanged afterwards.
The climax was reached over my balloon ascension. I adored
and I still adore balloons. Every day I went up in M. Giffard’s
captive balloon. This persistency had struck the savant and he
asked a mutual friend to introduce him.
“Oh, M. Giffard,” I said, “how I should like to go up in a
balloon that is not captive!”
“Well, mademoiselle, you shall do so if you like,” he replied
very kindly.
“When?” I asked.
“Any day you like.”
I should have liked to start immediately, but as he pointed
out he would have to fit the balloon up and it was a great responsibility
for him to undertake. We therefore fixed upon the
following Tuesday, just a week from then. I asked M. Giffard
to say nothing about it, for if the newspapers should get hold of
this piece of news, my terrified family would not allow me to
go. M. Tissandier, who a little time after was doomed, poor
fellow, to be killed in an aërial accident, promised to accompany
me. Something happened, however, to prevent his going with
me, and it was young Godard who the following week accompanied
me in the Doña Sol—a beautiful orange-colored balloon
specially prepared for my expedition. Prince Jerome Napoleon
(Plon-Plon), who was with me when Giffard was introduced,
insisted on going with us. But he was heavy and rather clumsy
and I did not care much about his conversation, in spite of his
marvelous wit, for he was spiteful and rather delighted when
296he could get a chance to attack the Emperor Napoleon III, whom
I liked very much.
We started alone, Georges Clairin, Godard, and I. The
rumor of our journey had nevertheless spread, but too late for
the Press to get hold of it. I had been up in the air about five
minutes when one of my friends, Count de M——, met Perrin
on the Pont des Saints-Pères.
“I say,” he began, “look up in the sky! There is your star
shooting away.”
Perrin looked up, and pointing to the balloon which was
rising he asked: “Who is in that?”
“Sarah Bernhardt,” replied my friend. Perrin, it appears,
turned purple, and clenching his teeth, he murmured: “That’s
another of her freaks, but she will pay for this.”
He hurried away without even saying good-by to my young
friend, who stood there stupefied at this unreasonable burst of
anger.
And if he had suspected my infinite joy at thus traveling
through the air, Perrin would have suffered still more.
Ah, our departure! It was half past five. I shook hands
with a few friends. My family, whom I had kept in the most
profound ignorance, was not there. I felt my heart tighten
somewhat when after the words “Loose all” I found myself in
one instant fifty yards above the earth. I still heard a few
cries: “Attention! Come back! Don’t let her be killed!”
And then nothing more.... Nothing.... There was the sky
above and the earth beneath.... Then, suddenly, I was in the
clouds. I had left a misty Paris. I now breathed under a blue
sky and saw a radiant sun. Around us were opaque mountains
of clouds with irradiated edges. Our balloon plunged into a
milky vapor all warm with the sun. It was splendid! It was
stupefying! Not a sound, not a breath! But the balloon was
scarcely moving at all. It was only toward six o’clock that
the currents of air caught us and we took our flight toward
the East. We were at an altitude of about 1,700 yards.
The spectacle became fairylike. Large fleecy clouds were
spread below us. Large orange curtains fringed with violet
came down from the sun to lose themselves in our cloudy
carpet.
SARAH BERNHARDT, PORTRAIT BY PARROTT, 1875, IN THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE, PARIS.
297At twenty minutes to seven we were about 2,500 yards above
the earth, and cold and hunger commenced to make themselves
felt.
The dinner was copious—we had foie gras—fresh bread and
oranges. The cork of our champagne bottle flew up into the
clouds with a pretty, soft noise. We raised our glasses in honor
of M. Giffard.
We had talked a great deal. Night began to put on her
heavy dark mantle. It became very cold. We were then at 2,600
meters and I had a singing in my ears. My nose began to bleed.
I felt very uncomfortable and began to feel drowsy without being
able to prevent it. Georges Clairin got anxious and young
Godard cried out loudly—to wake me up, no doubt—“Alloa!
Alloa! we shall have to go down. Let us throw out the guide
rope!” This cry woke me up properly. I wanted to know
what was the guide rope. I got up feeling rather stupefied, and
in order to rouse me Godard put the guide rope into my hands.
It was a strong rope, about 130 meters long, to which were
attached at certain distances little iron hooks. Clairin and I
let out the rope, laughing, while Godard bending over the side
of the car was looking through a field glass.
“Stop!” cried he suddenly. “There are a lot of trees!”
In fact, we were over the wood of Ferrières. But just in
front of us there was a little open ground suitable for our
descent.
“There is no doubt about it,” cried Godard, “if we miss
this plain we shall come down in the black night in the wood
of Ferrières, and that would be very dangerous!” Then,
turning to me, “Will you,” he said, “open the valve?”
I immediately did so, and the gas came out of its prison,
whistling a mocking air. The valve was shut by order of the
aëronaut, and we descended rapidly. Suddenly the stillness
of the night was broken by the sound of a horn. I trembled.
It was Louis Godard, who had pulled out of his pocket, which
was a veritable storehouse, a sort of horn, on which he blew
298with violence. A loud whistle answered our call, and 500
meters below us we saw a man who was shouting his hardest
to make us hear. As we were very close to a little station we
easily guessed that this man was the station master.
“Where are we?” cried Louis Godard, with his horn.
“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master. It was
impossible to understand.
“Where are we?” thundered Georges Clairin in his most
formidable tones.
“At—in—in—ille,” shouted the station master with his
hand curved round his mouth.
“Where are we?” called I in my most crystalline accents.
“At—in—in—ille,” answered the station master—and his
porters.
It was impossible to find out anything. We had to lower
the balloon. At first we descended rather too quickly and the
wind blew us toward the wood. We had to mount again. But
ten minutes later we opened the valve again and made a fresh
descent. The balloon was then to the right of the station, and
far from the amiable station master.
“Throw out the anchor!” cried in a commanding tone
young Godard. And helped by Georges Clairin he threw out
into space another rope, to the end of which was fastened a
formidable anchor. The rope was 80 meters long.
Down below us a crowd of children of all ages had been
running ever since we stopped above the station. When we got
to about 300 yards from the earth, Godard called out to them:
“Where are we?”
“At Vachère!”
None of us knew Vachère. But we descended nevertheless.
“Alloa! You down below there—take hold of the guide
rope,” cried the aëronaut, “and mind you don’t pull too
hard!” Five vigorous men seized hold of the rope. We were
130 meters from the ground, and the spectacle became interesting.
The night began to blot out everything. I raised my
head to see the sky, but I remained with my mouth open with
astonishment. I saw only the lower end of our balloon, which
299was overhanging its base all loose and baggy. It was very
ugly.
We anchored gently, without the little dragging which I
hoped would happen, and without the little drama which I
had half expected.
It began to rain in torrents as we left the balloon.
The young owner of a neighboring château ran up, like the
peasants, to see what was going on. He offered me his umbrella.
“Oh, I am so thin I cannot get wet! I pass between the
drops.”
The word was repeated, and has become almost a proverb.
“What time is there a train?” asked Godard.
“Oh, you have plenty of time!” answered an oily and
heavy voice. “You cannot leave before ten o’clock, as the
station is a long way from here, and in such weather it will take
the young lady two hours to walk there.”
I was confounded, and looked for the young gentleman with
the umbrella, which I could have used as a walking stick, as
neither Clairin nor Godard had one. But just as I was accusing
him of going away and leaving us, he jumped lightly out
of a vehicle which I had not heard drive up.
“There!” said he. “There is a carriage for you and these
gentlemen, and another for the body of the balloon.”
“Ma foi! You have saved us,” said Clairin, clasping his
hand, “for it appears the roads are in a very bad state.”
“Oh,” said the young man, “it would be impossible for
the feet of Parisians to walk even half the distance.”
Then he bowed and wished us a pleasant journey.
Rather more than an hour later we arrived at the station of
Emerainville. The station master, learning who we were, received
us in a very friendly manner. He made his apologies for
not having heard when we called out. He had a frugal meal
of bread, cheese, and cider set before us. I have always detested
cheese, and would never eat it—there is nothing poetical about
it—but I was dying with hunger.
“Taste it, taste it,” said Georges Clairin.
300I bit a morsel off and found it excellent.
We got back very late, in the middle of the night, and I
found my household in an extreme state of anxiety. Our
friends, who had come to hear news of us, had stayed. There
was quite a crowd. I was somewhat annoyed at this, as I was
half dead with fatigue.
I sent everybody away rather sharply and went up to my
room. As my maid was helping me to undress she told me
that some one had come for me from the Comédie Française
several times.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I cried anxiously. “Could the piece
have been changed?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said the maid. “But it appears
that M. Perrin is furious, and that they are all against you.
There is the note which was left for you.”
I opened the letter. I was requested to appear before the
Administration the following day at two o’clock.
On my arrival at Perrin’s at the time appointed, I was received
with an exaggerated politeness which had an undercurrent
of severity.
Then commenced a series of onslaughts on my fits of ill
temper, my caprices, my eccentricities; and he finished his
speech by saying that I had incurred a fine of £40 for traveling
without the consent of the manager.
I burst out laughing: “The case of a balloon has not been
foreseen,” I said, “and I can promise you I shall pay no fine.
Outside the theater I do as I please, and that is no business of
yours, my dear M. Perrin, so long as I am not doing anything
that would injure my theatrical work! And, besides—you bore
me to death!—I will resign!—Be happy!”
I left him ashamed and anxious.
The next day I sent in my written resignation to M. Perrin,
and shortly afterwards I was sent for by M. Turquet, Minister
of Fine Arts. I refused to go, and they sent a mutual friend,
who stated that M. Perrin had gone further than he had any
right, that the fine was remitted, and that I must take back
my resignation. So I did.
301But the situation was strained. My fame had become annoying
for my enemies, and a little trying, I confess, for my
friends. But at this time all this stir and noise amused me
vastly. I did nothing to attract attention; but my fantastic
tastes, my paleness and thinness, my particular way of dressing,
my scorn of fashion, my general freedom in all respects, made
me a being set apart. I did not recognize this fact.
I did not read—I never read—the newspapers. So I did not
know what was said about me, either favorable or unfavorable.
Surrounded by a court of adorers of both sexes, I lived in a
sunny dream. All the royal personages and the notabilities who
were the guests of France during the Exhibition of 1878 came
to see me. This was a constant source of pleasure to me.
The Comédie was the first theatrical stage of all these illustrious
visitors, and Croizette and I played nearly every evening.
While I was playing Amphytrion I fell seriously ill, and was
sent to the South.
I remained there two months. I lived at Mentone, but I
made Cap Martin my headquarters. I had a tent put up on
the spot that the Empress Eugénie afterwards selected to build
her villa. I did not want to see anybody, and I thought that
by living in a tent, so far from the town, I should not be troubled
with visitors. This was a mistake. One day when I was
having lunch with my little boy, I heard the bells of two horses
which had come with a carriage. The road overhung my tent,
which was half hidden by the bushes. Suddenly a voice which
I knew, but could not recognize, cried in the emphatic tone of
a herald:
“Does Sarah Bernhardt, Associate of the Comédie Française,
live here?”
We did not move. The question was asked again. Again
the answer was silence. But we heard the sound of breaking
branches, the bushes were pushed apart, and at two yards from
the tent the teasing voice recommenced.
We were discovered. Somewhat annoyed I came out. I saw
before me a man with a large tussore cloak on, a field glass
strapped on his shoulders, a gray bowler hat, and a red, happy
302face with a little pointed beard. I glanced at this commonplace-looking
individual with anything but favor. He lifted his hat:
“Mme. Sarah Bernhardt is here?”
“What do you want with me, sir?”
“Here is my card, madame.”
I read: “Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers.” I looked at
him with astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see
that his name did not produce any impression on me. He had
a foreign accent.
“Well, you see, madame, I come to ask you to sell us your
group, ‘After the Tempest.’”
I began to laugh.
“Ma foi, monsieur, I am treating for that with the firm
of Susse, and they offer me 6000 francs. If you will give ten,
you may have it.”
“Quite right,” he said. “Here are 10,000 francs. Have
you pen and ink?”
“No.”
“Ah,” said he, “allow me.” And he produced a little
case in which there was pen and ink.
I made out the receipt, and gave him an order to go and
take the group at Paris, in my studio. He went away, and
I heard the bells of the horses ringing and then dying away in
the distance. After this I was often invited to the house of
this original person, who was one of the negro kings of Nice.
Shortly after I came back to Paris. At the theater they
were preparing for the benefit night of Bressant, who was about
to leave the stage. It was agreed that Mounet-Sully and I
should play an act from “Othello,” by Jean Aicard. The
theater was well filled, and the audience in a good humor. After
the song of Saule, I was in bed as Desdemona, when suddenly
I heard the public laugh, softly at first, and then irrepressibly.
Othello had just come in, in the darkness, in his shirt or very
little more, with a lantern in his hand, and gone to a door hidden
in some drapery. The public, that impersonal unity, has
no hesitation in taking part in a manifestation of unseemly
mirth that each member of the audience, taken as a separate
303individual, would be ashamed to admit. But the ridicule
thrown on this act by the exaggerated pantomime of the actor
prevented the play being staged again, and it was only twenty
years later that “Othello,” as an entire play, was produced
at the Théâtre Français. I was then no longer there.
After having played Berenice, in “Mithridate,” successfully,
I took up again my rôle of the Queen in “Ruy Blas.”
The play was as successful at the Théâtre Français as at the
Odéon, and the public was, if anything, still more favorable
to me. Mounet-Sully played Ruy Blas. He took the part admirably,
and was infinitely better than Lafontaine, who played
it at the Odéon. Frédéric Febvre, very well dressed, represented
his part very well, but he was not so good as Geffroy, who
was the most distinguished and the most frightful Don Salluste
that could be imagined.
My relations with Perrin were more and more strained.
He was pleased that I was successful, for the sake of the
theater; he was happy at the magnificent receipts of “Ruy
Blas”; but he would have much preferred that it had been
another than I who received all the applause. My independence,
my horror of submission, even in appearance, annoyed
him vastly.
One day my servant came to tell me that an elderly Englishman
was asking to see me so insistently that he thought it better
to come and tell me, though I had given orders I was not
to be disturbed.
“Send him away and let me work in peace.”
I was just commencing a picture which interested me very
much. It represented a little girl on Palm Sunday, carrying
branches of palm. The little model who posed for me was a
lovely Italian of eight years old. Suddenly she said to me:
“He’s quarreling—that Englishman!”
As a matter of fact, in the anteroom there was a noise of
voices rising higher and higher. Irritated, I rushed out, my
palette in my hand, resolved to make the intruder flee. But
just at the moment when I opened the door of my studio, a tall
man came so close to me that I drew back, and he came into
304my hall. His eyes were clear and piercing, his hair silvery
white, and his beard carefully trimmed. He made his excuses
very politely, admired my paintings, my sculpture, my hall—and
this while I was in complete ignorance of his name. When
at the end of ten minutes I begged him to sit down and tell me
to what I owed the pleasure of his visit, he replied in a stilted
voice with a strong accent:
“I am Mr. Jarrett, the impresario. I can make your fortune.
Will you come to America?”
“Never!” I exclaimed firmly. “Never!”
“Oh, well, don’t get angry! Here is my address—don’t
lose it.” Then, at the moment he took leave, he said:
“Ah! you are going to London with the Comédie Française.
Would you like to earn a lot of money in London?”
“Yes. How?”
“By playing in drawing-rooms. I can make you a small
fortune.”
“Oh, I would be pleased to do that—that is, if I go to London,
for I have not yet decided.”
“Then will you sign a little contract to which we will add
an additional clause?”
And I signed a contract with this man, who inspired me
with confidence at first sight—a confidence which he never
betrayed.
The Committee and M. Perrin had made an agreement with
John Hollingshead, director of the Gaiety Theater, in London.
Nobody had been consulted and I thought that was a little too
free and easy. So when they told me about this agreement, I
said nothing. Perrin rather anxiously took me aside:
“What are you turning over in your mind?”
“I am turning over this: that I will not go to London in
a situation inferior to anybody. For the entire term of my contract
I intend to be Associate à part entière (with full benefit).”
This intention excited the Committee highly. And the next
day Perrin told me that my proposal was rejected.
“Well, I shall not go to London. That is all! Nothing in
my contract obliges me to go.”
SARAH BERNHARDT, PORTRAIT BY CLAIRIN.
305The Committee met again, and Got cried out: “Well, let her
stay away! She is a regular nuisance!”
It was therefore decided that I should not go to London.
But Hollingshead and Mayer, his partner, did not see it in this
light, and they declared that the contract would not be binding
if either Croizette, Mounet-Sully, or I did not go.
The agents, who had bought two hundred thousand francs’
worth of tickets beforehand, also refused to regard the affair
as binding on them if we did not go. Mayer came to see me
in profound despair and told me all about it.
“We shall have to break our contract with the Comédie
if you don’t come,” he said, “for the business cannot go
through.”
Frightened at the consequences of my bad temper, I ran to
see Perrin, and told him that after the consultation I had just
had with Mayer, I understood the involuntary injury I should
be causing to the Théâtre Français and to my comrades, and I
told him I was ready to go under any conditions.
The Committee was holding a meeting. Perrin asked me
to wait and shortly after he returned: Croizette and I had been
appointed Associates with full benefit (Sociétaires à part entière),
not only for London, but for always.
Everybody had done his duty. Perrin, very much touched,
took both my hands and drew me to him:
“Oh, the good and untamable little creature!”
We embraced and peace was again concluded between us.
But it could not last long, for five days after this reconciliation,
about nine o’clock in the evening, M. Perrin was announced
at my house. I had company for dinner. Nevertheless, I was
about to receive him in the hall. He held out to me a paper.
“Read that,” said he.
And I read in an English newspaper, the Times, this paragraph:
“Drawing-room Comedies of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, under
the management of Sir Benedict:
“The répertoire of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt is composed of
comedies, proverbs, one-act plays and monologues, written especially
306for her and one or two artistes of the Comédie Française.
These comedies are played without accessories or scenery, and
can be adapted both in London and Paris to the matinées and
soirées of the best society. For all details and conditions please
communicate with Mr. Jarrett (Secretary of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt)
at His Majesty’s Theatre.”
As I was reading the last lines it dawned on me that Jarrett,
learning that I was certainly coming to London, had begun to
advertise me. I frankly explained this to Perrin.
“What objection is there,” I said, “to my making use
of my evenings to earn money, as the thing has been offered
me?”
“That has nothing to do with me—it is the business of the
Committee.”
“That is too much!” I cried, and calling for my secretary
I said: “Give me Delaunay’s letter that I gave you yesterday.”
He brought it out of one of his numerous pockets and gave
it to Perrin to read:
Would you care to come and play “La Nuit d’Octobre” at Lady Dudley’s
on Thursday, June 5th? They will give us each 5,000 francs. Kind
regards,
Delaunay.
“Let me have this letter,” said the manager, visibly annoyed.
“No, I will not. But you may tell Delaunay that I have
told you of his offer.”
For the next two or three days nothing was talked of in
Paris but the scandalous announcement of the Times. The
French were then almost entirely ignorant of the habits and
customs of the English. At last all this talk annoyed me, and
I begged Perrin to try and stop it, and the following day there
appeared in the National of the 29th of May:
“Much Ado About Nothing. In friendly discussion it has
been decided that outside the rehearsals and the performances
of the Comédie Française, each artist is free to employ his time
as he sees fit. There is therefore absolutely no truth at all in
307the pretended quarrel between the Comédie Française and Mlle.
Sarah Bernhardt. This artiste has only acted strictly within
her rights, which nobody attempts to limit, and all our artistes
intend to benefit in the same manner. The manager of the
Comédie Française asks only that the artistes who form this
‘corps’ do not give performances in a body.”
This article came from the Comédie, and the members of
the Committee had taken advantage of it to advertise a little
for themselves, announcing that they also were ready to play
in drawing-rooms, for the article was sent to Mayer with a
request that it should appear in the English papers. It was
Mayer himself who told me this.
All disputes being at an end, we commenced our preparations
for departure.
CHAPTER XXI MY LONDON DÉBUT
308
I had never been on the sea when it was decided that
the artistes of the Comédie Française should go to
London. The determined ignorance of the French
concerning all things foreign was much more pronounced
in those days than it is at present. As for me, my
ignorance was quite pathetic. I had a very warm cloak made,
as I had been assured that the crossing was icy cold, even in the
very middle of summer, and I believed this. On every side I
was besieged with lozenges for seasickness, sedative for headache,
tissue paper to put down my back, little compress plasters
to put on my diaphragm, and waterproof cork soles for my shoes,
for it appeared that above all things I must not have cold feet.
Oh, how droll and amusing it all was! I took everything, paid
attention to all the recommendations and believed everything I
was told.
The most inconceivable thing of all, though, was the arrival,
five minutes before the boat started, of an enormous wooden case.
It was very light and was held by a tall young man, who to-day
is a most remarkable individual, with all the crosses, all the
honors, an immense fortune, and the most outrageous vanity.
At that time he was a shy inventor, young, poor, and sad; he was
always buried in books which treated of abstract questions, while
of life he knew absolutely nothing. He had a great admiration
for me, mingled with a trifle of awe. My little court had surnamed
him “La Quenelle.” He was long, vacillating, colorless,
and really did resemble the thin roll of forcemeat in a vol-au-vent.
309He came up to me, his face more wan looking even than usual.
The boat was moving a little, my departure terrified him, and the
wind caused him to plunge from right to left. He made a
mysterious sign to me and I followed him, accompanied by ma
petite dame and leaving my friends, who were inclined to be
ironical, behind. When I was seated, he opened the case and
took out an enormous life belt invented by himself. I was perfectly
astounded, for I was unused to sea voyages, and the idea
had never even occurred to me that we might be shipwrecked
during one hour’s crossing. “La Quenelle” was by no means
disconcerted, and he put the belt on himself in order to show me
how it was used.
Nothing could have looked more foolish than this man with
his sad, serious face, putting on this apparatus. There were a
dozen egg-sized bladders round the belt, eleven of which were
filled with air and contained a lump of sugar each. In the
twelfth, a very small bladder, were ten drops of brandy. In the
middle of the belt was a tiny cushion with a few pins on it.
“You understand,” he said to me. “You fall in the water
paff—you stay like this.” Hereupon he pretended to sit down,
rising and sinking with the movement of the waves, his two
hands in front of him laid upon the imaginary sea, and his neck
stretched like that of a tortoise in order to keep his head above
water.
“You see, you have now been in the water for two hours,”
he explained, “and you want to get back your strength. You
take a pin and prick an egg, like this. You take your lump of
sugar and eat it, that is as good as a quarter of a pound of
meat.” He then threw the broken bladder overboard, and from
the packing case brought out another, which he fastened to the
life belt. He had evidently thought of everything. I was
petrified with amazement. A few of my friends had gathered
round, hoping for one of “La Quenelle’s” mad freaks, but they
had never expected anything like this one.
M. Mayer, one of our impresarios, fearing a scandal of too
absurd a kind, dispersed the people who were gathering round
us. I did not know whether to be angry or to laugh, but the
310jeering, unjust speech of one of my friends roused my pity for
this poor “Quenelle.” I thought of the hours he had spent
in planning, combining, and then manufacturing his ridiculous
machine. I was touched by the anxiety and affection which
had prompted the invention of this life-saving apparatus, and I
held out my hand to my poor “Quenelle,” saying: “Be off,
now, quickly, the boat is just going to start.”
He kissed the hand held out to him in a friendly way, and
hurried off. I then called my steward Claude, and I said,
“As soon as we are out of sight of land throw that case and all
it contains into the sea.”
The departure of the boat was accompanied by shouts of
“Hurrah! Au revoir! Success! Good luck!” There was a
waving of hands, handkerchiefs floating in the air, and kisses
thrown haphazard to everyone.
But what was really fine and a sight I shall never forget, was
our landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people
there, and it was the first time I had ever heard the cry of “Vive
Sarah Bernhardt!”
I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the
ideal face of Hamlet. He presented me with a gardenia. I was
destined to admire him later on as Hamlet. He was Forbes-Robertson.
We passed on through a crowd offering us flowers
and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was more favored than
the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was delighted all
the same. One of my comrades, who was just near, and with
whom I was not a favorite, said to me, in a spiteful tone:
“They’ll make you a carpet of flowers soon.”
“Here is one!” exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful
of lilies on the ground in front of me. I stopped short, rather
confused, not daring to walk on these white flowers, but the
crowd pressing on behind compelled me to advance, and the
poor lilies had to be trodden under foot.
“Hip, hip, hurrah! a cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted
the turbulent young man. His head was above all the other
heads, he had luminous eyes and long hair, and looked like a
German student. He was an English poet, though, and one of
311the greatest of this century, a poet who was a genius, but who
was, alas! tortured and finally vanquished by madness. It was
Oscar Wilde. The crowd responded to his appeal, and we
reached our train amid shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah, for Sarah
Bernhardt! Hip, hip, hurrah, for the French artistes!”
When the train arrived at Charing Cross toward nine
o’clock, we were nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came
over me. The weather was gloomy, and then, too, I thought we
should have been greeted again upon our arrival in London with
more “hurrahs!...” There were plenty of people, crowds
of people, but none appeared to know us.
On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome
carpet laid down and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was
prepared for anything, as our reception at Folkestone had
turned my head. The carpet, however, had been laid down for
their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the Princess of Wales,
who had just left for Paris.
This news disappointed me and even annoyed me personally.
I had been told that all London was quivering with excitement
at the very idea of the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had
found London extremely indifferent. The crowd was large and
very compact, but cold.
“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?”
I asked M. Mayer.
“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit
to Paris,” he replied.
“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued.
“No, the Prince has taken a box for the season for which he
has paid four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke
of Connaught.”
I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was
in despair, as I felt that everything was going wrong.
A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through
London with a heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal,
and when I reached the house—77, Chester Square—I did
not want to get out of my carriage.
312The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the
brilliantly lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers
on earth arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I
got out of the carriage and entered the house in which I was to
live for the next six weeks. All the branches seemed to be
stretching out their flowers to me.
“Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I
asked my manservant.
“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray.
All of them are from Paris, from madame’s friends there. This
one is the only bouquet from here.” He handed me an enormous
one, and on the card with it, I read the words: “Welcome!—Henry
Irving.”
I went all through the house and it seemed to me very
dismal looking. I visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go
through me, and my teeth chattered when I came in again. That
night, when I went to sleep, my heart was heavy with foreboding,
as though I were on the eve of some misfortune.
The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I
wanted to see them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected
to this. The man was a veritable advertising genius. I
had no idea of it at that time. He had made me some very good
offers for America, and although I had refused them, I nevertheless
held a very high opinion of him, on account of his intelligence,
his comic humor, and my need of being piloted in this
new country.
“No,” he said, “if you receive them all together, they will
all be furious, and you will get some wretched articles; you must
receive them one after the other.”
Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted
on my seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and
saved the situation when I said anything foolish. I spoke English
very badly, and some of the men spoke French very badly.
Jarrett translated my answers to them. I remember perfectly
well that all of them began with: “Well, mademoiselle, what
do you think of London?”
I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the
313first of these journalists asked me this question at ten in the
morning. I had drawn my curtain back on getting up, and all
I knew of London was Chester Square, a small square of somber
verdure, in the midst of which was a black statue, and the
horizon bounded by an ugly church.
I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was
quite prepared for this, and I learned the following morning
that “I was most enthusiastic about the beauty of London,
that I had already seen a number of the public buildings,”
etc., etc.
Toward five o’clock, Hortense Damian arrived. She was a
charming woman, and a favorite in London society. She had
come to inform me that the Duchess of —— and Lady R——
would call on me at half past five.
“Oh, stay with me, then!” I said to her. “You know how
unsociable I am; I feel sure that I shall be stupid.”
At the time fixed my visitors were announced. This was the
first time I had come into contact with any members of the English
aristocracy, and I have always had since a very pleasant
memory of it.
Lady R—— was extremely beautiful, and the Duchess was
so gracious, so distinguished and so kind that I was very much
touched by her visit.
A few minutes later Lord Dudley called. I knew him very
well, as he had been introduced to me by Marshal Canrobert,
one of my dearest friends. He asked me if I would care to
have a ride the following morning, and said he had a very nice
lady’s horse which was entirely at my service. I thanked him,
but I wanted first to drive in Rotten Row.
At seven o’clock Hortense Damian came to fetch me to dine
with her at the house of the Baroness M——. She had a very
nice home in Prince’s Gate. There were about twenty guests,
among others the painter, Millais. I had been told that the
cuisine was very bad in England, but I thought this dinner
perfect. I had been told that the English were cold and sedate.
I found them charming and full of humor. Everyone spoke
French very well and I was ashamed of my ignorance of the
314English language. After dinner there were recitations and
music. I was touched by the gracefulness and tact of my hosts
in not asking me to say any poetry.
I was very much interested in observing the society in which
I found myself. It did not in any way resemble a French
gathering. The young girls seemed to be enjoying themselves
on their own account and enjoying themselves thoroughly.
They had not come there to find a husband. What surprised
me a little was the décolleté of ladies who were getting on in
years and to whom time had not been very merciful. I spoke
of this to Hortense Damian.
“It’s frightful!” I said.
“Yes, but it’s chic!”
She was very charming, my friend Hortense, but she troubled
about nothing that was not chic. She sent me the “Chic
commandments” a few days before I left Paris.
Chester Square, tu habiteras.
Rotten Row, tu monteras.
Le Parlement visiteras.
Garden-parties fréquenteras.
Chaque visite, tu rendras.
A chaque lettre, tu repondras.
Photographies, tu signeras.
Hortense Damain, tu écouteras,
Et tous ses conseils, les suivras.
(In Chester Square thou shalt live.
In Rotten Row thou shalt ride.
Parliament thou shalt visit.
Garden parties thou shalt frequent.
Every visit thou shalt return.
Every letter thou shalt answer.
Photographs thou shalt sign.
To Hortense Damian thou shalt listen,
And all her counsels thou shalt follow.)
I laughed at these “commandments,” but I soon realized
that, under this jocular form, she considered them as very serious
and important. Alas! my poor friend had hit upon the
315wrong person for her counsels. I detested paying visits, writing
letters, signing photographs, or following anyone’s advice. I
adore having people come to see me, and I detest going to see
them. I adore receiving letters, reading them, commenting on
them, but I detest writing them. I detest riding and driving
in frequented parts, and I adore lonely roads and solitary
places. I adore giving advice and I detest receiving it, and I
never follow at once any wise advice that is given me. It always
requires an effort of my will to recognize the justice of
any counsel, and then an effort of my intellect to be grateful
for it; at first it simply annoys me. Consequently, I paid no
attention to Hortense Damian’s counsels, nor yet to Jarrett’s,
and in this I made a great mistake, for many people were vexed
with me—and, in any other country, I should have made enemies.
On that first visit to London what a quantity of letters
of invitation I received to which I never replied! How many
charming women called upon me and I never returned their
calls! Then, too, how many times I accepted invitations to
dinner and never went after all, nor did I even send a line of
excuse. It is perfectly odious, I know, and yet I always accept
with pleasure and intend to go; but when the day comes I am
tired, perhaps, or want to have a quiet time, or to be free from
any obligation, and when I am obliged to decide one way or
another, the time has gone by, and it is too late to send word
and too late to go. And so I stay at home, dissatisfied with myself,
with everyone else, and with everything.
Hospitality is a quality made up of primitive taste and antique
grandeur. The English are, in my opinion, the most hospitable
people on earth, and they are hospitable simply and
munificently. When an Englishman has opened his door to
you he never closes it again. He excuses your faults and accepts
your peculiarities. It is thanks to this broadness of ideas that
I have been for twenty-five years the beloved and pampered
artiste.
I was delighted with my first soirée in London, and I returned
home very gay and very much “anglomaniaized.” I
found some of my friends there—Parisians who had just arrived,
316and they were furious. My enthusiasm exasperated them,
and we sat up arguing until two in the morning.
The next day I went to Rotten Row. It was glorious weather,
and all Hyde Park seemed to be strewn with enormous
bouquets. There were the flower beds wonderfully arranged by
the gardeners, then there were the clusters of sunshades, blue,
pink, red, white, or yellow, which sheltered the light hats covered
with flowers, under which shone the pretty faces of babies
and women. Along the riding path there was an exciting gallop
of graceful thoroughbreds bearing along some hundreds
of horsewomen, slender, supple, and courageous; there were
men and children, the latter mounted on big Irish ponies.
There were other children, too, galloping along on Scotch ponies
with long, shaggy manes, and the children’s hair and the manes
of the horses blew about with the wind caused by the ride.
The carriage road between the riding track and the foot
passengers was filled with dogcarts, open carriages of various
kinds, mail coaches, and very smart cabs. There were powdered
footmen, horses decorated with flowers, sportsmen driving,
ladies, too, driving admirable horses. All this elegance, this
essence of luxury and this joy of life, brought back to my memory
the vision of our Bois de Boulogne, so elegant and so animated
a few years before, when Napoleon III used to drive
through in his daumont, nonchalant and smiling. Ah, how
beautiful it was in those days—our Bois de Boulogne! with the
officers caracoling in the Avenue des Acacias, admired by our
beautiful society women!
The joy of life was everywhere—the love of Love enveloping
life with an infinite charm. I closed my eyes, and I felt
a pang at my heart as the awful recollections of 1870 crowded
to my brain. He was dead, our gentle Emperor with his shrewd
smile. Dead, vanquished by the sword, betrayed by fortune,
crushed with grief!
The thread of life in Paris had been taken up again in all
its intenseness; but the life of elegance, of charm, and of luxury
was still shrouded in crape. Scarcely eight years had passed
since the war had struck down our soldiers, ruined our hopes,
317and tarnished our glory. Three presidents had already succeeded
each other. That wretched little Thiers, with his perverse,
bourgeois soul, had worn his teeth out with nibbling
at every kind of government: royalty under Louis Philippe,
empire under Napoleon III, and the executive power of the
French Republic. He had never even thought of lifting our
beloved Paris up again, bowed down as she was under the weight
of so many ruins. He had been succeeded by MacMahon, a
good, brave man, but a cipher. Grévy had succeeded the marshal,
but he was miserly and considered all outlay unnecessary
for himself, for other people, and for the country. And so
Paris remained sad, nursing the leprosy that the Commune had
communicated to her by the kiss of its fires. And our delightful
Bois de Boulogne still bore the traces of the injuries that
the National Defense had inflicted on her. The Avenue des
Acacias was deserted.
I opened my eyes again. They were filled with tears, and
through their mist I caught a glimpse once more of the triumphant
vitality which surrounded me.
I wanted to return home at once, for I was acting that night
for the first time, and I felt rather wretched and despairing.
There were several persons awaiting me at my house in Chester
Square, but I did not want to see anyone. I took a cup of tea
and went to the Gaiety Theater, where we were to face the
English public for the first time. I knew already that I had
been elected the favorite, and the idea of this chilled me with
terror, for I am what is known as a traqueuse. I am subject
to the trac or stage fright, and I have it terribly.
When I first appeared on the stage I was timid, but I never had
this trac. I used to turn as red as a poppy when I happened
to meet the eye of some spectator. I was ashamed of talking so
loud before so many silent people. That was the effect of my
cloistered life, but I found no feeling of fear. The first time I
ever had the real sensation of trac or stage fright, was in
the month of January, 1869, at the seventh or perhaps the
eighth performance of “Le Passant.” The success of this little
masterpiece had been enormous, and my interpretation of the
318part of Zanetto had delighted the public, and particularly the
students. When I went on the stage that day I was suddenly
applauded by the whole house. I turned toward the Imperial
box, thinking that the Emperor had just entered. But no, the
box was empty, and I realized then that all the bravos were for
me. I was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, and my eyes
smarted with tears that I had to keep back. Agar and I were
called back five times and, on leaving the theater, the students
ranged on each side gave me three cheers. On reaching home
I flung myself into the arms of my blind grandmother, who was
then living with me.
“What’s the matter with you, my dear?” she asked.
“It’s all over with me, grandmother,” I said, “they want
to make a ‘star’ of me, and I haven’t talent enough for that.
You’ll see they’ll drag me down and finish me off with all their
bravos.”
My grandmother took my head in her hands and I met the
vacant look in her large, light eyes fixed on me. “You told
me, my child, that you wanted to be the first in your profession,
and when the opportunity comes to you, why, you are frightened.
It seems to me that you are a very bad soldier.”
I drove back my tears and declared that I would bear up
courageously against this success which had come to interfere
with my tranquillity, my heedlessness and my “don’t-careism.”
But, from that time forth, fear took possession of me, and stage
fright martyrized me.
It was under these conditions that I prepared for the second
act of “Phèdre,” in which I was to appear for the first time
before the English public. Three times over I put rouge on
my cheeks, blackened my eyes, and three times over I took it all
off again with a sponge. I thought I looked ugly, and it seemed
to me I was thinner than ever and not as tall. I closed my eyes
to listen to my voice. My special pitch is le bal, which I
pronounced low down with the open a, le bâââl, or that
I take high by dwelling on the l—le balll. Ah! but there
was no doubt about it, my le bal neither sounded high nor
low, my voice was hoarse in the low notes and not clear in the
319soprano. I cried with rage, and just then I was informed that
the second act of “Phèdre” was about to commence. This
drove me wild. I had not my veil on, nor my rings, and my
cameo belt was not fastened.
I began to murmur:
“Le voici! Vers mon cœur tout mon sang se retire.
J’oublie en le voyant....”
That word j’oublie struck me with a new idea. What if I
did forget the words I had to say? Why, yes.... What
was it I had to say? I did not know.... I could not remember....
What was I to say after en le voyant...?
No one answered me. Everyone was alarmed at my nervous
state. I heard Got mumble, “She’s going mad!” Mlle. Thénard,
who was playing Œnone, my old nurse, said to me:
“Calm yourself, all the English have gone to Paris, there’s no
one in the house but Belgians.”
This foolishly comic speech turned my thoughts in another
direction. “How stupid you are!” I said. “You know how
frightened I was at Brussels!”
“Oh, all for nothing!” she answered calmly. “There were
only English people in the theater that day.”
I had to go on the stage at once, and I could not even answer
her, but she had changed the current of my ideas. I still had
stage fright, but not the fright that paralyzes, only the kind that
drives one wild. This is bad enough, but it is preferable to the
other sort. It makes one do too much, but at any rate, one does
something.
The whole house had applauded my arrival on the stage for
a few seconds, and as I bent my head in acknowledgment, I
said within myself: “Yes ... yes ... you shall see. I’m going
to give you my very blood ... my life itself ... my
soul....”
When I began my part, as I had lost my self-possession, I
started on rather too high a note, and when once in full swing I
could not get lower again, I simply could not stop. I suffered,
320I wept, I implored, I cried out, and it was all real. My suffering
was horrible, my tears were flowing—scorching and bitter.
I implored Hippolyte for the love which was killing me, and my
arms stretched out to Mounet-Sully were the arms of Phèdre
writhing in the cruel longing for his embrace.... God was
within me——
When the curtain fell, Mounet-Sully lifted me up inanimate
and carried me to my dressing-room.
The public, unaware of what was happening, wanted me to
appear again and bow. I, too, wanted to return and thank the
public for its attention, its kindliness, and its emotion.
I went back, and the following is what John Murray said in
the Gaulois of June 5, 1879:
“When recalled with loud cries, Mlle. Bernhardt appeared,
exhausted by her efforts and supported by Mounet-Sully; she
received an ovation which I think is unique in the annals of the
theater in England.”
The following morning the Daily Telegraph terminated its
admirable criticism with these lines:
“Clearly Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt exerted every nerve and
fiber and her passion grew with the excitement of the spectators,
for when after a recall that could not be resisted the curtain
drew up, Mr. Mounet-Sully was seen supporting the exhausted
figure of the actress, who had won her triumph only after tremendous
physical exertion, and triumph it was, however short
and sudden.”
The Standard finished its article with these words:
“The subdued passion, repressed for a time, until at length
it burst its bonds, and the despairing, heartbroken woman is revealed
to Hippolyte, was shown with so vivid a reality that a
scene of enthusiasm such as is rarely witnessed in a theater followed
the fall of the curtain. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, in the
few minutes she was upon the stage (and coming on it must be
remembered to plunge into the middle of a stirring tragedy) yet
321contrived to make an impression which will not soon be effaced
from those who were present.”
The Morning Post said:
“Very brief are the words spoken before Phèdre rushes into
the room to commence tremblingly and nervously, with struggles
which rend and tear and convulse the system, the secret of her
shameful love. As her passion mastered what remained of
modesty or reserve in her nature, the woman sprang forward
and recoiled again, with the movements of a panther, striving,
as it seemed, to tear from her bosom the heart which stifled her
with its unholy longings, until in the end, when, terrified at the
horror her breathings have provoked in Hippolyte, she strove
to pull his sword from its sheath and plunge it in her own breast,
she fell back in complete and absolute collapse. This exhibition,
marvelous in beauty of pose, in febrile force, in intensity, and
in purity of delivery, is the more remarkable as the passion had
to be reached, so to speak, at a bound, no performance of the
first act having roused the actress to the requisite heat. It
proved Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt worthy of her reputation, and
shows what may be expected from her by the public which has
eagerly expected her coming.”
This London first night was definitive for my future.
CHAPTER XXII MY STAY IN ENGLAND
322
My intense desire to win over the English public had
caused me to overtax my strength. I had done my
utmost at the first performance and had not spared
myself in the least. The consequence was that in
the night I vomited blood in such an alarming way that a messenger
was despatched to the French Embassy in search of a
physician. Dr. Vintras, who was at the head of the French
Hospital in London, found me lying on my bed, exhausted and
looking more dead than alive. He was afraid that I should not
recover and requested that my family be sent for. I made a
gesture with my hand to the effect that it was not necessary.
As I could not speak, I wrote down with a pencil: “Send for
Dr. Parrot.”
Dr. Vintras remained with me part of the night, putting
crushed ice between my lips every five minutes. At length
toward five in the morning the blood vomiting ceased, and
thanks to a potion that the doctor gave me, I fell asleep.
We were to play “L’Etrangère” that night at the Gaiety
and, as my rôle was not a very fatiguing one, I wanted to perform
my part quand-même.
Dr. Parrot arrived by the four o’clock boat and refused
categorically to give his consent. He had attended me from
my childhood. I really felt much better, and the feverishness
had left me. I wanted to get up, but to this Dr. Parrot
objected.
Presently, Dr. Vintras and Mr. Mayer, the impresario of the
323Comédie Française, were announced. Mr. Hollingshead, the
director of the Gaiety Theater, was waiting in a carriage at the
door to know whether I was going to play in “L’Etrangère,”
the piece announced on the bills. I asked Dr. Parrot to rejoin
Dr. Vintras in the drawing-room and I gave instructions for Mr.
Mayer to be introduced into my room.
“I feel much better,” I said to him, very quickly. “I’m
very weak still, but I will play. Ssh! ... don’t say a word
here. Tell Hollingshead and wait for me in the smoking room,
but don’t let anyone else know.”
I then got up and dressed very quickly. My maid helped
me and, as she had guessed what my plan was, she was highly
amused.
Wrapped in my cloak, with a lace fichu over my head, I
joined Mayer in the smoking room and then we both got into his
hansom.
“Come to me in an hour’s time,” I said in a low voice to
my maid.
“Where are you going?” asked Mayer, perfectly stupefied.
“To the theater ... quick ... quick...!” I answered.
The cab started and I then explained to him that if I had
stayed at home, neither Dr. Parrot nor Dr. Vintras would have
let me act upon any account.
“The die is cast now,” I added, “and we shall see what
happens.”
When once I was at the theater I took refuge in the
manager’s private office, in order to avoid Dr. Parrot’s anger.
I was very fond of him and I knew how wrongly I was acting
toward him, considering the inconvenience to which he had put
himself in making the journey specially for me in response to
my summons. I knew, though, how impossible it would have
been to have made him understand that I felt really better, and
that in risking my life I was really only risking what was my
own to dispose of as I pleased.
Half an hour later my maid joined me. She brought with
her a letter from Dr. Parrot, full of gentle reproaches and
furious advice, finishing with a prescription, in case of a relapse.
324He was leaving an hour later and would not even come
and shake hands with me. I felt quite sure, though, that we
should make it all up again on my return. I then began to prepare
for my rôle in “L’Etrangère.” While dressing, I fainted
three times, but I was determined to play quand-même.
The opium that I had taken in my potion made my head
rather heavy. I arrived on the stage in a semiconscious state,
delighted with the applause I received. I walked along as
though I were in a dream and could scarcely distinguish my
surroundings. The house itself I saw only through a luminous
mist. My feet glided along on the carpet without any effort,
and my voice sounded to me far away, very far away. I was in
that delicious stupor that one experiences after chloroform, morphine,
opium, or hasheesh.
The first act went off very well, but in the third act, just
when I was to tell the Duchess de Septmonts (Croizette)
all the troubles that I, Mrs. Clarkson, had gone through during
my life, just as I should have commenced my interminable story
I could not remember anything. Croizette murmured my first
phrase for me, but I could only see her lips move without hearing
a word. I then said quite calmly:
“The reason I sent for you here, madame, is because I
wanted to tell you my reasons for acting as I have done, but I
have thought it over and have decided not to tell you them
to-day.”
Sophie Croizette gazed at me with a terrified look in her
eyes, she then rose and left the stage, her lips trembling, and her
eyes fixed on me all the time.
“What’s the matter?” everyone asked when she sank almost
breathless into an armchair.
“Sarah has gone mad!” she exclaimed. “I assure you she
has gone quite mad. She has cut out the whole of her scene
with me.”
“But how?” everyone asked.
“She has cut out two hundred lines,” said Croizette.
“But what for?” was the eager question.
“I don’t know. She looks quite calm.”
325The whole of this conversation which was repeated to me
later on took much less time than it does now to write it down.
Coquelin had been told and he now came on to the stage to
finish the act. The curtain fell. I was stupefied and desperate
afterwards on hearing all that people told me. I had not
noticed that anything was wrong, and it seemed to me that I
had played the whole of my part as usual, but I was really
under the influence of the opium. There was very little for
me to say in the fifth act, and I went through that perfectly well.
The following day the accounts in the papers sounded the
praises of our company but the piece itself was criticised. I
was afraid at first that my involuntary omission of the important
part in the third act was one of the causes of the
severity of the press. This was not so, though, as all the critics
had read and re-read the piece. They discussed the play itself,
and did not mention my slip of memory.
The Figaro, which was in a very bad humor with me just
then, had an article from which I quote the following extract:
“‘L’Etrangère’ is not a piece in accordance with the English
taste. Mlle. Croizette, however, was applauded enthusiastically
and so were Coquelin and Febvre. Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt,
nervous as usual, lost her memory.”
He knew perfectly well, worthy Mr. Johnson,[3] that I was
very ill. He had been to my house and seen Dr. Parrot, consequently
he was aware that I was acting in spite of the faculty
in the interests of the Comédie Française. The English public
had given me such proofs of appreciation that the Comédie was
rather affected by it, and the Figaro, which was at that time the
organ of the Théâtre Française, requested Johnson to modify
his praises of me. This he did the whole time that we were in
London.
My reason for telling about my loss of memory, which was
quite an unimportant incident in itself, is merely to prove to
authors how unnecessary it is to take the trouble of explaining
326the characters of their creations. Alexandre Dumas was certainly
anxious to give us the reasons which caused Mrs. Clarkson
to act as strangely as she did. He had created a person who was
extremely interesting and full of action as the play proceeds.
She reveals herself to the public, in the first act, by the lines
which Mrs. Clarkson says to Mme. de Septmonts. “I should be
very glad, madame, if you would call on me. We could talk
about one of your friends, M. Gérard, whom I love perhaps, as
much as you do, although he does not perhaps care for me as
he does for you.”
That was quite enough to interest the public in these two
women. It was the eternal struggle of good and evil, the combat
between Vice and Virtue. But it evidently seemed rather commonplace
to Dumas, ancient history, in fact, and he wanted to
rejuvenate the old theme by trying to arrange for an orchestra
with organ and banjo. The result he obtained was a fearful
cacophony. He wrote a foolish piece, which might have been a
beautiful one. The originality of his style, the loyalty of his
ideas, and the brutality of his humor sufficed for rejuvenating
old ideas, which, in reality, are the eternal basis of all tragedies,
comedies, novels, pictures, poems, and pamphlets. It was Love
between Vice and Virtue. Among the spectators who saw the
first performance of “L’Etrangère” in London, and there
were quite as many French as English present, not one remarked
that there was something wanting, and not one of them said
that he had not understood the character.
I talked about it to a very learned Frenchman.
“Did you notice the gap in the third act?” I asked him.
“No,” he replied.
“In my big scene with Croizette?”
“No.”
“Well, then, read what I left out,” I insisted.
When he had read this he exclaimed: “So much the better.
It’s very dull, all that story, and quite useless. I understand
the character without all that rigmarole and that romantic
history.”
Later on, when I apologized to Dumas fils for the way in
327which I had cut down his play, he answered: “Oh, my dear
child, when I write a play I think it is good, when I see it played
I think it is stupid, and when any anyone tells it to me, I think
it is perfect, as the person always forgets half of it.”
The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a
crowd nightly to the Gaiety Theater, and I remained the
favorite. I mention this now with pride, but without any
vanity. I was very happy and very grateful for my success,
but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of it, and
hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.
Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I
should be able to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or
paintings. I had, therefore, taken with me six pieces of
sculpture and ten pictures, and I had an exhibition of them in
Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a hundred in all.
His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, let me know that
he would come with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy
and the celebrities of London came to the inauguration.
I had sent out only a hundred invitations, but twelve
hundred people arrived, and were introduced to me. I was
delighted and enjoyed it all immensely.
Mr. Gladstone did me the great honor of talking to me for
about ten minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything
in a singularly gracious way. He asked me what impression
the attacks of certain clergymen on the Comédie Française
and the damnable profession of dramatic artistes, had
made on me. I answered that I considered our art quite as
profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and Protestant
preachers.
“But will you tell me, mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what
moral lesson you can draw from ‘Phèdre’?”
“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me!
‘Phèdre’ is an ancient tragedy; the morality and customs of
those times belong to a perspective quite different from ours,
and different from the morality of our present society. And
yet in that there is the punishment of the old nurse Œnone, who
commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent person.
328The love of Phèdre is excusable on account of the fatality which
hangs over her family, and descends pitilessly upon her. In our
times we should call that fatality atavism, for Phèdre was the
daughter of Minos and Pasiphæ. As to Theseus, his verdict,
against which there could be no appeal, was an arbitrary and
monstrous act, and was punished by the death of that beloved
son of his who was the sole and last hope of his life. We ought
never to cause what is irreparable.”
“Ah!” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital
punishment?”
“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.”
“And quite right, mademoiselle.”
Frederic Leighton then joined us and with great kindness
complimented me on one of my pictures, representing a young
girl holding some palms. This picture was bought by Prince
Leopold.
My little exhibition was a great success, but I never thought
that it was to be the cause of so much gossip and of so many
cowardly side thrusts, until finally it led to my rupture with
the Comédie Française.
I had no pretensions either as a painter or a sculptor, and
I exhibited my works for the sake of selling them, as I wanted to
buy two little lions and had not money enough. I sold the
pictures for what they were worth, that is to say, at very modest
prices.
Lady H—— bought my group “After the Storm.” It was
smaller than the large group I had exhibited two years previously
at the Paris Salon, and for which I had received a prize.
The smaller group was in marble, and I had worked at it with
the greatest care. I wanted to sell it for £160, but Lady H——
sent me £400 together with a charming note, which I venture
to quote. It ran as follows:
Do me the favour, Madame, of accepting the enclosed £400 for your
admirable group “After the Storm.” Will you also do me the honour of
coming to lunch with me and afterwards you shall choose for yourself the
place where your piece of sculpture will have the best light.
Ethel H——.
329This was Tuesday and I was playing in “Zaïre” that evening,
but Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I was not acting.
I had money enough now to buy my lions, so without saying a
word at the theater, I started for Liverpool. I knew there was
a big menagerie there, Cross’s Zoo, and that I should find some
lions for sale.
The journey was most amusing, as although I was traveling
incognito, I was recognized all along the route and was made a
great deal of.
Three gentlemen friends and Hortense Damain were with
me, and it was a very lively little trip. I know that I was not
shirking my duties at the Comédie, as I was not to play again
before Saturday, and this was only Wednesday.
We started in the morning at 10.30 A.M. and arrived in Liverpool
about 2.30. We went at once to Cross’s, but could not
find the entrance to the house. We asked a shopkeeper at the
corner of the street, and he pointed to a little door which we had
already opened and closed twice, as we could not believe that
was the entrance.
I had seen a large iron gateway with a wide courtyard beyond,
and we were in front of a little door leading into quite a
small, bare-looking room, where we found a little man.
“Mr. Cross?” we said.
“That’s my name,” he replied.
“I want to buy some lions,” I then said.
He began to laugh, and he asked,
“Do you really, mademoiselle? Are you so fond of
animals? I went to London last week to see the Comédie Française,
and I saw you in ‘Hernani’ ...”
“It wasn’t from that you discovered that I liked animals?”
I said to him.
“No, it was a man who sells dogs in St. Andrew’s Street
who told me; he said you had bought two dogs from him and
that if it had not been for the gentleman who was with you,
you would have bought five.”
He told me all this in very bad French, but with a great deal
of humor.
330“Well, Mr. Cross,” I said, “I want two lions to-day.”
“I’ll show you what I have,” he replied, leading the way
into the courtyard where the wild beasts were. Oh, what
magnificent creatures they were! There were two superb
African lions with shining coats and powerful-looking tails
which were beating the air. They had only just arrived and
they were in perfect health, with plenty of courage for rebellion.
They knew nothing of the resignation which is the dominating
stigma of civilized beings.
“Oh, Mr. Cross,” I said, “these are too big, I want some
young lions.”
“I haven’t any, mademoiselle.”
“Well, then, show me all your animals.”
I saw the tigers, the leopards, the jackals, the chetahs, and the
pumas, and I stopped in front of the elephants. I simply adore
them, and I should have liked to have a dwarf elephant. That
has always been one of my dreams, and perhaps some day I
shall be able to realize it.
Cross had not any, though, so I bought a chetah. It was
quite young and very droll; it looked like a gargoyle on some
castle of the Middle Ages. I also bought a dog wolf, all white
with a thick coat, fiery eyes, and spearlike teeth. He was terrifying
to look at. Mr. Cross made me a present of six chameleons
which belonged to a small race and looked like lizards. He
also gave me an admirable chameleon, a prehistoric, fabulous
sort of animal. It was a veritable Chinese curiosity and
changed color from pale green to dark bronze, at one minute
slender and long like a lily leaf, and then all at once puffed out
and thick-set like a toad. Its lorgnette eyes, like those of a
lobster, were quite independent of each other. With its right
eye it would look ahead, and with its left eye it looked backward.
I was delighted and quite enthusiastic over this present.
I named my chameleon “Cross-ci Cross-ça,” in honor of Mr.
Cross.
We returned to London with the chetah in a cage, the dog
wolf in a leash, my six little chameleons in a box, and “Cross-ci
Cross-ça” on my shoulder, fastened to a gold chain we had
331bought at a jeweler’s. I had not found any lions but I was delighted
all the same. My domestics were not as pleased as I
was. There were already three dogs in the house: Minniccio
who had accompanied me from Paris, Bull and Fly, bought in
London. Then there was my parrot, Bizibouzon, and my
monkey, Darwin.
Mme. Guérard screamed when she saw these new guests arrive.
My butler hesitated to approach the dog wolf, and it
was all in vain that I assured them that my chetah was not
dangerous. No one would open the cage, and it was carried
out into the garden. I asked for a hammer in order to open the
door of the cage that had been nailed down, thus keeping the
poor chetah a prisoner. When my domestics heard me ask for
the hammer, they decided to open it themselves. Mme. Guérard
and the women servants watched from the windows. Presently
the door burst open, and the chetah, beside himself with
joy, sprang like a tiger out of his cage, wild with liberty. He
rushed at the trees, made straight for the dogs, who all four
began to howl with terror. The parrot was excited, and uttered
shrill cries and the monkey, shaking his cage about, gnashed his
teeth to distraction. This concert in the silent square made the
most prodigious effect. All the windows were opened and more
than twenty faces appeared above my garden wall, all of them
inquisitive, alarmed, or furious. I was seized with a fit of uncontrollable
laughter, and my friend Louise Abbéma; Nittis, the
painter, who had come to call on me, was in the same state, and
Gustave Doré, who had been waiting for me ever since two
o’clock. Georges Deschamp, an amateur musician, with a great
deal of talent, tried to note down this Hoffmanesque harmony,
while my friend, Georges Clairin, his back shaking with laughter,
sketched the never-to-be-forgotten scene.
The next day in London the chief topic of conversation was
the Bedlam that had been let loose at 77, Chester Square. So
much was made of it that our dean, M. Got, came to beg me not
to make such a scandal, as it reflected on the Comédie Française.
I listened to him in silence and when he had finished I took his
hands.
332“Come with me and I will show you the scandal,” I said.
I conducted him into the garden.
“Let the chetah out!” I said, standing on the steps like a
captain ordering his men to take in a reef.
When the chetah was free the same mad scene occurred again
as on the previous day.
“You see, M. le Doyen,” I said, “this is my Bedlam.”
“You are mad,” he said, kissing me, “but it certainly is
irresistibly comic,” and he laughed until the tears came when
he saw all the heads appearing above the garden wall.
The hostilities continued, though by means of scraps of
gossip retailed by one person to another and from one set to
another. The French Press took it up and so did the English
Press. In spite of my happy disposition and my contempt for
ill-natured tales, I began to feel irritated. Injustice has always
roused me to revolt, and injustice was certainly having its fling.
I could not do a thing that was not watched and blamed.
One day I was complaining of this to Madeleine Brohan,
whom I loved dearly. That adorable artiste took my face in
her hands, and looking into my eyes, said: “My poor dear,
you can’t do anything to prevent it. You are original without
trying to be so. You have a dreadful head of hair that is
naturally curly and rebellious, your slenderness is exaggerated,
you have a natural harp in your throat, and all this makes of
you a creature apart, which is a crime of high treason against
all that is commonplace. That is what is the matter with you
physically. Now for your moral defects. You cannot hide
your thoughts, you cannot stoop to anything, you never accept
any compromise, you will not lend yourself to any hypocrisy,
and all that is a crime of high treason against society. How
can you expect under these conditions not to arouse jealousy,
not to wound people’s susceptibilities, and not to make them
spiteful? If you are discouraged because of these attacks, it
will be all over with you, as you will have no strength left to
withstand them. In that case I advise you to brush your hair,
to put oil on it, and so make it lie as sleek as that of the famous
Corsican, but even that would never do, for Napoleon had
such sleek hair that it was quite original. Well, you might try
to brush your hair as smooth as Prudhon’s,[4] then there would be
no risk for you. I would advise you,” she continued, “to
get a little stouter and to let your voice break occasionally, then
you would not annoy anyone. But if you wish to remain
yourself, my dear, prepare to mount on a little pedestal made
of calumny, scandal, injustice, adulation, flattery, lies, and
truths. When you are once upon it, though, do the right thing,
and cement it by your talent, your work, and your kindness.
All the spiteful people who have unintentionally provided the
first materials for the edifice will kick it, then, in hopes of
destroying it. They will be powerless to do this, though, if you
choose to prevent them; and that is just what I hope for you,
my dear Sarah, as you have an ambitious thirst for glory. I
cannot understand that, myself, as I like only rest and shade.”
4. Prudhon was one of the artistes of the Théâtre Français.
SARAH BERNHARDT, FROM AN OIL PAINTING BY MLLE. LOUISE ABBÉMA.
333I looked at her with envy, she was so beautiful with her
liquid eyes, her face with its pure, restful lines and her weary
smile. I wondered in an uneasy way if happiness were not
rather in this calm tranquillity, in the disdain of all things. I
asked her gently if this were so, for I wanted to know, and she
told me that the theater bored her, that she had had so many
disappointments. She shuddered when she spoke of her marriage,
and as to her motherhood, that had only caused her sorrow.
Her love affairs had left her affections crushed and physically
disabled. The light seemed doomed to fade from her beautiful
eyes, her legs were swollen, and could scarcely carry her. She
told me all this in the same calm, half weary tone.
What had charmed me only a short time before chilled me
to the heart now, for her dislike to movement was caused by the
weakness of her eyes and her legs, and her delight in the shade
was only the love of that peace which was so necessary to her,
wounded as she was by the life she had lived.
The love of life, though, took possession of me more violently
than ever. I thanked my dear friend, and profited by her
advice. I armed myself for the struggle, preferring to die in
334the midst of the battle rather than to end my life regretting
that it had been a failure. I made up my mind not to weep
over the base things that were said about me, and not to suffer
any more injustices. I made up my mind, too, to stand on the
defensive and very soon an occasion presented itself.
“L’Etrangère” was to be played for the second time at a
matinée, June 21, 1879. The day before I had sent word to
Mayer that I was not well and that as I was playing in “Hernani”
at night, I should be glad if he could change the play
announced for the afternoon if possible. The receipts, however,
were more than £400 and the Committee would not hear of it.
“Oh, well,” Got said to Mr. Mayer, “we must give the rôle
to some one else if Sarah Bernhardt cannot play. There will
be Croizette, Madeleine Brohan, Coquelin, Febvre, and myself
in the cast, and, hang it all, it seems to me that all of us together
will make up for Mlle. Bernhardt.”
Coquelin was requested to ask Lloyd to take my part, as
she had played this rôle at the Comédie when I was ill. Lloyd
was afraid to undertake it, though, and refused. It was decided
to change the play, and “Tartuffe” was given instead of
“L’Etrangère.” Nearly all of the public, however, asked to
have their money refunded, and the receipts, which would have
been about £500, only amounted to £84.
All the spite and jealousy now broke loose, and the whole
company of the Comédie, more particularly the men, with the
exception of Mr. Worms, started a campaign against me. Francisque
Sarcey, as drum major, beat the measure with his terrible
pen in his hand. The most foolish, slanderous, and stupid inventions
and the most odious lies took their flight like a cloud
of wild ducks and swooped suddenly down upon all the newspapers
that were against me. It was said that for a shilling
anyone might see me dressed as a man; that I smoked huge
cigars leaning on the balcony of my house; that at the various
receptions where I gave one-act plays, I took my maid with me
for the dialogue; that I practiced fencing in my garden, dressed
as a pierrot in white, and that when taking boxing lessons, I
had broken two teeth for my unfortunate professor.
335Some of my friends advised me to take no notice of all these
turpitudes, assuring me that the public could not possibly believe
them. They were mistaken, though, for the public likes
to believe bad things about anyone, as these are always more
amusing than the good things. I soon had a proof that the
English public was beginning to believe what the French papers
said. I received a letter from a tailor asking me if I would consent
to wear a coat of his make when I appeared in masculine
attire, and not only did he offer me this coat for nothing, but
he was willing to pay me a hundred pounds if I would wear it.
This man was quite an ill-bred person, but he was sincere. I
received several boxes of cigars, and the boxing and fencing
professors wrote to offer their services gratuitously. All this
annoyed me to such a degree that I resolved to put an end
to it. An article by Albert Wolff in the Paris Figaro caused
me to take steps to cut matters short.
And I wrote in reply to it as follows:
Albert Wolff, Figaro, Paris:
And you, too, my dear M. Wolff—you believe in such insanities? Who
can have been giving you such false information? Yes, you are my friend,
though, for in spite of all the infamies you have been told you have still a
little indulgence left. Well, then, I give you my word of honor that I have
never dressed as a man here in London. I did not even bring my sculptor
costume with me. I give the most emphatic denial to this misrepresentation.
I only went once to the exhibition which I organized, and that was
on the opening day, for which I had only sent out a few private invitations,
so that no one paid a shilling to see me. It is true that I have accepted
some private engagements to act, but you know that I am one of the most
poorly paid members of the Comédie Française. I certainly have the right,
therefore, to try to make up the difference. I have ten pictures and eight
pieces of sculpture on exhibition. That, too, is quite true, but as I brought
them over here to sell I really must show them. As to the respect due to the
House of Molière, dear M. Wolff, I lay claim to keeping that in mind more
than anyone else, for I am absolutely incapable of inventing such calumnies for
the sake of slaying one of its standard-bearers. And now, if the stupidities
invented about me have annoyed the Parisians and if they have decided to
receive me ungraciously on my return, I do not wish anyone to be guilty of
such baseness on my account, so I will send in my resignation to the Comédie
Française. If the London public is tired of all this fuss and should be
336inclined to show me ill-will instead of the indulgence hitherto accorded me,
I shall ask the Comédie to allow me to leave England in order to spare our
company the annoyance of seeing one of its members hooted at and hissed.
I am sending you this letter by wire, as the consideration I have for public
opinion gives me the right to commit such folly, and I beg you, dear
M. Wolff, to accord to my letter the same honor as you did to the calumnies
of my enemies.
With very kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
Sarah Bernhardt.
This telegram caused much ink to flow. While treating me
as a spoiled child, people generally agreed that I was quite
right. The Comédie was most amiable, Perrin, the manager,
wrote me an affectionate letter begging me to give up my
idea of leaving the company. The women were most friendly.
Croizette came to see me and putting her arms round me said:
“Tell me you won’t do such a thing, my dear, foolish child.
You won’t really send in your resignation? In the first place
it would not be accepted, I can answer for that.”
Mounet-Sully talked to me of art and of probity. His
whole speech savored of Protestantism. There are several Protestant
pastors in his family and this influenced him unconsciously.
Delaunay, surnamed Father Candor, came solemnly
to inform me of the bad impression my telegram had made. He
told me that the Comédie Française was a ministry; that there
was the minister, the secretary, the subchiefs and the employés,
and that each one must conform to the rules and bring
in his share either of talent or work, and so on and so on.... I
saw Coquelin at the theater in the evening. He came to me
with outstretched hands.
“You know I can’t compliment you,” he said, “on your
rash action, but fortunately we shall make you change your
mind. When one has the good fortune and the honor of belonging
to the Comédie Française one must remain there until
the end of one’s career.”
Frédéric Febvre pointed out to me that I ought to stay with
the Comédie because it would save money for me and I was
quite incapable of doing that myself.
337“Believe me,” he said, “when we are with the Comédie
we must not leave, it means our bread provided for us later on.”
Got, our dean, then approached me.
“Do you know what you are doing in sending in your
resignation?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Deserting.”
“You are mistaken,” I answered, “I am not deserting; I
am changing barracks.”
Others then came to me and they all gave me advice tinged
by their own personality, Mounet, as a seer or believer, Delaunay
prompted by his bureaucratic soul, Coquelin as a politician
blaming another person’s idea now, but extolling it later
on and putting it into practice for his own profit—Febvre, a
lover of respectability—Got, as a selfish old growler, understanding
nothing but the orders of the powers that be and
advancement as ordained on hierarchical lines. Worms said
to me in his melancholy way:
“Will people be better elsewhere?”
Worms had the most dreamy soul and the most frank,
straightforward character of any member of our illustrious
company. I liked him immensely.
We were about to return to Paris and I wanted to forget
all these things for a time. I was in a hesitating mood. I postponed
taking a definite decision.
CHAPTER XXIII I AGAIN LEAVE THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
338
The stir that had been made about me, the good that
had been said in my favor, and the bad things
written against me, all this combined had created
in the artistic world an atmosphere of battle. When
on the point of leaving for Paris, some of my friends felt very
anxious about the reception which I should get there. The
public is very much mistaken in imagining that the agitation
made about celebrated artistes is in reality instigated by the persons
concerned and that they do it purposely. Irritated at
seeing the same name constantly appearing on every occasion
the public declares that the artiste who is either being slandered
or pampered is an ardent lover of publicity. Alas! three times
over alas! We are victims of the said advertisement. Those
who know the joys and miseries of celebrity when they have
passed the age of forty know how to defend themselves. They
are at the beginning of a series of small worries, thunderbolts
hidden under flowers, but they know how to hold in check that
monster advertisement. It is a sort of octopus with innumerable
tentacles. It throws out its clammy arms on the right and
on the left, in front and behind, and gathers in through its
thousand little inhaling organs, all the gossip and slander and
praise afloat to spit out again at the public when it is vomiting
its black gall. But those who are caught in the clutches of
celebrity at the age of twenty know nothing. I remember that
the first time a reporter came to me I drew myself up straight
and was as red as a coxcomb with joy. I was just seventeen
years old—I had been acting in a private house and had taken
the part of Richelieu with immense success. This gentleman
came to call on me at home and asked me first one question
and then another, and then another—I answered and chattered
and was wild with pride and excitement. He took notes and I
kept looking at my mother. It seemed to me that I was getting
taller. I had to kiss my mother by way of keeping my composure
and I hid my face on her shoulder to hide my delight. Finally,
the gentleman rose, shook hands with me, and then took his departure.
I skipped about in the room and began to turn round
singing, “Trois petits pâtés, ma chemise brûle,” when suddenly
the door opened and the gentleman said to mamma, “Oh,
madame, I forgot, this is the receipt for the subscription to the
journal! It is a mere nothing, only sixteen francs a year.”
Mamma did not understand at first. As for me, I stood still
with my mouth open, unable to digest my petits pâtés.
Mamma then paid the sixteen francs and in her pity for me,
as I was crying by that time, she stroked my hair gently. Since
then I have been delivered over to the monster, bound hand and
foot, and I have been and still am accused of adoring advertisement.
And to think that my first claims to celebrity were my
extraordinary thinness and delicate health. I had scarcely
made my début when epigrams, puns, jokes, and caricatures concerning
me were indulged in by everyone to their heart’s content.
Was it really for the sake of advertising myself that I
was so thin, so small, so weak, and was it for this, too, that I remained
in bed six months of the year, laid low by illness? My
name became celebrated before I was, myself. At the first
night of Louis Bouilhet’s piece “Mlle. Aïssé” at the Odéon,
Flaubert, who was an intimate friend of the author, introduced
an attaché of the British Embassy to me.
SARAH BERNHARDT AS THE DUC DE RICHELIEU.
339“Oh, I have known you for some time, mademoiselle,” he
said, “you are the little stick with the sponge on the top!”
This caricature of me had just appeared and had been the
delight of idle folks. I was quite a young girl at that time and
nothing of that kind hurt me or troubled me. In the first place
all the doctors had given me up, so that I was indifferent about
340things, but all the doctors were mistaken and twenty years later
I had to fight against the monster.
The return of the Comédie to their homes was an event, but
an event that was kept quiet. Our departure from Paris had
been very lively and gay and quite a public event. Our return
was clandestine for many of the members, and for me among
the number. It was a doleful return for those who had not
been appreciated and those who had been failures were furious.
I had not been back home an hour when Perrin, the manager,
was announced. He began to reproach me gently about the
little care I took of my health. He said I caused too much fuss
to be made about me.
“But,” I exclaimed, “is it my fault if I am thin? Is
it my fault, too, that my hair is too curly and that I don’t
think just as other people do? Supposing that I took arsenic
enough, for a whole month, to make me swell out like a barrel
and supposing I were to shave my head like an Arab and only
answer ‘Yes’ to everything you said. People would declare I
did it for advertisement.”
“But, my dear child,” answered Perrin, “there are people
who are neither fat nor thin, neither close shaven nor with
shocks of hair, and who answer yes and no.”
I was simply petrified by the justice and reason of the remark
and I understand the “because” of all the “whys” I
had been asking myself for some years. There was no happy
medium about me. I was “too much” and “too little” and
I felt that there was nothing to be done for it. I owned it to
Perrin and told him that he was quite right. He took advantage
of my mood for lecturing me and for advising me not to
put in an appearance at the opening ceremony that was to take
place at the Comédie. He feared a cabal against me. “Some
people were rather excited, rightly or wrongly, a little of both,”
he added, in that shrewd and courteous way which was peculiar
to him. I listened to him without interrupting, which slightly
embarrassed him, for Perrin was an arguer but not an orator.
When he had finished I said: “You have told me too many
things that excite me, M. Perrin. I love a battle and I shall
341appear at the ceremony. You see I have already been warned
about it. Here are three anonymous letters. Read this one, it
is the nicest.”
He unfolded the letter, which was perfumed with amber,
and read as follows:
My poor skeleton, you will do well not to show your horrible Jewish nose
at the opening ceremony the day after to-morrow. I fear that it would serve
as a target for all the potatoes that are now being cooked specially for you
in your kind city of Paris. Have some paragraphs put in the papers to the
effect that you have been spitting blood and remain in bed and think over
the consequences of excessive advertisement.
A Subscriber
Perrin pushed the letter away from him in disgust.
“Here are two more,” I said, “but they are so coarse that
I will spare you. I shall go to the opening ceremony.”
“Good!” replied Perrin. “They are rehearsing to-morrow,
shall you come?”
“I shall come,” I answered.
The next day at the rehearsal the artistes, men and women,
did not care about going on to the stage to make their bow with
me. I must say, though, that they all nevertheless showed much
good grace. But I declared that I wished to go on alone, although
it was against the rule, but I thought I ought to face the
ill humor and the cabal alone.
The house was crowded when the curtain rose. The ceremony
commenced in the midst of “Bravos!” The public was
delighted to see its beloved artistes again. They advanced two
by two, one on the right and the other on the left, holding
the palm and the crown to place on the pedestal of Molière’s
bust. My turn came and I advanced alone. I felt that I was
pale and then livid, with a will that was determined to conquer.
I went forward slowly toward the footlights, but instead of
bowing as my comrades had done I stood up erect and gazed
with my two eyes into all the eyes turning toward me. I had
been warned of the battle and did not wish to provoke it, but
I would not fly from it. I waited a second and felt the thrill
and the emotion that ran through the house, and then, suddenly
342stirred by an impulse of generous kindliness, the whole house
burst into wild applause and shouts. The public, so beloved
and so loving, was intoxicated with joy. That was certainly
one of the finest triumphs of my whole career. Some of the
artistes were very delighted, especially the women, for there is
one thing to remark with regard to our art, the men are more
jealous of the women than the women are among themselves.
I have met with many enemies among the men comedians and
with very few among the women. I think that the dramatic art
is essentially feminine. To paint one’s face, to hide one’s real
feelings, to try to please and to endeavor to attract attention,
these are all faults for which we blame women and for which
great indulgence is shown. These same defects seem odious in
a man. And yet the actor must endeavor to be as attractive as
possible, even if he is obliged to have recourse to paint and to
false beard and hair. He may be a Republican and he must
uphold with warmth and conviction royalist theories. He may
be a Conservative and must maintain anarchist principles, if
such be the good pleasure of the author.
At the Théâtre Français poor Maubant was a most advanced
Radical and his stature and handsome face doomed him to play
the parts of kings, emperors, and tyrants. As long as the rehearsals
went on, Charlemagne or Cæsar could be heard swearing
at tyrants, cursing the conquerors, and claiming the hardest
punishments for them. I thoroughly enjoyed this struggle between
the man and the actor. Perhaps this perpetual abstraction
from himself gives the comedian a more feminine nature.
However that may be, it is certain that the actor is jealous
of the actress. The courtesy of the well-educated man vanishes
before the footlights, and the comedian, who in private life
would render a service to a woman in any difficulty, will pick
a quarrel with her on the stage. He would risk his life to save
her from any danger in the road, on the railway, or on a boat,
but when once on the boards he will not do anything to help
her out of a difficulty. If her memory should fail, or if she
should make a false step, he would not hesitate to push her—I am
going a long way, perhaps, but not so far as people may think.
343I have performed with some celebrated comedians who have
played me some bad tricks. On the other hand, there are some
actors who are admirable and who are more men than comedians
when on the stage. Pierre Berton, Worms, and Guitry are,
and always will be, the most perfect models of friendly and
protecting courtesy toward the woman comedian. I have
played in a number of pieces with each of them and, subject
as I am to stage fright, I have always felt perfect confidence
when acting with these three artistes. I knew that their intelligence
was of a high order, that they had pity on me for
my fright, and that they would be prepared for any nervous
weaknesses caused by it. Pierre Berton and Worms, both of
them very great artistes, left the stage in full artistic vigor and
vital strength, Pierre Berton to devote himself to literature, and
Worms—no one knows why. As to Guitry, much the youngest
of the three, he is now the first artiste on the French stage, for
he is an admirable comedian and at the same time an artist, a
very rare thing in a man. I know very few artistes in France
or in other countries with these two qualities combined. Henry
Irving is an admirable artiste but not a comedian; Coquelin is
an admirable comedian, but he is not an artiste. Mounet-Sully
has genius which he sometimes places at the service of the
artiste and sometimes at the service of the comedian, but on the
other hand, he sometimes gives us exaggerations as artiste and
comedian which make lovers of Beauty and Truth gnash their
teeth. Bartet is a perfect comedienne with a very delicate
artistic sense. Réjane is the most comedian of comedians and
an artiste when she wishes to be. Eleonora Duse is more a
comedian than an artiste. She walks in paths that have been
traced out by others. She does not imitate them, certainly not,
for she plants flowers where there were trees and trees where
there were flowers, but she has never by her art made a single
personage stand out identified by her name; she has not created
a being or a vision which reminds one of herself. She has put
on other people’s gloves, but she has put them on inside out.
And all this she has done with infinite grace and with careless
unconsciousness. She is a great comedienne, a very great comedienne,
344but not a great artiste. Novelli is a comedian of the old
school which did not trouble much about the artistic side. He
is perfect in laughter and tears. Beatrice Patrick Campbell is
especially an artiste and her talent is that of charm and thought;
she execrates beaten paths, she wants to create and she creates.
Antoine is often betrayed by his own powers, for his voice is
heavy and his general appearance rather ordinary. As a comedian
there is therefore often much to be desired, but he is
always an artiste without equal and our art owes much to him
in its evolution in the direction of truth. Antoine, too, is not
jealous of the woman comedian.
The days which followed the return of the Comédie to its
own home were very trying for me. Our manager wanted to
subdue me and he tortured me with a thousand little pin pricks
which were much more painful for a nature like mine than so
many stabs with a knife. I became irritable, bad tempered,
on the slightest provocation and was, in fact, ill. I had always
been gay and now I was sad. My health, which had ever been
feeble, was endangered by this state of chaos.
Perrin gave me the rôle of the Aventurière to study. I detested
the piece and did not like the part, and I considered the
lines of “L’Aventurière” very bad poetry indeed. As I cannot
dissimulate well, in a fit of temper I said this straight out
to Emile Augier, and he avenged himself in a most discourteous
way on the first opportunity that presented itself. This was on
the occasion of my definite rupture with the Comédie Française,
the day after the first performance of “L’Aventurière” on
Saturday, April 17, 1880. I was not ready to play my part
and the proof of this was a letter I wrote to M. Perrin, April
14, 1880.
I regret very much, my dear Monsieur Perrin, but I have such a sore
throat that I cannot speak and am obliged to stay in bed. Will you
kindly excuse me? It was at that wretched Trocadéro that I took cold on
Sunday. I am very much worried, as I know it will cause you inconvenience.
Anyhow, I will be ready for Saturday, whatever happens. A
thousand excuses and kind regards.
Sarah Bernhardt.
345I was able to play, as I had recovered from my sore throat,
but I had not studied my part during the three days, as I could
not speak. I had not been able to try on my costumes, either,
as I had been in bed all the time. On Friday I went to ask
Perrin to put off the performance of “L’Aventurière” until
the next week. He replied that it was impossible, that every
seat was booked, and that the piece had to be played the following
Tuesday for the subscription night. I let myself be
persuaded to act, as I had confidence in my star.
“Oh!” I said to myself, “I shall get through it all right.”
I did not get through it, though, or rather I came through
it very badly. My costume was a failure: it did not fit me.
They had always jeered at me for my thinness and in this dress
I looked like an English teapot. My voice was still rather hoarse,
which very much disconcerted me. I played the first part of the
rôle very badly and the second part rather better. At a certain
moment during the scene of violence I was standing up, resting
my two hands on the table on which there was a lighted candelabrum.
There was a cry raised in the house, for my hair was very
near to the flame. The following day one of the papers said that,
as I felt things were all going wrong, I wanted to set my hair on
fire so that the piece should come to an end before I failed completely.
That was certainly the very climax of stupidity. The
press did not praise me and the press was quite right. I had
played badly, looked ugly, and been in a bad temper, but I
considered that there was nevertheless a want of courtesy and
indulgence toward me. Auguste Vitu, in the Figaro of April
18, 1880, finished his article with the phrase: “The new
Clorinde (the Adventuress) in the last two acts made some gestures
with her arms and movements of her body which one
regrets to see taken from Virginie of “L’Assommoir” and introduced
at the Comédie Française.”
The only fault which I never have had, which I never shall
have, is vulgarity. That was an injustice and a determination
to hurt my feelings. Vitu was no friend of mine, but I understood
from this way of attacking me that petty hatreds were
lifting up their rattlesnake heads. All the low-down little
346viper world was crawling about under my flowers and my
laurels. I had known what was going on for a long time, and
sometimes I had heard rattling behind the scenes. I wanted
to have the enjoyment of hearing them all rattle together and
so I threw my laurels and my flowers to the four winds of
heaven. In the most abrupt way I broke the contract which
bound me to the Comédie Française, and through that to Paris.
I shut myself up all the morning, and after endless discussions
with myself, I decided to send in my resignation to the
Comédie. I therefore wrote to M. Perrin, this letter:
To the Director:
You have compelled me to play when I was not ready. You have accorded
me only eight rehearsals on the stage and the play has been rehearsed
entirely only three times. I was very unwilling to appear before the public.
You insisted absolutely. What I foresaw has happened. The result of the
performance has surpassed my anticipations. A critic pretended that I
played Virginie de l’Assommoir instead of Doña Clorinde de “l’Aventurière.”
May Emile Augier and Zola absolve me! It is my first rebuff at the Comédie
and shall be my last. I warned you the day of the general rehearsal. You
have gone too far. I keep my word. By the time you receive this letter I
shall have left Paris. Will you kindly accept my immediate resignation and
believe me, yours sincerely,
Sarah Bernhardt.
In order that this resignation might not be refused at the
Committee meeting I sent copies of my letter to the Gaulois and
the Figaro, and it was published at the same time as M. Perrin
received it.
Then, quite decided not to be influenced by anybody, I set
off at once, with my maid, for Hâvre. I had left orders that
no one was to be told where I was, and the first evening I was
there I passed in strict incognito. But the next morning I was
recognized and telegrams were sent to Paris to that effect. I
was besieged by reporters.
I took refuge at La Hêve where I spent the whole day on
the beach in spite of the cold rain which fell without ceasing.
SARAH BERNHARDT, 1879.
347I went back to the Hotel Frascati, frozen, and in the night
I was so feverish that the doctor was summoned. Mme. Guérard,
who was sent for by my alarmed maid, came at once, and
I was feverish for two days. During this time the newspapers
continued to pour out a flood of ink on paper. This turned to
bitterness and I was accused of the worst misdeeds. The Committee
sent a huissier to my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers, and
this man declared that after having knocked three times at the
door and having received no answer he had left copy, etc.,
etc....
The man was lying. In the hotel there were my son and his
tutor, my steward, the husband of my maid, my butler, the
cook, the kitchenmaid, the second lady’s maid, and five dogs;
but it was all in vain that I protested against the minion of the
law; it was useless.
The Comédie must, according to the rules, send me three
summonses; this was not done and a lawsuit was commenced
against me. It was lost in advance.
Maître Allon, the advocate of the Comédie Française, invented
wicked little histories about me. He took a pleasure in
trying to make me ridiculous. He had a big file of letters from
me to Perrin, letters which I had written in softer moments or
in anger. Perrin had kept them all, even the shortest notes.
I had kept none of his. The few letters to myself from Perrin
which have been published were given by him from his letter-copy
book. Of course he gave only those which could inspire
the public with an idea of his paternal kindness to me
etc., etc....
The pleading of Maître Allon was very successful; he
claimed three hundred thousand francs damages, in addition
to the confiscation for the benefit of the Comédie Française, of
the 43,000 francs which that theater owed me.
Maître Barboux was my advocate. He was an intimate
friend of Perrin. He defended me very indifferently. I was
condemned to pay a hundred thousand francs to the Comédie
Française and to lose the 43,000 francs which I had left with the
management. I may say that I did not trouble much about
this law suit.
348Three days after my resignation Jarrett called upon me.
He proposed to me for the third time to make a contract for
America. This time I lent an ear to his propositions. We had
never spoken about prices and this is what he proposed:
Five thousand francs for each performance and the half of
the takings above 15,000 francs; that is to say, if the day the receipts
reached the sum of 20,000 francs, I should receive 7,500
francs. In addition: 1,000 francs per week for my hotel bill;
also, a special Pullman for my journeys, containing my bedroom,
a drawing-room with a piano, four beds for my staff, and two
cooks to cook for me on the way. Mr. Jarrett was to have ten
per cent. on all sums received by me.
I accepted everything. I was anxious to leave Paris. Jarrett
immediately sent a telegram to Mr. Abbey, the great American
impresario, and he landed on this side thirteen days later.
I signed the contract made by Jarrett, which was discussed
clause by clause with the American manager.
I was given, on signing the contract, 100,000 francs as advance
payment for the expenses of departure. I was to play
eight pieces: “Hernani,” “Phèdre,” “Adrienne Lecouvreur,”
“Froufrou,” “La Dame aux Camélias,” “Le
Sphinx,” “L’Etrangère,” and “La Princesse George.”
I ordered twenty-five costumes for town wear at Laferrière’s,
with whom I then dealt.
At Baron’s I ordered six costumes for “Adrienne Lecouvreur,”
and four costumes for “Hernani.” I ordered
from a young theater costumier named Lepaul, my costume for
“Phèdre.” These thirty-six costumes cost me 61,000 francs;
but out of this my costume for “Phèdre” alone cost 4,000
francs. The poor artiste-costumier had embroidered it himself.
It was a marvel. It was brought to me two days before my
departure and I cannot think of this moment without emotion.
Irritated by long waiting, I was writing an angry letter to the
costumier when he was announced. At first I received him very
badly, but I found him looking so ill, the poor man, that I made
him sit down and asked how he came to be so ill.
“Yes, I am not at all well,” he said in such a weak voice,
349that I was quite upset. “I wanted to finish this dress and I
have worked at it three days and nights. But look how nice it
is, your costume!” And he spread it out with loving respect
before me.
“Look!” remarked Guérard, “a little spot!”
“Ah, I pricked myself,” answered the poor artiste quickly.
But I had just caught sight of a drop of blood at the corner
of his lips. He wiped it quickly away so that it should not fall
on the pretty costume as the other little spot had done. I gave
the artiste the 4,000 francs, which he took with trembling hands.
He murmured some unintelligible words and withdrew.
“Take away this costume, take it away!” I cried to my
petite dame and my maid. And I cried so much that I had the
hiccough all the evening. Nobody understood why I was crying.
But I reproached myself bitterly for having worried the poor
man. It was plain that he was dying. And by the force of
circumstances I had unwittingly forged the first link of the
chain of death which was dragging to the tomb this youth of
twenty-two—this artiste with a future before him.
I would never wear this costume. It is still in its box yellowed
with age. Its gold embroidery is tarnished by time, and
the little spot of blood has slightly reddened the stuff. As to the
poor artiste, I learned of his death during my stay in London
in the month of May, for before leaving for America I signed
with Hollingshead and Mayer, the impresarios of the Comédie,
a contract which bound me to them from the 24th May to the
24th June (1880).
It was during this period that the lawsuit which the Comédie
Française brought against me was judged.
Maître Barboux did not consult me about anything, and my
success in London, which was achieved without the help of the
Comédie, irritated the Committee, the press, and the public.
Maître Allon, in his pleadings, pretended that the London
public, which was quickly tired of me, would not now come to
those performances of the Comédie in which I appeared.
The following list gives the best possible denial to the assertions
of Maître Allon:
350
Performances given by the Comédie Française at the Gaiety Theatre. The crosses indicate the pieces in which I appeared.
1879
PLAYS
Receipts in francs
June
2
Prologue of
“Le Misanthrope;” “Phèdre,” Acte II
“Les Précieuses Ridicules”
X
13.080
„
3
“L’Etrangère”
X
12.565
„
4
“Le Fils Naturel”
9.300
„
5
“Les Caprices de Marianne”
“La Joie Fait Peur”
10.100
„
6
“Le Menteur”
“Le Médecin Malgré Lui”
9.530
„
7
“Le Marquis de Ville Mer”
9.960
„
7
(Matinée)
“Tartuffe”
“La Joie Fait Peur”
8.700
„
9
“Hernani”
X
13.600
„
10
“Le Demi-monde”
11.425
„
11
“Mlle. de Belle Isle”
“Il Faut qu’une Porte Soit Ouverte ou Fermée”
10.420
„
12
“Le Post-scriptum”
“Le Gendre de M. Poirier”
10.445
„
13
“Phèdre”
13.920
„
14
“Le Luthier de Crémône”
“Le Sphinx”
X
13.350
„
14
(Matinée)
“Le Misanthrope”
“Les Plaideurs”
8.800
„
16
“L’ami Fritz”
9.375
„
17
“Zaïre”
“Les Précieuses Ridicules”
X
13.075
„
18
(Matinée)
“Le Jeu de l’Amour et du Hasard”
“Il ne Faut Jurer de Rien”
11.550
„
18
“Le Demi-monde”
12.160
„
20
“Les Fourchambault”
11.200
„
21
“Hernani”
X
13.375
„
21
(Matinée)
“Tartuffe”
“Il Faut qu’une Porte Soit Ouverte ou Fermée”
2.115
„
23
“Gringoire”
“On ne Badine pas avec l’Amour”
11.080
„
24
“Chez l’Avocat”
“Mlle. de la Seiglière”
9.660
„
25
(Matinée)
“L’Etrangère”
X
11.710
„
25
“Le Barbier de Seville”
9.180
351„
26
“Andromaque”
“Les Plaideurs”
X
13.350
„
27
“L’Avare”
“L’Etincelle”
11.775
„
28
“Le Sphinx”
“Le Dépit Amoureux”
X
12.860
„
28
(Matinée)
“Hernani”
X
13.730
„
30
“Ruy Blas”
X
13.660
July
1
“Mercadet”
“L’été de la St. Martin”
9.850
„
2
“Ruy Blas”
X
13.160
„
3
“Le Mariage de Victorine”
“Les Fourberies de Scapin”
10.165
„
4
“Les Femmes Savantes;”
“L’Etincelle”
11.960
„
5
“Les Fourchambault”
10.700
„
5
(Matinée)
“Phèdre;”
“La Joie Fait Peur”
X
14.265
„
7
“Le Marquis de Villemer”
10.565
„
8
“L’ami Fritz”
11.005
„
9
“Hernani”
X
14.275
„
10
“Le Sphinx”
X
13.775
„
11
“Philiberte”
“L’Etourdi”
11.500
„
12
“Ruy Blas”
X
12.660
„
12
(Matinée)
“Gringoire”
“Hernani,” Acte V
“La Bénédiction”
“Davenant”
“L’Etincelle”
X
13.725
Total receipts in francs
492.150
The average of the receipts was about 11,715 francs. These
figures show that out of the forty-three performances given by
the Comédie Française, the eighteen performances in which I
took part gave an average of 13,350 francs each; while the
twenty-five other performances gave an average of 10,000 francs.
While I was in London I learned that I had lost my lawsuit,
with its ... “Inasmuch as” ... “Nevertheless” ... etc. ...
352“declares hereby that Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt loses all the
rights, privileges, and advantages resulting to her profit, from
the engagement which she contracted with the company, by
authentic decree of the 24th March, 1875, which condemns her
to pay to the plaintiff in his lawful quality, the sum of 100,000
francs damages....”
I gave my last performance in London the very day that
the papers published the result of this unjust verdict. I was
applauded and the public overwhelmed me with flowers.
I had taken with me, as artistes, Mme. Devoyod, Mary Jullien,
Kalb, my sister Jeanne, Pierre Berton, Train, Talbot, Dieudonné—all
artistes of worth. I played all the pieces which I
was to play in America.
Vitu, Sarcey, and Lapommeraye had said so much against
me that I was stupefied to learn from Mayer that they had
arrived in London to be present at my performances. I did not
understand it at all. I thought that the Parisian journalists
were leaving me in peace at last, and here were my worst
enemies coming across the sea to see and hear me. Perhaps they
were hoping, like the Englishman who followed the lion-tamer,
to see him devoured by his lions.
Vitu, in the Figaro, had finished one of his bitter articles
in these words:
“But we have heard enough surely, of Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt!
Let her go abroad with her monotonous voice and her funereal fantasies!
Here, we have nothing new to learn from her talents or her caprices ...”
Sarcey, in an equally bitter article, apropos of my resignation
at the Comédie, finished with these words:
“... There comes a time when naughty children must go to
bed ...”
THE CELEBRATED PORTRAIT OF SARAH BERNHARDT, PAINTED BY JULES BASTIEN-LEPAGE.
353As to the amiable Lapommeraye, he had showered on my
devoted head all the rumors that he had collected from all sides.
But as they said he had no originality, he tried to show that he
also could dip his pen in venom and he had cried: “Pleasant
journey!” And here they all came, these three, and others
with them.... And the day following my first performance
of “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” Auguste Vitu telegraphed to the
Figaro a long article, in which he criticised me in certain scenes,
regretting that I had not followed the example of Rachel, whom
I had never seen. And he finished his article with these words:
“The sincerity of my admiration cannot be doubted when I
avow that in the fifth act Sarah Bernhardt rose to a height of
dramatic power, to a force of expression which could not be
surpassed. She played the long and cruel scene in which Adrienne,
poisoned by the Duchesse de Bouillon, struggles against
death in her fearful agony, not only with immense talent, but
with a science of art which up to the present she has never revealed.
If the Parisian public had heard ... or ever hears,
Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt cry out with the piercing accent which
she put into her words that evening: ‘I will not die, I will not
die!’ it would weep with her.”
Sarcey finished an admirable critique with these words:
“She is prodigious!...”
And Lapommeraye, who had once more become amiable,
begged me to go back to the Comédie which was waiting for me,
which would kill the fatted calf on the return of its prodigal
child.
Sarcey, in his article in the Temps, consecrated five columns
of praises to me and finished his article with these words:
“Nothing—nothing can ever take the place of this last act
of ‘Adrienne Lecouvreur’ at the Comédie. Ah, she should have
stayed at the Comédie! Yes, I come back to my litany! I cannot
help it! We shall lose as much as she will. Yes, I know that
354we can say Mlle. Dudlay is left to us. Oh, she will always stay
with us! I cannot help saying it—What a pity! What a pity!”
And eight days after, on the 7th June, he wrote in his
theatrical chronicle, on the first performance of “Froufrou”:
“I do not think that the emotion at the theater has ever been
so profound. There are, in the dramatic art, exceptional times
when the artistes are transported out of themselves, carried above
themselves and compelled to obey this inward ‘demon,’ (I
should have said god,) who whispered to Corneille his immortal
verses.
“‘Well,’ said I to Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, after the play,
‘this is an evening which will open to you, if you wish, the doors
of the Comédie Française!’ ‘Do not speak of it,’ said she to
me! We will not speak of it. But what a pity! What a pity!”
CHAPTER XXIV PREPARATIONS FOR AMERICA
355
My success in “Froufrou” was so marked that it
filled the void left by Coquelin, who, after having
signed, with the consent of Perrin, with Messrs.
Mayer and Hollingshead, declared that he could
not keep his engagements. It was a nasty trick of Jarnac’s
by which Perrin hoped to injure my London performances.
He had previously sent Got to me to ask officially if I would
not come back to the Comédie. He said I should be permitted
to make my American tour and that everything would
be arranged on my return. But he should not have sent
Got. He should have sent Worms or Le petit père Franchise—Delaunay.
The one might have persuaded me by his
affectionate reasoning, and the other by the falsity of arguments
presented with such grace that it would have been difficult
to refuse.
Got declared that I should be only too happy to come back
to the Comédie on my return from America; “for you know,”
he added, “you know, my little one, that you will die in that
country. And if you come back you will perhaps be only too
glad to return to the Comédie Française, for you will be in a
bad state of health, and it will take some time before you are
right again. Believe me, sign, and it is not we who will benefit
by that, but you!”
“I thank you,” answered I, “but I prefer to choose my
hospital myself on my return. And now you can go and leave
me in peace.” I fancy I said: “Get out!”
356That evening he was present at a performance of “Froufrou”
and came to my dressing-room and said:
“You had better sign, believe me! And come back to commence
with ‘Froufrou’! I will promise you a happy return!”
I refused and finished my performances in London without
Coquelin.
The average of the receipts was 9,000 francs, and I left
London with regret—I who had left it with so much
pleasure the first time. But London is a city apart; its charm
unveils little by little. The first impression for a Frenchman
or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal ennui. Those
tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those ugly
monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime, and black
with greasy dirt; those flower sellers at the corners of all the
streets with faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in
their hats and lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets;
the low sky; the funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on
to men just as drunk; the wild dancing of disheveled children
round the street organs, as numerous as the omnibuses—all that
caused, twenty-five years ago, an indefinite suffering to a
Parisian. But little by little one finds that the profusion of
the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of the aristocratic
ladies effaces the image of the flower sellers.
The constant movement of Hyde Park, and especially of
Rotten Row, fills the heart with gayety. The broad English
hospitality which was manifested from the first moment of making
an acquaintance; the wit of the men, which compares favorably
with the wit of Frenchmen; and their gallantry, much
more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left no regrets
in me for French gallantry.
But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud; and
our windows opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows.
I find also that nothing marks more clearly the difference of
character of the two nations than their respective windows.
Ours open wide, the sun enters into our houses even to the heart
of the dwelling, the air sweeps away all the dust and all the
microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply, as they open.
357English windows open only halfway, either the top half or
the bottom half. One may even have the pleasure of opening
them a little at the top and a little at the bottom, but not at
all in the middle. The sun cannot enter openly, nor the air.
The window keeps its selfish and perfidious character. I hate
the English windows. But now I love London, and—is there
any need to add?—its inhabitants. Since my first visit I have
returned there twenty-one times, and the public has always remained
faithful and affectionate.
After this first test of my freedom, I felt more sure of life
than before. Although I was very weakly of constitution, the
possibility of doing as I wanted without let or hindrance and
without control, calmed my nerves; and with a strengthened
nervous system, my health, which had been weakened by perpetual
irritations and by excessive work, recovered its tone. I
reposed on the laurels which I had gathered myself—and I
slept better. Sleeping better I commenced to eat better. And
great was the astonishment of my little court when they saw
their idol come back from London round and rosy.
I remained several days in Paris, then I set out for Brussels,
where I was to play “Adrienne Lecouvreur” and “Froufrou.”
The Belgian public—by which I mean the Brussels public—is
the most like our own. In Belgium I never feel that I am
in a strange country. Our language is the language of the
country; the horses and carriages are always in perfect taste;
the fashionable women resemble our own fashionable women;
cocottes abound; the hotels are as good as in Paris; the cab
horses are as poor; the newspapers are as spiteful. Brussels is
gossiping Paris in miniature.
I played, for the first time, at the Monnaie and I felt uncomfortable
in this immense and frigid theater. But the benevolent
enthusiasm of the public soon warmed me and I shall
never forget the four evenings I gave there.
Then I set out for Copenhagen, where I was to give five performances
at the Theater Royal.
Our arrival, which was anxiously expected, doubtless, really
358frightened me. More than two thousand persons who were assembled
in the station when the train came in, gave a hurrah so
terrible that I did not know what was happening. But when M.
De Fallesen, manager of the Theater Royal, and the first chamberlain
of the king, entered my compartment and begged me to
show myself at the window to gratify the curiosity of the public,
the hurrahs began again, and then I understood. But a dreadful
anxiety now took possession of me. I could never, I was sure,
rise to what was expected from me. My slender frame would
inspire disdain in those magnificent men and those splendid
and healthy women. I stepped out of the train so diminished
by comparison that I had the sensation of being nothing more
than a breath of air; and I saw the crowd, submissive to the
police, divide into two compact lines, leaving a large way for
my carriage. I passed slowly through this double hedge of
sympathetic sightseers, who threw me flowers and kisses and
lifted their hats to me. I have had afterwards, in the course
of my long career, many triumphs, receptions and ovations;
but my reception by the Danish people remains one of my most
cherished souvenirs. The living hedge lasted till we reached
the Hotel d’Angleterre where I went in, after once more thanking
the sympathetic friends who surrounded me.
In the evening, the King and Queen and their daughter, the
Princess of Wales, were present at the first performance of
“Adrienne Lecouvreur.”
This is what the Figaro of the 16th August, 1880, said:
“Sarah Bernhardt has played ‘Adrienne Lecouvreur’ with
a tremendous success before a magnificent public. The royal
family, the King and the Queen of the Hellènes, as well as the
Princess of Wales, were present at the performance. The Queens
threw their bouquets to the French artiste, midst applause. It
was an unprecedented triumph. The public was delirious. To-morrow
‘Froufrou’ will be played.”
The performances of “Froufrou” were equally successful.
But as I was playing only every other day I wanted to visit
359Elsinore. The King placed the royal steamer at my disposal for
this little journey.
I had invited all my company.
M. De Fallesen, the first chamberlain and manager of the
Theater Royal, caused a magnificent lunch to be served for us,
and accompanied by the principal notabilities of Denmark we
visited Hamlet’s tomb, the Spring of Ophelia, and the Castle
of Marienlyst. Then we went over the Castle of Cronburg.
I regretted my visit to Elsinore. The reality did not come up
to the expectation. The so-called Tomb of Hamlet is represented
by a small column, ugly and mournful looking; there
is little verdure and the desolate sadness of deceit without
beauty. They gave me a little water from the Spring of Ophelia
to drink and the Baron de Fallesen broke the glass without
allowing anyone else to drink from the spring.
I returned from this very ordinary journey feeling rather
sad. Leaning against the side of the vessel I watched the water
gliding past, when I noticed a few rose petals emerge, which
carried by an invisible current were borne against the sides of
the boat; then the petals increased to thousands and in the
mysterious sunset rose the melodious chant of the sons of the
North. I looked up. In front of us, rocked on the water by
the evening breeze, was a pretty boat with outspread sails: a
score of young men, throwing handfuls of roses into the waters,
which were carried to us by the little wavelets, were singing
the marvelous legends of past centuries. And all that was
for me: all those roses, all that love, all that musical poetry.
And the setting sun—it was also for me. And in this fleeting
moment which brought near me all the beauty of life, I felt
myself very near to God.
The following day, at the close of the performance, the
King had called me before him into the royal box and he decorated
me with a very pretty Order of Merit adorned with diamonds.
He kept me some time in his box asking me about a
lot of things. I was presented to the Queen and I noticed immediately
that she was somewhat deaf. I was rather embarrassed,
but the Queen of Greece came to my rescue. She
360was beautiful, but much less so than her lovely sister, the Princess
of Wales. Oh, that adorable and seductive face! with
the eyes of a child of the North and classic features of virginal
purity, a long supple neck that seemed made for queenly bows,
a sweet and almost timid smile. The indefinable charm of this
princess made her so radiant that I saw nothing but her, and I
left the box leaving behind me, I fear, but a doubtful opinion
of my intelligence with the royal couples of Denmark and
Greece.
The evening before my departure I was invited to a grand
supper. Fallesen made a speech, and thanked us in a very well-turned
manner for the French week which we had given in
Denmark.
Robert Walt made a very cordial speech on behalf of the
Press, very short but very sympathetic. Our ambassador, in a
few courteous words, thanked Robert Walt, and then to the
general surprise, Baron Magnus, the Prussian Minister, rose,
and in a loud voice, turning to me, he said: “I drink to
France, which gives us such great artistes! to France, la belle
France, whom we all love so much!”
Hardly ten years had passed since the terrible war. French
men and women were still suffering; their wounds were not
healed.
Baron Magnus, a really amiable and charming man, had,
from the time of my arrival in Copenhagen, sent me flowers
with his card. I had sent back the flowers and begged an attaché
of the English Embassy, Sir Francis, I believe, to ask
the German baron not to renew his gifts. The baron laughed
good-naturedly and waited for me as I came out of my hotel.
He came to me with outstretched hands and spoke kindly and
reasonable words. Everybody was looking at us and I was
embarrassed. It was evident that he was a kind man. I
thanked him, touched in spite of myself, by his frankness, and
I went away quite undecided as to what I really felt. Twice
he renewed his visit, but I did not receive him, but only bowed
as I left my hotel. I was somewhat irritated at the tenacity
of this amiable diplomatist. On the evening of the supper,
361when I saw him take the attitude of an orator, I felt myself
grow pale. He had barely finished his little speech, when I
jumped to my feet and cried: “Let us drink to France—but
to the whole of France, Monsieur l’Embassadeur de Prusse!”
I was nervous, sensational, and theatrical, without intending it.
It was like a bolt from the blue.
The orchestra of the court which was placed in the upper
gallery began playing the “Marseillaise.” At this time the
Danes hated the Germans. The supper room was suddenly deserted
as if by enchantment.
I went up to my rooms not wishing to be questioned. I had
gone too far. Anger had made me say more than I intended.
Baron Magnus did not deserve this tirade. And also my instinct
forewarned me of results to follow. I went to bed angry
with myself, with the baron, and with all the world.
About five o’clock in the morning I commenced to doze,
when I was awakened by the growling of my dog. Then I
heard some one knocking at the door of the salon. I called my
maid, who woke her husband, and he went to open the door.
An attaché from the French Embassy was waiting to speak to
me on urgent business. I put on an ermine tea gown and went
to see the visitor.
“I beg you,” he said, “to write a note immediately, to explain
that the words you said were not meant.... The Baron
Magnus, whom we all respect, is in a very awkward situation
and we are all unhappy about it. Prince Bismarck is not to be
trifled with and it may be very serious for the baron.”
“Oh! I assure you, monsieur, I am a hundredfold more
unhappy about it than you, for the baron is a good and charming
man; he is short of political tact, and in this case it is excusable
because I am not a woman of politics. I was lacking in
coolness. I would give my right hand to repair the ill.”
“We don’t ask you for so much as that. And that would
spoil the beauty of your gestures!” (He was French, you see).
“Here is the rough copy of a letter; will you take it, rewrite it,
sign it and everything will be at an end.”
But that was unacceptable. The wording of this letter gave
362twisted and rather cowardly explanations. I rejected it and
after several attempts to rewrite it, I gave up in despair and
did nothing.
Three hundred persons had been present at the supper, in
addition to the royal orchestra and the attendants. Everybody
had heard the amiable but awkward speech of the baron. I had
replied in a very excited manner. The public and the Press
had all been witnesses of my tirade; we were the victims of our
own foolishness, the baron and myself. If such a thing were to
happen at the present time I should not care a pin for public
opinion, and I should even take pleasure in ridiculing myself in
order to do justice to a brave and gallant man. But at that
time I was very nervous, and uncompromisingly patriotic. And
also, perhaps, I thought I was some one of importance. Since
then life has taught me that if one has to be famous it can only
be after Death has set his seal to life. To-day I am going down
the hill of life and I regard gaily all the pedestals on which
I have been lifted up, and there have been so many of them
that their fragments, broken by the same hands that had raised
them, have made me a solid pillar, from which I look out on
life, happy with the past and expectant of the future.
My stupid vanity had wounded one who meant me well, and
this incident has always left in me a feeling of remorse and
chagrin.
I left Copenhagen in the midst of applause and repeated
cries of Vive la France! From all the windows hung the
French flag, fluttering in the breeze, and I felt that this was not
only for me, but against Germany—I was sure of it.
Since then the Germans and the Danes are solidly united
and I am not certain that several Danes do not still bear me
malice because of this incident of the Baron Magnus.
I came back to Paris to make my final preparations for my
journey to America. I was to set sail the 15th of October.
One day in August, I was having a reception of all my
friends, who came to see me in full force because I was about
to set out for a long journey.
SARAH BERNHARDT AND MEMBERS OF HER COMPANY OUT SHOOTING.
363Among the number were Girardin, Count Kapenist, Marshal
Canrobert, Georges Clairin, Arthur Meyer, Duquesnel, the
beautiful Augusta Holmes, Raymond de Montbel, Nordenskyjold,
O’Connor, and other friends. I chatted gaily, happy to be
surrounded by so many tender and intellectual friends. Girardin
did all he could to persuade me not to undertake this
journey to America. He had been the friend of Rachel and
told me the sad end of her journey. Arthur Mayer was of
opinion that I ought always to do what I thought best. The
other friends discussed the affair. That admirable man, whom
France will always worship, Canrobert, said how much he
should miss and regret these intimate causeries at our five o’clock
teas.
“But,” said he, “we have not the right to try, in our
affectionate selfishness, to hinder our young friend from doing
all she can in the strife. She is of a combative nature.”
“Ah, yes!” I cried, “I am born for the strife, I feel it.
Nothing pleases me like having to master a public—perhaps
hostile—who have read and heard all that the Press have to say
against me. But I am sorry that I cannot play, not only in
Paris, but in all France, my two big successes, ‘Adrienne’ and
‘Froufrou.’”
“As to that, you can count on me,” cried Félix Duquesnel.
“My dear Sarah, you had your first successes with me and it is
with me that you will have your last.”
Everybody exclaimed and I jumped up.
“Why wait,” said he, “for the last successes until you come
back from America? If you will consent you can count on
me for everything. I will obtain, at any price, theaters in all
the large towns and we will give twenty-five performances during
the month of September. As to the money conditions,
they will be of the simplest: twenty-five performances—50,000
francs. To-morrow I will give you the half of this sum and
you shall sign the contract, so that you will not have time to
change your mind.”
I clapped my hands joyfully. All the friends who were
there begged Duquesnel to send them, as soon as possible, a plan
of the tour, for they all wanted to see me in the two plays in
364which I had carried off the laurels in England and Belgium
and Denmark.
Duquesnel promised to send them the details of the tour, and
it was settled that their visits would be drawn by lot from a
little bag and each town marked with the date and the name
of the play.
A week later, Duquesnel, with whom I had signed the contract,
returned with the entire tour planned out and all the
company engaged. It was almost miraculous.
The performances were to commence on Saturday the 4th
of September, and there were to be twenty-five of them; and
the whole, including the day of departure and the day of return,
was to last twenty-eight days, which caused this tour to be
called “The twenty-eight days of Sarah Bernhardt,” like the
twenty-eight days of a citizen who is obliged to undertake his
military service.
The little tour was most successful, and I never enjoyed myself
more than in this artistic promenade. Duquesnel organized
excursions and fêtes outside the towns.
At first he had prepared, thinking to please me, some visits
to the sights of the towns. He had written beforehand from
Paris fixing dates and hours. The guardians of the different
museums, art galleries, etc., had offered to point out to me the
finest objects in their collections and the mayors had prepared
the visits to the churches and celebrated buildings.
When, on the eve of our departure, he showed us the heap
of letters, each giving a most amiable affirmative, I shrieked.
I hate seeing public buildings, and having them explained to
me. I know most of the public sights of France, but I have
visited them when I felt inclined and with my own chosen
friends. As to the churches and other buildings, I find them
very tiresome. I cannot help it—it really wearies me to see
them. I can admire their outline in passing, or when I see
them silhouetted against the setting sun, that is all right, but
further than that I will not go. The idea of entering these
cold spaces, while some one explains their absurd and interminable
history, of looking up at their ceilings with craning
365neck, of cramping my feet by walking unnaturally over highly
waxed floors, of being obliged to admire the restoration of the
left wing, (that they would have done better by letting crumble
to ruins,) to have to wonder at the depth of some moat which
once used to be full of water but is now dry as the east wind ... all
that is so tiresome it makes me want to howl. From
my earliest childhood I have always detested houses, castles,
churches, towers, and all buildings higher than a mill. I love
low buildings, farms, huts, and I positively adore mills, because
these little buildings do not obstruct the horizon. I have nothing
to say against the Pyramids, but I would a hundred times
rather they had never been built.
I begged Duquesnel to send telegrams at once to all the
notabilities who had been so obliging. We passed two hours
over this task and the 3rd of September I set out, free, joyful,
and content.
My friends came to see me while I was on tour, in accordance
with the lots they had drawn, and we had picnics by coach
into the surrounding country in all the towns in which I played.
I came back to Paris on the 30th of September, and had
only just time to prepare for my journey to America. I had
been only a week at Paris when I had a visit from M. Bertrand,
who was then director of the Variétés. His brother was director
of the Vaudeville in partnership with Raymond Deslandes. I
did not know Eugène Bertrand, but I received him at once,
for we had mutual friends.
“What are you going to do when you come back from
America?” he asked me, after we had exchanged greetings.
“I really don’t know.... Nothing. I have not thought of
anything.”
“Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you
like to make your return to Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou’s,
I will sign with you at once for the Vaudeville.”
“Ah!” I cried. “The Vaudeville! What are you thinking
of? Raymond Deslandes is the manager and he hates me
like poison because I ran away from the Gymnase the day following
the first performance of his play: ‘Un Mari qui Lance
366sa Femme.’ His play was ridiculous, and I was even more
ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady
addicted to dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will
never engage me!”
He smiled. “My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes.
My brother ... to put it plainly, is myself. All the
money brought by us is mine! I am the sole master! What do
you want to earn?”
“But...? I really don’t know.”
“Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?”
I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in
his right mind.
“But, monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money,
and I cannot agree to that.”
“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I can assure you it will
be a success—a colossal success. Will you sign? And I will
also guarantee you fifty performances!”
“Oh, no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the
talent of Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee.
Success will depend on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me.
So I sign and thank you for your confidence.”
At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my
friends, and they were all of opinion that luck was on my side
in the matter of my resignation.
Only three days remained to me in Paris. My heart was
sore at the idea of leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons....
But in these memoirs I have put to one side all that touches
the inner part of my life. There is one “I” which lives another
life, and whose sensations, sorrows, joys, and griefs are
born and die for a very small number of hearts.
But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space,
of other skies.
I left my little boy with my uncle who had five boys of his
own. His wife was a rigid Protestant, but kind, and my cousin
Louise, their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent.
She promised me to be on the lookout and to let me know at
once if there was anything I ought to know.
BUST OF VICTORIEN SARDOU, BY SARAH BERNHARDT.
367Up to the last moment, people in Paris did not believe that
I would really go. I had such uncertain health that it seemed
folly to undertake such a journey. But when it was quite
certain that I was going, there was a general outburst from my
enemies and the hue and cry after me was in full swing. I have
now under my eyes the specimens of insanity, calumnies, lies,
and stupidities, burlesque portraits, doleful pleasantries, good-bys
to the darling, the idol, the star, the zimm! boum! boum!
etc., etc.... It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was confounded.
I had not read the greater part of these articles, but
my secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in
little notebooks, whether favorable or unfavorable. It was my
godfather who had commenced doing this when I entered the
Conservatoire and after his death I had it continued.
Happily I find, in these thousands of lines, fine and noble
words—words written by J. J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin,
Jules Vallés, Jules Lemaître, etc.; and beautiful verses full of
grace and justice, signed Victor Hugo, Francois Coppée, Richemin,
Haroucourt, Henri de Bornier, Catulle Mendès, Parodi,
and later Edmond Rostand.
I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies
and lies; but I confess that the kindly appreciation and praises
accorded me by the superior spirits afforded me infinite joy.
CHAPTER XXV MY ARRIVAL IN AMERICA
368
The ship which was to take me away to other hopes,
other sensations, and other successes was named
L’Amérique. It was the unlucky boat, the boat
that was haunted by the Gnome. All kinds of misfortunes,
accidents, and storms had been its lot. It had been
stranded for months with its keel out of water. Its stern had
been staved in by an Iceland boat and it had foundered on the
shoals of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set afloat again.
Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Hâvre roadstead,
but no great damage was done, and the poor boat had had
a celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous. In 1876
or 1877 a new pumping system was adopted and although this
system had been in use by the English for a long time it was
quite unknown aboard French boats. The captain very wisely
decided to have these pumps worked by his crew so that in case
of any danger the men would be ready to manipulate them easily.
The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one
of the men came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship
was filling with water, and no one could discover the cause of it.
“Go on pumping!” shouted the captain. “Hurry up! Pump
away!” The pumps were worked frantically and the result
was that the hold filled entirely, and the captain was obliged to
abandon the ship after seeing the passengers safely off in the
boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after, tried the
pumps which worked admirably but in the contrary way to that
indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the Compagnie
369Transatlantique £48,000 salvage money, and when they
wanted to start the ship again and passengers refused to go
by it they offered my impresario, M. Abbey, excellent terms.
He accepted them, and very intelligent he was, for in spite of
all prognostications the boat had paid her tribute.
I had hitherto traveled very little and I was wild with delight.
On the 15th of October, 1880, at six o’clock in the morning,
I entered my cabin. It was a large one and hung with
light red rep embroidered with my initials. What a profusion
of the letters S. B.! Then there was a large brass
bedstead brightly polished, and flowers everywhere. Adjoining
mine was a very comfortable cabin for my petite dame, and
leading out of that was one for my maid and her husband.
All the other persons I employed were at the other end of the
ship. The sky was misty, and the sea gray, with no horizon.
I was on my way over there, beyond that mist which seemed
to unite the sky and the water in a mysterious rampart. The
clearing of the deck for the departure upset everyone and
everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain’s
call, the bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the
ropes, the shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who
were only just in time to catch the boat, the “Halloo!”
“Look out!” of the men who were pitching the packages from
the port into the hold, the sound of the laughing waves breaking
over the side of the boat, all this mingled together made the
most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its own sensations
were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who,
up to the last moment enjoyed the “Good-bys,” the handshakings,
the plans about the return, and the farewell kisses,
and when it was all over flung themselves sobbing on their
bed.
For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping
bitter tears, tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to
get calm again, my will power triumphed over my grief. On
the fourth day I dressed at seven o’clock and went on deck to
have some fresh air. It was icy cold and as I walked up and
370down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad, resigned face.
The sea looked gloomy and colorless and there were no waves.
Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against our boat
that we were both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold
of the leg of one of the benches, but the unfortunate lady was
flung forward. Springing to my feet with a bound I was just
in time to seize hold of the skirt of her dress, and with the
help of my maid and a sailor, we managed to prevent the poor
woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much
hurt, though, she was, and a trifle confused; she thanked me in
such a gentle, dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with
emotion.
“You might have been killed, madame,” I said, “down that
horrible staircase.”
“Yes,” she answered, with a sigh of regret, “but it was not
God’s will. Are you not Madame Hessler?” she continued,
looking earnestly at me.
“No, madame,” I answered, “my name is Sarah Bernhardt.”
She stepped back and drawing herself up, her face very
pale and her brows knitted, she said in a mournful voice, a voice
that was scarcely audible: “I am the widow of President
Lincoln.”
I, too, stepped back, and a thrill of anguish ran through
me, for I had just done this unhappy woman the only service
that I ought not to have done her—I had saved her from death.
Her husband had been assassinated by an actor, Booth, and it
was an actress who had now prevented her from joining her beloved
husband. I went back again to my cabin and stayed there
two days, for I had not the courage to meet that woman for
whom I felt such sympathy, and to whom I should never dare
to speak again.
On the 22d we were surprised by an abominable snowstorm.
I was called up hurriedly by Captain Jonclas. I threw
on a long ermine cloak and went on to the bridge. It was
perfectly stupefying and at the same time fairylike. The
heavy flakes met each other with a hiss in their mad waltzing
371provoked by the wind. The sky was suddenly veiled from us
by all this whiteness which fell round us in avalanches, completely
hiding the horizon. I was facing the sea and, as Captain
Jonclas pointed out to me, we could not see a hundred
yards in front of us. I then turned round and saw that the
boat was as white as a seagull; the ropes, the cordage, the nettings,
the portholes, the shrouds, the whalers, the deck, the sails,
the ladders, the funnels, the airholes—everything was white.
The sea was black and the sky was black. The boat alone was
white, floating along in this immensity. There was a contest
between the high funnel, sputtering forth with difficulty its
smoke through the wind which was rushing wildly into its great
mouth, and the prolonged shrieks of the siren. The contrast
was so extraordinary between the virgin whiteness of this boat
and the infernal uproar it made that it seemed to me as if I
had before me an angel in a fit of hysterics.
In the evening of that strange day the doctor came to tell
me of the birth of a child among the immigrants, in whom I
was deeply interested. I went at once to the mother and did
all I could for the poor little creature who had just come into
the world. Oh, the dismal moans in that dismal night in the
midst of all that misery! Oh, that first strident cry of the
child affirming its will to live in the midst of all these sufferings,
of all these hardships, and of all these hopes! Everything
was there mingled together in that human medley—men, women,
children, rags and preserves, oranges and basins, heads of hair
and bald pates, half-open lips of young girls and tightly closed
mouths of shrewish women, white caps and red handkerchiefs,
hands stretched out in hope and fists clenched against adversity.
I saw revolvers half concealed under the rags, knives in
the men’s belts. A sudden roll of the boat showed us the contents
of a parcel that had fallen from the hands of a rascally
looking fellow with a very decided expression on his face, and
a hatchet and a tomahawk fell to the ground. One of the sailors
immediately seized the two weapons to take them to the purser.
I shall never forget the scrutinizing glance of the man. He
had evidently made a mental note of the features of the sailor,
372and I breathed a fervent prayer that the two might never meet
in a solitary place.
I remember now with remorse the horrible disgust that took
possession of me when the doctor handed the child over to me
to wash. That dirty little red, moving, sticky object was a
human being. It had a soul and would have thoughts. I felt
quite sick and I could never again look at that child—although
I was afterwards its godmother—without living over again
that first impression. When the young mother had fallen
asleep I wanted to go back to my cabin. The doctor helped
me, but the sea was so rough that we could scarcely walk at
all among the packages and immigrants. Some of them who
were crouching on the floor watched us silently as we tottered
and stumbled along like drunkards. I was annoyed at being
watched by those malevolent, mocking eyes. “I say, doctor,”
one of the men called out, “the sea water gets in the head like
wine. You and your lady look as though you were coming
back from a spree!” An old woman clung to me as we passed.
“Oh, madame!” she said, “shall we be shipwrecked with
the boats rolling like this? Oh, God! oh, God!” A tall
fellow with red hair and beard came forward and laid the
poor old woman down again gently. “You can sleep in peace,
mother,” he said; “if we are shipwrecked I swear there shall
be more, saved down here than up on the top.” He then
came closer to me and continued in a defiant tone: “The rich
folks ... first class, into the sea! ... the immigrants—seconds,
in the boats!” As he uttered these words I heard a sly,
stifled laugh from everywhere, in front of me, behind, at the
side, and even from under my feet. It seemed to echo in the
distance like the laughing behind the scenes on the stage. I
drew nearer to the doctor and he saw that I was uneasy.
“Nonsense,” he said, laughing, “we should defend ourselves.”
“But how many could be saved,” I asked, “in case we
were really in danger?”
“Two hundred—two hundred and fifty at the most with
all the boats out, if all arrived safely.”
373“But the purser told me that there were seven hundred
and sixty immigrants,” I insisted, “and there are only a hundred
and twenty passengers. How many do you reckon are
the officers, the crew, and the servants?”
“A hundred and seventy,” the doctor answered.
“Then there are a thousand and fifty on board and you can
save only two hundred and fifty?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I can understand the hatred of these immigrants
whom you take on board like cattle and treat like negroes.
They are absolutely certain that in case of danger they would
be sacrificed.”
“But we should save them when their turn came.”
I glanced with horror at the man who was talking to me.
He looked honest and straightforward and he evidently meant
what he said. And so all these poor creatures who had been
disappointed in life, and badly treated by society, would have
no right to life until after we were saved, we the more favored
ones! Oh, how I understood now the rascally looking fellow,
with his hatchet and tomahawk! How thoroughly I approved
at that moment of the revolvers and the knives hidden in
the belts. Yes, he was quite right, the tall, red-haired fellow.
We want the first places, always the first places ...
and so we might have the first places! Into the water with
us!
“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the captain who was just
coming out of his cabin. “Has it gone off all right?”
“Yes, captain,” I answered, “but I am horrified.”
Jonclas stepped back in surprise....
“Good heavens, what has horrified you?” he asked.
“The way in which you treat your passengers ...”
He tried to put in a word, but I continued: “Why ...
you expose us in case of a shipwreck....”
“We never have a shipwreck....”
“Good ... in case of a fire, then....”
“Good ... in case of submersion....”
“We never have a fire....”
374“I give in,” he said, laughing. “To what do we expose
you, madame?”
“To the very worst of deaths ... to a blow on the head
with an ax, to a dagger thrust in our back, or merely to be
flung into the water....”
He attempted to speak, but again I continued: “There are
seven hundred and fifty immigrants below and there are scarcely
three hundred of us, counting first-class passengers and the
crew.... You have boats which might save two hundred persons
and even that is doubtful....”
“Well?”
“Well, what about the immigrants?”
“We should save them before the crew.”
“But after us?”
“Yes, after you.”
“And you fancy that they would let you do it?”
“We have guns with which to keep them in order.”
“Guns ... guns for women and children.”
“No ... the women and children would take their turn
first.”
“But that is idiotic,” I exclaimed, “it is perfectly absurd!
Why save women and children if you are going to make widows
and orphans of them? And do you believe that all those young
men would resign themselves to their fate because of your guns?
There are more of them than there are of you, and they are
armed. Life owes them their revenge, and they have the same
right that we have to defend the supreme moment. They have
the courage of those who have nothing to lose and everything
to gain in the struggle. In my opinion it is iniquitous and infamous
that you should expose us to certain death and them to
an obligatory and perfectly justified crime.”
The captain tried to speak, but again I persisted. “Without
going as far as a shipwreck only fancy if we were to be
tossed and bandied about for months on a raging sea. This
has happened and might happen again.... You cannot possibly
have food enough on board for a thousand people during
two or three months.”
375“No, certainly not,” put in the purser dryly. He was a
very amiable man, but very touchy.
“Well, then, what should you do?” I asked.
“What would you do?” asked the captain, highly amused
at the annoyed expression on the purser’s face.
“I ... oh! I should have a boat for immigrants and a boat
for passengers, and I think that would be only just.”
“Yes, but it would be ruinous.”
“No, the one for wealthy people would be a steamer like
this, and the one for emigrants a sailing vessel.”
“But that, too, would be unjust, madame, for the steamer
would go more quickly than the sailing boat.”
“That would not matter at all,” I argued. “Wealthy
people are always in a hurry and the poor never are. And
then, considering what is awaiting them in the land to which
they are going....”
“It is the Promised Land.”
“Oh! poor things ... poor things ... with their Promised
Land—Dakota or Colorado! In the daytime they have
the sun which makes their brains boil, scorches the ground,
dries up the springs, and brings forth endless numbers of
mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their patience. The
Promised Land! At night they have the terrible cold to make
their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints, and ruin their lungs.
The Promised Land! It is just death in some out-of-the-world
place after fruitless appeals to the justice of their fellow
countrymen. They will breathe their life out in a sob or in
a terrible curse of hatred. God will have mercy on all of
them, though, for it is piteous to think that all these poor
creatures are delivered over with their feet bound by suffering,
and their hands bound by hope, to the slave drivers
who trade in white slaves. And when I think that the money
is in the purser’s cash box which the slave driver has paid
for the transport of all these poor creatures! Money that
has been collected by rough hands or trembling fingers. Poor
money economized, copper by copper, tear by tear. When
I think of all this it makes me wish that we could be
376shipwrecked, that we could be all killed, and all of those
saved.”
With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a
good cry, for I was seized with a great love for humanity and
intense grief that I could do nothing, absolutely nothing!...
The following morning I awoke late, as I had not fallen
asleep until near dawn. My cabin was full of visitors and they
were all holding small parcels half concealed. I rubbed my
sleepy eyes and could not quite understand the meaning of
their invasion.
“My dear Sarah,” said Mme. Guérard, coming to me and
kissing me, “don’t imagine that this day, your fête day, could
be forgotten by those who love you.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “is it the 23d?”
“Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the
absent ones.”
My eyes filled with tears and it was through a mist that I
saw the portrait of that young being more precious to me than
anything else in the world, with a few words in his own hand
writing.... Then there were some presents from friends ...
pieces of work from humble admirers. My little godson of the
previous evening was brought to me in a basket, with oranges,
apples, and tangerines all round him. He had a golden star
on his forehead, a star cut out of some gold paper in which
chocolate had been wrapped. My maid Félicie, and Claude,
her husband, who were most devoted to me, had prepared some
very ingenious little surprises. Presently there was a knock at
my door and on calling out “Come in,” I saw, to my surprise,
three sailors carrying a superb bouquet which they presented
to me in the name of the whole crew. I was wild with admiration
and wanted to know how they had managed to keep
the flowers in such good condition. It was an enormous bouquet,
but when I took it in my hands I let it fall to the ground in
an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The flowers were all cut out
of vegetables, but so perfectly done that the illusion was complete
at a little distance. Magnificent roses were cut out of
carrots, camellias out of turnips, small radishes had furnished
377sprays of rosebuds stuck on to long leeks dyed green, and all
these relieved by carrot leaves artistically arranged to imitate
the grassy plants used for elegant bouquets. The stalks were
tied together with a bow of tri-colored ribbon. One of the
sailors made a very touching little speech on behalf of his comrades,
who wished to thank me for a trifling service rendered.
I shook hands cordially and thanked them heartily and this was
the signal for a little concert that had been organized in the
cabin of my petite dame. There had been a private rehearsal
with two violins and a flute, so that for the next hour I was
lulled by the most delightful music, which transported me to
my own dear ones, to my hall which seemed so distant to me
at that moment, and for the first time since my departure I
regretted having set out. This little fête, which was almost a
domestic one, together with the music, had evoked the tender
and restful side of my life, and the tears that all this called
forth fell without grief, bitterness, or regret. I wept simply
because I was deeply moved, and I was tired, nervous, and
weary, and had a longing for rest and peace. I fell asleep in
the midst of my tears, sighs, and sobs.
Finally, the boat stopped on the 27th of October, at half
past six in the morning. I was asleep, worn out by three days
and nights of wild storms. My maid had some difficulty in
rousing me. I could not believe that we had arrived, and I
wanted to go on sleeping until the last minute. I had to give
in to the evidence, however, as the boat had stopped. This sudden
arrival delighted me and everything seemed to be transformed
in a minute. I forgot all my discomforts, and the
weariness of the eleven days’ crossing. The sun was rising,
pale but rose tinted, dispersing the mists and shining over the
river. I had entered the New World in the midst of a display
of sunshine. This seemed to me a good omen. I am so superstitious
that if I had arrived when there was no sunshine I
should have been wretched, and most anxious until after my
first performance. It is a perfect torture to be superstitious
to this degree and, unfortunately for me, I am ten times more
so now than I was in those days, for besides the superstitions
378of my own country I have, thanks to my travels, added to my
stock all the superstitions of the other countries. I know them
all now and in any critical moment of my life they all rise up
in armed legions, for or against me. I cannot walk a single
step, or make any movement or gesture, sit down, go out, look
at the sky or the ground, without finding some reason for hope
or for despair until at last, exasperated by the trammels put
upon my actions by my thought, I defy all my superstitions and
just act as I want to. Delighted, then, with what seemed to me
to be a good omen I began to dress gleefully. Mr. Jarrett had
just knocked at my door.
“Do please be ready as soon as possible, madame,” he said,
“for there are several boats, with the French colors flying that
have come out to meet you.”
SARAH BERNHARDT IN TRAVELLING COSTUME, 1880.
379I glanced in the direction of my porthole and saw a small
steamer, black with people, and then two other small boats no
less laden than the first one. The sun lighted up all these
French flags and my heart began to beat more quickly. I had
been without any news for twelve days, as, in spite of all the
efforts of our good captain, L’Amérique had taken twelve days
for the journey. A man had just come on deck, and I rushed
toward him with outstretched hands unable to utter a single
word. He gave me a packet of telegrams. I did not see anyone
present, and I heard no sound. I wanted to know something.
And among all the telegrams I was searching first for
one, just one name. At last I had it, the telegram I had
waited for, feared and hoped to receive. Here it was at last.
I closed my eyes for a second, and during that time I saw all
that was dear to me and felt the infinite sweetness of it all.
When I opened my eyes again I was slightly embarrassed for I
was surrounded by a crowd of unknown people, all of them
silent and indulgent, but evidently very curious. Wishing to
go away I took Mr. Jarrett’s arm and went to the salon. As
soon as I entered, the first notes of the “Marseillaise” rang out,
and our consul spoke a few words of welcome and handed me
some flowers. A group representing the French colony presented
me with a friendly address. Then M. Mercier, the editor
of the Courrier des Etats-Unis, made a speech, as witty as it
was kindly. It was a thoroughly French speech. Then came
the terrible moment of introductions. Oh, what a tiring time
that was! My mind was kept at a tension to catch the names.
Mr. Pemb ... Madame Harth ... with the h aspirated. With
great difficulty I grasped the first syllable, and the second finished
in a confusion of muffled vowels and hissing consonants.
By the time the twentieth name was pronounced I had given up
listening, I simply kept on with my little risorius de Santorini,
half closed my eyes, held out mechanically the arm, at the end
of which was the hand that had to shake and be shaken. I replied
all the time: “Combien je suis charmée, madame.... Oh,
certainement!... Oh, oui!... Oh, non!... Ah!... Oh!
Oh!...” I was getting dazed, idiotic—worn out with standing.
I had only one idea, and that was to get my rings off
the fingers that were swelling with the repeated grips they were
having. My eyes were getting larger and larger with terror, as
they gazed at the door through which the crowd continued to
stream in my direction ... there to shake.... My risorius de
Santorini must still go on working more than fifty times ... I
could feel the beads of perspiration standing out under my
hair—and I began to get terribly nervous. My teeth chattered
and I commenced stammering. “Oh, madame!... Oh!... Je
suis cha—cha....” I really could not go on any longer.
I felt that I should get angry or burst out crying ... in fact
that I was about to make myself ridiculous. I decided therefore
to faint.... I made a movement with my hand as though
it wanted to continue but could not.... I opened my mouth,
closed my eyes and fell gently into Jarrett’s arms. “Quick!
air!... A doctor.... Poor thing.... How pale she is!
Take her hat off.... Loosen her corset.... She doesn’t wear
one. Unfasten her dress....” I was terrified, but Félicie
was called up in haste and my petite dame would not allow any
déshabillage. The doctor came back with a bottle of ether.
Félicie seized the bottle.
“Oh, no, doctor ... not ether! When madame is quite
well the odor of ether will make her faint.”
380This was quite true and I thought, it was time to come to
my senses again. The reporters were arriving and there were
more than twenty of them, but Jarrett, who was very much
affected, asked them to go to the Albemarle Hotel, where I
was to put up. I saw each of the reporters take Jarrett aside,
and when I asked him what the secret was of all these “asides”
he answered phlegmatically: “I have made an appointment
with them from one o’clock. There will be a fresh one every ten
minutes.” I looked at him petrified with astonishment. He
met my anxious gaze and said:
“Oh, oui, il était nécessaire!”
On arriving at the Albemarle Hotel I felt tired and nervous,
and wanted to be left quite alone. I hurried away at once
to my room in the suite that had been engaged for me and fastened
the doors. There was neither lock nor bolt on one of them,
but I pushed a piece of furniture against it and then refused
emphatically to open it. There were about fifty people waiting
in the drawing-room, but I had that feeling of awful weariness
which makes one ready to go to the most violent extremes for
the sake of an hour’s repose. I wanted to lie down on the
rug, cross my arms, throw my head back, and close my eyes. I
did not want to talk any more, and I did not want to have to
smile or look at anyone. I threw myself down on the floor and
was deaf to the knocks on my door, and to Jarrett’s supplications.
I did not want to argue the matter, so I did not utter
a word. I heard the murmur of grumbling voices and Jarrett’s
words tactfully persuading the visitors to stay. I heard
the rustle of paper being pushed under the door and Mme.
Guérard whispering to Jarrett, who was furious.
“You don’t know her, M. Jarrett,” I heard her say: “if
she thought you were forcing the door open, against which
she has pushed the furniture, she would jump out of the
window!”
Then I heard Félicie talking to a French lady who was insisting
on seeing me. “It is quite impossible,” she was saying.
“Madame would be quite hysterical. She needs an hour’s rest
and everyone must wait!” For some little time I could hear
381a confused murmur which seemed to get farther away, and
then I fell into a delicious sleep, laughing to myself as I went
off, for my good temper returned as I pictured the angry, nonplused
expression on the faces of my visitors.
I woke in an hour’s time, for I have the precious gift of
being able to sleep ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or an
hour, just as I like, and I then wake quite peacefully without
any start, at the time I have decided upon. Nothing does me
so much good as this rest to body and mind, decided upon and
regulated merely by my will. Very often in my own family I
have lain down on the bearskin hearth rug in front of the fire,
telling everyone to go on talking and take no notice of me. I
have then slept, perhaps for an hour, and on waking have
found two or three newcomers in the room who, not wishing
to disturb me, have taken part in the general conversation,
while waiting until I should wake up to present their respects
to me. Even now I lie down on the huge, wide sofa in the little
Empire salon which leads into my loge and I sleep while waiting
for the friends and artistes, with whom I have made appointments,
to be ushered in. When I open my eyes I see the
faces of my kind friends, who shake hands cordially, delighted
that I should have had some rest. My mind is then tranquil
and I am ready to listen to all the beautiful ideas proposed to
me or to decline the absurdities submitted to me, without being
ungracious.
I woke up, then, at the Albemarle Hotel an hour later and
found myself lying on the rug. I opened the door of my room
and discovered my dear Guérard and my faithful Félicie seated
on a trunk.
“Are there any people there still?” I asked.
“Oh, madame! there are about a hundred now,” answered
Félicie.
“Help me take my things off then, quickly,” I said, “and
find me a white dress.”
In about five minutes I was ready, and I felt that I looked
nice from head to foot. I went into the drawing-room, where
all these unknown persons were waiting. Jarrett came forward
382to meet me, but on seeing me well dressed and with a smiling
face, he postponed the sermon that he wanted to preach me.
I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was
a most extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or
seventy years of age. He was tall with a face like King Agamemnon,
framed by the most beautiful silver-white hair I have
even seen on a man’s head. His eyes were of so pale a blue
that when they lighted up with anger he looked as though he
were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature,
his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his
upper lip showed his teeth, and curled up in a most ferocious
sniff, and his grin seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his
pointed ears which were always moving as though on the watch
for prey. He was a terrible man, extremely intelligent, but
from childhood he must have been fighting with the world, and
he had the most profound contempt for all mankind. Although
he must have suffered a great deal himself, he had no pity for
those who suffered. He always said that every man was armed
for his own defense. He pitied women, did not care for them,
but was always ready to help them. He was very rich, and
very economical, but not miserly. “I made my way in life,”
he often said to me, “by the aid of two weapons: honesty and
a revolver. In business honesty is the most terrible weapon a
man can use against rascals and crafty people—the former
don’t know what it is, and the latter do not believe in it—while
the revolver is an admirable invention for compelling scoundrels
to keep their word.” He used to tell me about wonderful and
terrifying adventures. He had a deep scar under his right
eye. During a violent discussion about a contract to be signed
for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer, Jarrett said to his interlocutor,
pointing at the same time to his right eye: “Look
at that eye, sir, it is now reading in your mind all that you
are not saying.” “It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it
never foresaw that,” said the other firing his revolver at Jarrett’s
right eye. “A bad shot, sir,” replied Jarrett, “this is
the way to take aim for effectually closing an eye,” and he put
a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell down
383dead. When Jarrett told this story, his lip curled up and his
two incisors appeared to be crunching the words with delight,
and his bursts of stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of
his jaws. He was an upright, honest man, though, and I liked
him very much, and like what I remember of him.
My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my
hands with delight as I entered the drawing-room which I had
not yet seen. The busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo
were on pedestals surrounded with flowers. All around the
large room were sofas laden with cushions and to remind me
of my home in Paris there were tall palms stretching out their
branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler to me,
who had suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very
charming man. I shook hands with him and we were friends
from that time forth. The visitors soon went away, but the
reporters remained. They were all seated, some of them on
the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions. One of them
had crouched down tailor fashion on a bearskin and was leaning
back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin and
coughed a great deal. I went toward him and had just opened
my lips to speak to him, although I was rather horrified that
he did not rise, when he addressed me in a bass voice:
“Which is your favorite rôle, madame?” he asked.
“That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my
back on him. In doing so I knocked against another reporter,
who was more polite.
“What do you eat as soon as you wake in the morning,
madame?” he inquired.
I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one,
but Jarrett, who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of
the crouching man, answered quickly for me: “Oatmeal.” I
did not know what that dish was, but the ferocious reporter
continued his questions:
“And what do you eat during the day?”
“Mussels.”
He wrote down phlegmatically: “Mussels through the day.”
I moved toward the door and a reporter in a tailor-made
384skirt, with her hair cut short, asked me in a clear, sweet voice:
“Are you a Jewcatholicprotestantmahometanbuddhistatheistzoroastertheistordeist?”
I stood still, rooted to the spot in bewilderment.
She had said all that in a breath, accenting the
syllables haphazard, and making of the whole one word, so
wildly incoherent that my impression was it was not safe to remain
near this strange, gentle person. I must have looked uneasy,
and as my eyes fell on an elderly lady who was talking
gayly to a little group of people she came to my rescue, saying
in very good French: “This young lady is asking you,
madame, whether you are of the Jewish religion or whether
you are a Catholic, a Protestant, a Mahometan, a Buddhist, an
atheist, a Zoroaster, a theist, or a deist?”
I sank down on a couch. “Oh, heavens!” I exclaimed,
“will it be like this in all the cities I visit?”
“Oh, no,” answered Jarrett, placidly, “your interviews
will be wired throughout America.”
“What about the mussels?” I thought to myself, and then
in an absent-minded way I answered, “I am a Catholic, mademoiselle.”
“A Roman Catholic, or do you belong to the Orthodox
church?” she asked.
I jumped up from my seat, for she bored me beyond endurance,
and a very young man then approached timidly.
“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, madame?” he
asked.
I remained standing, my profile turned toward him at his
request. When he had finished I asked to see what he had done
and, perfectly unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing
of a skeleton with a curly wig. I tore the sketch up and
threw it at him, but the following day that horror appeared in
the papers, with a disagreeable inscription underneath it.
Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art with
a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years
ago reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious articles, and the public, very much less literary
then than at present, always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes
385invented by reporters hard up for copy. I should think
that no creature in the world, since the invention of reportage,
has ever had as much to endure as I had during that first tour.
The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long before
I arrived in America; there was all the treachery of the
friends of the Comédie and even of my own admirers, who
hoped that I should not succeed on my tour so that I might return
more quickly to the fold, humiliated, calmed down, and
subdued. Then there were the exaggerated announcements invented
by my impresario, Abbey, and my representative, Jarrett.
These announcements were often outrageous and always
ridiculous, but I did not know their real source until long
afterwards when it was too late, much too late, to undeceive the
public, who were fully persuaded that I was the instigator of
all these inventions. I therefore did not attempt to undeceive
them. It matters very little to me whether people believe one
thing or another. Life is short, even for those who live a long
time, and we must live for the few who know and appreciate
us, who judge and absolve us, and for whom we have the same
affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as a mere
crowd, lively or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is nothing
to be expected but fleeting emotions, either pleasant or
unpleasant, which leave no trace behind them. We ought to
hate very rarely, as it is too fatiguing, remain indifferent to a
great deal, forgive often and never forget. Forgiving does
not mean forgetting, at least it does not with me. I will not
mention here any of the outrageous and infamous attacks that
were made upon me, as it would be doing too great an honor
to the wretched people who were responsible for them from
beginning to end, dipping their pen in the gall of their own
soul. All I can say is that nothing kills but death, and that
anyone who wishes to defend himself or herself from slander
can do it. For that one must live. It is not given to everyone
to be able to do it, but it depends on the will of God who sees
and judges.
CHAPTER XXVI NEW YORK AND BOSTON
386
I TOOK two days’ rest before going to the theater, for
I could feel the movement of the boat all the time,
my head was dizzy, and it seemed to me as though
the ceiling moved up and down. The twelve days
on the sea had quite upset my health. I sent a line to the
stage manager telling him that we would rehearse on Wednesday,
and on that day as soon as luncheon was over I went to the
Booth Theater, where our performances were to take place.
At the door reserved for the artistes I saw a compact, swaying
crowd, very much animated and gesticulating. These strange-looking
individuals did not belong to the artiste world. They
were not reporters, either, for I knew them too well, alas! to be
mistaken in them. They were not there out of curiosity, either,
these people, for they seemed too much occupied and then, too,
there were only men. When my carriage drew up one of them
rushed forward to the door of it and then returned to the
swaying crowd. “Here she is, here she is!” I heard, and
then all these common men with their white neckties and questionable-looking
hands, with their coats flying open and trousers
whose knees were worn and dirty looking, crowded behind
me into the narrow passage leading to the staircase. I did not
feel very easy in my mind, and I mounted the stairs rapidly.
Several persons were waiting for me at the top, Mr. Abbey,
Jarrett, and also some reporters, two gentlemen, and a charming
and most distinguished woman whose friendship I have kept
ever since, although she does not care much for French people.
387I saw Mr. Abbey, who was usually very dignified and cold,
advance in the most gracious and courteous way to one of the
men who were following me. They raised their hats to each
other and, followed by the strange and brutal-looking regiment,
they advanced toward the center of the stage. I then
saw the strangest of sights. In the middle of the stage were
my forty-two trunks. In obedience to a sign twenty of the
men came forward and placing themselves, each one between
two trunks, with a quick movement with their right and left
hands they lifted the lids of the trunks on the right and left
of them. Jarrett with frowns and an unpleasant grin held
out my keys to them. He had asked me that morning for my
keys for the customs. “Oh, it’s nothing!” he said, “don’t be
uneasy,” and the way in which my luggage had always been
respected in other countries had given me perfect confidence
about it. The principal personage of the ugly group came
toward me accompanied by Abbey, and Jarrett explained things
to me. The man was an official from the American customhouse.
The custom office is an abominable institution in every
country, but worse in America than anywhere else. I was prepared
for all this and was most affable to the tormenter of a
traveler’s patience. He raised the melon which served him for
a hat and, without taking his cigar out of his mouth made some
incomprehensible remark to me. He then turned to his regiment
of men, made an abrupt sign with his hand, and uttered
some word of command, whereupon the forty dirty hands of
these twenty men proceeded to forage among my velvets, satins,
and laces. I rushed forward to save my poor dresses from
such outrageous violations, and I ordered our costume maker to
lift my gowns out one at a time, which she accordingly did,
aided by my maid, who was in tears at the small amount of
respect shown by these boors to all my beautiful, fragile things.
Two ladies had just arrived, very noisy and businesslike. One
of them was short and stout, her nose seemed to begin at the
roots of her hair; she had round, placid-looking eyes and a mouth
like a snout; her arms she was hiding timidly behind her heavy,
flabby bust and her ungainly knees seemed to come straight
388out of her groin. She looked like a seated cow. Her companion
was like a terrapin, with her little, black, evil-looking
head at the end of a neck which was too long, and very stringy.
She kept shooting it out of her boa and drawing it back with
the most incredible rapidity. The rest of her body bulged out....
These two delightful persons were the dressmakers sent
for by the customhouse to estimate my costumes. They glanced
at me in a furtive way and gave a little bow, full of bitterness
and jealous rage at the sight of my dresses, and I was quite
aware that two more enemies had now come upon the scene.
These two odious shrews began to chatter and argue, pawing
and crumpling my dresses and cloaks at the same time. They
kept exclaiming in the most emphatic way: “Oh, how beautiful!
What magnificence! What luxury! All our customers will
want gowns like these and we shall never be able to make them!
It will be the ruin of all the American dressmakers.” They
were working up the judges into a state of excitement for this
“chiffon court martial.” They kept lamenting, then going
into raptures and asking for “justice” against foreign invasion.
The ugly band of men nodded their heads in approval
and spat on the ground to affirm their independence. Suddenly
the Terrapin turned on one of the inquisitors:
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful! Show it them, show it them!”
she exclaimed, seizing on a dress all embroidered with pearls,
which I wore in “La Dame aux Camélias.”
“This dress is worth at least $10,000,” she said and then,
coming up to me she asked: “How much did you pay for that
dress, madame?”
I ground my teeth together and would not answer, for just
at that moment I should have enjoyed seeing the Terrapin in
one of the saucepans in the Albemarle Hotel kitchen. It was
nearly half past five and my feet were frozen. I was half
dead, too, with fatigue and suppressed anger. The rest of the
examination was postponed until the next day, and the ugly
band of men offered to put everything back in the trunk, but I
objected to that. I sent out for five hundred yards of blue
tarlatan to cover over the mountain of dresses, hats, cloaks, shoes,
389laces, linen, stockings, furs, gloves, etc., etc. They then made
me take my oath to remove nothing, for they had such charming
confidence in me, and I left my butler there in charge. He was
the husband of Félicie, my maid, and a bed was put up for him
on the stage. I was so nervous and upset that I wanted to go
somewhere far away, to have some fresh air, and to stay out for
a long time. A friend offered to take me to see the Brooklyn
Bridge.
“That masterpiece of American genius will make you forget
the petty miseries of our red-tape affairs,” he said gently, and
so we set out for Brooklyn Bridge.
Oh, that bridge! It is insane, admirable, imposing, and it
makes one feel proud. Yes, one is proud to be a human being
when one realizes that a human brain has created and suspended
in the air, fifty yards from the ground, that fearful
thing which bears a dozen trains filled with passengers, ten or
twelve tram cars, a hundred cabs, carriages, and carts, and
thousands of foot passengers, and all that moving along together
amidst the uproar of the music of the metals, clanging, clashing,
grating, and groaning under the enormous weight of people and
things. The movement of the air caused by this frightful,
tempestuous coming and going, caused me to feel giddy and
stopped my breath. I made a sign for the carriage to stand
still and I closed my eyes. I then had a strange indefinable
sensation of universal chaos. I opened my eyes again when
my brain was a little more tranquil and I saw New York
stretching out along the river, wearing its night ornaments,
which glittered as much through its dress with thousands of
electric lights as the firmament with its tunic of stars. I returned
to the hotel reconciled with this great nation. I went
to sleep tired in body but rested in mind, and had such delightful
dreams that I was in a good humor the following day. I
adore dreams, and my sad, unhappy days are those which follow
dreamless nights. My great grief is that I cannot choose my
dreams. How many times I have done all in my power at the
end of a happy day to make myself dream a continuation of it!
How many times I have called up the faces of those I love just
390before falling asleep! but my thoughts wander and carry me
off elsewhere, and I prefer that or even a disagreeable dream
to none at all. When I am asleep my body has an infinite sense
of enjoyment, but it is torture to me for my thoughts to slumber.
My vital forces rebel against such negation of life. I am quite
willing to die once for all, but I object to slight deaths such
as those of which one has the sensation on dreamless nights.
When I awoke, my maid told me that Jarrett was waiting for
me to go to the theater, so that the valuation of my costumes
could be terminated. I sent word to Jarrett that I had seen
quite enough of the regiment from the customhouse, and I
asked him to finish everything without me, as Mme. Guérard
would be there. During the next two days the Terrapin, the
Seated Cow and the Black Band made notes for the customhouse,
took sketches for the papers and patterns of my dresses for
customers. I began to get impatient, as we ought to have been
rehearsing. Finally, I was told on Thursday morning that the
business was over, and that I could not have my trunks until
I had paid 28,000 francs for duty. I was seized with such a
violent fit of laughing that poor Abbey, who had been terrified,
caught it from me and even Jarrett showed his cruel
teeth.
“My dear Abbey,” I exclaimed, “arrange as you like about
it, but I must make my début on Monday, the 8th of November,
and to-day is Thursday. I shall be at the theater on Monday
to dress. See that I have my trunks, for there was nothing
about the customhouse in my contract. I will pay half, though,
of what you have to give.” The 28,000 francs were handed over
to an attorney who made a claim in my name on the Board of
Customs. My trunks were left with me, thanks to this deposit,
and the rehearsals commenced at Booth’s Theater.
SARAH BERNHARDT AT HOME, BY WALTER SPINDLER.
391On Monday evening, November 8th, at 8.30, the curtain rose
for the first performance of “Adrienne Lecouvreur.” The house
was crowded and the seats, which had been sold to the highest
bidders and then sold by them again, had fetched exorbitant
prices. I was awaited with impatience and curiosity, but not
with any sympathy. There were no young girls present, as the
piece was too immoral. (Poor Adrienne Lecouvreur!) The
audience was very polite to the artistes of my company, but
rather impatient to see the strange person who had been announced
to them. The curtain fell at the end of the first act
and Adrienne had not appeared. One of the audience, very
much annoyed, asked to see Mr. Henry Abbey. “I want my
money back,” he said, “as la Bernhardt is not in every act.”
Abbey refused to return the money to the extraordinary individual
and as the curtain was going up he hurried back to
take possession of his seat again. My appearance was greeted
by several rounds of applause, which I believe had been paid for
in advance by Abbey and Jarrett. I commenced and the sweetness
of my voice as in the fable of the “Two Pigeons” worked
the miracle. The whole house this time burst out into hurrahs.
A current of sympathy was established between my public and
myself. Instead of the hysterical skeleton that had been announced
to them, they had before them a very frail-looking
creature with a sweet voice. The fourth act was applauded and
Adrienne’s rebellion against the Princesse de Bouillon stirred
the whole house. Finally, in the fifth act, when the unfortunate
artiste is dying, poisoned by her rival, there was quite a manifestation
and everyone was deeply moved.
At the end of the third act all the young men were sent off
by the ladies to find all the musicians they could get together,
and to my surprise and delight on arriving at my hotel a charming
serenade was played for me while I was at supper. The
crowd had assembled under my windows at the Albemarle
Hotel and I was obliged to go out on to the balcony several
times to bow and to thank this public, which I had been told
I should find cold and prejudiced against me. From the
bottom of my heart I also thanked all my detractors and slanderers,
as it was through them that I had had the pleasure of
fighting, with the certainty of conquering. The victory was
all the more enjoyable as I had not dared to hope for it.
I gave twenty-seven performances in New York. The plays
were “Adrienne Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “Hernani,”
“La Dame aux Camélias,” “Le Sphinx,” “L’Etrangère.”
392The average receipts were 20,342 francs for each performance,
including matinées. The last performance was given on Saturday,
December 4th, as a matinée, for my company had to
leave that night for Boston and I had reserved the evening to
go to Mr. Edison, at Menlo Park, where I had a reception
worthy of fairyland.
Oh, that matinée of Saturday, December 4th! I can never
forget it! When I got to the theater to dress it was midday,
for the matinée was to commence at half past one. My carriage
stopped, not being able to get along, for the street was
filled by ladies, sitting on chairs which they had borrowed from
the neighboring shops, or on folding seats which they had
brought themselves. The play was “La Dame aux Camélias.”
I had to get out of my carriage and walk about twenty-five
yards on foot in order to get to the stage door. It took
me twenty-five minutes to do it. People shook my hands and
begged me to come back. One lady took off her brooch and
pinned it in my mantle—a modest brooch of amethysts surrounded
by fine pearls, but certainly for the giver the brooch
had its value. I was stopped at every step. One lady pulled
out her notebook and begged me to write my name. The idea
took like lightning. Small boys under the care of their parents
wanted me to write my name on their cuffs. My arms were
full of small bouquets which had been pushed into my hands.
I felt behind me some one tugging at the feather in my hat. I
turned round sharply. A woman with a pair of scissors in
her hand had tried to cut off a lock of my hair, but she had only
succeeded in cutting the feather out of my hat. In vain Jarrett
signalled and shouted—I could not get along. They sent
for the police, who delivered me, but without any ceremony,
either for my admirers or for myself. They were real brutes,
those policemen, and made me very angry. I played “La
Dame aux Camélias” and I counted seventeen calls after the
third act and twenty-nine after the fifth. In consequence of
the cheering and calls the play had lasted an hour longer than
usual and I was half dead with fatigue. I was just about to
go to my carriage to get back to my hotel when Jarrett came
393to tell me that there were more than 50,000 people waiting outside.
I fell back on a chair, tired and disheartened.
“Oh, I will wait till the crowd has dispersed! I am tired
out. I can do no more.”
But Henry Abbey had an inspiration of genius.
“Stay,” said he to my sister, “put on madame’s hat and
boa and take my arm. And take also these bouquets—give me
what you cannot carry. And now we will go to your sister’s
carriage and make our bow.”
He said all this in English and Jarrett translated it to my
sister who lent herself to this little comedy very willingly.
During this time Jarrett and I got into Abbey’s carriage, which
was stationed in front of the theater where no one was waiting.
And it was fortunate we took this course, for my sister only
got back to the Albemarle Hotel an hour later, very tired,
but very much amused. Her resemblance to myself, my hat,
my boa, and the darkness of night had been the accomplices
of the little comedy which we had offered to my enthusiastic
public.
We had to set out at nine o’clock for Menlo Park. We had
to dress in traveling costume, for the following day we were to
leave for Boston and my trunks had gone that day with my
company, which preceded me by several hours.
The dinner was, as usual, very bad, for in those days
in America the food was unspeakably awful. At ten o’clock
we took the train—a pretty, special train all decorated with
flowers and banners, which they had been kind enough to prepare
for me. But it was a painful journey, all the same, for
at each instant we had to pull up to allow another train to
pass, or an engine to maneuver, or to wait to pass over the
points. It was two o’clock in the morning when the train at
last reached the station of Menlo Park, the residence of Thomas
Edison.
It was a very dark night and the snow was falling silently
in heavy flakes. A carriage was waiting and the one lamp of
this carriage served to light up the whole station, for orders
had been given that the electric lights should be put out. I
394found my way with the help of Jarrett and some of my friends
who had accompanied us from New York. The intense cold
froze the snow as it fell, and we walked over veritable blocks
of sharp, jagged ice, which crackled under our feet. Behind
the first carriage was another heavier one, with only one horse
and no lamp. There was room for five or six persons to crowd
into this. We were ten in all; Jarrett, Abbey, my sister, and
I took our places in the first one, leaving the others to get into
the second. We looked like a band of conspirators, the dark
night, the two mysterious carriages, the silence caused by the
icy coldness, the way in which we were muffled in our furs,
and our anxious expressions as we glanced around us—all this
made our visit to the celebrated Edison resemble a scene out
of an operetta.
The carriage rolled along, sinking deep into the snow and
jolting terribly; the jolts made us dread every instant some
tragi-comic accident. I cannot tell how long we had been
rolling along for, lulled by the movement of the carriage and
buried in my warm furs, I was quietly dozing when a formidable
“Hip-hip-hurrah!” made us all jump, my traveling
companions, the coachman, the horse, and I. As quick as
thought the whole country was suddenly illuminated. Under
the trees, on the trees, among the bushes, along the garden walks,
lights flashed forth triumphantly. The wheels of the carriage
turned a few times more and then drew up at the house of
the famous Thomas Edison. A group of people awaited us on
the veranda, four men, two ladies, and a young girl. My heart
began to beat quickly as I wondered which of these men was
Edison. I had never seen his photograph and I had the greatest
admiration for his genius. I sprang out of the carriage
and the dazzling electric light made it seem like daytime to
us. I took the bouquet which Mrs. Edison offered me and
thanked her for it, but all the time I was endeavoring to discover
which of these was the Great Man. They all four advanced
toward me, but I noticed the flush that came into the
face of one of them and it was so evident from the expression
of his blue eyes that he was intensely bored that I guessed
395this was Edison. I felt confused and embarrassed myself, for
I knew very well that I was causing inconvenience to this man
by my visit. He, of course, imagined that it was due to the
idle curiosity of a foreigner, eager to court publicity. He was
no doubt thinking of the interviewing in store for him the following
day, and of the stupidities he would be made to utter.
He was suffering beforehand at the idea of the ignorant questions
I should ask him, of all the explanations he would, out
of politeness, be obliged to give me, and at that moment Thomas
Edison took a dislike to me. His wonderful blue eyes, more
luminous than his incandescent lamps, enabled me to read his
thoughts. I immediately understood that he must be won over,
and my combative instinct had recourse to all my powers of
fascination, in order to vanquish this delightful but bashful
savant. I made such an effort and succeeded so well that,
half an hour later, we were the best of friends. I followed
him about quickly, climbing up staircases as narrow and steep
as ladders, crossing bridges suspended in the air above veritable
furnaces, and he explained everything to me. I understood
all, and I admired him more and more, for he was so simple
and charming, this king of light. As we leaned over a slightly
unsteady bridge, above the terrible abyss in which immense
wheels, encased in wide thongs, were turning, tacking about, and
rumbling, he gave various orders in a clear voice and light then
burst forth on all sides, sometimes in sputtering, greenish jets,
sometimes in quick flashes or in serpentine trails like streams
of fire. I looked at this man of medium size, with rather a
large head and a noble-looking profile, and I thought of Napoleon
I. There is certainly a great physical resemblance between
these two men, and I am sure that one compartment of
their brain would be found to be identical. Of course I do
not compare their genius. The one was “destructive” and
the other “creative,” but while I execrate battles, I adore victories
and, in spite of his errors, I have raised an altar in my
heart to that god of Glory, Napoleon! I therefore looked at
Edison thoughtfully, for he reminded me of the great man who
was dead. The deafening sound of the machinery, the dazzling
396rapidity of the changes of light—all that together made my
head whirl and, forgetting where I was, I leaned for support
on the slight balustrade which separated me from the abyss
beneath. I was so unconscious of all danger that, before I
had recovered from my surprise, Edison had helped me into
an adjoining room and installed me in an armchair without
my realizing how it had all happened. He told me afterwards
that I had turned dizzy.
After having done the honors of his telephonic discovery and
of his astonishing phonograph, Edison offered me his arm and
took me to the dining-room where I found his family assembled.
I was very tired and did justice to the supper that had been
so hospitably prepared for us.
I left Menlo Park at four o’clock in the morning and this
time the country round, the roads, and the station were all
lighted up, à giorno, by the thousands of jets of my kind host.
What a strange power of suggestion the darkness has! I
thought I had traveled a long way that night, and it seemed
to me that the roads were impracticable. It proved to be quite
a short distance and the roads were charming, although they
were covered with snow. Imagination had played a great
part during the journey to Edison’s house, but reality played
a much greater one during the same journey back to the station.
I was enthusiastic in my admiration of the inventions of this
man, and I was charmed with his timid graciousness and perfect
courtesy, and with his profound love of Shakespeare.
The next day or rather that same day, for it was then four
in the morning, I started after my company for Boston. Mr.
Abbey, my impresario, had arranged for me to have a delightful
“car,” but it was nothing like the wonderful Pullman car
that I was to have from Philadelphia for continuing my tour.
I was very much pleased with this one, nevertheless. In the
middle of the room there was a real bed, large and comfortable,
on a brass bedstead. Then there was an armchair, a pretty
dressing table, a basket tied up with ribbons for my dog, and
flowers everywhere, but flowers without overpowering perfume.
In the car adjoining mine were my own servants, who were
397also very comfortable. I went to bed feeling thoroughly satisfied
and woke up at Boston.
A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters
and curious men and women, a public decidedly more
interested than friendly, not badly intentioned but by no means
enthusiastic. Public opinion in New York had been greatly
occupied with me during the past month. I had been so much
criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid and
disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me.
Some people blamed and others admired the disdain with which
I had treated these turpitudes, but everyone knew that I had
won in the end, and that I had triumphed over all and everything.
Boston knew, too, that clergymen had preached from
their pulpits saying that I had been sent by the Old World to
corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration from
hell, etc., etc. Everyone knew all this, but the public wanted
to see for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women.
Tradition says that it was a woman who first set foot in Boston.
Women form the majority there. They are puritanical with
intelligence, and independent with a certain grace. I passed
between the two lines formed by this strange, courteous, and
cold crowd, and, just as I was about to get into my carriage a
lady advanced toward me and said: “Welcome to Boston,
madame.”
“Welcome, madame,” and she held out a soft little hand
to me. (American women generally have charming hands and
feet.) Other people now approached and smiled, and I had to
shake hands with many of them. I took a fancy to this city
at once, but all the same I was furious for a moment when a
reporter sprang on to the steps of the carriage just as we were
driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious
than any of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the
limits and I pushed the wretched man back angrily. Jarrett
was prepared for this and saved him by the collar of his coat;
otherwise he would have fallen down on the pavement as he
deserved.
“At what time will you come and get on the whale to-morrow?”
398this extraordinary personage asked. I gazed at him
in bewilderment. He spoke French perfectly and repeated his
question.
“He’s mad,” I said in a low voice to Jarrett.
“No, madame, I am not mad, but I should like to know at
what time you will come and get on the whale. It would be
better perhaps to come this evening, for we are afraid it may
die in the night, and it would be a pity for you not to come
and pay it a visit while it still has breath.”
He went on talking, and as he talked, he half seated himself
beside Jarrett who was still holding him by the collar, lest
he should fall out of the carriage.
“But, monsieur,” I exclaimed. “What do you mean?
What is all this about a whale?”
“Ah! madame,” he replied, “it is admirable, enormous.
It is in the harbor basin and there are men employed day and
night to break the ice all round it.”
He broke off suddenly and standing on the carriage step he
clutched the driver.
“Stop! Stop!” he called out. “Hi-Hi, Henry—come
here—here’s madame, here she is!”
The carriage drew up, and without any further ceremony
he jumped down and pushed into my carriage a little man,
square all over, who was wearing a fur cap pulled down over
his eyes, and an enormous diamond in his cravat. He was the
strangest type of the old-fashioned Yankee. He did not speak
a word of French, but he took his seat calmly by Jarrett, while
the reporter remained half sitting and half hanging on to
the vehicle. There had been three of us when we started from
the station, and we were five when we reached the Hotel Vendome.
There were a great many people awaiting my arrival,
and I was quite ashamed of my new companion. He talked in
a loud voice, laughed, coughed, spat, addressed everyone, and
gave everyone invitations. All the people seemed to be delighted.
A little girl threw her arms round her father’s neck,
exclaiming: “Oh, yes, papa, do please let us go!”
“Well, but we must ask madame,” he replied and he came
399up to me in the most polite and courteous manner. “Will
you kindly allow us to join your party when you go to see
the whale to-morrow?” he asked.
“But, monsieur,” I answered, delighted to have to do with
a gentleman once more, “I have no idea what all this means.
For the last quarter of an hour this reporter and that extraordinary
man have been talking about a whale. They declare,
authoritatively, that I must go and pay it a visit and I
know absolutely nothing about it at all. These two gentlemen
took my carriage by storm, installed themselves in it without
my permission and, as you see, are giving invitations in my
name to people I do not know, asking them to go with me to a
place about which I know nothing, for the purpose of paying
a visit to a whale which is to be introduced to me and which
is waiting impatiently to die in peace.”
The kindly disposed gentleman signed to his daughter to
come with us and, accompanied by them, and by Jarrett, and
Mme. Guérard, I went up in an elevator to the door of my suite
of rooms. I found my apartments hung with valuable pictures
and full of magnificent statues. I felt rather disturbed in my
mind, for among these objects of art were two or three very
rare and beautiful things which I knew must have cost an exorbitant
price. I was afraid lest any of them should be stolen
and I spoke of my fear to the proprietor of the hotel.
“Mr. X——, to whom the knickknacks belong,” he answered,
“wishes you to have them to look at as long as you
are here, mademoiselle, and when I expressed my anxiety about
them to him just as you have done to me, he merely remarked
that ‘it was all the same to him.’ As to the pictures, they
belong to two wealthy Bostonians.” There was among them a
superb Millet which I should have liked very much to own.
After expressing my gratitude, and admiring these treasures,
I asked for an explanation of the story of the whale, and Mr.
Max Gordon, the father of the little girl, translated for me
what the little man in the fur cap had said. It appeared that
he owned several fishing boats which he sent out for codfishing
for his own benefit. One of these boats had captured an
400enormous whale, which still had the two harpoons in it. The
poor creature, thoroughly exhausted with its struggles, was
several miles farther along the coast, but it had been easy to
capture it and bring it in triumph to Henry Smith, the owner
of the boats. It was difficult to say by what freak of fancy
and by what turn of the imagination this man had arrived
at associating in his mind the idea of the whale and my name
as a source of wealth. I could not understand it, but the
fact remained that he insisted in such a droll way and so
authoritatively and energetically that the following morning
at seven o’clock, fifty persons assembled, in spite of the icy cold
rain, to visit the basin of the quay. Mr. Gordon had
given orders that his mail coach with four beautiful horses
should be in readiness. He drove himself, and his daughter,
Jarrett, my sister, Mme. Guérard, and another elderly lady,
whose name I have forgotten, were with us. Seven other carriages
followed. It was all very amusing indeed. On our arrival
at the quay, we were received by this comic Henry, shaggy
looking this time from head to foot, and his hands encased in
fingerless woolen gloves. Only his eyes and his huge diamond
shone out from his furs. I walked along the quay, very much
amused and interested. There were a few idlers looking on
also and alas! three times over alas!—there were reporters.
Henry’s shaggy paw then seized my hand and he drew me along
with him quickly to the staircase. I barely escaped breaking
my neck at least a dozen times. He pushed me along, made
me stumble down the ten steps of the basin and I next found
myself on the back of the whale. They assured me that it still
breathed; I should not like to affirm that it really did, but the
splashing of the water breaking its eddy against the poor
creature caused it to oscillate slightly. Then, too, it was covered
with glazed frost, and twice I fell down full length on its
spine. I laugh about it now, but I was furious then. Everyone
around me insisted, however, on my pulling a piece of
the shattered whalebone from the mouth of the poor wounded
creature, a sliver of that bone from which those little ribs are
made which are used for women’s corsets. I did not like to
401do this, as I feared to cause it suffering and I was sorry for
the poor thing, as three of us, Henry, the little Gordon girl,
and I, had been skating about on its back for the last ten minutes.
Finally, I decided to do it. I pulled out the little piece
of whalebone and went up the steps again, holding my poor
trophy in my hand. I felt nervous and flustered, and everyone
surrounded me. I was annoyed with this man. I did not
want to return to the coach, as I thought I could hide my bad
temper better in one of the huge, gloomy-looking landaus which
followed, but the charming Miss Gordon asked me so sweetly
why I would not drive with them, that I felt my anger melt
away before the child’s smiling face.
“Would you like to drive?” her father asked me, and I
accepted with pleasure.
Jarrett immediately proceeded to get down from the coach
as quickly as his age and corpulence would allow him.
“If you are going to drive I prefer getting down,” he
said, and he took his place in another carriage. I changed seats
boldly with Mr. Gordon in order to drive, and we had not gone
a hundred yards before I had let the horses make for a chemist’s
shop along the quay and got the coach itself up on to the footpath,
so that if it had not been for the quickness and energy
of Mr. Gordon we should all have been killed. On arriving at
the hotel, I went to bed and stayed there until it was time for
the theater in the evening.
CHAPTER XXVII I VISIT MONTREAL
402
We played “Hernani” that night to a full house.
The seats had been sold to the highest bidders, and
considerable prices were obtained for them. We
gave fifteen performances at Boston at an average
of 19,000 francs for each performance. I was sorry to leave
that city, as I had spent two charming weeks there, my mind
all the time on the alert when holding conversations with the
Boston women. They are Puritans from the crown of the
head to the sole of the foot, but they are indulgent and there
is no bitterness about their puritanism. What struck me most
about the women of Boston was the harmony and softness of
their gestures. Brought up among the severest and harshest
of traditions, the Bostonian race seems to me to be the most
refined and the most mysterious of all the American races. As
the women are in the majority in Boston, many of the young
girls will remain unmarried. All their vital forces which they
cannot expend in love and in maternity they employ in fortifying
and making supple the beauty of their body, by means of
exercise and sports, without losing any of their grace. All the
reserves of heart are expended in intellectuality. They adore
music, the theater, literature, painting, and poetry. They
know everything and understand everything, are chaste and
reserved, and neither laugh nor talk very loudly.
They are as far removed from the Latin race as the North
Pole is from the South Pole, but they are interesting, delightful,
and captivating.
SARAH BERNHARDT AS DOÑA SOL IN “HERNANI.”
403It was, therefore, with a rather heavy heart that I left
Boston for New Haven, and to my great surprise on arriving
at the hotel at New Haven, I found Henry Smith there, the
famous whale man. “Oh, heavens!” I exclaimed, flinging myself
into an armchair, “what does this man want now with
me?”
I was not left in ignorance very long for the most infernal
noise of brass instruments, drums, trumpets, and I should think
saucepans, drew me to the window. I saw an immense carriage
surrounded by an escort of negroes dressed as minstrels.
On this carriage was an abominable, monstrous, colored advertisement
representing me standing on the whale, tearing
away its blade while it struggled to defend itself. Some sandwich
men followed with posters on which were written the following
words: “Come and see the enormous cetacea which
Sarah Bernhardt killed by tearing out its whalebone for her
corsets. These are made by Mme. Lily Noé who lives, etc.”
Still other sandwich men carried posters with these words:
“The whale is just as flourishing (sic) as when it was alive.
It has five hundred dollars’ worth of salt in its stomach, and
every day the ice upon which it was resting is renewed at a
cost of one hundred dollars!”
My face turned more livid than that of a corpse and my
teeth chattered with fury on seeing this. Henry Smith advanced
toward me and I struck him in my anger, and then
rushed away to my room, where I sobbed with vexation, disgust,
and utter weariness. I wanted to start back to Europe at once,
but Jarrett showed me my contract. I then wanted to take
steps to have this odious exhibition stopped and in order to
calm me, I was promised that this should be done, but in reality
nothing was done at all. Two days later I was at Hartford
and the same whale was there. It continued its tour as I continued
mine. They gave it more salt, and renewed its ice, and
it went on its way, so that I came across it everywhere. I
took proceedings about it, but in every state I was obliged to
begin all over again, as the law varied in the different states.
And every time I arrived at a fresh hotel I found there an
404immense bouquet awaiting me with the horrible card of the
showman of the whale. I threw his flowers on the ground and
trampled on them, and much as I love flowers, I had a horror
of these. Jarrett went to see the man and begged him not to
send me any more bouquets, but it was all of no use as it was the
man’s way of avenging the box on the ears I had given him.
Then, too, he could not understand my anger. He was making
any amount of money and had even proposed that I should
accept a percentage of the receipts. Ah! I would willingly have
killed that execrable Smith, for he was poisoning my life. I
could see nothing else in all the different cities I visited, and I
used to shut my eyes on the way from the hotel to the theater.
When I heard the minstrels I used to fly into a rage and
turn green with anger. Fortunately, I was able to rest when
once I reached Montreal, where I was not followed by this
show. I should certainly have been ill if it had continued, as I
saw nothing but that, I could think of nothing else, and my very
dreams were about it. It haunted me, it was an obsession and
a perpetual nightmare. When I left Hartford, Jarrett swore
to me that Smith would not be at Montreal as he had been taken
suddenly ill. I strongly suspected that Jarrett had found a
way of administering to him some violent kind of medicine
which had stopped his journeying for the time. I felt sure of
this, as the ferocious gentleman laughed so heartily en route,
but anyhow I was infinitely grateful to him for ridding me
of the man for the present.
For a long time, ever since my earliest childhood, I had
dreamed about Canada. I had always heard my godfather regret,
with considerable fury, the surrender of that territory
by France to England.
I had heard him enumerate, without very clearly understanding
them, the pecuniary advantages of Canada, the immense
fortune that lay in its lands, etc. ... and that country
had seemed to my imagination the far-off promised land.
Awakened some considerable time previous by the strident
whistle of the engine, I asked what time it was. Eleven o’clock,
I was informed. We were within fifteen minutes of the station.
405The sky was black and smooth, like a steel shield. Lanterns
placed at distant intervals caught the whiteness of the snow
heaped up there for how many days!... The train stopped
suddenly and then started again with such a slow and timid
movement that I fancied that there might be a possibility of
its running off the rails. But a deadened sound, growing
louder every second, fell upon my attentive ears. This sound
soon resolved itself into music ... and it was in the midst of
a formidable “Hurrah! Long live France!” shouted by ten
thousand throats, strengthened by an orchestra playing the
“Marseillaise” with a frenzied fury, that we made our entry
into Montreal.
The place where the train stopped in those days was very
narrow. A somewhat high bank served as a rampart for the
slight platform of the station.
Standing on the small step of my carriage, I looked with
emotion upon the strange spectacle I had before me. The bank
was packed with bears holding lanterns. There were hundreds
and hundreds of them. In the narrow space between the bank
and the train which had come to a stop, there were more bears,
large and small ... and I wondered with terror how I should
manage to reach my sleigh.
Jarrett and Abbey caused the crowd to make way and I
got out. But a deputy whose name I cannot make out in my
notes (what commendation for my writing!)—a deputy advanced
toward me and handed me an address signed by the
notabilities of the city. I returned thanks as best I could, and
took the magnificent bouquet of flowers that was tendered in
the name of the signatories to the address. When I lifted the
flowers to my face in order to smell them, I hurt myself slightly
with their pretty petals frozen by the cold.
However, I began to feel both arms and legs were getting
benumbed. The cold crept over my whole body. That night,
it appears, was one of the coldest that had been experienced
for many years past.
The women who had come to be present at the arrival of the
French company had been compelled to withdraw into the interior
406of the station, with the exception of Mrs. Joseph Doutre,
who handed me a bouquet of rare flowers and gave me a kiss.
It was twenty-two degrees below zero. I whispered low to
Jarrett:
“Let us continue our journey, I am turning into ice. In
ten minutes I shall not be able to move a step.”
Jarrett repeated my words to Abbey who applied to the
chief of police. The latter gave orders in English and another
police officer repeated them in French. And we were able to
proceed for a few yards. But the station was still some way
off. The crowd grew bigger, and at one time I felt as though
I were about to faint. I took courage, however, holding or
rather hanging on to the arms of Jarrett and Abbey. Every
minute I thought I should fall, for the platform was covered
with ice.
We were obliged, however, to stay further progress. A hundred
lanterns, held aloft by a hundred students’ hands, suddenly
lit up the place.
A tall young man separated himself from the group and
came straight toward me holding a wide unrolled piece of paper,
and in a loud voice exclaimed: “To Sarah Bernhardt....”
And these are the lines he read:
A Sarah Bernhardt
Salut, Sarah! salut, charmante Doña Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Notre sol tout couvert de givre,
Est-ce un frisson d’orgueil ou d’amour? je ne sais;
Mais nous sentons courir dans notre sang français,
Quelque chose qui nous enivre!
Femme vaillante au cœur saturé d’idéal,
Puisque tu n’as pas craint notre ciel boréal,
Ni redouté nos froids sévères,
Merci! De l’âpre hiver pour longtemps prisonniers,
Nous rêvons à ta vue aux rayons printaniers
Qui font fleurir les primevères!
407Oui, c’est au doux printemps que tu nous fais rêver!
Oiseau des pays bleus, lorsque tu viens braver
L’horreur de nos saisons perfides,
Aux clairs rayonnements d’un chaud soleil de Mai,
Nous croyons voir, du fond d’un bosquet parfumé,
Surgir la reine des sylphides.
Mais non: de floréal ni du blond Messidor,
Tu n’est pas, ô Sarah, la fée aux ailes d’or
Qui vient répandre l’ambroisie,
Nous saluons en toi l’artiste radieux
Qui sut cueillir d’assaut dans le jardin des dieux
Toutes les fleurs de poésie!
Que sous ta main la toile anime son réseau;
Que le paron brillant vive sous ton ciseau,
Ou l’argile sous ton doigt rose;
Que sur la scène, au bruit délirant des bravos,
En types toujours vrais, quoique toujours nouveaux,
Ton talent se métamorphose;
Soit que, peintre admirable ou sculpteur souverain,
Toi-même oses ravir la muse au front serein,
A te sourire toujours prêtée!
Soit qu’aux mille vivate de la foule à genoux,
Des grands maîtres anciens ou modernes, pour nous
Ta voix se fasse l’interprète;
Des bords de la Tamise aux bords du Saint-Laurent,
Qu’il soit enfant du peuple ou brille au premier rang,
Laissant glapir la calomnie,
Tour à tour par ton œuvre et ta grâce enchanté
Chacun courbe le front devant la majesté
De ton universel génie!
Salut donc, ô Sarah! salut, ô Doña Sol!
Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,
Te montrer de l’indifférence
Serait à notre sang nous-mêmes faire affront;
Car l’étoile qui luit la plus belle à ton front,
C’est encore celle de la France!
408He read very well, it is true, but those lines, read with a
temperature of twenty-two degrees of cold, to a poor woman
dumfounded through listening to a frenzied “Marseillaise,”
stunned by the mad hurrahs from ten thousand throats delirious
with patriotic fervor, were more than my strength could bear,
made me feel dizzy, and caused my head to reel.
I made superhuman efforts at resistance, but was overwhelmed
with fatigue. Everything appeared to be turning
round in a mad farandole. I felt myself raised from the
ground and heard a voice which seemed to come from far away—“Make
room for our French lady....” Then I heard nothing
further and only recovered my senses in my room at the
Hotel Windsor.
My sister Jeanne had become separated from me by the
movement of the crowd. But the poet Fréchette, a French-Canadian,
became her escort and brought her several minutes
after, safe and sound, but trembling on my account, and this
is what she told me—“Just imagine. When the crowd was
pressing against you, seized with terror on seeing your head
fall back with closed eyes on to Abbey’s shoulder, I shouted out
‘Help. My sister is being killed.’ I had become mad. A
man of enormous size who had followed us for a long time
worked his elbows and hips to make the enthusiastic but overwrought
mob give way, with a quick movement placed himself
before you, just in time to prevent you from falling. The
man, whose face I could not see on account of its being hidden
beneath a fur cap, the ear flaps of which covered almost his entire
face, raised you up as though you had been a flower, and
held forth to the crowd in English. I did not understand anything
he said, but the Canadians were struck with it, for the
pushing ceased, and the crowd separated into two compact files
in order to let you pass through. I can assure you that it made
me feel quite impressed to see you so slender, with your head
back and the whole of your poor frame borne at arms’ length
by that Hercules. I followed as fast as I could, but having
caught my foot in the flounce of my skirt I had to stop for a
second, and that second was enough to separate us completely.
409“The crowd having closed up after your passage, formed
an impenetrable barrier. I can assure you, dear sister, that I
felt anything but at ease, and it was Mr. Fréchette who saved
me.”
I shook the hand of that worthy gentleman and thanked
him this time as well as I could for his fine poem, then I spoke
to him of his other poems, a volume of which I had obtained at
New York, for, alas! to my shame I must acknowledge it, I
knew nothing about Fréchette up to the time of my departure
from France, and yet he was already known a little in Paris.
He was very touched with the several lines I dwelt upon as
the finest of his work. He thanked me for doing so. We remained
friends.
The day following, nine o’clock had hardly struck, when
a card was sent up to me on which were written these words:
“He who had the joy of saving you, madame, begs that your
kindness will grant him a moment’s interview.” I directed
that the man be shown into the drawing-room, and after notifying
Jarrett, went to waken my sister. “Come with me,” I said.
She slipped on a Chinese dressing gown and we went in the
direction of the huge, immense drawing-room of my apartment,
for a bicycle would have been necessary to traverse my rooms,
drawing-rooms and dining-room, for the whole length without
fatigue. On opening the door I was struck with the beauty of
the man who was before me. He was very tall, with wide
shoulders, small head, a hard look, hair thick and curly, tanned
complexion. The man was fine looking but seemed uneasy. He
blushed slightly on seeing me. I expressed my gratitude and
asked to be excused for my foolish weakness. I received joyfully
the bouquet of violets he handed me. On taking leave he
said in a low tone: “If ever you hear who I am, swear that
you will only think of the slight service I have rendered you.”
At that moment Jarrett entered with white face. He went
up to the stranger and spoke to him in English. I could, however,
catch the words: “detective ... door ... assassination ... impossibility ... New Orleans....”
His sunburnt complexion became chalky, his nostrils quivered
410as he looked toward the door. Then, as flight appeared
impossible, he looked at Jarrett and in a peremptory tone, as
cold as flint, said “Well” as he went toward the door. My
hands, which had opened under the stupor, let fall his bouquet
which he picked up, looking at me with a supplicating and appealing
air. I understood and said to him in a loud tone of
voice, “I swear to it, monsieur.” The man disappeared with
his flowers. I heard the uproar of people behind the door, and
of the crowd in the street. I did not wish to listen to anything
further.
When my sister, of a romantic and foolish turn of mind,
wished to tell me about the horrible thing, I closed my ears.
Four months afterwards, when an attempt was made to
read aloud to me an account of his death by hanging I refused
to hear anything about it. And now after twenty-six years have
passed and I know, I only wish to remember the service rendered
and my pledged word. This incident left me somewhat sad.
The anger of the Bishop of Montreal was necessary to enable
me to regain my good humor. That prelate, after holding forth
in the pulpit against the immorality of French literature, forbade
his flock to go to the theater. His charge was violent and
spiteful against modern France. As to Scribe’s play, “Adrienne
Lecouvreur,” he tore it into shreds, as it were, disclaiming
against the immoral love of the comedienne and of the
hero and against the adulterous love of the Princess of Bouillon.
But the truth showed itself in spite of all, and he cried out with
fury intensified by outrage—“In this infamous lucubration
there are French authors, a court abbé who, thanks to the unbounded
licentiousness of his expressions, constitutes a direct
insult to the clergy.” Finally, he pronounced an anathema
against Scribe, who was already dead, against Legouvé, against
me, and against all my company. The result was that crowds
came from everywhere, and the four presentations, “Adrienne
Lecouvreur,” “Froufrou,” “La Dame aux Camélias” (afternoon
performance), and “Hernani,” had a colossal success and
brought in fabulous receipts.
CORNER IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S PARIS HOME, SHOWING PORTRAIT BY CHARTRAN.
411I was invited by the poet Fréchette and a banker whose
name I do not remember to make a visit to Ottawa. I accepted
with joy, and went there accompanied by my sister, Jarrett,
and Angelo, who was always ready for a dangerous excursion;
I felt in safety in the presence of that artist, full of bravery
and composure, and gifted with herculean strength. The only
thing he lacked to make him perfect was talent. He had none
then and never did have any.
The St. Lawrence River was frozen over almost entirely;
we crossed it in a carriage along a route indicated on the river
by two rows of branches fixed in the ice. We had four carriages;
the distance between Ottawa and Montreal is one hundred
and twenty-five kilometers.
This visit to the Iroquois was deliciously enchanting. I was
introduced to the chief, father, and mayor of the Iroquois tribes.
Alas! this former chief, son of “Big White Eagle,” surnamed
during his childhood “Sun of the Nights,” now clothed in
sorry European rags, was selling liquor, thread, needles, flax,
pork fat, chocolate, etc. All that remained of his mad rovings
through the old wild forests—when he roamed naked over a
land free of all allegiance—was the stupor of the bull held
prisoner by the horns. It is true he also sold brandy and that
he quenched his thirst, as did all of them, at that source of
forgetfulness.
“Sun of the Nights” introduced me to his daughter, a girl
of eighteen to twenty years of age, insipid and devoid of beauty
and grace. She sat down at the piano and played a tune that
was popular at the time—I do not remember what. I was in
a hurry to leave the store—the home of these two victims of
civilization.
I visited Ottawa, but found no pleasure in it. The same
compression of the throat, the same retrospective anguish caused
me to revolt against man’s cowardice which hid under the
name of civilization the most unjust and most protected of
crimes.
I returned to Montreal somewhat sad and tired. The success
of our four performances was extraordinary, but what
gave them a special charm in my eyes was the infernal and
412joyous noise made by the students. The doors of the theater
were opened every day one hour in advance for them. They
then arranged matters to suit themselves. Most of them were
gifted with magnificent voices. They separated into groups
according to the requirements of the songs they wished to sing.
Then they prepared by means of a strong string worked by a
pulley the aërial route that was to be followed by the flower-bedecked
baskets which descended from their paradise to where
I was. They tied ribbons round the necks of doves bearing
sonnets and wishes.
These flowers and birds were sent off during the “calls,”
and by a happy disposition of the strings the flowers fell at
my feet, the doves flew where their astonishment led them, and
every evening these messages of grace and beauty were repeated.
I experienced considerable emotion the first evening. The Marquis
of Lorne, son-in-law of Queen Victoria, Governor of
Canada, was of royal punctuality. The students knew it. The
house was noisy and quivering. Through an opening in the
curtain I gazed on the composition of this assembly. All of a
sudden a silence came over it without any outward reason for
it, and the “Marseillaise” was sung by three hundred warm,
young, male voices. With a courtesy full of grandeur the governor
stood up at the first notes of our national hymn. The whole
house was on its feet in a second, and the magnificent anthem
echoed in our hearts like a call from the mother country. I do
not believe I ever heard the “Marseillaise” sung with keener
emotion and unanimity. As soon as it was over, the plaudits
of the crowd broke out three times over, then, upon a sharp
gesture from the governor, the band played “God Save the
Queen.”
I never saw a prouder and more dignified gesture than that
of the governor when he motioned to the leader of the band.
He was quite willing to allow these sons of submissive Frenchmen
to feel a regret, perhaps even a flickering hope. The first
on his feet, he listened to that fine plaint with respect, but he
smothered its last echo beneath the English national anthem.
Being English, he was incontestably right in doing so.
413I gave for the last performance, on the 25th December,
Christmas Day, “Hernani.”
The Bishop of Montreal again thundered against me, against
Scribe and Legouvé, and the poor artistes who had come with
me who could not help it. I do not know whether he did not
even threaten to excommunicate all of us, living and dead.
Lovers of France and French art, in order to reply to his
abusive attack, unyoked my horses, and my sleigh was almost
carried by an immense crowd among which were the deputies
and notabilities of the city.
One has only to consult the daily papers of that period to
realize the crushing effect caused by such a triumphant return
to my hotel.
The day following, Sunday, I left the hotel at seven o’clock
in the morning with Jarrett and my sister, for a promenade
on the banks of the St. Lawrence River. At a given moment I
ordered the carriage to stop with the object of walking a little
way.
My sister laughingly said, “What if we climb on to the
large piece of ice that seems ready to crack?” No sooner
thought of than done. And behold, both of us walking on the
ice trying to break it loose. All of a sudden, a loud shout from
Jarrett made us understand that we had succeeded. As a matter
of fact, our ice bark was already floating free in the narrow
channel of the river that remained always open through the
force of the current. My sister and I sat down, for the piece
of ice rocked about in every direction, making both of us laugh
inordinately. Jarrett’s cries caused people to gather. Men
armed with boat hooks endeavored to stop our progress, but it
was not easy, for the edges of the channel were too friable
to bear the weight of a man. Ropes were thrown out to us.
We caught hold of one of them with our four hands, but the
sudden pull of the men in drawing us toward them cast our
raft so suddenly against the icy edges that it broke in two,
and we remained, full of fear this time, on one small part of
our skiff. I laughed no longer, for we were beginning to travel
somewhat fast, and the channel was opening out in width. But
414in one of the turns it made, we were fortunately squeezed in
between two immense blocks, and to this fact we owed being
able to escape with our lives. The men who bad followed our
very rapid ride with real courage, climbed on to the blocks. A
harpoon was thrown with marvelous skill on to our icy wreck
so as to retain us in our position, for the current, rather strong
underneath, might have caused us to move. A ladder was
brought and planted against one of the large blocks, and its
steps afforded us means of delivery. My sister was the first
to climb up and I followed, somewhat ashamed at our ridiculous
escapade.
During the length of time required to regain the bank, the
carriage, with Jarrett in it, was able to rejoin us. He was
pallid, not from fear of the danger I had undergone, but at
the idea that if I died the tour would come to an end. He said
to me quite seriously, “If you had lost your life, madam, you
would have been dishonest, for you would have broken your contract
of your own free will.”
We had just enough time to get to the station where the
train was ready to take me to Springfield.
An immense crowd was waiting and it was with the same
cry of love, underlined with au-revoirs, that the Canadian
public wished us good-by.
CHAPTER XXVIII MY TOUR OF THE WESTERN STATES
415
After our immense and noisy success at Montreal,
we were somewhat surprised with the icy welcome
of the public at Springfield.
We played “La Dame aux Camélias,” in
America “Camille”—why? No one was ever able to tell me.
This play, that the public rushed to see in crowds, shocked the
overstrained Puritanism of the small American states. The
critics of the large cities discussed this modern Magdalene. But
those of the small towns began by throwing stones at her. This
stilted reserve on the part of the public, prejudiced against the
impurity of Marguerite Gautier, we met with from time to
time in the small cities. Springfield at that time had barely
thirty thousand inhabitants.
During the day I passed at Springfield I called at a gunsmiths
to purchase a Colt gun. The salesman showed me into
a long and very narrow courtyard where I tried several guns.
On turning round, I was surprised and confused to see two
gentlemen taking an interest in my shooting. I wished to withdraw
at once, but one of them came up to me—“Would you
like, madam, to come and fire off a cannon?” I almost fell
to the ground with surprise, and did not reply for a second.
Then I said, “Yes, I would.”
An appointment was made with my strange questioner, who
was the director of the Colt gun factory. An hour afterwards
I went to the rendezvous.
More than thirty people were there already who had been
416hastily invited. It got on my nerves a trifle. I fired off the
newly invented quick-firing cannon. It amused me very much
without procuring me any emotion, and that evening, after the
icy performance, we left for Baltimore with a vertiginous rush,
the play having finished later than the hour fixed for the departure
of the train. It was necessary to catch it at any cost.
The three enormous carriages that made up my special train
went off under full steam. Having two engines we bounded
over the rails but stayed on, thanks to some miracle.
We finally succeeded in catching up with the express that
(having been warned by telegram) knew we were on its track;
it made a short stop—just long enough to couple us to it—and
in that way we reached Baltimore, where I stayed four days
and gave five performances.
Two things struck me in that city—the deadly cold in
the hotels and the theater, and the loveliness of the women. I
felt a profound sadness at Baltimore for it was the first time
I had spent the first of January far from everything that
was dear to me. I wept all night and underwent that moment
of discouragement that makes one wish for death.
The success, however, had been colossal in that charming
city, which I left with regret to go to Philadelphia, where we
were to remain a week.
That handsome city I do not care for. I received an enthusiastic
welcome there in spite of a change of programme the
first evening. Two artistes having missed the train we could
not play “Adrienne Lecouvreur” and I had to replace it by
“Phèdre,” the only piece in which the absentees could be replaced.
The receipts averaged 20,000 francs for the seven
performances given in six days. My sojourn was saddened
by a letter announcing the death of my friend Gustave Flaubert,
the writer who had the beauty of our language most at
heart.
From Philadelphia we proceeded to Chicago.
At the station I was received by a deputation of Chicago
ladies, and a bouquet of rare flowers was handed to me by a
delightful young lady, Madam Lily ——. Jarrett then led me
417into one of the rooms of the station where the French delegates
were waiting.
A very short but highly emotional speech from our consul
spread confidence and friendly feelings among all, and after
having returned heartfelt thanks, I was preparing to leave
the station, when I remained stupefied—and it seems that my
features assumed such an intense expression of suffering
that everybody ran toward me to offer assistance. For a sudden
anger electrified all my being, and I walked straight
toward the horrible vision that had just appeared before me—the
whale man! He was alive, that horrible Smith—enveloped
in furs, with diamonds on all of his fingers. He was there
with a bouquet in his hand, the horrible brute! I refused the
flowers and repulsed him with all my strength increased tenfold
by anger, and a flood of confused words escaped my pallid
lips. But this scene charmed him, for it was repeated and
spread about, magnified, and the whale had more visitors than
ever.
I went to the Palmer House, one of the most magnificent
hotels of that day, whose proprietor, Mr. Palmer, was a perfect
gentleman, courteous, kind, and generous, for he filled the
immense apartment I occupied with the rarest flowers, and
taxed his ingenuity in order to have me served in the French
style, a rare thing at that time.
We were to remain a fortnight in Chicago. Our success
exceeded all expectations. This fortnight at Chicago seemed
to me the most agreeable days I had had since my arrival in
America. First of all there was the vitality of the city in
which men pass each other without ever stopping, with knitted
brows, with one thought in mind, “the end to attain.” They
move on and on, never turning for a cry or prudent warning.
What takes place behind them, matters little. They do not
wish to know why a cry was raised; and they have no time to
be prudent, “the end to attain” awaits them.
Women here, as everywhere else in America, do not work,
but they do not stroll about the streets as in other cities; they
walk quickly; they also are in a hurry to seek amusement. During
418the daytime I went some distance into the surrounding
country in order not to meet the sandwich men advertising the
whale.
One day I went to the pig-slaughtering house. Ah, what
a dreadful and magnificent sight! There were three of us—my
sister, myself, and an Englishman, a friend of mine. On
arrival, we saw hundreds of pigs hurrying, bunched together,
grunting and snorting, file off along a small, narrow, raised
bridge.
Our carriage passed under this bridge and stopped before
a group of men who were waiting for us. The manager of the
stockyards received us and led the way to the special slaughterhouses.
On entering into the immense shed, which was dimly
lighted by windows with greasy and ruddy panes, an abominable
smell gets into one’s throat, a smell that only leaves one several
days afterwards. A sanguinary mist rises everywhere
like a light cloud floating on the side of a mountain and lit up
by the setting sun. An infernal hubbub drums itself into one’s
brain; the almost human cries of the pigs being slaughtered,
the violent strokes of the hatchets, lopping off the limbs, the
successive “Han!” of the “ripper” who, with a superbly
sweeping gesture lifts the heavy hatchet, and with one stroke
opens from top to bottom the unfortunate, quivering animal hung
on a hook. During the terror of the moment, one hears the continuous
grating of the revolving razor, which, in one second,
removes the bristles from the trunk thrown to it by the machine
that has cut off the four legs. The whistle by which escapes
the steam from the hot water in which the head of the animal
is scalded; the rippling of the water that is constantly renewed;
the cascade of the waste water; the rumbling of the small
trains carrying under wide arches trucks loaded with hams,
sausages, etc. ... all that sustained by the sounds of the bells
of the engines warning of the danger of their approach, and
which in this spot of terrible massacre seem to be the perpetual
knell of wretched agonies. Nothing was more Hoffmanesque
than this slaughter of pigs at the period I am speaking
about, for since then, a sentiment of humanity has crept,
419although still somewhat timidly, into this temple of porcine
hecatombs.
I returned from this visit quite ill. That evening I played
in “Phèdre.” I went on to the stage quite unnerved and trying
to do everything to get rid of the horrible vision of a little
while ago. I threw myself heart and brain into my rôle, so
much so that at the end of the fourth act I absolutely fainted
on the stage.
On the day of my last performance, a magnificent collar
of camellias in diamonds was handed me on behalf of the ladies
of Chicago. I left that city fond of everything in it—its
people, its lake as big as a small inland sea, its audiences who
were so enthusiastic, everything, everything, but its stockyards.
I did not even bear any ill-will toward the bishop who
also, as had happened in other cities, had denounced my art
and French literature. By the violence of his sermons he had
as a matter of fact advertised us so well that Mr. Abbey, the
manager, wrote the following letter to him:
His Grace: Whenever I visit your city I am accustomed to spend
$400 in advertising. But as you have done the advertising for me, I send
you $200 for your poor.
Henry Abbey.
We left Chicago to go to St. Louis, where we arrived after
having covered two hundred and eighty-three miles in fourteen
hours.
In the drawing-room of my car, Abbey and Jarrett showed
me the statement of the sixty-two performances that had been
given since our departure; the gross receipts were $227,459,
that is to say 1,137,295 francs—an average of 18,343 francs
per performance. This gave me great pleasure on Henry Abbey’s
account, who had lost everything in his previous tour with
an admirable troupe of Opera artistes, and greater pleasure still
on my own account, for I was to receive a good share of the
receipts.
We stayed at St. Louis all the week from the 24th to the
31st of January. I must admit that this city, which was specially
420French, was less to my liking than the other American cities,
as it was dirty and the hotels were not very comfortable. Since
then St. Louis has made great strides, but it was the Germans
who planted there the bulb of progress. At the time of which
I speak, the year 1881, the city was repulsively dirty. In those
days, alas! we were not great at colonizing, and all the cities
where French influence preponderated, were poor and behind
the times. I was bored to death at St. Louis, and I wanted to
leave the place at once, after paying the indemnity to the manager,
but Jarrett, the upright man, the stern man of duty, the
ferocious man, said to me, holding the contract in his hand:
“No, madame, you must stay; you can die of ennui here, if
you like, but stay you must.”
By way of entertaining me, he took me to a celebrated
grotto, where we were to see some millions of fish without eyes.
The light had never penetrated into this grotto, and as the first
fish who lived there had no use for their eyes, their descendants
had no eyes at all. We went down and groped our way to the
grotto, very cautiously, on all fours like cats. The road seemed
to me interminable; but, at last, the guide told us that we had
arrived at our destination. We were able to stand upright
again, as the grotto itself was higher. I could see nothing, but
I heard a match being struck, and the guide then lighted a small
lantern. Just in front of me, nearly at my feet, was a rather
deep natural basin: “You see,” remarked our guide phlegmatically,
“that is the pond, but just at present there is no
water in it, neither are there any fish; you must come again in
three months’ time.”
Jarrett made such a fearful grimace that I was seized with
an uncontrollable fit of laughter, of that kind of laughter which
borders on madness; I was suffocated with it, and I hiccoughed
and laughed till the tears came. I then went down into the
basin of the pond in search of a relic of some kind, a little
skeleton of a dead fish, or anything, no matter what. There was
nothing to be found, though, absolutely nothing. We had
to return on all fours as we came. I made Jarrett go first,
and the sight of his big back in his fur coat as he walked
along on hands and feet, grumbling and swearing as he went,
gave me such delight that I no longer regretted anything, and
I gave ten dollars to the guide to his ineffable surprise.
LIBRARY IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S HOUSE, PARIS.
421We returned to the hotel, and I was informed that a jeweler
had been waiting for me more than two hours. “A jeweler!”
I exclaimed; “but I have no intention of buying any jewelry;
I have too much as it is.” Jarrett, however, winked at Abbey,
who was there as we entered. I saw at once that there was
some understanding between the jeweler and my two impresarii.
I was told that my ornaments needed cleaning, that the
jeweler would undertake to make them look like new, repair
them if they required it and, in a word ... exhibit them. I
rebelled, but it was of no use. Jarrett assured me that the
ladies of St. Louis were particularly fond of shows of this kind.
He said it would be an excellent advertisement, that my jewelry
was very much tarnished, that several stones were missing, and
that this man would replace them for nothing. “What a saving,”
he added; “just think of it!”
I gave up, for discussions of that kind bore me to death,
and two days later the ladies of St. Louis went to admire my
ornaments in this jeweler’s showcases under a blaze of light.
Poor Mme. Guérard, who also wanted to see them, came back
horrified:
“They have added to your things,” she said, “sixteen pairs
of earrings, two necklaces, and thirty rings; a lorgnette all diamonds
and rubies, a gold cigarette holder set with turquoises,
a small pipe, the amber mouthpiece of which is encircled with
diamond stars, sixteen bracelets, a toothpick studded with sapphires,
and a pair of spectacles with gold mounts ending with
small acorns of pearls.”
“They must have been made specially,” said poor Guérard,
“for there can’t be anyone who would wear such glasses,
and on them were written the words: ‘Spectacles which Madame
Sarah Bernhardt wears when she is at home.’” I certainly
thought that this was exceeding all the limits allowed to
advertisement. To make me smoke pipes and wear spectacles
was going rather too far, and I got into my carriage and drove
422at once to the jeweler’s. I arrived just in time to find the place
closed. It was five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, the lights
were out, and everything was dark and silent. I returned to
the hotel and spoke to Jarrett of my annoyance: “What does
it all matter, madame?” he said tranquilly; “so many girls
wear spectacles, and as to the pipe, the jeweler tells me he has
received five orders from it, and that it is going to be quite the
fashion. Anyhow, it is of no use worrying about the matter,
as the exhibition is now over, your jewelry will be returned
to-night, and we leave here the day after to-morrow.” That
evening the jeweler returned all the objects I had lent him,
and they had been polished and repaired, so that they looked
quite new. He had included with them a gold cigarette holder
set with turquoises, the very one that had been on view. I
simply could not make that man understand anything, and my
anger cooled down when confronted by his pleasant manner
and his joy.
This advertisement, though, came very near costing my life.
Tempted by the thought of this huge quantity of jewelry, the
greater part of which did not belong to me, a little band of
sharpers planned to rob me, believing that they would find
all these valuables in the large handbag which my steward
always carried.
On Sunday, the 30th of January, we left St. Louis at eight
o’clock in the morning for Cincinnati. I was in my magnificently
appointed Pullman car, and I had requested that
my car should be put at the end of our special train, so that
from the platform I might enjoy the beauty of the landscape
which passes before one like a continually changing living
panorama.
We had scarcely been more than ten minutes en route when
the guard suddenly stooped down and looked over the little
balcony. He then drew back quickly, and his face turned pale.
Seizing my hand, he said in a very anxious tone, in English,
“Please go inside, madame.” I understood that we were in
danger of some kind. He pulled the alarm signal, made a
sign to another guard, and, before the train had quite come to
423a standstill, the two men sprang down and disappeared under
the train. The guard had fired a revolver in order to attract
everyone’s attention, and Jarrett, Abbey, and the artistes hurried
out into the narrow corridor. I found myself in the midst
of them, and to our stupefaction, we saw the two guards dragging
out from underneath my compartment a man armed to the
teeth. With a revolver held to his temple on either side he
decided to confess the truth of the matter. The jeweler’s exhibition
had excited the envy of all the tribes of thieves, and
this man had been despatched by an organized hand at St.
Louis to relieve me of my jewelry. He was to unhook my carriage
from the rest of the train between St. Louis and Cincinnati,
at a certain spot known as the “Little Incline.” As
this was to be done during the night, and my carriage was the
last, the thing was comparatively easy, as it was only a question
of lifting the enormous hook and drawing it out of the link.
The man was a veritable giant and he was fastened on to my
carriage. We examined his apparatus and found that it consisted
of merely very thick, wide straps of leather, about half
a yard wide. By means of these, he was fastened firmly to
the under part of the train with his hands perfectly free.
The courage and the sang froid of that man were admirable.
He told us that seven armed men were waiting for us at the
“Little Incline” and that they certainly would not have injured
us if we had not attempted to resist, for all they wanted
was my jewelry, and the money which the secretary carried,
$2,300. Oh! he knew everything, he knew everyone’s name,
and he gabbled on in bad French: “Oh! as for you, madame,
we should not have done you any harm in spite of your pretty
little revolver; we should even have let you keep it.”
And so this man and his band knew that the secretary slept
at my end of the train and that he was not to be dreaded much,
poor Chatterton, that he had with him $2,300, and that I had
a very prettily chased revolver, ornamented with cats’ eyes.
The man was firmly bound and taken in charge by the two
guards, and the train was then backed to St. Louis—we had
started away only a quarter of an hour before. The police were
424informed and they sent us five detectives. A goods train, which
should have gone on half an hour after us, was sent on ahead.
Eight detectives traveled on this goods train and received
orders to get out at the “Little Incline.” Our giant was
handed over to the police authorities, but I was promised that
he should be dealt with mercifully on account of the confession
he had made. Later on, I learned that this promise had
been kept, as the man was sent back to his native country,
Ireland.
From this time forth, my compartment was always placed
between two others every night. In the daytime I was allowed
to have my carriage at the end on condition that I would agree
to have an armed detective on my bridge, whom I was to pay,
by the way, for his services. We started about twenty-five
minutes after the goods train. All the men were requested
to have their revolvers in readiness and some white sticks like
pastry rollers were given to the women and to the men who
had not any revolvers. Our dinner was very gay and everyone
was rather excited. As to the guard who had discovered the
giant hidden under the train, Abbey and I had rewarded him
so lavishly that he was intoxicated, and kept coming on every
occasion to kiss my hand and weep his drunkard’s tears, repeating
all the time: “I saved the French lady, I’m a
gentleman.”
When, finally, we approached the “Little Incline,” it was
dark. The engine driver wanted to rush along at full speed,
but we had not gone five miles when petards exploded under
the wheels, and we were obliged to slacken our pace. We wondered
what new danger there was awaiting us, and we began
to feel anxious. The women were nervous and some of them
were in tears. We went along slowly, peering into the darkness,
trying to make out the form of a man or of several men
by the light of each petard. Abbey suggested going at full
speed, because these petards had been placed along the line by
the bandits, who had probably thought of some way of stopping
the train in case their giant did not succeed in unhooking the
carriage. The engine driver refused to go more quickly, declaring
425that these petards were the signals placed there by the
railway company, and that he could not risk everyone’s life
on a mere supposition. The man was quite right and he was
certainly very brave.
“We can certainly settle a handful of ruffians,” he said,
“but I could not answer for anyone’s life if the train went off
the lines, or collided with something, or went over a precipice.”
We continued, therefore, to go slowly. The lights had been
turned off in the car, so that we might see as much as possible
without being seen ourselves. We had tried to keep the truth
from the artistes, except from three men whom I had sent for
to come to my carriage. The artistes really had nothing to
fear from the robbers, as I was the only person at whom they
were aiming. To avoid all unnecessary questions and evasive
answers we sent the secretary to tell them that as there was
some obstruction on the line the train had to go slowly. They
were also told that one of the gas pipes had to be repaired before
we could have the light again. The communication was
then cut between my car and the rest of the train. We had
been going along like this for ten minutes, perhaps, when everything
was suddenly lighted up by a fire, and we saw a gang of
railway men hastening toward us. It makes me shudder now
when I think how nearly these poor fellows were to being killed.
Our nerves had been in such a state of tension for several hours
that we imagined at first that these men were the wretched
friends of the giant. Some one fired at them, and if it had
not been for our plucky engine driver calling out to them to
stop, with the addition of a terrible oath, two or three of these
poor men would have been wounded. I, too, had seized my
revolver, but before I could have drawn out the ramrod which
serves as a cog to prevent it from going off, anyone would have
had time to seize me, bind me, and kill me a hundred times
over. And still any time I go to a place where I think there
is danger, I invariably take my pistol with me, for it is a pistol
and not a revolver. I always call it a revolver, but, in reality,
it is a pistol, and of a very old-fashioned make, too, with this
ramrod and the trigger so hard to pull that I have to use my
426other hand as well. I am not a bad shot, for a woman, provided
that I may take my time, but this is not very easy when
one wants to fire at a robber. And yet, I always have my
pistol with me; it is here on my table and I can see it as I
write. It is in its case, which is rather too narrow, so that it
requires a certain amount of strength and patience to pull it
out. If an assassin should arrive at this particular moment
I should first have to unfasten the case, which is no easy matter,
then to get the pistol out, pull out the ramrod, which is
rather too firm, and press the trigger with both hands. And
yet, in spite of all this, the human animal is so strange that
this little ridiculously useless object here before me seems to
me an admirable protection. And nervous and timid as I am,
alas! I feel quite safe when I am near to this little friend of
mine, who must roar with laughter inside the little case out
of which I can scarcely drag it.
Well, everything was now explained to us. The goods train
which had started before us ran off the line, but no great
damage was done, and no one was killed. The St. Louis band of
robbers had arranged everything, and had prepared to have
this little accident two miles from the “Little Incline,” in
case their comrade, crouching under my car, had not been able
to unhook it. The train left the rails, but when the wretches
rushed forward believing that it was mine, they found themselves
surrounded by the band of detectives. It seems that they
fought like demons. One of them was killed on the spot, two
more wounded, and all the others taken prisoners. A few days
later the chief of this little band was hanged. He was a Belgian,
named Albert Wirbyn, twenty-five years of age.
I did all in my power to save him, for it seemed to me that
unintentionally I had been the instigator of his evil plan. If
Abbey and Jarrett had not been so rabid for advertisement, if
they had not added more than 600,000 francs’ worth of jewelry
to mine, this man, this wretched youth, would not perhaps have
had the stupid idea of robbing me.
CORNER IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S LIBRARY, SHOWING MADAME BERNHARDT’S WRITING TABLE ON THE LEFT.
427Who can say what schemes had floated through the minds of
the poor fellow, who was perhaps half starved or perhaps excited by a clever, inventive brain? Perhaps when he stopped
and looked at the jeweler’s window, he said to himself:
“There is jewelry there worth 1,000,000 francs. If it were
all mine I would sell it and go back to Belgium. What joy I
could give to my poor mother who is blinding herself with
work by gaslight, and I could help my sister to get married.”
Or perhaps he was an inventor, and he thought to himself:
“Ah! if only I had the money which that jewelry represents,
I could bring out my invention myself, instead of selling my
patent to some highly esteemed rascal, who will buy it from
me for a crust of bread. What would it matter to the artiste?
Ah, if only I had the money!” Ah, if I had the money!...
Perhaps the poor fellow cried with rage to think of all this
wealth belonging to one person. Perhaps the idea of crime
germinated in this way in a mind which had hitherto been pure.
CHAPTER XXIX FROM THE GULF TO CANADA AGAIN
428
We arrived at Cincinnati safe and sound. We gave
three performances there and set off once more for
New Orleans. Now, I thought, we shall have some
sunshine and we shall be able to warm our poor
limbs, stiffened with three months of mortal cold. We shall be
able to open our windows, and breathe fresh air instead of the
suffocating and anæmia-giving steam heat. I fell asleep and
dreams of warmth and sweet scents lulled me in my slumber.
A knock at my door roused me suddenly, and my dog with
ears erect sniffed at the door, but as he did not growl I knew
it was some one of our party. I opened the door and Jarrett,
followed by Abbey, made signs to me not to speak. Jarrett
came in on tiptoes and closed the door again.
“Well, what is it now?” I asked.
“Why,” replied Jarrett, “the incessant rain during the
last twelve days has swollen the river to such a height that the
bridge across the bay of St. Louis threatens to give way. If we
go back we shall require three or four days.”
I was furious. Three or four days and to go back to the
snow again. Ah, no, I felt I must have sunshine!
“Why can we not pass? Oh, heavens, what shall we do!”
I exclaimed.
“Well, the engine driver is here. He thinks that he might
get across, but he has only just married, and he will try the
crossing on condition that you give him $2,500, which he will
at once send to Mobile where his father and wife live. If we
429get safely to the other side he will give you back this money,
but if not it will belong to his family.”
“Yes, certainly, give him the money and let us cross.”
As I have said, I generally traveled by special train. This
one was made up of only three carriages and the engine. I
never doubted for a moment as to the success of this foolish
and criminal attempt, and I did not tell anyone about it except
my sister, my beloved Guérard, and my faithful Félicie and
her husband Claude. The comedian, Angelo, who was sleeping
in Jarrett’s berth on this journey, knew of it, but he was
courageous and had faith in his star. The money was handed
over to the engine driver who sent it off to Mobile. It was
only just as we were actually starting that I had the vision of
the responsibility I had taken upon myself, for it was risking
without their consent the lives of twenty-seven persons. It was
too late then to do anything, the train had started and at a
terrific speed it touched the bridge. I had taken my seat on
the platform and the bridge bent and swayed like a hammock
under the dizzy speed of our wild course. When we
were half way across it gave way so much that my sister
grasped my arm and whispered: “Ah, we are drowning!” I
certainly thought as she did that the supreme moment had
arrived.
My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in
the Book of Destiny. The train pulled itself together and we
arrived on the other side of the water. Behind us we heard a
terrible noise. The bridge had given way. For more than a
week the trains from the East and the North could not enter
the city.
I left the money to our brave engine driver but my conscience
was by no means tranquil and for a long time my sleep
was disturbed by the most frightful nightmares.
When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive.
I had to submit to receiving the friendly but fatiguing deputation
of my compatriots. Then, loaded with flowers, I climbed
into the carriage that was to take me to the hotel. The roads
were rivers and we were on an elevated spot. The lower part
430of the city, the coachman explained to us in Marseilles French,
was inundated up to the tops of the houses. The negroes had
been drowned by hundreds. “Ah, hussy!” he cried as he
whipped up his horses. At that period the hotels in New
Orleans were squalid—dirty, uncomfortable, black with cockroaches,
and as soon as the candles were lighted, the bedrooms
became filled with large mosquitoes that buzzed around and
fell on one’s shoulders, sticking in one’s hair. Oh, I shudder
still when I think of it!
At the same time there was an opera company in the city,
the “star” of which was a charming woman, Emilie Ambre,
who at one time came very near being Queen of Holland. The
country was poor, like all the other American districts where
the French were to be found preponderating. Ah, we are hardly
good colonists!
The opera did a very poor business and we did not do excellently,
either. Six performances would have been ample in
that city; we gave eight.
Nevertheless, my sojourn pleased me immensely. An infinite
charm was evolved from it. All these people, so different,
black and white, had smiling faces. All the women were graceful.
The shops were attractive from the cheerfulness of their
windows. The open-air traders under the arcades challenged
one another with joyful flashes of wit. The sun, however, did
not show itself once. But these people had the sun within
themselves.
I could not understand why boats were not used. The
horses had water up to their hams, and it would have been impossible
even to get into a carriage if the pavements had not
been a meter or more high.
Floods being as frequent as the years, it would be of no use
thinking of banking up the river or arm of the sea. But walking
was made easy by the high pavements and small, movable
bridges. The dark children amused themselves catching
crayfish in the streams. Where did they come from? And
they sold them to passersby. Now and again, we would see
a whole family of water serpents speed by. They swept along
431with raised head and undulating body like long, starry sapphires.
I went down toward the lower part of the town. The sight
was heartrending. All the cabins of the colored inhabitants
had fallen into the muddy waters. They were there in hundreds
squatting upon these moving wrecks, with eyes burning
from fever, their white teeth chattering. Right and left, everywhere,
were dead bodies floating about, knocking up against the
wooden piles. Many ladies were distributing food, endeavoring
to lead away the unfortunate negroes, but they refused to go.
And the women would slowly shake their heads. One child of
fourteen years of age had just been carried off to the hospital
with his foot cut clean off at the ankle by an alligator. His
family were howling with fury. They wished to keep the
youngster with them. The negro quack doctor pretended that
he could have cured him in two days and that the white quacks
would leave him for a month in bed.
I left this city with regret, for it resembled no other city
I had visited up to then. We were surprised to find that none
of our party was missing though we had gone through—so they
all said—various dangers. The hairdresser alone, a man called
Ibé, could not recover his equilibrium, having become half mad
from fear the second day of our arrival. At the theater he
generally slept in the trunk in which he stored his wigs. However
strange it may seem, the fact is quite true. The first night,
everything passed off as usual, but during the second night he
woke up the whole neighborhood by his shrieks. The unfortunate
fellow had got off soundly to sleep, when he woke up
with a feeling that his mattress, which hung over his collection
of wigs, was being raised up by some inconceivable movements.
He thought that some cat or dog had got into the trunk and he
lifted up the feeble rampart. Two serpents were within, actively
moving about, of a size sufficient to terrify the people that the
shouts of the poor Figaro had caused to gather round.
He was still very pale when I saw him embark on board the
boat that was to take us to our train. I called him and begged
432him to relate to me the odyssey of his terrible night. As he
told me the story he showed me his heavy leg. “They were as
thick as that, madame. Yes, like that....” And he quaked
with fear as he recalled the dreadful girth of the reptiles. I
thought that they were about one-quarter as thick as his leg,
and that would have been enough to justify his fright, but the
serpents in question were inoffensive water snakes that bite out
of pure viciousness, but have no venom fangs.
We reached Mobile somewhat late in the day. We had
stopped at that city on our way to New Orleans, and I had
had a real attack of nerves caused by the “cheek” of the
inhabitants who, in spite of the lateness of the hour, had got
up a deputation to wait upon me. I was dead with fatigue
and was dropping off to sleep in my bed on the car. I therefore
energetically declined to see anybody. But these people
knocked at my windows, sang about my carriage, and finally
exasperated me. I quickly threw up one of the windows and
emptied a jug of water on their heads. Women and men,
among whom were several journalists, were splashed. Their
fury was great.
I was returning to that city, preceded by the above story
embellished in their favor by the drenched reporters. But on
the other hand there were others who had been more courteous
and had refused to go and disturb a lady at such an unearthly
hour of the night. These latter were in the majority and took
up my defense.
It was therefore in this warlike atmosphere that I appeared
before the public of Mobile. I wanted, however, to justify the
good opinion of my defenders and confound my detractors.
Yes, but the Gnome who had decided otherwise was there.
Mobile was a city that was generally quite disdained by impresarii.
There was only one theater. It had been let to the
tragedian Barrett, who was to appear six days after me. All
that remained was a miserable place, so small that I know of
nothing that can be compared to it. We were playing “La
Dame aux Camélias.” When Marguerite Gautier orders supper
to be served, the servants who were to bring in the table
433ready laid tried to get it in through the door. But this was
impossible. Nothing could be more comical than to see those
unfortunate servants adopt every expedient.
The public laughed. Among the laughter of the spectators
was one that became contagious. A negro of twelve or fifteen
who had got in somehow was standing on a chair, and with his
two hands holding on to his knees, his body bent, head forward,
mouth open, he was laughing with such a shrill and piercing
tone, and with such even continuity, that I caught it, too. I
had to go out while a portion of the back scenery was being removed
to allow the table to be brought in.
I returned somewhat composed, but still under the domination
of suppressed laughter. We were sitting round the table
and the supper was drawing to a close as usual. But just as
the servants were entering to remove the table, one of them
caught the scenery that had been badly adjusted by the scene
shifters in their haste, and the whole back scene fell on our
heads. As the scenery was nearly all made of paper in those
days, it did not fall on our heads and remain there, but round
our necks, and we had to remain in that position without being
able to move. Our heads having gone through the paper,
our appearance was most comical and ridiculous. The young
negro’s laughter started again more piercing than ever, and
this time my suppressed laughter ended in a crisis that left me
without any strength.
The money paid for admission was returned to the public.
It exceeded 15,000 francs.
This city had a fatality for me and came very near proving
so during the third visit I paid to it.
That very night we left Mobile for Atlanta, where, after
playing “La Dame aux Camélias,” we left again the same evening
for Nashville.
We stayed for an entire day at Memphis and gave two performances.
At one in the morning we left for Louisville.
We were beginning the dizzy round of the smaller towns,
arriving at three, four, and sometimes six o’clock in the evening,
434and leaving immediately after the play. I left my car
only to go to the theater and returned as soon as the play was
over to retire to my elegant but diminutive bedroom. I sleep
well on the railway. I felt an immense pleasure in traveling
that way at high speed, sitting outside on the small platform
or rather reclining in a rocking-chair, gazing on the ever-changing
spectacle, that passed before me, of American plains and
forests. Without stopping, we went through Louisville, Cincinnati,
for the second time, Columbus, Dayton, Indianapolis,
St. Joseph that has the best beer in the world, and where,
we were obliged to go to an hotel on account of repairs to one of
the wheels of the car. Supper was served. What a supper!
Fortunately, the beer was light in both color and consistency
and enabled me to swallow the dreadful things that were
served up.
We left for Leavenworth, Quincy, Springfield—not the
Springfield in Massachusetts—the one in Illinois.
During the journey from Springfield to Chicago, we were
stopped by the snow in the middle of the night. The sharp
and deep groanings of the locomotive had already awakened
me. I summoned my faithful Claude and learned that we were
to stop and wait for help. Aided by my Félicie, I dressed in
haste and tried to descend, but it was impossible. The snow
was as high as the platform of the car. I remained wrapped
up in furs, contemplating the magnificent night. The sky was
hard, implacable, without a star, but all the same translucent.
Lights extended as far as the eye could see along the rails before
me, for I had taken refuge on the rear platform. These
lights were to warn the trains that followed. Four of them
came up and stopped when the first fog-signals went off beneath
their wheels, then crept slowly forward to the first light where
a man who was stationed there explained the incident. The same
lights were lit immediately for the following train, as far off
as possible, and a man proceeding beyond the lights placed
detonators on the rails. Each train that arrived followed that
course.
We were blocked by the snow. The idea came to me of
435lighting the kitchen fire and I thus got enough boiling water to
melt the top coating of snow on the side where I wanted to get
down. Having done this, Claude and the negroes got down and
cleared away a small portion as well as they could. I was at
last able to get down myself and tried to remove the snow to
one side. My sister and I finished by throwing snowballs at each
other and the mêlée became general. Abbey, Jarrett, the secretary,
and several of the artistes joined in and we were warmed
up through this small battle with white cannon balls.
When dawn appeared we were to be seen firing a revolver
and Colt rifle at a target made from a champagne case. A distant
sound, deadened by the cotton wool of the snow, at length
made us realize that help was approaching. As a matter of
fact, two engines with men who had shovels, hooks, and spades,
were coming at full speed from the opposite direction. They
were obliged to slow down on getting to one kilometer of where
we were, and the men got down, clearing the way before them.
They finally succeeded in reaching us, but we were obliged to
go back and take the western route. The unfortunate artistes
who had counted on getting breakfast in Chicago, which we
ought to have reached at eleven o’clock, were lamenting, for
with the new itinerary that we were forced to follow, it would
be half past one before we could get to Milwaukee, where we
were to give a matinée at two o’clock—“La Dame aux Camélias.”
I therefore had the best lunch I could prepared and my
negroes carried it to my company, the members of which showed
themselves very grateful.
The performance did not begin till three and finished at half
past six o’clock; we started again at eight with “Froufrou.”
Immediately after the play was over we left for Grand
Rapids, Detroit, Cleveland, and Pittsburg, in which latter city I
was to meet an American friend of mine who was to help me to
realize one of my dreams—at least I fancied so. In partnership
with his brother, my friend was the owner of a large steel works
and several petroleum wells. I had known him in Paris, and
had met him again at New York, where he offered to conduct
me to Buffalo so that I could visit, or rather where he could
436show me, the Falls of Niagara, for which he entertained a
lover’s passion. Frequently, he would start off quite unexpectedly,
like a madman, and take a rest at a place just near
the Niagara Falls. The deafening sound of the cataracts
seemed like music after the hard, hammering, strident noise
of the forges at work on the iron, and the limpidity of the
silvery cascades rested his eyes and refreshed his lungs, saturated
as they were with petroleum and smoke.
My friend’s buggy, drawn by two magnificent horses, took
us along in a bewildering whirlwind of mud splashing over us
and snow blinding us. It had been raining for a week and
Pittsburg in 1881 was not what it is at present, although it
was a city which impressed one on account of its commercial
genius. The black mud ran along the streets and everywhere in
the sky rose huge patches of thick, black, opaque smoke; but
there was a certain grandeur about it all, for work was king
there. Trains ran through the streets laden with barrels of
petroleum or piled as high as possible with charcoal and coal.
That fine river, the Ohio, carried along with it steamers, barges,
and loads of timber fastened together and forming enormous
rafts which floated down the river alone to be stopped on the
way by the owner for whom they were destined. The timber is
marked and no one else thinks of taking it. I am told that the
wood is not conveyed in this way now and it is a pity.
The carriage took us along through streets and squares in
the midst of railways, under the enervating vibration of the
electric wires which ran like furrows across the sky. We
crossed a bridge which shook under the light weight of the
buggy. It was a suspension bridge. Finally, we drew up at
my friend’s home. He introduced his brother to me, a charming
man but very cold and correct, and so quiet that I was
astonished.
THÉÂTRE SARAH BERNHARDT, PARIS.
437“My poor brother is deaf,” said my companion, after I
had been exerting myself for five minutes to talk to him in my
gentlest voice. I looked at this poor millionaire who was living
in the most extraordinary noise and who could not even hear
the faintest echo of the outrageous uproar. He could not hear
anything at all, and I wondered whether he was to be envied
or pitied. I was then taken to visit his incandescent ovens and
his vats in a state of ebullition. I went into a room where some
steel disks were cooling, which looked like so many setting suns.
The heat from them seemed to scorch my lungs, and I felt as
though my hair would take fire. We then went down a long,
narrow street through which small trains were running to and
fro. Some of those trains were laden with incandescent metals
which irised the air as they passed. We walked in single file
along the narrow passage reserved for foot passengers between
the rails. I did not feel at all safe and my heart began to
beat fast. Blown each way by the wind from the two trains
coming in opposite directions and passing each other, I drew my
skirts closely round me so that they should not be caught.
Perched on my high heels, at every step I took I was afraid of
slipping on this narrow, greasy, coal-strewn pavement. To sum
up briefly, it was a very unpleasant moment, and very delighted
I was to come to the end of that interminable street which led
to an enormous field stretching away as far as the eye could
see. There were rails lying all about here which men were
polishing and filing, etc. I had had quite enough, though, and
I asked to be allowed to go back and rest. So we all three returned
to the house.
On arriving there, valets arrayed in livery opened the doors,
took our furs, walking on tiptoes as they moved about. There
was silence everywhere and I wondered why, as it seemed to
me incomprehensible. My friend’s brother scarcely spoke at
all and when he did his voice was so low that I had great difficulty
in understanding him. When we asked him any question
by gesticulating, and we had to listen most attentively to
catch his reply, I noticed that an almost imperceptible smile
lighted up for an instant his stony face. I understood very
soon that this man hated humanity and that he avenged himself
in his own way for his infirmity.
Lunch had been prepared for us in the winter conservatory,
a nook of magnificent verdure and flowers. We had not taken
our seats at the table when the songs of a thousand birds burst
438forth like a veritable fanfare. Underneath some large leaves
whole families of canaries were imprisoned by invisible nets.
They were everywhere, up in the air, down below, under my
chair, on the table behind me, all over the place. I tried to
quiet this shrill uproar by shaking my napkin and speaking in
a loud voice, but the little feathered tribe began to sing in a
maddening way. The deaf man was leaning back in a rocking-chair and I noticed that his face had lighted up. He laughed
aloud in an evil, spiteful manner. Just as my own temper was
getting the better of me, a feeling of pity and indulgence came
into my heart for this man whose vengeance seemed to me as
pathetic as it was puerile. Promptly deciding to make the
best of my host’s spitefulness, and assisted by his brother, I
took my tea into the hall at the other end of the conservatory.
I was nearly dead with fatigue and when my friend proposed
that I should go with him to see his petroleum wells, a few
miles out of the city, I gazed at him with such a scared, hopeless
expression that he begged me in the most friendly and polite
way to forgive him.
It was five o’clock and quite dusk, and I wanted to go back
to my hotel. Mr. Th—— asked if I would allow him to take
me back by the hills. The road was rather longer, but I should
be able to have a bird’s-eye view of Pittsburg, and he assured
me that it was quite worth while. We started off in the buggy
with two fresh horses and a few minutes later I had the wildest
dream. It seemed to me that he was Pluto, the god of the
infernal regions, and I was Proserpine. We were traveling
through our empire at a quick trot, drawn by our winged horses.
All around us we could see fire and flames. The blood-red sky
was burning with long, black trails that looked like widows’
veils. The ground was covered with long arms of iron stretched
heavenward in a supreme imprecation. These arms threw forth
smoke, flames, or sparks which fell again in a shower of stars.
The carriage carried us on up the hills, and the cold froze our
limbs, while the fires excited our brain. It was then that my
friend told me of his love for the Niagara Falls. He spoke of
them more like a lover than an admirer, and told me he liked to
439go to them alone. He said, though, that for me he would make
an exception. He spoke of the rapids with such intense passion
that I felt rather uneasy and began to wonder whether
the man was not mad. I grew alarmed, for he was driving along
over the very tops of the hills, jumping the stone heaps. I
glanced at him sideways; his face was calm, but his underlip
twitched slightly, and I had noticed this peculiarity with his
deaf brother, too. By this time I was quite nervous. The cold
and the fires, this demoniacal drive, the sound of the anvil ringing
out mournful chimes which seemed to come from under
the earth, and then the deep forge whistle sounding like a desperate
cry rending the silence of the night; the chimney stacks,
too, with their worn-out lungs spitting forth their smoke with
a perpetual death rattle, and the wind which had just risen
twisting the streaks of smoke into spirals which it sent up toward
the sky or beat down all at once on to us—altogether this
wild dance, of the natural and the combined elements, affected
my whole nervous system so that it was quite time for me to
get back to the hotel. I sprang out of the carriage quickly on
arriving and arranged to see my friend at Buffalo, but, alas!
I was never to see him again. He took cold that very day and
could not meet me there, and the following year I heard that
he had been dashed against the rocks when trying to boat in
the rapids. He died of his passion, for his passion.
At the hotel all the artistes were awaiting me, as I had
forgotten we were to have a rehearsal of “La Princesse
Georges” at half past four. I noticed a face that was unknown
to me among the members of the company, and on making
inquiries about this person found that he was an illustrator
who had brought an introduction from Jarrett. He asked to be
allowed to make a few sketches of me, and after giving orders
that he should be taken to a seat, I did not trouble any more
about him. We had to hurry through the rehearsal in order to
be at the theater in time for the performance of “Froufrou,”
which we were giving that night. The rehearsal was accordingly
rushed and gabbled through so that it was soon over, and the
stranger took his departure, refusing to let me look at his
440sketches on the plea that he wanted to do them up before showing
them. My joy was great the following day when Jarrett
arrived at my hotel perfectly furious, holding in his hand the
principal newspaper of Pittsburg in which our illustrator, who
turned out to be a journalist, had written an article giving at
full length an account of the dress rehearsal of “Froufrou.”
“In the play of ‘Froufrou,’” wrote this delightful imbecile,
“there is only one scene of any importance and that is the one
between the two sisters. Mme. Sarah Bernhardt did not impress
me greatly and, as to the artistes of the Comédie Française,
I considered they were mediocre. The costumes were not
very fine, and in the ball scene the men did not wear dress suits.”
Jarrett was wild with rage, and I was wild with joy.
He knew my horror of reporters and he had introduced this
one in an underhand way, hoping to get a good advertisement
out of it. The journalist imagined that we were having a
dress rehearsal of “Froufrou,” and we were merely rehearsing
Alexandre Dumas’ “Princesse Georges” for the sake of refreshing
our memories. He had mistaken the scene between the
Princesse Georges and the Comtesse de Terremonde for the scene
in the third act between the two sisters in “Froufrou.” We
were all of us wearing our traveling costumes and he was surprised
at not seeing the men in dress coats and the women in
evening dress. What fun this was for our company, and for all
the town, and I may add, what a subject it furnished for the
jokes of all the rival newspapers!
CHAPTER XXX END OF MY AMERICAN TOUR
441
I had to play two days at Pittsburg, and then go on
to Bradford, Erie, Toronto, and arrive at Buffalo
on Sunday. It was my intention to give all the
members of my company a day’s entertainment at
the Falls, but Abbey, too, wanted to invite them. We had a discussion
on the subject which was extremely animated. He was
very dictatorial and so was I, and we both preferred giving the
whole thing up rather than yield to each other. Jarrett, however,
pointed out the fact to us that our autocracy would deprive
the artistes of a little festivity about which they had
heard a great deal and to which they were looking forward.
We therefore gave in finally, and in order to settle the matter
we agreed to share this fête between us. The artistes accepted
our invitations with the most charming good grace, and we
took the train for Buffalo, where we arrived at ten minutes
past six in the morning. We had telegraphed beforehand for
carriages and coffee to be in readiness and to have food provided
for us, as it is simply madness for thirty-two persons to
arrive on Sunday in an American town without giving notice
of such an event. We had a special train going at full speed
over the lines that were entirely free on Sundays, and it was
decorated with festoons of flowers. The younger artistes were
as delighted as children, those who had already seen everything
before, told about it; then there was the eloquence of those who
had heard of it, etc., etc., and all this together with the little
bouquets of flowers distributed among the women and the cigars
442and cigarettes presented to the men, made everyone good-humored,
so that all appeared to be happy. The carriages met
our train and took us to the Hotel d’Angleterre which had been
kept open for us. There were flowers everywhere and any number
of small tables upon which were coffee, chocolate, or tea.
Every table was soon surrounded with guests. I had my
sister, Abbey, Jarrett, and the principal artistes at my table.
The meal was of short duration and very gay and animated.
We then went to the Falls, and I remained more than an hour
on the balcony hollowed out of the rock. My eyes filled with
tears as I stood there for I was deeply moved by the splendor
of the sight. A radiant sun made the air around us iridescent.
There were rainbows everywhere lighting up the atmosphere
with their soft silvery colors. The coulées of hard ice hanging
down along the rocks on each side looked like enormous jewels.
I was sorry to leave this balcony, and we went down in narrow
cages which glided gently into a tube arranged in the
cleft of the enormous rock. We arrived in this way under the
American Falls. They were there almost over our heads,
sprinkling us with their blue, pink, and mauve drops. In front
of us, protecting us from the Falls, were a heap of icicles forming
quite a little mountain. We climbed over this to the best
of our ability. My heavy fur mantle tired me and about half
way down I took it off and let it slip over the side of the ice
mountain to take it again when I reached the bottom. I was
wearing a dress of white cloth with a satin blouse and everyone
screamed with surprise on seeing me. Abbey took off his
overcoat and threw it over my shoulders. I shook this off
quickly and Abbey’s coat went to join my fur cloak below.
The poor impresario’s face looked very blank. As he had
taken a fair quantity of cocktails he staggered, fell down on
the ice, got up and immediately fell again to the amusement of
everyone. I was not at all cold as I never am when out of doors.
I only feel the cold inside houses or in any place where I am inactive.
Finally, we arrived at the highest point of the ice and
the cataract was really most threatening. We were covered by
the impalpable mist which rises in the midst of the tumultuous
noise. I gazed at it all, bewildered and fascinated by the rapid
movement of the water which looked like a wide curtain of
silver, unfolding itself to be dashed violently into a rebounding,
splashing heap with a noise unlike any sound I had ever
heard. I very easily turn dizzy and I know very well that if
I had been alone I should have remained there forever with
my eye fixed on the sheet of water hurrying along at full speed,
my mind lulled by the fascinating sound, and my limbs numbed
by the treacherous cold which encircled us. I had to be dragged
away, but I am soon myself again when confronted by an
obstacle.
FOYER IN MADAME BERNHARDT’S THEATER, PARIS.
443We had to go down again and this was not as easy as it had
been to climb up. I took the walking stick belonging to one of
my friends and then sat down on the ice. By putting the stick
under my legs I was able to slide down to the bottom. All the
others imitated me and it was a comical sight to see forty people
descending this ice hill in this way. There were several somersaults
and collisions and plenty of laughter. A quarter of an
hour later we were all at the hotel where luncheon had been
ordered.
We were all cold and hungry; it was warm inside the hotel
and the meal smelled good. When luncheon was over, the landlord
of the hotel asked me to go into a small drawing-room,
where a surprise awaited me. On entering, I saw on a table
protected under a long glass box, the Niagara Falls in miniature
with the rocks looking like pebbles. A large glass represented
the sheet of water and glass threads represented the Falls. Here
and there was some foliage of a hard, crude green. Standing
up on a little hillock of ice was a figure intended for me. It
was enough to make anyone howl with horror, it was all so
hideous. I managed to raise a broad smile for the benefit of
the hotel keeper by way of congratulating him on his good taste,
but I was petrified on recognizing the man servant of the
Th—— brothers of Pittsburg. They had sent this monstrous
caricature of the most beautiful thing in the world. I read
the letter which their domestic handed me and all my disdain
melted away; they had gone to so much trouble in order to
444explain what they wanted me to understand and they were so
delighted at the idea of giving me any pleasure. I dismissed
the valet after giving him a letter for his masters, and I asked
the hotel keeper to send the work of art to Paris packed carefully.
I hoped that it might arrive in fragments. The thought
of it haunted me, though, and I wondered how my friend’s passion
for the Falls could be reconciled with the idea of such a
gift. While admitting that his imaginative mind might have
hoped to be able to carry out his idea, how was it that he was
not indignant at the sight of this grotesque imitation? How
had he dared to send it to me? How was it that my friend
loved the Falls, and what had he understood of their marvelous
grandeur? Since his death I have questioned my own memory
of him a hundred times, but all in vain. He died for them,
rolling about in their waters, killed by their caresses, and I
cannot think that he could ever have seen how beautiful they
really were. Fortunately, I was called away, as the carriage
was there and everyone waiting for me. The horses started
off with us, trotting in that weary way peculiar to tourists’
horses.
When we arrived on the Canadian shore we had to go underground
and array ourselves in black or yellow mackintoshes.
We looked like so many heavy, dumpy sailors who were wearing
these garments for the first time. There were two large cells
to shelter us, one for the women and the other for the men.
Everyone undressed more or less in the midst of wild confusion,
and making a little package of our clothes we gave this into
the keeping of the woman in charge. With the mackintosh
hood drawn tightly under the chin hiding the hair entirely, an
enormous blouse much too wide covering the whole body, fur
boots with rough soles to prevent broken legs and heads,
and immense mackintosh breeches in Zouave style, the prettiest
and slenderest woman was at once transformed into a huge,
cumbersome, awkward bear. An iron-tipped cudgel to carry
in the hand completed this becoming costume. I looked more
ridiculous than the others for I would not cover my hair, and
in the most pretentious way I had fastened some roses into my
445mackintosh blouse. The women went into raptures on seeing
me. “How pretty she looks like that!” they exclaimed. “She
always finds a way to be chic, quand-même!” The men kissed
my bear’s paw in the most gallant way, bowing low and saying
in low tones: “Always and quand-même the queen, the fairy,
the goddess, the divinity,” etc., etc.... And I went along
purring with content and quite satisfied with myself until, as I
passed by the counter where the girl who gives the tickets was
sitting, I caught sight of myself in the glass. I looked enormous
and ridiculous with my roses pinned in and the curly
locks of hair forming a kind of peak to my clumsy hood. I
appeared to be stouter than all the others because of the silver
belt I was wearing round my waist, as this drew up the hard
folds of the mackintosh round my hips. My thin face was
nearly covered by my hair which was flattened down by my
hood. My eyes could not be seen and only my mouth, which
is rather large, served to show that this barrel was a human
being. Furious with myself for my pretentious coquetry and
ashamed of my own weakness for having been so content
with the pitiful, insincere flattery of people who were making
fun of me, I decided to remain as I was as a punishment
for my stupid vanity. There were a number of strangers
among us who nudged each other, pointing to me and laughing
slyly at my absurd get-up, and this was only what I
deserved.
We went down the flight of steps cut in the block of ice
in order to get underneath the Canadian Falls. The sight there
was most strange and extraordinary. Above me I saw an immense
cupola of ice hanging over in space, attached only on
one side to the rock. From this cupola thousands of icicles
of the most varied shapes were hanging. There were dragons,
arrows, crosses, laughing faces, sorrowful faces, hands with
six fingers, deformed feet, incomplete human bodies, and
women’s long locks of hair. In fact, with the help of the imagination,
and by fixing the gaze when looking with half-shut eyes,
the illusion is complete, and in less time than it takes to describe
all this, one can evoke all the pictures of nature and of
446our dreams, all the wild conceptions of a diseased mind or the
realities of a reflective brain.
In front of us were small steeples of ice, some of them proud
and erect, standing out against the sky, others ravaged by the
wind which gnaws the ice, looking like minarets ready for the
muezzin. On the right a cascade was rushing down as noisily
as on the other side, but the sun had commenced its evolution
toward the west and everything was tinged with a rosy hue.
The water splashed over us and we were suddenly covered with
small silvery waves that fell over us, and which when shaken
slightly stiffened against our mackintoshes. It was a shoal of
very small fish which had had the misfortune to be driven
into the current and which had come to die in the dazzling brilliancy
of the setting sun. On the other side there was a small
block which looked like a rhinoceros entering the water.
“I should love to mount on that,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, but it is impossible,” replied one of my friends.
“Oh, as to that, nothing is impossible!” I said. “There is
only the risk, the crevasse to be covered is not a yard long.”
“No, but it is deep,” remarked an artiste who was with us.
“Well,” I said, “my dog is just dead. We will bet a dog
of my choice that I go.”
Abbey was fetched immediately, but he arrived only in time
to see me there. I came very near falling into the crevasse, and
when I was on the back of the rhinoceros I could not stand up.
It was as smooth and transparent as artificial ice. I sat down
on its back holding on to the little hump, and I declared that
if no one came to fetch me I should stay where I was, as I had
not the courage to move a step on this slippery back and then,
too, it seemed to me as though it moved slightly. I began to
lose my self-possession. I felt dizzy, but I had won my dog.
My excitement was over and I was seized with fright. Everyone
gazed at me in a bewildered way and that increased my
terror. My sister went into hysterics, and my dear Guérard
groaned in a heartrending way: “O God, my dear Sarah!
O God!” The artist was making sketches and fortunately
the company had gone on up in order to get to the rapids in
447time. Abbey besought me to return; poor Jarrett besought
me. But I felt dizzy and I could not and would not cross
again. Angelo then sprang across the crevasse and remaining
there called for a plank of wood and a hatchet.
“Bravo! Bravo!” I exclaimed from the back of my
rhinoceros.
The plank was brought. It was an old, black-looking piece
of wood and I glanced at it suspiciously. The hatchet cut into
the tail of my rhinoceros and the plank was fixed firmly by
Angelo on my side and held by Abbey, Jarrett, and Claude, on
the other. I let myself slide over the crupper of my rhinoceros
and I then started, not without terror, along the rotten plank
of wood which was so narrow that I was obliged to put one
foot in front of the other, the heel over the toe. I returned in
a very feverish state to the hotel, and the artist brought me the
droll sketches he had made.
After a light luncheon I was to start again by the train
which had been waiting for us twenty minutes. All the others
had taken their places some time before. I was leaving without
having seen the rapids in which my poor Pittsburg friend
met his death.
Our great voyage was drawing toward its close. I say great
voyage for it was my first one. It lasted for eight months. The
voyages I have since undertaken were always from eleven to
sixteen months.
From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany,
Troy, Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in
Washington, an admirable city, but which at that time had a
sadness about it that affected one’s nerves. It was the last large
city I visited.
After two admirable performances and a supper at the Embassy
we left for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where
our tour was to come to a close. In that city I gave a grand
matinée at the general demand of the artistes of New York.
The piece chosen was the “Princesse Georges.”
Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance!
Everything was applauded by the artistes. Nothing escaped the
448particular state of mind of that audience made up of actors
and actresses, painters and sculptors. At the end of the play
a gold hair comb was handed to me on which was engraved
the names of a great number of persons present. From Salvini,
I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson,
at that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a
small medal bearing a forget-me-not in turquoise. In my dressing-room
I counted one hundred and thirty bouquets.
That evening we gave our last performance with “La Dame
aux Camélias.” I had to return and bow to the public fourteen
times.
Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of
cries and bravos, I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of
mouths and which I did not in the least understand. After
each recall I asked in the wings what the meaning of the word
was that struck on my ears like a dreadful sneeze, beginning
again time after time. Jarrett appeared and enlightened me.
“They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him abashed....
“Yes, they want you to make them a little speech.” “Ah, no!”
I exclaimed, as I again went on to the stage to make a bow.
“No.” And in making my bow to the public I murmured: “I
cannot speak. But I can tell you, thank you, with all my
heart!” It was in the midst of a thunder of applause, underscored
with “Hip! hip! hurrah! Vive la France!” that I left
the theater.
On Wednesday, the 4th of May, I embarked on the same
transatlantic steamer, L’Amérique, the phantom vessel to which
my journey had brought good luck. But it had no longer the
same commander. The new one’s name was Santelli. He was
as little and fair complexioned as the other was big and dark.
But he was as charming and a nice conversationalist.
My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the woodwork
had been covered in sky-blue material. On going on the
steamer I turned toward the friendly crowd and threw them
a last adieu. “Au revoir,” they shouted back.
I then went toward my cabin. Standing at the door in an
elegant iron-gray suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest
449style, and wearing dogskin gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman
of whales. I gave a cry like that of a wild beast. He kept
his joyful smile and held out a jewel casket which I took with
the object of throwing it into the sea through the open porthole.
But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took possession of the
casket which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he exclaimed,
but I had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out
to the man: “Go away! you knave! you brute! go away. I
hope you will die under atrocious suffering! Go away!”
I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to
talk to me about the present. I would not hear anything
about it.
“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since
this jewel is so fine, give it to your daughter and do not speak
to me about it any more.” And this was done.
The evening before my departure from America I had received
a long cablegram signed Grosos, President of the Life
Saving Society at Hâvre, asking me to give a performance for
the benefit of the families of the society upon my arrival. I
accepted with unspeakable joy. On regaining my native land
I should assist in drying tears.
After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship
oscillated slightly, and we left New York on Thursday, the 5th
of May.
Detesting as I usually do sea traveling I set out this time
with a light heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible
discomfort caused by the voyage.
We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the boat
stopped. I sprang out of my berth and was soon on deck fearing
some accident to our boat, Phantom, as we had nicknamed
it. In front of us a French boat had raised, lowered, and
again raised its small flags. The captain, who had given the
replies to these signals, sent for me and explained to me the
working and the orthography of the signals. I could not remember
anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A
small boat was lowered from the ship opposite us and two
sailors and a young man, very poorly dressed and with a pale
450face, embarked. Our captain had the steps lowered, the small
boat accosted, and the young man escorted by two sailors came
on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer who was
waiting at the top of the steps. He read it and, looking at the
young man, he said quietly, “Follow me.” The small boat
and the sailors returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the
engine shrieked, and after the usual salute the two ships continued
their way. The unfortunate young man was brought
before the captain. I went away after asking the captain to
tell me afterwards what was the meaning of it all unless it
should prove to be something which had to be kept secret.
The captain came himself and told me some time after. The
young man was a poor artist, a wood engraver who had managed
to slip aboard a steamer bound for New York. He had not
a cent of money for his passage, as he had not even been able
to pay for an immigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to get through
without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various kinds.
He had, however, been taken ill and it was this illness which
had betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish he had
talked aloud in his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words.
He was taken into the infirmary and when there he had confessed
everything. The captain undertook to make him accept
what I sent him for his journey to America. The story soon
spread and other passengers made a collection so that the young
engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune
of £48. Three days later he brought me a little wooden box,
manufactured, carved, and engraved by him. This little box
is now nearly full of petals of flowers for every year on the
7th of May I receive a small bouquet of flowers with these
words, always the same ones, year after year: “Gratitude and
Devotion.” I always put the petals of the flowers into the
little box, but for the last seven years I have not received any.
Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist to discontinue
this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea,
but the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness
as forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions
of the human being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode
in our mind, in our heart, while Death is always here laying
traps for us, watching all we do, and jeering gayly when sleep
closes our eyes, for we give him then the illusion of what he
knows will some day be a reality.
SARAH BERNHARDT IN “L’AIGLON”—PAINTING BY G. CLAIRIN.
451Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened
during the voyage. I spent every night on deck, gazing
at the horizon, hoping to draw toward me that land on which
were the loved ones. I turned in toward morning and slept
all day to kill the time.
The boats in those days did not perform the crossing with
the speed of to-day. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly
long. I was so impatient to land that I called for the doctor
and asked him to send me to sleep for eighteen hours. He gave
me twelve hours’ sleep with a strong dose of chloral and I felt
stronger and calmer for confronting the shock of happiness.
Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening
of the 14th. I was ready and had pawed the ground distractedly
for an hour when an officer came to ask whether I
would not go on to the bridge with the commander who was
waiting for me.
With my sister I went in haste on to the bridge, and soon
understood from the embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable
Santelli that we were too far off to hope to make the harbor
that night.
I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined
that the Gnome was going to triumph and I wept those
tears that were like a brook that runs on and on without ceasing.
The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational
state of mind. I descended from the bridge with both body
and soul like limpid rags.
I lay down on a straw deck chair and when dawn came
was benumbed and sleepy. It was five in the morning. We
were still twenty miles off land. The sun, however, began joyously
to brighten up the small white clouds, light as snowflakes.
The look of the loved one gave me courage again. I ran toward
my cabin. I spent a long while over my toilet in order
to kill time. At seven o’clock I made inquiries from the captain.
452“We are twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours
we shall land.” “You swear to it?” “Yes, I swear.” I
returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark, I scanned the
distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw
it without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear the cry
“Over there! Over there!” All at once I noticed masses
of small white flags being waved on the small steamer. I got
hold of my glass ... and let it fall with a joyous cry that left
me without any strength, without breath. I wanted to speak.
I could not. My face, it appears, became so pale that it frightened
the people who were about. My sister Jeanne wept as
she waved her arms toward the distance. They wanted to make
me sit down. I would not. Hanging on to the bulwarks, I
smell the salts that are thrust under my nose. I allow friendly
hands to wipe my temples, but I am gazing over there whence
the vessel is coming. Over there lies my happiness! my joy!
my life! my everything! dearer than everything!
The Diamond (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge
of love is formed between the small and large ship, a bridge
placed under the beatings of our hearts, under the weight of
the kisses that have been kept back for how many days. Then
comes the reaction that takes place in our tears when the young
being that one worships is pressed to one’s bosom under the spell
of an undefinable emotion.
The big ship is invaded. Everyone is there, my dear and
faithful friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice.
Ah, what a delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions.
Laughter is mingled with tears. Hands are pressed,
lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One is never tired of
this repetition of tender affection. During this time, our boat
is moving. The Diamond has disappeared carrying away the
mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats are met
with, decked with flags, plowing the sea. There are a hundred
at least. Here are others.
“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent
of the Figaro, who with friends had come to
meet me.
453“Oh, yes, madame, a great fête day to-day at Hâvre, for
they are expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months
ago!”
“Is it really in my honor that all these pretty boats have
spread their wings and beflagged their masts. Ah, how happy
I am!” At this moment we go alongside the jetty. There
are perhaps twenty thousand people there who cry out: “Vive
Sarah Bernhardt!”
I am dumfounded. I do not expect any triumphant return.
I am well aware that the performance given for the
Life Saving Society has won the hearts of the people of Hâvre,
but I learn that trains have come from Paris, packed with
people, to welcome my return.
I feel my pulse.... It is I.... I am not dreaming....
The boat stops opposite a red velvet tent and an invisible
orchestra strikes up an air from the Châlet: “Arrêtons-nous
ici.”
I smile at this quite French childishness. I get off ... and
walk through the midst of a hedge of smiling, kind faces of
sailors who offer me flowers.
Within the tent all the life savers are waiting for me, wearing
on their broad chests the medals they have so well deserved.
Mr. Grosos, the president, reads to me the following address:
“Madame, as president, I have the honor to present to you
a delegation from the Life Saving Society of Hâvre, who have
come to welcome you and express their gratitude for the sympathy
you have so warmly worded in your transatlantic dispatch.
“We have also come to congratulate you on the immense
success that you have met with at every place you have visited
during your adventurous journey. You have now conquered
in two worlds an incontestable popularity and artistic celebrity,
and your marvelous talent, added to your personal charms, has
affirmed abroad that France is always the land of art and the
birthplace of elegance and beauty.
“A yet distant echo of the words you spoke in Denmark,
454evoking a deep and sad souvenir, still strikes on our ears. It
repeats that your heart is as French as your talent, for in the
midst of the feverish and burning successes of the theater
you have never forgotten to unite your patriotism to your artistic
triumphs.
“Our life savers have charged me with expressing to you
their admiration for the charming benefactor whose generous
hand has spontaneously stretched itself out toward their poor
but noble society. They wish to offer you these flowers, gathered
from the soil of the mother country, on the land of France,
where you will find them everywhere under your feet. They
are worthy that you should accept them with favor, for they are
presented to you by the bravest and most loyal of our life
savers.”
It is said that my reply was very eloquent, but I cannot
affirm that that reply was really made by me. I had lived for
several hours in a state of overexcitement from successive emotions.
I had taken no food, had no sleep. My heart had not
ceased beating a moving and joyous charge. My brain had been
filled with a thousand facts that had been piled up for seven
months and narrated in two hours. This triumphant reception,
that I was far from expecting after what had happened just before
my departure, after having been so badly treated by the
Paris press, after the incidents of my journey that had been
always badly interpreted by several French papers—all these
coincidences were of such different proportions that they seemed
hardly credible. I preferred to remain in the latter dream that
was so flattering to me.
The performance furnished a fruitful harvest for the life
savers. As for me, I played “La Dame aux Camélias” for
the first time in France. God had come. I affirm that those
who were present at that performance experienced the quintessence
of what my personal art can give.
I spent the night at my place at Ste. Addresse. The day
following I left for Paris. A most flattering ovation was awaiting
me on my arrival. Then, three days afterwards, installed
455in my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou
in order to hear the reading of his magnificent piece
“Fédora.”
Ah, what a great artist! What an admirable actor! What
a marvelous author! He read that play to me right off, playing
every rôle, giving me in one second the vision of what I
should do.
“Ah!” I exclaimed after the reading was over. “Ah,
dear master, thanks for this beautiful part! Thanks for the
fine lesson you have just given me!”
That night left me without sleep, for I wished to catch a
glimpse in the darkness of the small star in which I had faith.
I saw it as dawn was breaking, and fell asleep thinking over
the new era that it was going to lighten up.
My artistic journey lasted seven months. I visited fifty cities
and gave 156 representations as follows:
“La Dame aux Camélias”
65
performances
“Adrienne Lecouvreur”
17
„
“Froufrou”
41
„
“La Princesse Georges”
3
„
“Hernani”
14
„
“L’Etrangère”
3
„
“Phèdre”
6
„
“Le Sphinx”
7
„
Total receipts
2,667,600
francs
Average receipts
17,100
„
I conclude these memories of mine here, for this is really
the first halting place in my life; the real evolution of my physical
and moral being.
I had run away from the Comédie Française, from Paris,
from France, from my family, and from my friends.
I had thought of having a wild ride across mountains, seas,
and space, and I came back in love with the vast horizon, but
calmed down by the feeling of responsibility which for seven
months had been weighing on my shoulders.
456The terrible Jarrett, with his implacable and cruel wisdom,
had tamed my wild nature by a constant appeal to my probity.
In those few months my mind had matured and the brusqueness
of my will was softened.
My life, which I thought at first was to be so short, seemed
now likely to be very, very long, and that gave me a great mischievous
delight whenever I thought of the infernal displeasure
of my enemies.
I resolved to live. I resolved to be the great artiste that I
longed to be.
And from the time of this return I gave myself entirely up
to my life.
THE END
458
“THE MOST UNFORTUNATE WOMAN IN MODERN HISTORY.”
Lucretia Borgia: According to Original Documents and Correspondence of Her Day.
By Ferdinand Gregorovius, Author of “A History
of the City of Rome in the Middle Ages.” Translated
from the Third German Edition by John Leslie Garner.
Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, $2.25 net; postage, 17 cents
additional.
Lucretia Borgia is the most unfortunate woman in modern history.
Is this because she was guilty of the most hideous crimes, or is it simply
because she has been unjustly condemned by the world to bear its curse?
The question has never been answered. Mankind is ever ready to
discover the personification of human virtues and human vices in certain
typical characters found in history and fable. The Borgias will never
cease to fascinate the historian and the psychologist. They are a satire
on a great form or phase of religion, debasing and destroying it. They
stand on high pedestals, and from their presence radiates the light of
the Christian ideal. In this form we behold and recognize them. We
view their acts through a medium which is permeated with religious
ideas. Without this, and placed on a purely secular stage, the Borgias
would have fallen into a position much less conspicuous than that of
many other men, and would soon have ceased to be anything more than
representatives of a large species. This is the first translation from the
German of this important work of Gregorovius, in which a vast supply of
information is furnished about the family of this famous and interesting
woman and about herself. The book is illustrated with portraits and
views, and offers valuable knowledge upon the times and character of a
woman about whose nature a conflict of opinions has raged for centuries.
About her beauty and talents there are no two voices; on the question
of her vices the world has become divided. A patron of art and letters,
as to her private life the most hideous stories gained circulation, making
her name the most notorious of her renowned house, not excepting that
of her brother, the infamous Cesare Borgia.
In this translation English readers are offered the best known account
of this celebrated woman, written by the author of that monumental
and illuminating work, “The History of Rome in the Middle Ages.”
“The story is far more exciting than most romances, and treats of Italian
history and life about which comparatively little that is authoritative can be
found in English.”—The Sun, New York.
459
REMINISCENCES OF A SCIENTIST
The Autobiography of Joseph Le Conte.
With portrait. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25 net.
Professor Le Conte was widely known as a
man of science, and notably as a geologist. His
later years were spent at the University of California.
But his early life was passed in the South;
there he was born and spent his youth; there he
was living when the civil war brought ruin to
his home and his inherited estate. His reminiscences
deal with phases of life in the South that
have unfailing interest to all students of American
history. His account of the war as he saw it has
permanent value. He was in Georgia when
Sherman marched across it. Professor Le Conte
knew Agassiz, and writes charmingly of his
associations with him.
“Attractive because of its unaffected simplicity and directness.”—Chicago
Chronicle.
“Attractive by virtue of its frank simplicity.”—New York Evening
Post.
“Well worth reading even if the reader be not particularly interested
in geology.”—New York American.
“This story of a beautiful, untiring life is worthy of consideration by
every lover of truth.”—St. Paul Despatch.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO. LONDON.
460“Destined to take rank as one of the two or three
most remarkable self-portrayals of a human life ever
committed to posterity.”
—Franklin H. Giddings, LL.D., in the Independent.
An Autobiography by Herbert Spencer.
With Illustrations. Many of them from the
Author’s Own Drawings. Cloth, 8vo. Gilt Top.
Two vols. in a box, $5.50 net. Postage, 40 cents
additional.
“It is rare, indeed, that a man who has so profoundly influenced the
intellectual development of his age and generation has found time to
record the history of his own life. And this Mr. Spencer has done so
simply, so frankly, and with such obvious truth, that it is not surprising
that Huxley is reported as having said, after reading it in manuscript,
that it reminded him of the ‘Confessions’ of Rousseau, freed from every
objectionable taint.”—New York Globe.
“As interesting as fiction? There never was a novel so interesting
as Herbert Spencer’s ‘An Autobiography’.”—New York Herald.
“It is rich in suggestion and observation, of wide significance and
appeal in the sincerity, the frankness, the lovableness of its human note.”—New
York Mail and Express.
“The book, as a whole, makes Spencer’s personality a reality for
us, where heretofore it has been vaguer than his philosophical abstractions.”—John
White Chadwick in Current Literature.
“In all the literature of its class there is nothing like it. It bears
the same relationship to autobiographical productions as Boswell’s ‘Life
of Johnson’ bears to biographies.”—Philadelphia Press.
“This book will always be of importance, for Herbert Spencer was
a great and original thinker, and his system of philosophy has bent the
thought of a generation, and will keep a position of commanding interest.”—Joseph
O’Connor in the New York Times.
“Planned and wrought for the purpose of tracing the events of his
life and the growth of his opinions, his autobiography does more than
that. It furnished us, half unconsciously, no doubt, a more vivid portraiture
of his peculiarities than any outsider could possibly provide.
We pity his official biographer! Little can be left for him. Here we
have Spencer in habit as he was.”—New York Evening Post.
461
VIVID, MOVING, SYMPATHETIC, HUMOROUS.
A Diary from Dixie.
By Mary Boykin Chesnut. Being her Diary from
November, 1861, to August, 1865. Edited by Isabella D.
Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary. Illustrated. 8vo. Ornamental
Cloth, $2.50 net; postage additional.
Mrs. Chesnut was the most brilliant woman that the South
has ever produced, and the charm of her writing is such as to
make all Southerners proud and all Northerners envious. She was
the wife of James Chesnut, Jr., who was United States Senator
from South Carolina from 1859 to 1861, and acted as an aid to
President Jefferson Davis, and was subsequently a Brigadier-General
in the Confederate Army. Thus it was that she was intimately
acquainted with all the foremost men in the Southern cause.
“In this diary is preserved the most moving and vivid record of the Southern
Confederacy of which we have any knowledge. It is a piece of social
history of inestimable value. It interprets to posterity the spirit in which the
Southerners entered upon and struggled through the war that ruined them.
It paints poignantly but with simplicity the wreck of that old world which had
so much about it that was beautiful and noble as well as evil. Students of
American life have often smiled, and with reason, at the stilted and extravagant
fashion in which the Southern woman had been described south of Mason
and Dixon’s line—the unconscious self-revelations of Mary Chesnut explain,
if they do not justify, such extravagance. For here, we cannot but believe,
is a creature of a fine type, a ‘very woman,’ a very Beatrice, frank, impetuous,
loving, full of sympathy, full of humor. Like her prototype, she had prejudices,
and she knew little of the Northern people she criticised so severely;
but there is less bitterness in these pages than we might have expected. Perhaps
the editors have seen to that. However this may be they have done
nothing to injure the writer’s own nervous, unconventional style—a style
breathing character and temperament as the flower breathes fragrance.”—New
York Tribune.
“It is written straight from the heart, and with a natural grace of style
that no amount of polishing could have imparted.”—Chicago Record-Herald.
“The editors are to be congratulated; it is not every day that one comes
on such material as this long-hidden diary.”—Louisville Evening Post.
“It is a book that would have delighted Charles Lamb.”—Houston
Chronicle.
462
BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY.
The Journal of Latrobe.
Being the Notes and Sketches of an Architect,
Naturalist, and Traveller in the United States from
1796 to 1820. By Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Architect
of the Capitol at Washington. Copiously
illustrated with reproductions from the original
drawings by the author. 8vo. Ornamental cloth,
$3.50 net.
These are the memoirs of a personal friend of the first
President of the United States. He was a man of refinement
and great intellectual attainments, a soldier, civil
engineer, philosopher, artist, humorist, poet, and naturalist.
The book is bright with story and anecdote, criticism and
comment.
“Benjamin Latrobe was a man of the world and a clever commentator
on what he saw going on around him. One of the best pen pictures
of Washington is Latrobe’s account of a visit to the Father of his
Country at Mt. Vernon in 1796.”—Review of Reviews.
“Mr. Latrobe was a keen observer, and his notes of travel in the
South are valuable in an attempt to picture the life of a century ago.”—Chicago
Tribune.
“Benjamin Latrobe visited Washington at Mt. Vernon and recorded
what he saw very fully. Then, late in life, he went to New Orleans by
sea and wrote full notes of his voyage and his impressions. Both diaries
are full of interest. Between them are placed in this volume papers
relating to the building of the Capitol. Prefixed to the volume is a
biographical introduction written by his son thirty years ago. The illustrations
are curious and interesting.”—New York Sun.
“With what has been said of the volume it should be evident that
it is curious, interesting, and instructive to an unusual degree. To
speak of ‘The Journal of Latrobe’ without mention of its illustrations
would be an unpardonable oversight.”—San Francisco Chronicle.
463
AN AMERICAN ADMIRAL.
Forty-five Years Under the Flag.
By Winfield Scott Schley, Rear-Admiral, U. S. N.
Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, uncut edges, and gilt top, $3.00 net.
About one-third of Admiral Schley’s volume is devoted to the Spanish
War, in which he became so great a figure. He tells his own story in
simple and effective words. His recollections are constantly reinforced
by references to dispatches and other documents.
Readers will be surprised at the extent of Admiral Schley’s experiences.
He left the Naval Academy just before the outbreak of the Civil
War and saw service with Farragut in the Gulf. Three chapters are
devoted to Civil War events. His next important service was rendered
during the opening of Corea to the commerce of the world, and the
chapter in which he describes the storming of the forts is one of thrilling
interest. Another important expedition in his life was the rescue of
Greely, to which three chapters are devoted. Two other chapters pertain
to the Revolution in Chili, and the troubles growing out of the
attack upon some of Admiral Schley’s men in the streets of Valparaiso.
Altogether the book contains thirty-eight chapters. It has been illustrated
from material furnished by Admiral Schley and through his suggestions,
and makes an octavo volume of large size. It will appeal to
every true-hearted American.
The author says in his preface: “In times of danger and duty the writer
endeavored to do the work set before him without fear of consequences. With
this thought in mind, he has felt moved, as a duty to his wife, his children,
and his name, to leave a record of his long professional life, which has not
been without some prestige, at least for the flag he has loved and under which
he has served the best years of his life.”
“Rear-Admiral W. S. Schley’s ‘Forty-five Years Under the Flag’ is the
most valuable contribution to the history of the American Navy that has been
written in many a year.”—New York Times.
“The author’s career is well worthy of a book, and he has every reason for
pride in telling of his forty-five active years in all parts of the world.”
—Edwin L. Shuman in the Chicago Record-Herald.
“It is a stirring story, told with the simple directness of a sailor. Its reading
carries the conviction of its truthfulness. The Admiral could not have
hoped to accomplish more.”—Chicago Evening Post.
“He has told his own story, in his own way, from his own viewpoint, and
goes after his detractors, open and above board, with his big guns.”
—Washington Post.
“It is a work that will interest everyone, from the sixteen-year-old schoolboy
who is studying history and loves tales of stirring adventure to the grandsire
whose blood still pulses hotly with patriotic pride at the recounting of
valiant deeds of arms under our starry flag.”—Boston American.
“The Admiral tells the story well. His is a manly and straightforward
style. He leaves nothing to doubt, nothing open to controversy.”
—Baltimore Sun.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
P. 244, changed “leave on the bench” to “leave on the beach”.
Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
