was, on my bed, and remained for a long time deep in thought. Hitherto
all I had known of life had been through my family and my work. I had
now just had a glimpse of it through society, and I was struck by the
hypocrisy of some of the people and the conceit of others. I began to
wonder uneasily what I should do, shy and frank as I was. I thought of
my mother. She did not do anything, though she was indifferent to
everything. I thought of my aunt Rosine, who, on the contrary, liked to
mix in everything.
I remained there looking down on the ground, my head in a whirl, and
feeling very anxious, and I did not go to bed until I was thoroughly
chilled.
The next few days passed by without any particular events. I was working
hard at Iphigénie, as M. Thierry had told me that I was to make my
_début_ in that _rôle_.
At the end of August I received a notice requesting me to attend the
rehearsal of _Iphigénie_. Oh, that first notice, how it made my heart
beat. I could not sleep at night, and daylight did not come quickly
enough for me. I kept getting up to look at the time. It seemed to me
that the clock had stopped. I had dozed, and I fancied it was the same
time as before. Finally a streak of light coming through my window-panes
was, I thought, the triumphant sun illuminating my room. I got up at
once, pulled back the curtains, and mumbled my _rôle_ while dressing.
I thought of my rehearsing with Madame Devoyod, the leading
_tragédienne_ of the Comédie Française, with Maubant, with——I trembled
as I thought of all this, for Madame Devoyod was said to be anything but
indulgent. I arrived for the rehearsal an hour before the time. The
stage manager, Davenne, smiled and asked me whether I knew my _rôle_.
“Oh yes,” I exclaimed with conviction. “Come and rehearse it. Would you
like to?” and he took me to the stage.
I went with him through the long corridor of busts which leads from the
green-room to the stage. He told me the names of the celebrities
represented by these busts. I stood still a moment before that of
Adrienne Lecouvreur.
“I love that artiste,” I said.
“Do you know her story?” he asked.
“Yes; I have read all that has been written about her.”
“That’s right, my child,” said the worthy man. “You ought to read all
that concerns your art. I will lend you some interesting books.”
He took me towards the stage. The mysterious gloom, the scenery reared
up like fortifications, the bareness of the floor, the endless number of
weights, ropes, trees, borders, battens overhead, the yawning house
completely dark, the silence, broken by the creaking of the floor, and
the vault-like chill that one felt—all this together awed me. It did not
seem to me as if I were entering the brilliant ranks of living artistes
who every night won the applause of the house by their merriment or
their sobs. No, I felt as though I were in the tomb of dead glories, and
the stage seemed to me to be getting crowded with the illustrious
shadows of those whom the stage manager had just mentioned. With my
highly strung nerves, my imagination, which was always evoking
something, now saw them advance towards me stretching out their hands.
These spectres wanted to take me away with them. I put my hands over my
eyes and stood still.
“Are you not well?” asked M. Davenne.
“Oh yes, thank you; it was just a little giddiness.”
His voice had chased away the spectres, and I opened my eyes and paid
attention to the worthy man’s advice. Book in hand, he explained to me
where I was to stand, and my changes of place, &c. He was rather pleased
with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At
the line,
_Eurybate à l’autel, conduisez la victime_,
he said, “Mademoiselle Favart was very effective there.”
The artistes gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or less. They
glanced at me, and then rehearsed their scenes without taking any notice
of me at all.
I felt inclined to cry, but I was more vexed than anything else. I heard
three coarse words used by one or another of the artistes. I was not
accustomed to this somewhat brutal language. At home every one was
rather timorous. At my aunt’s people were a trifle affected, whilst at
the convent, it is unnecessary to say, I had never heard a word that was
out of place. It is true that I had been through the Conservatoire, but
I had not cultivated any of the pupils with the exception of Marie Lloyd
and Rose Baretta, the elder sister of Blanche Baretta, who is now a
Sociétaire of the Comédie Française.
When the rehearsal was over it was decided that there should be another
one at the same hour the following day in the public _foyer_.
The costume-maker came in search of me, as she wanted to try on my
costume. Mlle. de Brabender, who had arrived during the rehearsal, went
up with me to the costume-room. She wanted my arms to be covered, but
the costume-maker told her gently that this was impossible in tragedy.
A dress of white woollen material was tried on me. It was very ugly, and
the veil was so stiff that I refused it. A wreath of roses was tried on,
but this too was so unsightly that I refused to wear it.
“Well, then, Mademoiselle,” said the costume-maker dryly, “you will have
to get these things and pay for them yourself, as this is the costume
supplied by the Comédie.”
“Very well,” I answered, blushing; “I will get them myself.”
On returning home I told my mother my troubles, and, as she was always
very generous, she promptly bought me a veil of white barège that fell
in beautiful, large, soft folds, and a wreath of hedge roses which at
night looked very soft and white. She also ordered me buskins from the
shoemaker employed by the Comédie.
The next thing to think about was the make-up box. For this my mother
had recourse to the mother of Dica Petit, my fellow student at the
Conservatoire. I went with Madame Dica Petit to M. Massin, a
manufacturer of these make-up boxes. He was the father of Léontine
Massin, another Conservatoire pupil.
We went up to the sixth floor of a house in the Rue Réaumur, and on a
plain-looking door read the words _Massin, manufacturer of make-up
boxes_. I knocked, and a little hunchback girl opened the door. I
recognised Léontine’s sister, as she had come several times to the
Conservatoire.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a surprise for us! Titine,” she then called
out, “here is Mademoiselle Sarah!”
Léontine Massin came running out of the next room. She was a pretty
girl, very gentle and calm in demeanour. She threw her arms round me,
exclaiming, “How glad I am to see you! And so you are going to make your
début at the Comédie. I saw it in the papers.”
I blushed up to my ears at the idea of being mentioned in the papers.
“I am engaged at the Variétés,” she said, and then she talked away at
such a rate that I was bewildered. Madame Petit did not enter into all
this, and tried in vain to separate us. She had replied by a nod and an
indifferent “Thanks” to Léontine’s inquiries about her daughter’s
health. Finally, when the young girl had finished saying all she had to
say, Madame Petit remarked:
“You must order your box. We have come here for that, you know.”
“Oh you will find my father in his workshop at the end of the passage,
and if you are not very long I shall still be here. I am going to
rehearsal at the Variétés later on.”
Madame Petit was furious, for she did not like Léontine Massin.
“Don’t wait, Mademoiselle,” she said; “it will be impossible for us to
stay afterwards.”
Léontine was annoyed, and, shrugging her shoulders, turned her back on
my companion. She then put her hat on, kissed me, and bowing gravely to
Madame Petit, said: “I hope, Madame ‘Gros-tas,’ I shall never see you
again.” She then ran off, laughing merrily. I heard Madame Petit mutter
a few disagreeable words in Dutch, but the meaning of them was only
explained to me later on. We then went to the workshop, and found old
Massin at his bench, planing some small planks of white wood. His
hunchback daughter kept coming in and out, humming gaily all the time.
The father was glum and harsh, and had an anxious look. As soon as we
had ordered the box we took our leave. Madame Petit went out first;
Léontine’s sister held me back by the hand and said quietly, “Father is
not very polite, but it is because he is jealous. He wanted my sister to
be at the Théâtre Français.”
I was rather disturbed by this confidence, and I had a vague idea of the
painful drama which was acting so differently on the various members of
this humble home.
XI
MY DÉBUT AT THE HOUSE OF MOLIÈRE, AND MY FIRST DEPARTURE THEREFROM
On September 1, 1862, the day I was to make my _début_, I was in the Rue
Duphot looking at the theatrical posters. They used to be put up then at
the corner of the Rue Duphot and the Rue St. Honoré. On the poster of
the Comédie Française I read the words “_Début of Mlle. Sarah
Bernhardt_.” I have no idea how long I stood there, fascinated by the
letters of my name, but I remember that it seemed to me as though every
person who stopped to read the poster looked at me afterwards, and I
blushed to the very roots of my hair.
At five o’clock I went to the theatre. I had a dressing-room on the top
floor which I shared with Mlle. Coblentz. This room was on the other
side of the Rue de Richelieu, in a house rented by the Comédie
Française. A small covered bridge over the street served as a passage
and means of communication for us to reach the Comédie.
I was a tremendously long time dressing, and did not know whether I
looked nice or not. _Mon petit Dame_ thought I was too pale, and Mlle.
de Brabender considered that I had too much colour. My mother was to go
direct to her seat in the theatre, and Aunt Rosine was away in the
country.
When the call-boy announced that the play was about to begin, I broke
into a cold perspiration from head to foot, and felt ready to faint. I
went downstairs trembling, tottering, and my teeth chattering. When I
arrived on the stage the curtain was rising. That curtain which was
being raised so slowly and solemnly was to me like the veil being torn
which was to let me have a glimpse of my future. A deep gentle voice
made me turn round. It was Provost, my first professor, who had come to
encourage me. I greeted him warmly, so glad was I to see him again.
Samson was there, too; I believe that he was playing that night in one
of Molière’s comedies. The two men were very different. Provost was
tall, his silvery hair was blown about, and he had a droll face. Samson
was small, precise, dainty; his shiny white hair curled firmly and
closely round his head. Both men had been moved by the same sentiment of
protection for the poor, fragile, nervous girl, who was nevertheless so
full of hope. Both of them knew my zeal for work, my obstinate will,
which was always struggling for victory over my physical weakness. They
knew that my motto “_Quand-même_” had not been adopted by me merely by
chance, but that it was the outcome of a deliberate exercise of will
power on my part. My mother had told them how I had chosen this motto at
the age of nine, after a formidable leap over a ditch which no one could
jump and which my young cousin had dared me to attempt. I had hurt my
face, broken my wrist, and was in pain all over. Whilst I was being
carried home I exclaimed furiously, “Yes, I would do it again, _quand-
même_, if any one dared me again. And I will always do what I want to do
all my life.” In the evening of that day my aunt, who was grieved to see
me in such pain, asked me what would give me any pleasure. My poor
little body was all bandaged, but I jumped with joy at this, and quite
consoled, I whispered in a coaxing way, “I should like to have some
writing-paper with a motto of my own.”
My mother asked me rather slyly what my motto was. I did not answer for
a minute, and then, as they were all waiting quietly, I uttered such a
furious “_Quand-même_” that my Aunt Faure started back exclaiming, “What
a terrible child!”
Samson and Provost reminded me of this story in order to give me
courage, but my ears were buzzing so that I could not listen to them.
Provost heard my “cue” on the stage, and pushed me gently forward. I
made my entry and hurried towards Agamemnon, my father. I did not want
to leave him again, as I felt I must have some one to hold on to. I then
rushed to my mother, Clytemnestra ... I stammered ... and on leaving the
stage I rushed up to my room and began to undress.
Madame Guérard was terrified, and asked me if I was mad. I had only
played one act, and there were four more. I realised then that it would
really be dangerous to give way to my nerves. I had recourse to my own
motto, and, standing in front of the glass gazing into my own eyes, I
ordered myself to be calm and to conquer myself, and my nerves, in a
state of confusion, yielded to my brain. I got through the play, but was
very insignificant in my part.
The next morning my mother sent for me early. She had been looking at
Sarcey’s article in _L’Opinion Nationale_, and she now read me the
following lines: “Mlle. Bernhardt who made her _début_ yesterday in the
_rôle_ of Iphigénie, is a tall, pretty girl with a slender figure and a
very pleasing expression; the upper part of her face is remarkably
beautiful. Her carriage is excellent, and her enunciation is perfectly
clear. This is all that can be said for her at present.”
“The man is an idiot,” said my mother, drawing me to her. “You were
charming.”
She then prepared a little cup of coffee for me, and made it with cream.
I was happy, but not completely so.
When my godfather arrived in the afternoon he exclaimed, “Good heavens!
My poor child, what thin arms you have!”
As a matter of fact, people had laughed, and I had heard them, when
stretching out my arms towards Eurybate. I had said the famous line in
which Favart had made her “effect” that was now a tradition. I certainly
had made no “effect,” unless the smiles caused by my long, thin arms can
be reckoned as such.
My second appearance was in _Valérie_, when I did make some slight
success.
My third appearance at the Comédie resulted in the following _boutade_
from the pen of the same Sarcey:
_L’Opinion Nationale_, September 12: “The same evening _Les Femmes
Savantes_ was given. This was Mlle. Bernhardt’s third _début_, and she
assumed the _rôle_ of Henriette. She was just as pretty and
insignificant in this as in that of Junie [he had made a mistake, as it
was Iphigénie I had played] and of Valérie, both of which _rôles_ had
been entrusted to her previously. This performance was a very poor
affair, and gives rise to reflections by no means gay. That Mlle.
Bernhardt should be insignificant does not much matter. She is a
_débutante_, and among the number presented to us it is only natural
that some should be failures. The pitiful part is, though, that the
comedians playing with her were not much better than she was, and they
are Sociétaires of the Théâtre Français. All that they had more than
their young comrade was a greater familiarity with the boards. They are
just as Mlle. Bernhardt may be in twenty years’ time, if she stays at
the Comédie Française.”
[Illustration:
AN EARLY PORTRAIT OF
SARAH BERNHARDT
]
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT IN
_LES FEMMES SAVANTES_
]
[Illustration:
SARAH BERNHARDT AS THE
DUC DE RICHELIEU
]
I did not stay there, though, for one of those nothings which change a
whole life changed mine. I had entered the Comédie expecting to remain
there always. I had heard my godfather explain to my mother all about
the various stages of my career.
“The child will have so much during the first five years,” he said, “and
so much afterwards, and then at the end of thirty years she will have
the pension given to Sociétaires—that is, if she ever becomes a
Sociétaire.” He appeared to have his doubts about that.
My sister Régina was the cause (though quite involuntarily this time) of
the drama which made me leave the Comédie. It was Molière’s anniversary,
and all the artistes of the Français salute the bust of the great
writer, according to the tradition of the theatre. It was to be my first
appearance at a “ceremony,” and my little sister, on hearing me tell
about it at home, besought me to take her to it.
My mother gave me permission to do so, and our old Marguerite was to
accompany us. All the members of the Comédie were assembled in the
_foyer_. The men and women, dressed in different costumes, all wore the
famous doctor’s cloak. The signal was given that the ceremony was about
to commence, and every one hurried along the corridor of the busts. I
was holding my little sister’s hand, and just in front of us was the
very fat and very solemn Madame Nathalie. She was a Sociétaire of the
Comédie, old, spiteful, and surly.
Régina, in trying to avoid the train of Marie Roger’s cloak, stepped on
to Nathalie’s, and the latter turned round and gave the child such a
violent push that she was knocked against a column on which was a bust.
Régina screamed out, and as she turned back to me I saw that her pretty
face was bleeding.
“You miserable creature!” I called out to the fat woman, and as she
turned round to reply I slapped her in the face. She proceeded to faint;
there was a great tumult, and an uproar of indignation, approval,
stifled laughter, satisfied revenge, pity for the poor child from those
artistes who were mothers, &c. &c. Two groups were formed, one around
the wretched Nathalie, who was still in her swoon, and the other around
little Régina. And the different aspect of these two groups was rather
strange. Around Nathalie were cold, solemn-looking men and women,
fanning the fat, helpless lump with their handkerchiefs or fans. A young
but severe-looking Sociétaire was sprinkling her with drops of water.
Nathalie, on feeling this, roused up suddenly, put her hands over her
face, and muttered in a far-away voice, “How stupid! You’ll spoil my
make-up!”
The younger men were stooping over Régina, washing her pretty face, and
the child was saying in her broken voice, “I did not do it on purpose,
sister, I am certain I didn’t. She’s an old cow, and she just kicked for
nothing at all!” Régina was a fair-haired seraph, who might have made
the angels envious, for she had the most ideal and poetical beauty—but
her language was by no means choice, and nothing in the world could
change it. Her coarse speech made the friendly group burst out laughing,
while all the members of the enemy’s camp shrugged their shoulders.
Bressant, who was the most charming of the comedians and a general
favourite, came up to me and said:
“We must arrange this little matter, dear Mademoiselle, for Nathalie’s
short arms are really very long. Between ourselves, you were a trifle
hasty, but I like that, and then that child is so droll and so pretty,”
he added, pointing to my little sister.
The house was stamping with impatience, for this little scene had caused
twenty minutes’ delay, and we were obliged to go on to the stage at
once. Marie Roger kissed me, saying, “You are a plucky little comrade!”
Rose Baretta drew me to her, murmuring, “How dared you do it! She is a
Sociétaire!”
As for me, I was not very conscious as to what I had done, but my
instinct warned me that I should pay dearly for it.
The following day I received a letter from the manager asking me to call
at the Comédie at one o’clock, about a matter concerning me privately. I
had been crying all night long, more through nervous excitement than
from remorse, and I was particularly annoyed at the idea of the attacks
I should have to endure from my own family. I did not let my mother see
the letter, for from the day that I had entered the Comédie I had been
emancipated. I received my letters now direct, without her supervision,
and I went about alone.
At one o’clock precisely I was shown into the manager’s office. M.
Thierry, his nose more congested than ever, and his eyes more crafty,
preached me a deadly sermon, blamed my want of discipline, absence of
respect, and scandalous conduct, and finished his pitiful harangue by
advising me to beg Madame Nathalie’s pardon.
“I have asked her to come,” he added, “and you must apologise to her
before three Sociétaires, members of the committee. If she consents to
forgive you, the committee will then consider whether to fine you or to
cancel your engagement.”
I did not reply for a few minutes. I thought of my mother in distress,
my godfather laughing in his _bourgeois_ way, and my Aunt Faure
triumphant, with her usual phrase, “That child is terrible!” I thought
too of my beloved Brabender, with her hands clasped, her moustache
drooping sadly, her small eyes full of tears, so touching in their mute
supplication. I could hear my gentle, timid Madame Guérard arguing with
every one, so courageous was she always in her confidence in my future.
“Well, Mademoiselle?” said M. Thierry curtly.
I looked at him without speaking, and he began to get impatient.
“I will go and ask Madame Nathalie to come here,” he said, “and I beg
you will do your part as quickly as possible, for I have other things to
attend to than to put your blunders right.”
“Oh no, do not fetch Madame Nathalie,” I said at last. “I shall not
apologise to her. I will leave; I will cancel my engagement at once.”
He was stupefied, and his arrogance melted away in pity for the
ungovernable, wilful child, who was about to ruin her whole future for
the sake of a question of self-esteem. He was at once gentler and more
polite. He asked me to sit down, which he had not hitherto done, and he
sat down himself opposite to me, and spoke to me gently about the
advantages of the Comédie, and of the danger that there would be for me
in leaving that illustrious theatre, which had done me the honour of
admitting me. He gave me a hundred other very good, wise reasons which
softened me. When he saw the effect he had made he wanted to send for
Madame Nathalie, but I roused up then like a little wild animal.
“Oh, don’t let her come here; I should box her ears again!” I exclaimed.
“Well then, I must ask your mother to come,” he said.
“My mother would never come,” I said.
“Then I will go and call on her,” he remarked.
“It will be quite useless,” I persisted. “My mother has emancipated me,
and I am quite free to lead my own life. I alone am responsible for all
that I do.”
“Well then, Mademoiselle, I will think it over,” he said, rising, to
show me that the interview was at an end. I went back home, determined
to say nothing to my mother; but my little sister when questioned about
her wound had told everything in her own way, exaggerating, if possible,
the brutality of Madame Nathalie and the audacity of what I had done.
Rose Baretta, too, had been to see me, and had burst into tears,
assuring my mother that my engagement would be cancelled. The whole
family was very much excited and distressed when I arrived, and when
they began to argue with me it made me still more nervous. I did not
take calmly the reproaches which one and another of them addressed to
me, and I was not at all willing to follow their advice. I went to my
room and locked myself in.
The following day no one spoke to me, and I went up to Madame Guérard to
be comforted and consoled.
Several days passed by, and I had nothing to do at the theatre. Finally
one morning I received a notice requesting me to be present at the
reading of a play,—_Dolorès_, by M. Bouilhet. This was the first time I
had been asked to attend the reading of a new piece. I was evidently to
have a _rôle_ to “create.” All my sorrows were at once dispersed like a
cloud of butterflies. I told my mother of my joy, and she naturally
concluded that as I was asked to attend a reading my engagement was not
to be cancelled, and I was not to be asked again to apologise to Madame
Nathalie.
I went to the theatre, and to my utter surprise I received from M.
Davennes the _rôle_ of Dolorès, the chief part in Bouilhet’s play. I
knew that Favart, who should have had this _rôle_, was not well; but
there were other artistes, and I could not get over my joy and surprise.
Nevertheless, I felt somewhat uneasy. A terrible presentiment has always
warned me of any troubles about to come upon me.
I had been rehearsing for five days, when one morning on going upstairs
I suddenly found myself face to face with Nathalie, seated under
Gérôme’s portrait of Rachel, known as “the red pimento.” I did not know
whether to go downstairs again or to pass by. My hesitation was noticed
by the spiteful woman.
“Oh, you can pass, Mademoiselle,” she said. “I have forgiven you, as I
have avenged myself. The _rôle_ that you like so much is not going to be
for you after all.”
I went by without uttering a word. I was thunderstruck by her speech,
which I guessed would prove true.