was on Tuesday that Nathalie had spoken to me, and on Friday I was
disappointed to hear that Davennes was not there, and that there was to
be no rehearsal. Just as I was getting into my cab the hall-porter ran
out to give me a letter from Davennes. The poor man had not ventured to
come himself and give me the news, which he was sure would be so painful
to me.
He explained to me in his letter that on account of my extreme youth—the
importance of the _rôle_—such responsibility for my young shoulders—and
finally that as Madame Favart had recovered from her illness, it was
more prudent that, &c. &c. I finished reading the letter through
blinding tears, but very soon anger took the place of grief. I rushed
back again and sent my name in to the manager’s office. He could not see
me just then, but I said I would wait. After one hour, thoroughly
impatient, taking no notice of the office-boy and the secretary, who
wanted to prevent my entering, I opened the door of M. Thierry’s office
and walked in. All that despair, anger against injustice, and fury
against falseness could inspire me with I let him have, in a stream of
eloquence only interrupted by my sobs. The manager gazed at me in
bewilderment. He could not conceive of such daring and such violence in
a girl so young.
When at last, thoroughly exhausted, I sank down in an arm-chair, he
tried to calm me, but all in vain.
“I will leave at once,” I said. “Give me back my contract and I will
send you back mine.”
Finally, tired of argument and persuasion, he called his secretary and
gave him the necessary orders, and the latter soon brought in my
contract.
“Here is your mother’s signature, Mademoiselle. I leave you free to
bring it me back within forty-eight hours. After that time if I do not
receive it I shall consider that you are no longer a member of the
theatre. But believe me, you are acting unwisely. Think it over during
the next forty-eight hours.”
I did not answer, but went out of his office. That very evening I sent
back to M. Thierry the contract bearing his signature, and tore up the
one with that of my mother.
I had left Molière’s Theatre, and was not to re-enter it until twelve
years later.
XII
AT THE GYMNASE THEATRE—A TRIP TO SPAIN
This proceeding of mine was certainly violently decisive, and it
completely upset my home life. I was not happy from this time forth
amongst my own people, as I was continually being blamed for my
violence. Irritating remarks with a double meaning were constantly being
made by my aunt and my little sister. My godfather, whom I had once for
all requested to mind his own business, no longer dared to attack me
openly; but he influenced my mother against me. There was no longer any
peace for me except at Madame Guérard’s, and so I was constantly with
her. I enjoyed helping her in her domestic affairs. She taught me to
make cakes, chocolate, and scrambled eggs. All this gave me something
else to think about, and I soon recovered my gaiety.
One morning there was something very mysterious about my mother. She
kept looking at the clock, and seemed uneasy because my godfather, who
lunched and dined with us every day, had not arrived.
“It’s very strange,” my mother said, “for last night after whist he said
he should be with us this morning before luncheon. It’s very strange
indeed!”
She was usually calm, but she kept coming in and out of the room, and
when Marguerite put her head in at the door to ask whether she should
serve the luncheon, my mother told her to wait.
Finally the bell rang, startling my mother and Jeanne. My little sister
was evidently in the secret.
“Well, it’s settled!” exclaimed my godfather, shaking the snow from his
hat. “Here, read that, you self-willed girl.”
He handed me a letter stamped with the words “Théâtre du Gymnase.” It
was from Montigny, the manager of the theatre, to M. de Gerbois, a
friend of my godfather’s whom I knew very well. The letter was very
friendly, as far as M. de Gerbois was concerned, but it finished with
the following words, “I will engage your _protégée_ in order to be
agreeable to you... but she appears to me to have a vile temper.”
I blushed as I read these lines, and I thought my godfather was wanting
in tact, as he might have given me real delight and avoided hurting my
feelings in this way, but he was the clumsiest-minded man that ever
lived. My mother seemed very much pleased, so I kissed her pretty face
and thanked my godfather. Oh, how I loved kissing that pearly face,
which was always so cool and always slightly dewy. When I was a little
child I used to ask her to play at butterfly on my cheeks with her long
lashes, and she would put her face close to mine and open and shut her
eyes, tickling my cheeks whilst I lay back breathless with delight.
The following day I went to the Gymnase. I was kept waiting for some
little time, together with about fifty other girls. M. Monval, a cynical
old man who was stage manager and almost general manager, then
interviewed us. I liked him at first, because he was like M. Guérard,
but I very soon disliked him. His way of looking at me, of speaking to
me, and of taking stock of me generally roused my ire at once. I
answered his questions curtly, and our conversation, which seemed likely
to take an aggressive turn, was cut short by the arrival of M. Montigny,
the manager.
“Which of you is Mademoiselle Sarah Bernhardt?” he asked.
I at once rose, and he continued, “Will you come into my office,
Mademoiselle?”
Montigny had been an actor, and was plump and good-humoured. He appeared
to be somewhat infatuated with his own personality, with his ego, but
that did not matter to me.
After some friendly conversation, he preached a little to me about my
outburst at the Comédie, and made me a great many promises about the
_rôles_ I should have to play. He prepared my contract, and gave it me
to take home for my mother’s signature and that of my family council.
“I am emancipated,” I said to him, “so that my own signature is all that
is required.”
“Oh, very good,” he said; “but what nonsense to have emancipated a self-
willed girl. Your parents did not do you a good turn by that.”
I was just on the point of replying that what my parents chose to do did
not concern him, but I held my peace, signed the contract, and hurried
home feeling very joyful.
Montigny kept his word at first. He let me understudy Victoria
Lafontaine, a young artist very much in vogue just then, who had the
most delightful talent. I played in _La maison sans enfants_, and I took
her _rôle_ at a moment’s notice in _Le démon du jeu_, a piece which made
a great success. I was fairly good in both plays, but Montigny, in spite
of my entreaties, never came to see me in them, and the spiteful stage
manager played me no end of tricks. I used to feel a sullen anger
stirring within me, and I struggled with myself as much possible to keep
my nerves calm.
One evening, on leaving the theatre, a notice was handed to me
requesting me to be present at the reading of a play the following day.
Montigny had promised me a good part, and I fell asleep that night
lulled by fairies, who carried me off into the land of glory and
success. On arriving at the theatre I found Blanche Pierson and Céline
Montalant already there—two of the prettiest creatures that God has been
pleased to create, the one as fair as the rising sun, and the other as
dark as a starry night, for she was brilliant-looking in spite of her
black hair. There were other women there, too—very, very pretty ones.
The play to be read was entitled _Un mari qui lance sa femme_, and it
was by Raymond Deslandes. I listened to it without any great pleasure,
and I thought it stupid. I waited anxiously to see what _rôle_ was to be
given to me, and I discovered this only too soon. It was a certain
Princess Dimchinka, a frivolous, foolish, laughing individual, who was
always eating or dancing. I did not like the part at all. I was very
inexperienced on the stage, and my timidity made me rather awkward.
Besides, I had not worked for three years with such persistency and
conviction in order to create the _rôle_ of an idiotic woman in an
imbecile play. I was in despair, and the wildest ideas came into my
head. I wanted to give up the stage and go into business. I spoke of
this to our old family friend, Meydieu, who was so unbearable. He
approved of my idea, and wanted me to take a shop—a confectioner’s—on
the Boulevard des Italiens. This became a fixed idea with the worthy
man. He loved sweets himself, and he knew lots of recipes for various
sorts of sweets that were not generally known, and which he wanted to
introduce. I remember one kind that he wanted to call “_bonbon nègre_.”
It was a mixture of chocolate and essence of coffee rolled into grilled
licorice root. It was like black _praliné_, and was extremely good. I
was very persistent in this idea at first, and went with Meydieu to look
at a shop, but when he showed me the little flat over it where I should
have to live, it upset me so much that I gave up for ever the idea of
business.
I went every day to the rehearsal of the stupid piece, and was bad-
tempered all the time. Finally the first performance took place, and my
part was neither a success nor a failure. I simply was not noticed, and
at night my mother remarked, “My poor child, you were ridiculous in your
Russian princess _rôle_, and I was very much grieved!”
I did not answer at all, but I should honestly have liked to kill
myself. I slept very badly that night, and towards six in the morning I
rushed up to Madame Guérard. I asked her to give me some laudanum, but
she refused. When she saw that I really wanted it, the poor dear woman
understood my design. “Well, then,” I said, “swear by your children that
you will not tell any one what I am going to do, and then I will not
kill myself.” A sudden idea had just come into my mind, and, without
going further into it, I wanted to carry it out at once. She promised,
and I then told her that I was going at once to Spain, as I had longed
to see that country for a long time.
“Go to Spain!” she exclaimed. “With whom and when?”
“With the money I have saved,” I answered. “And this very morning. Every
one is asleep at home. I shall go and pack my trunk, and start at once
with you!”
“No, no, I cannot go,” exclaimed Madame Guérard, nearly beside herself.
“There is my husband to think of, and my children.”
Her little girl was scarcely two years old at that time.
“Well, then, _mon petit Dame_, find me some one to go with me.”
“I do not know any one,” she answered, crying in her excitement. “My
dear little Sarah give up such an idea, I beseech you.”
But by this time it was a fixed idea with me, and I was very determined
about it. I went downstairs, packed my trunk, and then returned to
Madame Guérard. I had wrapped up a pewter fork in paper, and this I
threw against one of the panes of glass in a skylight window opposite.
The window was opened abruptly, and the sleepy, angry face of a young
woman appeared. I made a trumpet of my two hands and called out:
“Caroline, will you start with me at once for Spain?” The bewildered
expression on the woman’s face showed that she had not comprehended, but
she replied at once, “I am coming, Mademoiselle.” She then closed her
window, and ten minutes later Caroline was tapping at the door. Madame
Guérard had sunk down aghast in an arm-chair.
M. Guérard had asked several times from his bedroom what was going on.
“Sarah is here,” his wife had replied. “I will tell you later on.”
Caroline did dressmaking by the day at Madame Guérard’s, and she had
offered her services to me as lady’s maid. She was agreeable and rather
daring, and she now accepted my offer at once. But as it would not do to
arouse the suspicions of the concierge, it was decided that I should
take her dresses in my trunk, and that she should put her linen into a
bag to be lent by _mon petit Dame_.
Poor dear Madame Guérard had given in. She was quite conquered, and soon
began to help in my preparations, which certainly did not take me long.
But I did not know how to get to Spain.
“You go through Bordeaux,” said Madame Guérard.
“Oh no,” exclaimed Caroline; “my brother-in-law is a skipper, and he
often goes to Spain by Marseilles.”
I had saved nine hundred francs, and Madame Guérard lent me six hundred.
It was perfectly mad, but I felt ready to conquer the universe, and
nothing would have induced me to abandon my plan. Then, too, it seemed
to me as though I had been wishing to see Spain for a long time. I had
got it into my head that my Fate willed it, that I must obey my star,
and a hundred other ideas, each one more foolish than the other,
strengthened me in my plan. I was destined to act in this way, I
thought.
I went downstairs again. The door was still ajar. With Caroline’s help I
carried the empty trunk up to Madame Guérard’s, and Caroline emptied my
wardrobe and drawers, and then packed the trunk. I shall never forget
that delightful moment. It seemed to me as though the world was about to
be mine. I was going to start off with a woman to wait on me. I was
about to travel alone, with no one to criticise what I decided to do. I
should see an unknown country about which I had dreamed, and I should
cross the sea. Oh, how happy I was! Twenty times I must have gone up and
down the staircase which separated our two flats. Every one was asleep
in my mother’s flat, and the rooms were so disposed that not a sound of
our going in and out could reach her.
My trunk was at last closed, Caroline’s valise fastened, and my little
bag crammed full. I was quite ready to start, but the fingers of the
clock had moved along by this time, and to my horror I discovered that
it was eight o’clock. Marguerite would be coming down from her bedroom
at the top of the house to prepare my mother’s coffee, my chocolate, and
bread and milk for my sisters. In a fit of despair and wild
determination I kissed Madame Guérard with such violence as almost to
stifle her, and rushed once more to my room to get my little Virgin
Mary, which went with me everywhere. I threw a hundred kisses to my
mother’s room, and then, with wet eyes and a joyful heart, went
downstairs. _Mon petit Dame_ had asked the man who polished the floors
to take the trunk and the valise down, and Caroline had fetched a cab. I
went like a whirlwind past the concierge’s door. She had her back turned
towards me and was sweeping the floor. I sprang into the cab, and the
driver whipped up his horse. I was on my way to Spain. I had written an
affectionate letter to my mother begging her to forgive me and not to be
grieved. I had written a stupid letter of explanation to Montigny, the
manager of the Gymnase Theatre. The letter did not explain anything,
though. It was written by a child whose brain was certainly a little
affected, and I finished up with these words: “Have pity on a poor,
crazy girl!”
Sardou told me later on that he happened to be in Montigny’s office when
he received my letter.
“The conversation was very animated, and when the door opened Montigny
exclaimed in a fury, ‘I had given orders that I was not to be
disturbed!’ He was somewhat appeased, however, on seeing old Monval’s
troubled look, and he knew something urgent was the matter. ‘Oh, what’s
happened now?’ he asked, taking the letter that the old stage manager
held out to him. On recognising my paper, with its grey border, he said,
‘Oh, it’s from that mad child! Is she ill?’
“‘No,’ said Monval; ‘she has gone to Spain.’
“‘She can go to the deuce!’ exclaimed Montigny. ‘Send for Madame
Dieudonnée to take her part. She has a good memory, and half the _rôle_
must be cut. That will settle it.’
“‘Any trouble for to-night?’ I asked Montigny.
“‘Oh, nothing,’ he answered; ‘it’s that little Sarah Bernhardt who has
cleared off to Spain!’
“‘That girl from the Français who boxed Nathalie’s ears?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘She’s rather amusing.’
“‘Yes, but not for her managers,’ remarked Montigny, continuing
immediately afterwards the conversation which had been interrupted.”
This is exactly as Victorien Sardou related the incident.
* * * * *
On arriving at Marseilles, Caroline went to get information about the
journey. The result was that we embarked on an abominable trading-boat,
a dirty coaster, smelling of oil and stale fish, a perfect horror.
I had never been on the sea, so I fancied that all boats were like this
one, and that it was no good complaining. After six days of rough sea we
landed at Alicante. Oh, that landing, how well I remember it! I had to
jump from boat to boat, from plank to plank, with the risk of falling
into the water a hundred times over, for I am naturally inclined to
dizziness, and the little gangways, without any rails, rope, or
anything, thrown across from one boat to another and bending under my
light weight seemed to me like mere ropes stretched across space.
Exhausted with fatigue and hunger, I went to the first hotel recommended
to us. Oh, what a hotel it was! The house itself was built of stone,
with low arcades. Rooms on the first floor were given to me. Certainly
the owners of these hotel people had never had two ladies in their house
before. The bedroom was large, but with a low ceiling. By way of
decoration there were enormous fish bones arranged in garlands caught up
by the heads of fish. By half shutting one’s eyes this decoration might
be taken for delicate sculpture of ancient times. In reality, however,
it was merely composed of fish bones.
I had a bed put up for Caroline in this sinister-looking room. We pulled
the furniture across against the doors, and I did not undress, for I
could not venture on those sheets. I was accustomed to fine sheets
perfumed with iris, for my pretty little mother, like all Dutch women,
had a mania for linen and cleanliness, and she had inculcated me with
this harmless mania.
It was about five in the morning when I opened my eyes, no doubt
instinctively, as there had been no sound to rouse me. A door, leading I
did not know where, opened, and a man looked in. I gave a shrill cry,
seized my little Virgin Mary, and waved her about, wild with terror.
Caroline roused up with a start, and courageously rushed to the window.
She threw it up, screaming, “Fire! Thieves! Help!”
The man disappeared, and the house was soon invaded by the police. I
leave it to be imagined what the police of Alicante forty years ago were
like. I answered all the questions asked me by a vice-consul, who was an
Hungarian and spoke French. I had seen the man, and he had a silk
handkerchief on his head. He had a beard, and on his shoulder a
_poncho_, but that was all I knew. The Hungarian vice-consul, who, I
believe, represented France, Austria, and Hungary, asked me the colour
of the brigand’s beard, silk handkerchief, and _poncho_. It had been too
dark for me to distinguish the colours exactly. The worthy man was very
much annoyed at my answer. After taking down a few notes he remained
thoughtful for a moment and then gave orders for a message to be taken
to his home. It was to ask his wife to send a carriage, and to get a
room ready in order to receive a young foreigner in distress. I prepared
to go with him, and after paying my bill at the hotel we started off in
the worthy Hungarian’s carriage, and I was welcomed by his wife with the
most touching cordiality. I drank the coffee with thick cream which she
poured out for me, and during breakfast told her who I was and where I
was going. She then told me in return that her father was an important
manufacturer of cloth, that he was from Bohemia, and a great friend of
my father’s. She took me to the room that had been prepared for me, made
me go to bed, and told me that while I was asleep she would write me
some letters of introduction for Madrid.
I slept for ten hours without waking, and when I roused up was
thoroughly rested in mind and body. I wanted to send a telegram to my
mother, but this was impossible, as there was no telegraph at Alicante.
I wrote a letter, therefore, to my poor dear mother, telling her that I
was in the house of friends of my father, &c. &c.
The following day I started for Madrid with a letter for the landlord of
the Hôtel de la Puerta del Sol. Nice rooms were given to us, and I sent
messengers with the letters from Madame Rudcowitz. I spent a fortnight
in Madrid, and was made a great deal of and generally fêted. I went to
all the bull-fights, and was infatuated with them. I had the honour of
being invited to a great _corrida_ given in honour of Victor Emmanuel,
who was just then the guest of the Queen of Spain. I forgot Paris, my
sorrows, disappointments, ambitions and everything else, and I wanted to
live in Spain. A telegram sent by Madame Guérard made me change all my
plans. My mother was very ill, the telegram informed me. I packed my
trunk and wanted to start off at once, but when my hotel bill was paid I
had not a _sou_ to pay for the railway journey. The landlord of the
hotel took two tickets for me, prepared a basket of provisions, and gave
me two hundred francs at the station, telling me that he had received
orders from Madame Rudcowitz not to let me want for anything. She and
her husband were certainly most delightful people.
My heart beat fast when I reached my mother’s house in Paris. _Mon petit
Dame_ was waiting for me downstairs in the concierge’s room. She was
very excited to see me looking so well, and kissed me with her eyes full
of tears of joy. The concierge and family poured forth their
compliments. Madame Guérard went upstairs before me to inform my mother
of my arrival, and I waited a moment in the kitchen and was hugged by
our old servant Marguerite.
My sisters both came running in. Jeanne kissed me, then turned me round
and examined me. Régina, with her hands behind her back, leaned against
the stove gazing at me furiously.
“Well, won’t you kiss me, Régina?” I asked, stooping down to her.
“No, don’t like you,” she answered. “You’ve went off without me. Don’t
like you now.” She turned away brusquely to avoid my kiss, and knocked
her head against the stove.
Finally Madame Guérard appeared again, and I went with her. Oh, how
repentant I was, and how deeply affected. I knocked gently at the door
of the room, which was hung with pale blue rep. My mother looked very
white, lying in her bed. Her face was thinner, but wonderfully
beautiful. She stretched out her arms like two wings, and I rushed
forward to this white, loving nest. My mother cried silently, as she
always did. Then her hands played with my hair, which she let down and
combed with her long, taper fingers. Then we asked each other a hundred
questions. I wanted to know everything, and she did too, so that we had
the most amusing duet of words, phrases, and kisses. I found that my
mother had had a rather severe attack of pleurisy, that she was now
getting better, but was not yet well. I therefore took up my abode again
with her, and for the time being went back to my old bedroom. Madame
Guérard had told me in a letter that my grandmother on my father’s side
had at last agreed to the proposal made by my mother. My father had left
a certain sum of money which I was to have on my wedding-day. My mother,
at my request, had asked my grandmother to let me have half this sum,
and she had at last consented, saying that she should use the interest
of the other half, but that this latter half would always be at my
disposal if I changed my mind and consented to marry.