often brought us burnt papers, which we took to the Council House. The
Seine brought quantities along with it, and the boatmen collected these
in sacks. Some days—and these were the most distressing of all—an opaque
veil of smoke enveloped Paris. There was no breeze to allow the flames
to pierce through.
The city then burnt stealthily, without our anxious eyes being able to
discover the fresh buildings that these furious madmen had set alight.
I went for a ride every day in the forest. Sometimes I would go as far
as Versailles, but this was not without danger. We often came across
poor starving wretches in the forest, whom we joyfully helped, but
often, too, there were prisoners who had escaped from Poissy, or
Communist sharpshooters trying to shoot a Versailles soldier.
One day, on the way back from Triel, where Captain O’Connor and I had
been for a gallop over the hills, we entered the forest rather late in
the evening, as it was a shorter way. A shot was fired from a
neighbouring thicket, which made my horse bound so suddenly towards the
left that I was thrown. Fortunately my horse was quiet. O’Connor hurried
to me, but I was already up and ready to mount again. “Just a second,”
he said; “I want to search that thicket.” A short gallop soon brought
him to the spot, and I then heard a shot, some branches breaking under
flying feet, then another shot not at all like the two former ones, and
my friend appeared again with a pistol in his hand.
“You have not been hit?” I asked.
“Yes, the first shot just touched my leg, but the fellow aimed too low.
The second he fired haphazard. I fancy, though, that he has a bullet
from my revolver in his body.”
“But I heard some one running away,” I said.
“Oh,” replied the elegant captain, chuckling, “he will not go far.”
“Poor wretch!” I murmured.
“Oh no,” exclaimed O’Connor, “do not pity them, I beg. They kill numbers
of our men every day; only yesterday five soldiers from my regiment were
found on the Versailles road, not only killed, but mutilated,” and
gnashing his teeth, he finished his sentence with an oath.
I turned towards him rather surprised, but he took no notice. We
continued our way, riding as quickly as the obstacles in the forest
would allow us. Suddenly, our horses stopped short, snorting and
sniffing. O’Connor took his revolver in his hand, got off, and led his
horse. A few yards from us there was a man lying on the ground.
“That must be the wretch who shot at me,” said my companion, and bending
down over the man he spoke to him. A moan was the only reply. O’Connor
had not seen his man, so that he could not have recognised him. He
lighted a match, and we saw that this one had no gun. I had dismounted,
and was trying to raise the unfortunate man’s head, but I withdrew my
hand, covered with blood. He had opened his eyes, and fixed them on
O’Connor.
“Ah, it’s you, Versailles dog!” he said. “It was you who shot me! I
missed you, but——” He tried to pull out the revolver from his belt, but
the effort was too great, and his hand fell down inert. O’Connor on his
side had cocked his revolver, but I placed myself in front of the man,
and besought him to leave the poor fellow in peace. I could scarcely
recognise my friend, for this handsome, fair-haired man, so polite,
rather a snob, but very charming, seemed to have turned into a brute.
Leaning towards the unfortunate man, his under-jaw protruded, he was
muttering under his teeth some inarticulate words; his clenched hand
seemed to be grasping his anger, just as one does an anonymous letter
before flinging it away in disgust.
“O’Connor, let this man alone, please!” I said.
He was as gallant a man as he was a good soldier. He gave way, and
seemed to become aware of the situation again. “Good!” he said, helping
me to mount once more. “When I have taken you back to your hotel, I will
come back with some men to pick up this wretch.”
Half an hour later we were back home, without having exchanged another
word during our ride.
I kept up my friendship with O’Connor, but I could never see him again
without thinking of that scene. Suddenly, when he was talking to me, the
brute-like mask under which I had seen him for a second would fix itself
again over his laughing face. Quite recently, in March 1905, General
O’Connor, who was commanding in Algeria, came to see me one evening in
my dressing-room at the theatre. He told me about his difficulties with
some of the great Arab chiefs.
“I fancy,” he said, laughing, “that we shall have a brush together.”
Again I saw the captain’s mask on the general’s face.
I never saw him again, for he died six months afterwards.
We were at last able to go back to Paris. The abominable and shameful
peace had been signed, the wretched Commune crushed. Everything was
supposed to be in order again. But what blood and ashes! What women in
mourning! What ruins!
In Paris, we inhaled the bitter odour of smoke. All that I touched at
home left on my fingers a somewhat greasy and almost imperceptible
colour. A general uneasiness beset France, and more especially Paris.
The theatres, however, opened their doors once more, and that was a
general relief.
One morning I received from the Odéon a notice of rehearsal. I shook out
my hair, stamped my feet, and sniffed the air like a young horse
snorting.
The race-ground was to be opened for us again. We should be able to
gallop afresh through our dreams. The lists were ready. The contest was
beginning. Life was commencing again. It is truly strange that man’s
mind should have made of life a perpetual strife. When there is no
longer war there is battle, for there are a hundred thousand of us
aiming for the same object. God has created the earth and man for each
other. The earth is vast. What ground there is uncultivated! Miles upon
miles, acres upon acres of new land waiting for arms that will take from
its bosom the treasures of inexhaustible Nature. And we remain grouped
round each other, crowds of famishing people watching other groups,
which are also lying in wait.
The Odéon opened its doors to the public with a repertory programme.
Some new pieces were given us to study. One of these met with tremendous
success. It was André Theuriet’s _Jean-Marie_, and was produced in
October 1871. This one-act play is a veritable masterpiece, and it took
its author straight to the Academy. Porel, who played the part of Jean-
Marie, met with an enormous success. He was at that time slender,
nimble, and full of youthful ardour. He needed a little more poetry, but
the joyous laughter of his thirty-two teeth made up in ardour for what
was wanting in poetic desire. It was very good, anyhow.
My _rôle_ of the young Breton girl, submissive to the elderly husband
forced upon her, and living eternally with the memory of the _fiancé_
who was absent, and perhaps dead, was pretty, poetical, and touching by
reason of the final sacrifice. There was even a certain grandeur in the
concluding part of the piece. It had, I must repeat, an immense success,
and increased my growing reputation.
I was, however, awaiting the event which was to consecrate me a star. I
did not quite know what I was expecting, but I knew that my Messiah had
to come. And it was the greatest poet of the last century who was to
place on my head the crown of the elect.
XX
VICTOR HUGO
At the end of that year 1871, we were told, in rather a mysterious and
solemn way, that we were going to play a piece of Victor Hugo’s. My mind
at that time of my life was still closed to great ideas. I was living in
rather a _bourgeois_ atmosphere, what with my somewhat cosmopolitan
family, their rather snobbish acquaintances and friends, and the
acquaintances and friends I had chosen in my independent life as an
artiste.
I had heard Victor Hugo spoken of ever since my childhood as a rebel and
a renegade, and his works, which I had read with passion, did not
prevent my judging him with very great severity. And I blush to-day with
anger and shame when I think of all my absurd prejudices, fomented by
the imbecile or insincere little court which flattered me. I had a great
desire, nevertheless, to play in _Ruy Blas_. The _rôle_ of the Queen
seemed so charming to me.
I mentioned my wish to Duquesnel, who said he had already thought of it.
Jane Essler, an artiste then in vogue, but a trifle vulgar, had great
chances, though, against me. She was on very amicable terms with Paul
Meurice, Victor Hugo’s intimate friend and adviser. One of my friends
brought Auguste Vacquerie to my house. He was another friend, and even a
relative, of the “illustrious master.”
Auguste Vacquerie promised to speak to Victor Hugo, and two days later
he came again, assuring me that I had every chance in my favour. Paul
Meurice himself, a very straightforward man, a delightful soul, had
proposed me to the author. And Geffroy, the admirable artiste who had
retired from the Comédie Française, and was now asked to play _Don
Salluste_, had said, it appears, that he could only see one little Queen
of Spain worthy to wear the crown, and I was that one. I did not know
Geffroy; I did not know Paul Meurice; and was rather astonished that
they should know me.
The play was to be read to the artistes at Victor Hugo’s, December 6,
1871, at two o’clock. I was very much spoilt, and very much praised and
flattered, so that I felt hurt at the unceremoniousness of a man who did
not condescend to disturb himself, but asked women to go to his house
when there was neutral ground, the theatre, for the reading of plays. I
mentioned this unheard-of incident at five o’clock to my little court,
and men and women alike exclaimed: “What! That man who was only the
other day an outlaw! That man who has only just been pardoned! That
nobody!—dares to ask the little Idol, the Queen of _Hearts_, the Fairy
of Fairies, to put herself to inconvenience!”
All my little sanctuary was in a tumult; men and women alike could not
keep still.
“She must not go,” they said. “Write him this”—“Write him that.” And
they were composing impertinent, disdainful letters when Marshal
Canrobert was announced. He belonged at that time to my little five
o’clock court, and he was soon posted on what had taken place by my
turbulent visitors. He was furiously angry at the imbecilities uttered
against the great poet.
“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for it seems to me
that he has no reason to deviate from the regular custom. But say that
you are suddenly unwell; follow my advice and show the respect for him
that we owe to genius.”
I followed my great friend’s counsel, and sent the following letter to
the poet:
“MONSIEUR,—The Queen has taken a chill, and her Camerara Mayor forbids
her to go out. You know better than any one else the etiquette of the
Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.”
I sent the letter, and the following was the poet’s reply:
“I am your valet, Madame.
“VICTOR HUGO.”
The next day the play was read on the stage to the artistes. I believe
that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the
Master’s house.
I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for
a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me!
The monster was charming—so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a
gallantry that was a homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to
the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of
elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in
his way of speaking, which savoured of the old French peer. He was quick
at repartee, and his observations were gentle but pertinent. He recited
poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited. He often made sketches
during the rehearsals.
He frequently spoke in verse when he wished to reprimand an artiste. One
day during a rehearsal he was trying to convince poor Talien about his
bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat down
on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience, and getting
up from the middle of the orchestra stalls, he exclaimed,
“_Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable
Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table._”
I sprang up from the table slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer
him in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could not find anything to
say, and remained there confused and in a bad temper.
One day, when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was
waiting, my forehead pressed against the window-pane, for the arrival of
Madame Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the
footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor
Hugo had just crossed the road, and was about to walk on. An old woman
attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down
on the ground, and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of
perspiration. In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open,
as she was panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing
anxiety as she looked at the wide road she had to cross, with carriages
and omnibuses passing each other. Victor Hugo approached her, and after
a short conversation he drew a piece of money from his pocket, handed it
to the old woman; then, taking off his hat, he confided it to her, and
with a quick movement and a laughing face lifted the bundle onto his
shoulder and crossed the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I
rushed downstairs to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached
the passage I jostled against de Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and when
I descended the staircase Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could only see
the old woman’s back, but it seemed to me that she hobbled along now
more briskly.
The next day I told the poet that I had witnessed his delicate good
deed.
“Oh,” said Paul Meurice, his eyes wet with emotion, “every day that
dawns is a day of kindness for him.”
I embraced Victor Hugo, and we went to the rehearsal.
Oh, those rehearsals of _Ruy Blas_! I shall never forget them, for there
was such good grace and charm about everything. When Victor Hugo
arrived, everything brightened up. His two satellites, Auguste Vacquerie
and Paul Meurice, scarcely ever left him, and when the Master was absent
they kept up the divine fire.
Geffroy, severe, sad, and distinguished, often gave me advice. During
the intervals for rest I posed for him in various attitudes, for he was
a painter. In the _foyer_ of the Comédie Française there are two
pictures by him, representing two generations of Sociétaires of both
sexes. The pictures are not of very original composition, neither are
they of beautiful colouring, but they are faithful likenesses, it
appears, and rather happily grouped.
Lafontaine, who was playing Ruy Blas, often had long discussions with
the Master, in which Victor Hugo never yielded. And I must confess that
he was always right.
Lafontaine had conviction and self-assurance, but his elocution was very
bad for poetry. He had lost his teeth, and they were replaced by a set
of false ones. This gave a certain slowness to his delivery, and there
was a little odd clacking sound between his real palate and his
artificial rubber palate, which often distracted the ear listening
attentively to catch the beauty of the poetry.
As for poor Talien, who was playing Don Guritan, he made a hash of it
every minute. His comprehension of the _rôle_ was quite erroneous.
Victor Hugo explained it to him clearly and intelligently. Talien was a
well-intentioned comedian, a hard worker, always conscientious, but as
stupid as a goose. What he did not understand at first he never
understood. As long as he lived he would never understand. But, as he
was straightforward and loyal, he put himself into the hands of the
author, and gave himself up then in complete abnegation. “That is not as
I understood it,” he would say, “but I will do as you tell me.”
He would then rehearse, word by word and gesture by gesture, with the
inflexions and movements required. This got on my nerves in the most
painful way, and was a cruel blow dealt at the solidarity of my artistic
pride. I often took this poor Talien aside and tried to urge him on to
rebellion, but it was all in vain.
He was tall, and his arms were too long, and his eyes tired; his nose
was weary with having grown too long, and it sank over his lips in
heartrending dejection. His forehead was covered with thick hair, and
his chin seemed to be running away in a hurry from his ill-built face. A
great kindliness was diffused all over his being, and this kindliness
was his very self. Every one was therefore infinitely fond of him.
XXI
A MEMORABLE SUPPER
January 26, 1872, was an artistic _fête_ for the Odéon. The _Tout-Paris_
of first nights and the vibrating younger elements were to meet in the
large, solemn, dusty theatre. Ah, what a splendid, stirring performance
it was! What a triumph for Geffroy, pale, sinister, and severe-looking
in his black costume as Don Salluste. Mélingue rather disappointed the
public as Don César de Bazan, and the public was in the wrong. The
_rôle_ of Don César de Bazan is a treacherously good _rôle_, which
always tempts artists by the brilliancy of the first act; but the fourth
act, which belongs entirely to him, is distressingly heavy and useless.
It might be taken out of the piece, just like a periwinkle out of its
shell, and the piece would be none the less clear and complete.
This 26th of January rent asunder, though, for me the thin veil which
still made my future hazy, and I felt that I was destined for celebrity.
Until that day I had remained the students’ little fairy. I became then
the Elect of the public.
Breathless, dazed, and yet delighted by my success, I did not know to
whom to reply in the ever-changing stream of male and female admirers.
Then, suddenly, I saw the crowd separating and forming two lines, and I
caught a glimpse of Victor Hugo and Girardin coming towards me. In a
second all the stupid ideas I had had about this immense genius flashed
across me. I remembered my first interview, when I had been stiff and
barely polite to this kind, indulgent man. At that moment, when all my
life was opening its wings, I should have liked to cry out to him my
repentance and to tell him of my devout gratitude.
Before I could speak, though, he was down on his knee, and raising my
two hands to his lips, he murmured, “Thank you! Thank you!”
And so it was he who said “Thank you.” He, the great Victor Hugo, whose
soul was so beautiful, whose universal genius filled the world! He,
whose generous hands flung pardons like gems to all his insulters. Ah,
how small I felt, how ashamed, and yet how happy! He then rose, shook
the hands that were held out to him, finding for every one the right
word.
He was so handsome that night, with his broad forehead, which seemed to
retain the light, his thick, silvery fleece of hair, and his laughing
luminous eyes.
Not daring to fling myself in Victor Hugo’s arms, I fell into
Girardin’s, the sure friend of my first steps, and I burst into tears.
He took me aside in my dressing-room. “You must not let yourself be
intoxicated with this great success now,” he said. “There must be no
more risky jumps, now that you are crowned with laurels. You will have
to be more yielding, more docile, more sociable.”
“I feel that I shall never be yielding nor docile, my friend,” I
answered looking at him, “I will try to be more sociable, but that is
all I can promise. As to my crown, I assure you that in spite of my
risky jumps, and I feel that I shall always be making some, the crown
will not shake off.”
Paul Meurice, who had come up to us, overheard this conversation, and
reminded me of it on the evening of the first performance of _Angelo_ at
the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre, on February 7, 1905.
On returning home, I sat up a long time talking to Madame Guérard, and
when she wanted to go I begged her to stay longer. I had become so rich
in hopes for the future that I was afraid of thieves. _Mon petit Dame_
stayed on with me, and we talked till daybreak. At seven o’clock we took
a cab and I drove my dear friend home, and then continued driving for
another hour. I had already achieved a fair number of successes: _Le
Passant_, _Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix_, Anna Danby in _Kean_, and
_Jean-Marie_, but I felt that the _Ruy Blas_ success was greater than
any of the others, and that this time I had become some one to be
criticised, but not to be overlooked.
I often went in the morning to Victor Hugo’s, and he was always very
charming and kind.
[Illustration:
SKULL IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S
LIBRARY, WITH AUTOGRAPH
VERSES BY VICTOR HUGO
]
When I was quite at my ease with him, I spoke to him about my first
impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him,
about all that I had been told and all that I had believed in my naïve
ignorance about political matters.
One morning the Master took great delight in my conversation. He sent
for Madame Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of his glorious and
rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing but melancholy way, that the
evil work of bad people is to sow error in every soil, whether
favourable or not. That morning is engraved for ever in my mind, for the
great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me, but for what I
represented in his eyes. Was I not, as a matter of fact, the young
generation, in which a _bourgeois_ and clerical education had warped the
intelligence by closing the mind to every generous idea, to every flight
towards the new?
When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his
friendship.
I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some one who loved the
poet, but he was out.
I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great surprise.
Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms
of the Marshal, who was coming out of his house.
“What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he asked, laughing.
I did not understand, and gazed at him rather bewildered.
“Well, have you forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?” he asked.
I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it.
“Well, all the better!” I said; “I very much wanted to talk to you.
Come; I am going to take you with me now.”
I then related my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine
thoughts he had uttered, forgetting that I was constantly saying things
that were contrary to the Marshal’s ideas. This admirable man could
admire, though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the
great ideas which were to bring about great changes.
One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there was a
political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a
moment that things might take a bad turn, as Busnach was the most witty
and at the same time the rudest man in France. It is only fair to say,
though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well bred,
he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was worked
up by the chafing speeches of the Marshal.
“I challenge you, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about the odious
Utopias that you have just been supporting!”
“Oh, Monsieur Busnach,” replied Canrobert coldly, “we do not use the
same steel for writing history! You use a pen, and I a sword.”
The luncheon that I had so completely forgotten was nevertheless a
luncheon arranged several days previously. On reaching home we found
there Paul de Rémusat, charming Mlle. Hocquigny, and M. de Monbel, a
young _attaché d’ambassade_. I explained my lateness as well as I could,
and that morning finished in the most delicious harmony of ideas.
I have never felt more than I did that day the infinite joy of
listening.
During a silence Mlle. Hocquigny turned to the Marshal and said:
“Are you not of the opinion that our young friend should enter the
Comédie Française?”
“Ah, no, no!” I exclaimed; “I am so happy at the Odéon. I began at the
Comédie, and the short time I remained there I was very unhappy.”
“You will be obliged to go back there, my dear friend—obliged. Believe
me, it will be better early than late.”
“Well, do not spoil to-day’s pleasure for me, for I have never been
happier!”
One morning shortly after this my maid brought me a letter. The large
round stamp, on which are the words “Comédie Française” was on the
corner of the envelope.
I remembered that ten years previously, almost day for day, our old
servant Marguerite had, with my mother’s permission, handed me a letter
in the same kind of envelope.