sausages. But my poor hair was very heavy with the pomade 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
round 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
hair-pins.
The competition had commenced, and I was the tenth on the list. I could
not remember what I had to say. Madame Guérard moistened my temples with
cold water, and Mlle. de Brabender, who had only just arrived, did not
recognise me, and looked about for me everywhere. She had broken her leg
nearly three months before, and had to hobble about on a crutch-stick,
but she had resolved to come.
Madame Guérard was just beginning to tell her about the drama of the
hair when my name echoed through the room: “Mademoiselle Chara
Bernhardt!” It was Léautaud, who later on was prompter at the Comédie
Française, and who had a strong accent peculiar to the natives of
Auvergne. “Mademoiselle Chara Bernhardt!” I heard again, and then I
sprang up without an idea in my mind and without uttering a word. I
looked round for my partner who was to give me my cues, and together we
made our entry.
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT IN THE HANDS OF
HER COIFFEUR, BEFORE GOING TO
THE CONSERVATOIRE EXAMINATION.
HER MOTHER IS ON THE LEFT
]
I was surprised at the sound of my voice, which I did not recognise. 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. She 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 Madame Guérard and Mlle. de Brabender fainted away in their
arms. Some one went to the hall in search of a doctor, and the rumour
that “the little Bernhardt had fainted” reached my mother. She was
sitting far back in a box, feeling 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
burnt 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 fluffy, and altogether there was a general
improvement in my appearance.
The tragedy competition was over, and the prizes had been awarded. I had
nothing at all, but mention was made of my last year’s second prize. I
felt confused, but it did not cause me any disappointment, as I quite
expected things to be like this. Several persons had protested in my
favour. Camille Doucet, who was a member of the jury, had pleaded a long
time. He wanted me to have a first prize in spite of my bad recitation.
He said that my examination results 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 fourteenth
on the list 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.
I 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 get the first prize I
must give up the idea of the stage as a career. My mystic love and
weakness for the convent came back to me more strongly than ever. I
decided that I would enter the convent if I did not get the first prize.
And the most foolish illogical strife 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 theatre 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 Grand-Champs Convent. Then with the most indulgent generosity I
attributed to myself all the necessary gifts for the fulfilment of my
other dream, namely, to become the first, the most celebrated, and the
most envied of actresses. I told off on my fingers all my qualities:
grace, 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 very much inclined to argue, and I was a mere
child, and looked much younger than my years. In spite of this I was
very brilliant; I argued well, was very gay, and made an immense
success. I was transfigured with joy and wildly excited, so sure I felt
of a first prize.
I never doubted for a moment but 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 something to eat. A cutlet
was brought from the pastrycook’s patronised by the Conservatoire, and I
devoured it, to the great joy of Madame 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 large
box, and there was silence in the theatre. The young men were called
first on 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 Theatre and Réjane’s
husband. After this came the turn of 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 Mademoiselle Marie Lloyd.” The tall girl I had pushed
aside now went forward, slender and radiant, towards the stage.
There were a few protestations, but her beauty, her distinction, and her
modest charm won the day with every one, 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 nullity 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. I was simply
petrified with amazement.
“Second prize for comedy: Mademoiselle Bernhardt.” I had not heard, 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 at me, 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 towards me, stifling me, crushing
me, so that I could not breathe. My face, it seems, was whiter than my
dress.
On leaving the stage I went and sat down on the bench without uttering a
word, and looked at Marie Lloyd, who was being made much of, and who was
greatly complimented by every one. 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 ... but in her case this
was without danger. Her refined face, with its somewhat proud
expression, was charming and very beautiful. Although very young, she
had more of a woman’s fascination than any of us. Her large brown eyes
shone with dilating pupils; her small round mouth gave a sly little
smile at the corners, and her wonderfully shaped nose had quivering
nostrils. 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 to 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 so unconsciously cruel.
She had realised for every one 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
have had a _rôle_ to create, the personage always appears before me
dressed from head to foot, walking, bowing, sitting down, getting up.
But that is but the vision of a second; my mind has been thinking of the
soul that is to govern this personage. When listening to an author
reading his work, I try to define the intention of his idea, in my
desire 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 as the novelist describes it if an invented
personage.
I have sometimes tried to compel the public to return to the truth and
to destroy the legendary side of certain personages whom history, with
all its documents, now represents to us as they were in reality, but the
public never followed me. I soon realised that legend remains victorious
in spite of history. And this is perhaps an advantage for the mind of
the people. 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 aside
all the failings of humanity in order to leave them, clothed in the
ideal, seated on a throne of love. We do not like Joan of Arc to be the
rustic, bold peasant girl, repulsing violently the hardy soldier who
wants to joke with her, the girl sitting astride her big Percheron horse
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 the
heroic virgin.
We do not care for such useless truths. In the legend she is a fragile
woman guided by a divine soul. Her girlish arm which holds the heavy
banner is supported by an invisible angel. In her childish eyes there is
something from another world, and it is from this that all the warriors
drew strength and courage. It is thus that we wish it to be, and so the
legend remains triumphant.
X
MY FIRST ENGAGEMENT AT THE COMÉDIE FRANÇAISE
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 not
fair.”
“I do not know whether it is fair 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 her 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, Madame 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
chattered about every one. “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 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, Madame 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 of 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 on the stage? You
are thin and small, your face is pretty enough when near, but ugly in
the distance, and your voice does not carry!”
“Yes, my dear girl,” put in M. Meydieu, “your godfather is right. You
had better marry the miller 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 Madame Guérard was under thirty. He was melancholy,
gentle, and timid: he had been awarded the red ribbon of the Legion of
Honour, and he wore a long, shabby frock coat, used aristocratic
gestures, and was private secretary to M. de la Tour Desmoulins, a
prominent deputy at the time. M. Guérard was a well of science, and I
owe much to his kindness. My sister 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
woke 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 were 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 Madame Guérard:
“When you had gone to sleep the Duc de Morny sent word to your mother
that Camille Doucet had just assured him that you were to be engaged at
the Comédie Française. Do not worry any more, therefore, my dear child,
but have faith in the future.—Your _petit 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 every one 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 towards 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 darkness I tried to
find my mother’s portrait. I could scarcely see this, but I threw kisses
to it. I then took up again the letter from _mon petit Dame_, and went
to sleep with it clasped in my hand. I do not remember what my dreams
were.
The next day every one 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 treat you to a landau.”
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT ON LEAVING
THE CONSERVATOIRE
]
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 large
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 handing it to me before obtaining her
permission to do so.
“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’s for to-morrow! It’s for to-morrow!” My younger
sister was eight years old, but I was only six that day. I went upstairs
to the flat above to tell Madame 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 like this, and went noisily into the drawing-room. My
godfather, M. Meydieu, my aunt, and my mother were just beginning a game
of whist. I kissed each of them, leaving a patch of soap-suds 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 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 a 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 _gros-grain_ stitched all round with
white. It was thought better for me to be dressed like a grown-up
person, and all my clothes were only suitable for a school-girl. Mlle.
de Brabender gave me a handkerchief that she had embroidered, and Madame
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, the following day,
with Madame 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 heard that this arrival in my own carriage, with a
footman, made a very bad impression. What all the theatre people thought
I never cared to consider, and it seems to me that my extreme youth must
really have protected me from all suspicion.
M. Thierry received me very kindly, and made a little nonsensical
speech. He then unfolded a paper which he handed to Madame Guérard,
asking her to read it and then to sign it. This paper was my contract,
and _mon petit 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 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 gaily.
I showed him the contract and shook hands with him. I went quickly down
the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theatre found myself in the
midst of a group in the doorway.
“Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice which I recognised 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 feel sure of
you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked,
“What do you say, Excellency?”
“I think that this child will be a very great artist,” he replied.
There was a silence for a moment.
“Well, you have got a fine carriage!” exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He
was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the most uncouth man in
France or anywhere else.
“This carriage belongs to Mademoiselle’s aunt,” remarked Camille Doucet,
shaking hands with me gently.
“Oh—well, I am glad to hear that,” answered the tragedian.
I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at
the theatre, and drove away. On reaching home I took the contract to my
mother. She signed it without reading it.
I made my mind resolutely 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 and
the Minister of Fine 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! Every one 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’Ame du Purgatoire_.” “That should be
spoken with music as an accompaniment,” exclaimed Rossini when I came to
an end. Every one approved this idea, and Walewski said; “Mademoiselle
will begin again, and you could improvise, _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, an elegant young hussar, was also present. He 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 made a great
success. She was coquettish and charming, and just a trifle jealous of
this insignificant niece who had taken up the attention of her adorers
for a few minutes.