delicate mind was imbuing me with her science of seeing into the beyond,
and often in the serious steps of my life I have said to myself, “What
would Emmy have done? What would she have thought?”
I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de Rothschild,
who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced the work
immediately. But I had not properly considered this admirable man—he had
nothing of the æsthetic, but the contrary. I tried nevertheless, and I
brought all my will to bear in order to succeed in this first order, of
which I was so proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on
the ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave up, stammering
idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my model, for he never
returned to me. When we met in our morning rides he saluted me with a
cold and rather severe bow.
After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child, Miss
Multon, a delightful little American, whom later on I came across in
Denmark, married and the mother of a family, but still as pretty as
ever.
My next bust was that of Mlle. Hocquigny, that admirable person who was
keeper of the linen in the commissariat during the war, and who had so
powerfully helped me and my wounded at that time.
Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who had, alas! a
weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by the hand of God! Two
leonine eyes shaded by long, long brown lashes, a slender nose with
delicate nostrils, a tiny mouth, a wilful chin, and a pearly skin
crowned by meshes of sunrays, for I have never seen hair so blonde and
so pale, so bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without
charm; the expression was hard and the mouth without a smile. I tried my
best to reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it needed a great
artist and I was only a humble amateur.
When I exhibited the bust of my little sister, it was five months after
her death, which occurred after a six months’ illness, full of false
hopes. I had taken her to my home, No. 4 Rue de Rome, to the little
_entresol_ which I had inhabited since the terrible fire which had
destroyed my furniture, my books, my pictures, and all my scant
possessions. This flat in the Rue de Rome was very small. My bedroom was
quite tiny. The big bamboo bed took up all the room. In front of the
window was my coffin, where I frequently installed myself to study my
parts. Therefore, when I took my sister to my home I found it quite
natural to sleep every night in this little bed of white satin which was
to be my last couch, and to put my sister in the big bamboo bed, under
the lace hangings.
She herself found it quite natural also, for I would not leave her at
night, and it was impossible to put another bed in the little room.
Besides, she was accustomed to my coffin.
One day my manicurist came into the room to do my hands, and my sister
asked her to enter quietly, because I was still asleep. The woman turned
her head, believing that I was asleep in the arm-chair, but seeing me in
my coffin she rushed away shrieking wildly. From that moment all Paris
knew that I slept in my coffin, and gossip with its thistle-down wings
took flight in all directions.
I was so accustomed to the turpitudes which were written about me that I
did not trouble about this. But at the death of my poor little sister a
tragi-comic incident happened. When the undertaker’s men came to the
room to take away the body they found themselves confronted with two
coffins, and losing his wits, the master of ceremonies sent in haste for
a second hearse. I was at that moment with my mother, who had lost
consciousness, and I just got back in time to prevent the black-clothed
men taking away my coffin. The second hearse was sent back, but the
papers got hold of this incident. I was blamed, criticised, &c.
It really was not my fault.
XXIII
A DESCENT INTO THE ENFER DU PLOGOFF—MY FIRST APPEARANCE AS PHÈDRE—THE
DECORATION OF MY NEW MANSION
After the death of my sister I fell seriously ill. I had tended her day
and night, and this, in addition to the grief I was suffering, made me
anæmic. I was ordered to the South for two months. I promised to go to
Mentone, and I turned immediately towards Brittany, the country of my
dreams.
I had with me my little boy, my steward and his wife. My poor Guérard,
who had helped me to tend my sister, was in bed ill with phlebitis. I
would much have liked to have her with me.
Oh, the lovely holiday that we had there! Thirty-five years ago Brittany
was wild, inhospitable, but as beautiful—perhaps more beautiful than at
present, for it was not furrowed with roads; its green slopes were not
dotted with small white villas; its inhabitants—the men—were not dressed
in the abominable modern trousers, and the women did not wear miserable
little hats with feathers. No! The Bretons proudly displayed their well-
shaped legs in gaiters or rough stockings, their feet shod with buckled
shoes; their long hair was brought down on the temples, hiding any
awkward ears and giving to the face a nobility which the modern style
does not admit of. The women, with their short skirts, which showed
their slender ankles in black stockings, and with their small heads
under the wings of the headdress, resembled sea-gulls. I am not
speaking, of course, of the inhabitants of Pont l’Abbé or of Bourg de
Batz, who have entirely different aspects.
I visited nearly the whole of Brittany, but made my chief stay at
Finistère. The Pointe du Raz enchanted me. I remained twelve days at
Audierne, in the house of Father Batifoulé, who was so big and so fat
that they had been obliged to cut a piece out of the table to let in his
immense abdomen. I set out every morning at ten o’clock. My steward
Claude himself prepared my lunch, which he packed up very carefully in
three little baskets, then climbing into the comical vehicle of Father
Batifoulé, my little boy driving, we set out for the Baie des Trépassés.
Ah, that beautiful and mysterious shore, all bristling with rocks! The
lighthouse keeper would be looking out for me, and would come to meet
me. Claude gave him my provisions, with a thousand recommendations as to
the manner of cooking the eggs, warming up the lentils, and toasting the
bread. He carried off everything, then returned with two old sticks in
which he had stuck nails to make them into picks, and we commenced the
terrifying ascent of the Pointe du Raz, a kind of labyrinth full of
disagreeable surprises, of crevasses across which we had to jump over
the gaping and roaring abyss, of arches and tunnels through which we had
to crawl on all fours, having overhead—touching us even—a rock which had
fallen there in unknown ages and was only held in equilibrium by some
inexplicable cause. Then all at once the path became so narrow that it
was impossible to walk straight forward; we had to turn and put our
backs against the cliff and advance with both arms spread out and
fingers holding on to the few asperities of the rock.
When I think of what I did in those moments, I tremble, for I have
always been, and still am, subject to dizziness; and I went over this
path along a steep precipitous rock, 30 metres high, in the midst of the
infernal noise of the sea, at this place eternally furious, and which
raged fearfully against this indestructible cliff. And I must have taken
a mad pleasure in it, for I accomplished this journey five times in
eleven days.
After this challenge thrown down to reason we descended, and installed
ourselves in the Baie des Trépassés. After a bath we had lunch, and I
painted till sunset.
The first day there was nobody there. The second day a child came to
look at us. The third day about ten children stood around asking for
sous. I was foolish enough to give them some, and the following day
there were twenty or thirty boys, some of them from sixteen to eighteen
years old. Seeing near my easel something not particularly agreeable, I
begged one of them to take it away and throw it into the sea, and for
that I gave, I think, fifty centimes. When I came back the following day
to finish my painting the whole population of the neighbouring village
had chosen this place to relieve their corporal necessities, and as soon
as I arrived the same boys, but in increased numbers, offered, if
properly paid, to take away what they had put there.
I had the ugly band routed by Claude and the lighthouse keeper, and as
they took to throwing stones at us, I pointed my gun at the little
group. They fled howling. Only two boys, of six and ten years of age,
remained there. We did not take any notice of them, and I installed
myself a little farther on, sheltered by a rock which kept the wind
away. The two boys followed. Claude and the keeper Lucas were on the
look out to see that the band did not come back.
They were stooping down over the extreme point of the rock which was
above our heads. They seemed peaceful, when suddenly my young maid
jumped up: “Horrors! Madame! Horrors! They are throwing lice down on
us!” And in fact the two little good-for-nothings had been for the last
hour searching for all the vermin they could find on themselves, and
throwing it on us.
I had the two little beggars caught, and they got a well-deserved
correction.
There was a crevasse which was called the “Enfer du Plogoff.” I had a
wild desire to go down this crevasse, but the guardian dissuaded me,
constantly giving as objections the danger of slipping, and his fear of
responsibility in case of accident. I persisted nevertheless in my
intention, and after a thousand promises, in addition to a certificate
to testify that, notwithstanding the supplications of the guardian and
the certainty of the danger that I ran, I had persisted all the same,
&c., and after having made a small present of ten louis to the good
fellow, I obtained facilities for descending the Enfer du Plogoff—that
is to say, a wide belt to which a strong rope was fastened. I buckled
this belt round my waist, which was then so slender—43 centimetres—that
it was necessary to make additional holes in order to fasten it.
Then the guardian put on each of my hands a wooden shoe the sole of
which was bordered with big nails jutting out two centimetres. I stared
at these wooden shoes, and asked for an explanation before putting them
on.
“Well,” said the guardian Lucas, “when I let you down, as you are no
fatter than a herring bone, you will get shaken about in the crevasse,
and will risk breaking your bones, while if you have the ‘sabots’ on
your hands you can protect yourself against the walls by putting out
your arms to the right and the left, according as you are shaken up
against them. I do not say that you will not have a few bangs, but that
is your own fault; you will go. Now listen, my little lady. When you are
at the bottom, on the rock in the middle, mind you don’t slip, for that
is the most dangerous of all; if you fall in the water I will pull the
rope, for sure, but I don’t answer for anything. In that cursed
whirlpool of water you might be caught between two stones, and it would
be no use for me to pull: I should break the rope, and that would be
all.”
Then the man grew pale and made the sign of the cross; he leaned towards
me, murmuring in a dreamy voice, “It is the shipwrecked ones who are
there under the stones, down there. It is they who dance in the
moonlight on the ‘shore of the dead.’ It is they who put the slippery
seaweed on the little rock down there, in order to make travellers slip,
and then they drag them to the bottom of the sea.” Then, looking me in
the eyes, he said, “Will you go down all the same?”
“Yes, certainly, Père Lucas; I will go down at once.”
My little boy was building forts and castles on the sand with Félicie.
Only Claude was with me. He did not say a word, knowing my unbridled
desire to meet danger. He looked to see if the belt was properly
fastened, and asked my permission to tie the tongue of the belt to the
belt itself; then he passed a strong cord several times around to
strengthen the leather, and I was let down, suspended by the rope in the
blackness of the crevasse. I extended my arms to the right and the left,
as the guardian had told me to do, and even then I got my elbows
scraped. At first I thought that the noise I heard was the reverberation
of the echo of the blows of the wooden shoes against the edges of the
crevasse, but suddenly a frightful din filled my ears: successive
firings of cannons, strident ringings, crackings of a whip, plaintive
howls, and repeated monotonous cries as of a hundred fishermen drawing
up a net filled with fish, seaweed, and pebbles. All the noises mingled
under the mad violence of the wind. I became furious with myself, for I
was really afraid.
The lower I went, the louder the howlings became in my ears and my
brain, and my heart beat the order of retreat. The wind swept through
the narrow tunnel and blew in all directions round my legs, my body, my
neck. A horrible fear took possession of me.
I descended slowly, and at each little shock I felt that the four hands
holding me above had come to a knot. I tried to remember the number of
knots, for it seemed to me that I was making no progress.
Then I opened my mouth to call out, “Draw me up!” but the wind, which
danced in mad folly around me, filled my mouth and drove back the words.
I was nearly suffocated. Then I shut my eyes and ceased to struggle. I
would not even put out my arms. A few instants after I pulled up my legs
in unspeakable terror. The sea had just seized them in a brutal embrace
which had wet me through. However, I recovered courage, for now I could
see clearly. I stretched out my legs, and found myself upright on the
little rock. It is true it was very slippery.
I took hold of a large ring fixed in the vault which overhung the rock,
and I looked round. The long and narrow crevasse grew suddenly wider at
its base, and terminated in a large grotto which looked out over the
open sea; but the entrance of this grotto was protected by a quantity of
both large and small rocks, which could be seen for a distance of a
league in front on the surface of the water—which explains the terrible
noise of the sea dashing into the labyrinth and the possibility of
standing upright on a stone, as the Bretons say, with the wild dance of
the waves all around.
However, I saw very plainly that a false step might be fatal in the
brutal whirl of waters, which came rushing in from afar with dizzy speed
and broke against the insurmountable obstacle, and in receding dashed
against other waves which followed them. From this cause proceeded the
perpetual fusillade of waters which rushed into the crevasse without
danger of drowning me.
It now began to grow dark, and I experienced a fearful anguish in
discovering on the crest of a little rock two enormous eyes, which
looked fixedly at me. Then a little farther, near a tuft of seaweed, two
more of these fixed eyes. I saw no body to these beings—nothing but the
eyes. I thought for a minute that I was losing my senses, and I bit my
tongue till the blood came; then I pulled violently at the rope, as I
had agreed to do in order to give the signal for being drawn up. I felt
the trembling joy of the four hands pulling me, and my feet lost their
hold as I was hauled up by my guardians. The eyes were lifted up also,
uneasy at seeing me depart. And while I mounted through the air I saw
nothing but eyes everywhere—eyes throwing out long feelers to reach me.
I had never seen an octopus, and I did not even know of the existence of
these horrible beasts.
During the ascent, which appeared to me interminable, I imagined I saw
these beasts along the walls, and my teeth were chattering when I was
drawn out on to the green hillock.
I immediately told the guardian the cause of my terror, and he crossed
himself, saying, “Those are the eyes of the shipwrecked ones. No one
must stay there!”
I knew very well that they were not the eyes of shipwrecked ones, but I
did not know what they were. For I thought I had seen some strange
beasts that no one had ever seen before.
It was only at the hotel with Père Batifoulé that I learnt about the
octopus.
Only five more days’ holiday were left to me, and I passed them at the
Pointe du Raz, seated in a niche of rock which has been since named
“Sarah Bernhardt’s Arm-chair.” Many tourists have sat there since.
After my holiday I returned to Paris. But I was still very weak, and
could only take up my work towards the month of November. I played all
the pieces of my _répertoire_, and I was annoyed at not having any new
_rôles_.
One day Perrin came to see me in my sculptor’s studio. He began to talk
at first about my busts; he told me that I ought to do his medallion,
and asked me incidentally if I knew the _rôle_ of Phèdre. Up to that
time I had only played Aricie, and the part of Phèdre seemed formidable
to me. I had, however, studied it for my own pleasure.
“Yes, I know the _rôle_ of Phèdre. But I think if ever I had to play it
I should die of fright.”
[Illustration:
A CORNER OF THE LIBRARY
]
He laughed with his silly little laugh, and said to me, squeezing my
hand (for he was very gallant), “Work it up. I think that you will play
it.”
In fact, eight days after I was called to the manager’s office, and
Perrin told me that he had announced _Phèdre_ for December 21, the
_fête_ of Racine, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt in the part of Phèdre. I
thought I should have fallen.
“Well, but what about Mademoiselle Rousseil?” I asked.
“Mademoiselle Rousseil wants the committee to promise that she shall
become a Sociétaire in the month of January, and the committee, which
will without doubt appoint her, refuses to make this promise, and
declares that her demand is like a threat. But perhaps Mademoiselle
Rousseil will change her plans, and in that case you will play Aricie
and I will change the bill.”
Coming out from Perrin’s I ran up against M. Régnier. I told him of my
conversation with the manager and of my fears.
“No, no,” said the great artiste to me, “you must not be afraid! I see
very well what you are going to make of this _rôle_. But all you have to
do is to be careful and not force your voice. Make the _rôle_ rather
more sorrowful than furious—it will be better for every one, even
Racine.”
Then, joining my hands, I said, “Dear Monsieur Régnier, help me to work
up Phèdre, and I shall not be so much afraid!”
He looked at me rather surprised, for in general I was neither docile
nor apt to be guided by advice. I own that I was wrong, but I could not
help it. But the responsibility which this put upon me made me timid.
Régnier accepted, and made an appointment with me for the following
morning at nine o’clock.
Roselia Rousseil persisted in her demand to the committee, and _Phèdre_
was billed for December 21, with Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt for the first
time in the _rôle_ of Phèdre.
This caused quite a sensation in the artistic world and in theatrical
circles. That evening over two hundred people were turned away at the
box office. When I was informed of the fact I began to tremble a good
deal.
Régnier comforted me as best he could, saying, “Courage! Cheer up! Are
you not the spoiled darling of the public? They will take into
consideration your inexperience in important leading parts,” &c.
These were the last words he should have said to me. I should have felt
stronger if I had known that the public were come to oppose and not to
encourage me.
I began to cry bitterly like a child. Perrin was called, and consoled me
as well as he could; then he made me laugh by putting powder on my face
so awkwardly that I was blinded and suffocated.
Everybody on the stage knew about it, and stood at the door of my
dressing-room wishing to comfort me. Mounet-Sully, who was playing
Hippolyte, told me that he had dreamed “we were playing _Phèdre_, and
you were hissed; and my dreams always go by contraries—so,” he cried,
“we shall have a tremendous success.”
But what put me completely in a good humour was the arrival of the
worthy Martel, who was playing Théramène, and who had come so quickly,
believing me to be ill, that he had not had time to finish his nose. The
sight of this grey face, with a wide bar of red wax commencing between
the two eyebrows, coming down to half a centimetre below his nose and
leaving behind it the end of the nose with two large black nostrils—this
face was indescribable! And everybody laughed irrepressibly. I knew that
Martel made up his nose, for I had already seen this poor nose change
shape at the second performance of _Zaïre_, under the tropical
depression of the atmosphere, but I had never realised how much he
lengthened it. This comical apparition restored all my gaiety, and from
thenceforth I was in full possession of my faculties.
The evening was one long triumph for me. And the Press was unanimous in
praise, with the exception of the article of Paul de St. Victor, who was
on very good terms with a sister of Rachel, and could not get over “my
impertinent presumption in daring to measure myself with the great dead
artiste.” These are his own words addressed to Girardin, who immediately
communicated them to me. How mistaken he was, poor St. Victor! I had
never seen Rachel, but I worshipped her talent, for I had surrounded
myself with her most devoted admirers, and they little thought of
comparing me with their idol.
A few days after this performance of _Phèdre_ the new piece of Bornier
was read to us—_La Fille de Roland_. The part of Berthe was confided to
me, and we immediately began the rehearsals of this fine piece, the
verses of which were nevertheless a little flat, though the play rang
with patriotism. There was in one act a terrible duel, not seen by the
public, but related by Berthe, the daughter of Roland, while the
incidents happened under the eyes of the unhappy girl, who from a window
of the castle followed in anguish the fortunes of the encounter. This
scene was the only important one of my much-sacrificed _rôle_.
The play was ready to be performed, when Bornier asked that his friend
Emile Augier might attend the dress rehearsal. When this rehearsal was
over Perrin came to me; he had an affectionate and constrained air. As
to Bornier, he came straight to me in a decided and quarrelsome manner.
Emile Augier followed him. “Well——” he said to me. I looked straight at
him, feeling at the moment that he was my enemy. He stopped short and
scratched his head, then turned towards Augier and said:
“I beg you, _cher maître_, explain to Mademoiselle yourself.”
Emile Augier was a broad man, with wide shoulders and a common
appearance, and was at that time rather stout. He was in very good
repute at the Théâtre Français, of which he was at that epoch the
successful author. He came near me.
“You managed the part at the window very well, Mademoiselle, but it is
ridiculous; it is not your fault, but that of the author, who has
written a most improbable scene. The public would laugh immoderately.
This scene must be taken out.”
I turned towards Perrin, who was listening silently. “Are you of the
same opinion, sir?”
“I talked it over a short time ago with these gentlemen, but the author
is master to do as he pleases with his work.”
Then, addressing myself to Bornier, I said, “Well, my dear author, what
have you decided?”
Little Bornier looked at big Emile Augier. There was in this beseeching
and piteous glance an expression of sorrow at having to cut out a scene
which he prized, and of fear at vexing an Academician just at the time
when he was hoping to become a member of the Academy.
“Cut it out, cut it out—or you are done for!” brutally replied Augier,
and he turned his back. Then poor Bornier, who resembled a Breton gnome,
came up to me. He scratched himself desperately, for the unfortunate man
suffered from a distressing skin disease. He did not speak. He looked at
us searchingly. Poignant anxiety was expressed on his face. Perrin, who
had come up to me, guessed the private little drama which was taking
place in the heart of the mild Bornier.
“Refuse energetically,” murmured Perrin to me.
I understood, and declared firmly to Bornier that if this scene were cut
out I should refuse the part. Then Bornier seized both my hands, which
he kissed ardently, and running up to Augier he exclaimed, with comic
emphasis: