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 say, “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 Madame Guérard
sounding her trumpet and spoiling all the 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, to spoil all my effects. It was all in vain
that I made scenes; she could not help herself. Whenever I related an
adventure and wanted it to be very effective, she would invariably burst
into fits of laughter before the end of it. If I told 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. 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.
Abusing 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!” every one shouted with joy, and I was gay again. I had
made my effect, anyhow. It was “the career” taking possession of me
unawares. My sister Régina, whom the sisters would not have in the
convent, and so had sent home, began to dance a jig. She had learnt this
in the country when she had been put out to nurse, and upon every
occasion she danced it, finishing always with this couplet:
_Mon p’tit ventr’ éjouis toi
Tout ce ze gagn’ est pou’ toi...._
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 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, and when
she was made to go into 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 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.
IX
A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL AND EXAMINATIONS—THE CONSERVATOIRE
An evolution took place in me from that day. For rather a long time my
soul remained child-like, 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 Monsieur Bed——.
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 francs 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 she will 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. Monsieur Bed—— will settle
three hundred thousand francs on you. 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 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 realised 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 Conservatoire I had learnt 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. Madame 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. Bed—— 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. Bed—— 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.
Well, 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 Néréstan
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 I fell on my knees before Néréstan 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 repeated the outburst 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 Agnès_.
I felt, therefore, that I had the right to refuse. 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 Fine Arts Department, to be
so good as to receive me, and, as my mother always refused to accompany
me, Madame 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 to the furniture. She jumped on to a
stool, and finally sat down on the floor, pulling towards her the paper
basket, which was under the desk, and proceeded to spread about all the
torn papers which it contained. 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 every one that you 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, Monsieur
Doucet. My little sister is telling an untruth.”
Régina sprang to her feet, and clenching her little fists, rushed at me
like a little fury. “Aunt Rosine never said that?” she exclaimed. “You
are telling an untruth. Why, she said it to Monsieur 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 polecat, 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 Madame 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, grief, and shame I flung myself about to right and left. My grief
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
first hopes. Huddled up in the cab, an expression of fear on her self-
willed looking 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 was greater than her greediness. She
turned round on her little heels and, dancing her jig, began to sing,
“My little stomach isn’t at all pleased,” 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 perform at the Vaudeville.
M. Régnier told me how sorry he was, but he added in a 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 your
warmest advocate; but the Minister 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 behaviour. 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, sixty centimes of which was
for the omnibus, and forty 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 all had to go on the stage. He always stood up with his
little black stick in his hand. No one knew why he had this stick.
“Now, young ladies,” he would say, “the body thrown back, the head up,
on tip-toes. That’s it. Perfect! One, two, three, march!”
And we marched along on tip-toes 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 towards 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 one’s self 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 changed, 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 artist is intelligent or dull. On the stage 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. It was all
in vain that poor Elie told us this or that. We were always stupid and
awkward, whilst 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 organised 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 sometimes
brought with him 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 male pupils named Châtelain, and
the latter turned round quickly and gave him a blow in the face. A
skirmish immediately occurred, and Pons, on endeavouring 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
obtained my mother’s authorisation to discontinue attending the 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 specially emphasised freedom of gesture and inflexion.
Beauvallet, in my opinion, did not teach anything that was any good. He
had a deep, effective voice, but that he could not give to any one. 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.
Samson 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 emphasised 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 into 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 Viellards_, 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 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 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 burnt 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 natural 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 Tangier girls and negresses have hair like this. As Mademoiselle
is going on to 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 bend her head
forward. 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 fatigue after an hour and a half’s brushing, combing, curling,
hair-pinning, with my head turned from left to right and from right to
left, &c. &c. I was completely disfigured at the end of it all, and did
not recognise myself. My hair was drawn tightly back from my temples, my
ears were very visible and stood out, looking positively bold in their
bareness, whilst on the top of my head was a parcel of little sausages
arranged near each other to imitate the ancient diadem.
I looked perfectly hideous. My forehead, which I always saw more or less
covered with a golden fluff of hair, seemed to me immense, implacable.
I did not recognise my eyes, accustomed as I was to see them shadowed by
my hair. My head weighed two or three pounds. I was accustomed to fasten
my hair as I still do, with two hair-pins, and this man had put five or
six packets in it, and 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 looked smaller, my nose larger, and my veins swelled. The climax
was when I had to put my hat on. It would not go on the packet 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 _mon petit Dame_ to the
waiting-room, whilst my mother went direct to the theatre. I tore off
the lace which covered my hair, 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
golden. They were all sorry for me in my misery, and were touched by my
ugliness. Their mothers, however, were brimming over with joy in their
own fat.
The girls began to take out my hair-pins, 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 hair-pins. This sympathy made me once more
burst into tears.