MEMOIRS OF
SARAH BERNHARDT
PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS
OF
HENRY IRVING
_New and Cheaper Edition
Price Six Shillings Net_
BY BRAM STOKER
_Illustrated_
Mr. William Archer in the _Tribune_.—“A book
that counts .... Irving the manager and the
man-of-the-world lives in these pages.... We
have here, in brief, the ideal Irving from
an inside point of view—the Irving of the
inner circle.”
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
21 Bedford Street, W.C.
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT AS “ADRIENNE LECOUVREUR”
BY WALTER SPINDLER
]
_MY DOUBLE LIFE_
MEMOIRS
OF
SARAH BERNHARDT
WITH MANY PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1907
_Copyright London 1907 by William Heinemann, and Washington, U.S.A.,
D. Appleton and Company_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. CHILDHOOD 1
II. AT BOARDING SCHOOL 6
III. CONVENT LIFE 16
IV. MY DÉBUT 27
V. THE SOLDIER’S SHAKO 38
VI. THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND MY FIRST VISIT TO A THEATRE 46
VII. MY CAREER—FIRST LESSONS 59
VIII. THE CONSERVATOIRE 64
IX. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS—THE CONSERVATOIRE 73
X. MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT 88
XI. MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE
THEREFROM 98
XII. AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE—A TRIP TO SPAIN 107
XIII. FROM THE PORTE ST. MARTIN THEATRE TO THE ODÉON 118
XIV. “LE PASSANT”—AT THE TUILERIES—FIRE IN MY FLAT 135
XV. THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR 151
XVI. SARAH BERNHARDT’S AMBULANCE AT THE ODÉON THEATRE 160
XVII. PARIS BOMBARDED 172
XVIII. A BOLD JOURNEY THROUGH THE GERMAN LINES 189
XIX. MY RETURN TO PARIS—THE COMMUNE—AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE 216
XX. VICTOR HUGO 226
XXI. A MEMORABLE SUPPER 231
XXII. AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE AGAIN—SCULPTURE 244
XXIII. A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF—MY FIRST APPEARANCE
AS PHÈDRE—THE DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION 259
XXIV. ALEXANDRE DUMAS—“L’ETRANGÈRE”—MY SCULPTURE AT THE SALON 272
XXV. “HERNANI”—A TRIP IN A BALLOON 280
XXVI. THE COMÉDIE GOES TO LONDON 291
XXVII. LONDON LIFE—MY FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE GAIETY THEATRE 303
XXVIII. MY PERFORMANCE IN LONDON—MY EXHIBITION—MY WILD
ANIMALS—TROUBLE WITH THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE 309
XXIX. THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE RETURNS TO PARIS—SARAH BERNHARDT’S
COMMENTS ON ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DAY 326
XXX. MY DEPARTURE FROM THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE—PREPARATIONS FOR
MY FIRST AMERICAN TOUR—ANOTHER VISIT TO LONDON 331
XXXI. A TOUR IN DENMARK—ROYAL FAMILIES—THE “TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS”
OF SARAH BERNHARDT 342
XXXII. EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HÂVRE TO
NEW YORK 352
XXXIII. ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK—AMERICAN REPORTERS—THE CUSTOM
HOUSE—PERFORMANCES IN NEW YORK—A VISIT TO EDISON AT
MENLO PARK 361
XXXIV. AT BOSTON—STORY OF THE WHALE 380
XXXV. MONTREAL’S GRAND RECEPTION—THE POET FRÉCHETTE—AN
ESCAPADE ON THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER 388
XXXVI. SPRINGFIELD—BALTIMORE—PHILADELPHIA—CHICAGO—ADVENTURES
BETWEEN ST. LOUIS AND CINCINNATI—CAPITAL PUNISHMENT 398
XXXVII. NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES—A VISIT TO THE
FALLS OF NIAGARA 414
XXXVIII. THE RETURN TO FRANCE—THE WELCOME AT HÂVRE 433
INDEX 443
LIST OF PLATES
_To face page_
Sarah Bernhardt as Adrienne Lecouvreur _Frontispiece_
Sarah Bernhardt and her Mother 4
The Grand Champ Convent, from the Garden 18
Le Conservatoire National de Musique et de Déclamation,
Paris 66
Sarah Bernhardt in the Hands of her Coiffeur, before
going to the Conservatoire Examination 82
Sarah Bernhardt on Leaving the Conservatoire 90
An Early Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt; Sarah Bernhardt in
_Les Femmes Savantes_; Sarah Bernhardt as the Duc de
Richelieu 100
Sarah Bernhardt in _François le Champi_ 128
Sarah Bernhardt in a Fancy Costume 136
Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait in the Théâtre
Français_ 176
Skull in Sarah Bernhardt’s Library, with Autograph
Verses by Victor Hugo 232
Sarah Bernhardt at a Fancy-dress Ball 240
Sarah Bernhardt at Work on her _Médée_ 244
Sarah Bernhardt Painting (1878–9) 252
Sarah Bernhardt in her Coffin 256
A Corner of the Library 264
Library in Sarah Bernhardt’s House 268
Sarah Bernhardt at Home. _From the Painting by Walter
Spindler_ 276
Sarah Bernhardt as Dona Sol in _Hernani_ 282
A Corner of the Hall, with a Painting by Chartran of
Sarah Bernhardt as Gismonda 288
Sarah Bernhardt in Riding Costume 304
“Ophelia.” Sculpture by Sarah Bernhardt 314
Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait by Mlle. Louis
Abbema_ 318
Sarah Bernhardt. _From the Portrait by Jules Bastien-
Lepage_ 324
Sarah Bernhardt (1879) 334
Sarah Bernhardt as Andromaque 338
Sarah Bernhardt in Travelling Costume (1880) 342
Sarah Bernhardt and Members of her Company out Shooting 400
Bust of Victorien Sardou, by Sarah Bernhardt 440
Facsimile of Sarah Bernhardt’s Handwriting 442
I
CHILDHOOD
My mother was fond of travelling: 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 last one 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 always promised to come to see me, but rarely kept
their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany, and lived near Quimperlé, 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.
Brittany is a long way off, even in our epoch of velocity! 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 bedstead 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 table for my toys. She threw a
faggot 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
neighbours. 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 ploughed by stage-coaches which 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 so 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 folks loved Milk Blossom. And he could
never refrain from laughing at 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
neighbours used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.
Mother, adorably 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 looked down.
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 back in triumph to Paris the nurse, the
foster-father, and me, 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 coloured like wooden balls.
My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bon-bons, and
toys. The foster-father died, and my nurse married a concierge, who used
to pull 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 towards five o’clock in the
evening, in the month of November, when everything looks grey. I was put
to bed, and no doubt I went to sleep at once, for there end my
recollections of that day.
The 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
box-weed, no leaves falling, nothing, nothing but stone—cold, grey, ugly
stone—and panes of glass opposite me. “I want to go away! 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 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, called 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 calm 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!”
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT AND HER MOTHER
]
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 go of her. 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 towards 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 knee-cap. I only came to myself again a few hours later,
to find that I was in a beautiful, wide bed which smelt 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.
II
AT BOARDING SCHOOL
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 a 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 splendour, 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 when my turn came, 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: Régis 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 to make arrangements for 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 grey 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, I 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. Madame Fressard came forward to
meet us, and I liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather
stout, and her hair turning grey, _à la Sévigné_. She had beautiful
large eyes, rather like George Sand’s, and 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 cockscomb. 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 Madame 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.
Madame 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.
“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.” Madame Fressard smiled in a good-natured but rather ironical
way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate and looked at the name of
the maker.
“Ah! from Marquis’s! 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 Madame 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 every one 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”—&c. &c.
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 into barracks, and
you’ll have to mind your behaviour!”
I pulled his long moustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the
direction of Madame Fressard, who had a slight moustache, “You mustn’t
do that to the 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, whilst I was taken away to the cage where I was to be
imprisoned.
I spent two years at this pension. I was taught reading, writing, and
reckoning. I also learnt a hundred new games. I learnt to sing
_rondeaux_ 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 Madame 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 spell-bound. 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 Madame Fressard’s, and this sister,
Clothilde, is now the wife of M. Pierre Merlou, 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
practise saying in a low voice, “_Tremble, fille digne de moi_”—I used
to twist my head on my shoulders, swell out my cheeks, and commence:
“_Tremble—trem-ble—trem-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.
Madame Fressard’s adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline (whom I chanced to
meet a long time after, married to the celebrated artist, Yvon), would
then appear on the scene. Angry and implacable, she 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 strokes 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 straight out to her, and then bang came her wide ebony
ruler. She used to give us a cruelly hard, sharp 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 recognise 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_.
“Mademoiselle 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 Madame Fressard’s, and it seemed
quite natural to me that I should stay there until I was quite a grown-
up girl. My uncle, Félix Faure, who 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 other events
than my terrible fits of temper, which upset the whole pension and
always left me in the infirmary 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 travelling, 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 mamma, my aunts, and Madame 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 my aunt Rosine’s, 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 had 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 convent, 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 cray-fish 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 would say, “and
then 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 caught sight of myself, looking
like a rotten tree stump, and I saw my cousin making signs, by putting
his hand to his mouth, that he would bring me some dessert.
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 used to
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 I 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.”
“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 copied it in the most devoted 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. As I write these lines, 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, of
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 quarrelled 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 indulgence 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 did not come again, as
she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at the piano, whilst
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 Grand-Champs 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 woollen muffler in shades of
violet, which she had been knitting for me in secret for several 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. Every one 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 towards 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.
III
CONVENT LIFE
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,
great big girl as she then was, in tears. 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 Grand-Champs Convent. I rubbed my eyes and tried to collect
my thoughts. I then jumped down from the diligence and looked curiously
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 Satory
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 Madame Fressard’s!”
My mother shrugged her shoulders and pointed to my father, thus
explaining that she was not responsible for this step. I rushed to him,
and he took me by the hand as he rang the bell. 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 parlour. 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 arm-chairs near the grating. On the walls were a portrait 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 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,” &c. &c. “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 scarcely see anything of her face. She recognised
my father, whom she had probably seen before, when matters were being
arranged. She opened a 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 child-like 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 happy that I flung myself at once into her
arms. It was Mother St. Sophie, the Superior of the Grand-Champs
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 see 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 the other Sister Séraphine, who was as
white and supple as a spray of lily of the valley. We entered 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 St. Sophie. Most of them did needlework all day long; some worked
at tapestry, others embroidery, and still others decalcography.
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 honour,
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.
When 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 Madame Fressard’s, but a great deal larger, and there was a tiled
floor without any carpet.
[Illustration:
THE GRAND CHAMP CONVENT, FROM THE GARDEN
]
“Oh, this is quite impossible!” exclaimed mamma. “The child cannot sleep
here; it is too cold; it would kill her.”
The Mother Superior, St. 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, 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 St. Sophie explained to us that the Little Wood
was reserved for the older pupils, and the Middle Wood for the little
ones, whilst 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 St. Sophie informed us that every child could have
a small garden, and that sometimes two or three of them had a larger
one.
“Oh, can I have a garden of my own?” I exclaimed—“a garden all to
myself?”
“Yes, one of your own.”
The Mother Superior called the gardener, Père Larcher, the only man,
with the exception of the chaplain, 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 towards my
mother, who was giving Mother St. Sophie the same instructions she had
given to Madame Fressard about cold cream, chocolate, jam, &c. &c.
Mother St. 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 Middle 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 on the left bank of the river which cuts the Satory woods in two.
The other wall was that of the cemetery. All the woods of the convent
were part of the beautiful Satory 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 St. 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.”
Mother St. 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 St. 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, every one bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were
turned on me. Mother St. 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 every one
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 Cardaños. They had
only been in the convent 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 handed round, but the nun
who waited on us turned it round again and poured the hot soup in,
regardless of scalding me.
“You must eat your soup,” whispered my right hand neighbour, whose name
was Pepa.