END OF MY AMERICAN TOUR
An outing at Niagara Falls—An icy excursion—I am presented with
a miniature of the Falls—Vanity brings me to ridicule—A
foolhardy escapade—A memorable performance at New York—I
embark for home—The last of the whale man—A stowaway—The trip
home—A glorious reception at Hâvre—A performance for the life
savers—A turning-point 441–456
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
Sarah Bernhardt as _Gismonda_, from a Painting by
Chartran _Frontispiece_
Rear View of Grandchamps Convent, Versailles 20
Sarah Bernhardt and Her Mother 36
Le Conservatoire National de Musique et de Déclamation,
Paris 80
Sarah Bernhardt in the Hands of her Coiffeur 86
Sarah Bernhardt when She Left the Conservatory 94
Sarah Bernhardt at the Time of Her Début in “Les Femmes
Savantes” 104
Sarah Bernhardt in “François le Champi” 134
An Early Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt 170
Sarah Bernhardt in Riding Habit 232
Skull in Madame Bernhardt’s Library, with Autograph
Verses by Victor Hugo 248
“Ophelia”—Sculpture by Sarah Bernhardt 258
Sarah Bernhardt in Her Coffin 270
Sarah Bernhardt Painting, 1878–9 280
Sarah Bernhardt at Work on Her “Mêdée” 288
Sarah Bernhardt, Portrait by Parrott, 1875—in the
Comédie Française, Paris 296
Sarah Bernhardt, Portrait by Clairin 304
Sarah Bernhardt, from an Oil Painting by Mlle. Louise
Abbéma 332
Sarah Bernhardt as the _Duc de Richelieu_ 338
Sarah Bernhardt, 1879 346
The Celebrated Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt, Painted by
Jules Bastien-Lepage 352
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt and Members of Her Company Out
Shooting 362
Bust of Victorien Sardou by Sarah Bernhardt 366
Sarah Bernhardt in Travelling Costume, 1880 378
Sarah Bernhardt at Home, by Walter Spindler 390
Sarah Bernhardt as _Doña Sol_ in “Hernani” 402
Corner in Sarah Bernhardt’s Paris Home, Showing Painting
by Chartran 410
Library in Madame Bernhardt’s House, Paris 420
Corner in Sarah Bernhardt’s Library, Showing Madame
Bernhardt’s Writing Table on the Left 426
Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt, Paris 436
_Foyer_ in Madame Bernhardt’s Theater, Paris 442
Sarah Bernhardt in “L’Aiglon”—Painting by G. Clairin 450
MEMORIES OF MY LIFE
CHAPTER I
MY AUNTS
My mother was fond of traveling: she would go from Spain to England,
from London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, and from there to
Christiania; then she would come back, embrace me, and set out again for
Holland, her native country. She used to send my nurse clothing for
herself and cakes for me. To one of my aunts she would write: “Look
after little Sarah; I shall return in a month’s time.” A month later she
would write to another of her sisters: “Go and see the child at her
nurse’s; I shall be back in a couple of weeks.”
My mother’s age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my two aunts
were seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt was fifteen, and
the eldest was twenty-eight, but the latter lived at Martinique, and was
the mother of six children. My grandmother was blind, my grandfather
dead, and my father had been in China for the last two years. I have no
idea why he had gone there.
My youthful aunts were always promising to come to see me, but rarely
kept their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany and lived near Quimperle
in a little white house with a low thatched roof, on which wild
gilly-flowers grew. That was the first flower which charmed my eyes as a
child, and I have loved it ever since. Its leaves are heavy and
sad-looking, and its petals are made of the setting sun.
Brittany is a long way off, even in our present epoch of velocity of
travel. In those days it was the end of the world. Fortunately, my nurse
was, it appears, a good, kind woman, and as her own child had died, she
had only me to love. But she loved after the manner of poor people—when
she had time.
One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the field to help gather
in potatoes. The over-damp soil was rotting them, and there was no time
to be lost. She left me in charge of her husband, who was lying on his
Breton bed suffering from a bad attack of lumbago. The good woman had
placed me in my high chair, and had been careful to put in the wooden
peg which supported the narrow tray for my toys. She threw a fagot in
the grate, and said to me in Breton language: (until the age of four I
only understood Breton) “Be a good girl, Milk Blossom.” That was my only
name at the time. When she had gone, I tried to withdraw the wooden peg
which she had taken so much trouble to put in place. Finally, I
succeeded in pushing aside the little rampart. I wanted to reach the
ground, but poor little me, I fell into the fire which was burning
joyfully.
The screams of my foster father, who could not move, brought in some
neighbors. I was thrown, all smoking, into a large pail of fresh milk.
My aunts were informed of what had happened; they communicated the news
to my mother, and, for the next four days, that quiet part of the
country was plowed by stagecoaches that arrived in rapid succession. My
aunts came from all parts of the world, and my mother, in the greatest
alarm, hastened from Brussels with Baron Larrey, one of her friends, who
was a young doctor just beginning to acquire celebrity, and a house
surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought with him. I have been told since
that nothing was more painful to witness and yet so charming, as my
mother’s despair. The doctor approved of the “mask of butter,” which was
changed every two hours.
Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now and again we
shall meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He used to tell me in such
charming fashion how those kind folk loved Milk Blossom. And he could
never refrain from laughing at the thought of that butter. There was
butter everywhere, he used to say: on the bedsteads, on the cupboards,
on the chairs, on the tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the
neighbors used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.
Mother, admirably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with her golden hair
and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on
her cheeks when she lowered her eyes. She distributed money on all
sides. She would have given her golden hair, her slender white fingers,
her tiny feet, her life itself, in order to save her child. And she was
as sincere in her despair and her love as in her unconscious
forgetfulness. Baron Larrey returned to Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt
Rosine, and the surgeon with me. Forty-two days later, mother took the
nurse, the foster father, and me back in triumph to Paris, and installed
us in a little house at Neuilly, on the banks of the Seine. I had not
even a scar, it appears. My skin was rather too bright a pink, but that
was all. My mother, happy and trustful once more, began to travel again,
leaving me in care of my aunts.
Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which was full of
horrible dahlias growing close together and colored like wooden balls.
My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bonbons, and
toys. The foster father died and my nurse married a _concierge_, who
used to open the door at 65, rue de Provence.
Not knowing where to find my mother, and not being able to write, my
nurse, without telling any of my friends, took me with her to her new
abode.
The change delighted me. I was five years old at the time, and I
remember the day as if it were yesterday. My nurse’s abode was just over
the doorway of the house, and the window was framed in the heavy and
monumental door. From outside, I thought it was beautiful, and I began
to clap my hands on reaching the house. It was toward five o’clock in
the evening, in the month of November, when everything looks gray. I was
put to bed and no doubt I went to sleep at once, for there end my
recollections of that day.
The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me. There was no
window in the little room in which I slept, and I began to cry, and
escaped from the arms of my nurse, who was dressing me, so that I could
go into the adjoining room. I ran to the round window, which was an
immense “bull’s eye” above the doorway. I pressed my stubborn brow
against the glass and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees, no
boxwood, no leaves falling, nothing, nothing, but stone, cold, gray,
ugly stone, and panes of glass opposite me.
“I want to go away,” I screamed. “I don’t want to stay here! It is all
black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the ceiling of the street!” and
I burst into tears. My poor nurse took me up in her arms and, folding me
in a rug, took me down into the courtyard.
“Lift up your head, Milk Blossom, and look! See, there is the ceiling of
the street!”
It comforted me somewhat to see that there was some sky in this ugly
place, but my little soul was very sad. I could not eat, and I grew pale
and became anæmic, and I should certainly have died of consumption if it
had not been for a mere chance, a most unexpected incident. One day I
was playing in the courtyard with a little girl named Titine, who lived
on the second floor and whose face or real name I cannot recall, when I
saw my nurse’s husband walking across the courtyard with two ladies, one
of whom was most fashionably attired. I could only see their backs, but
the voice of the fashionably attired lady caused my heart to stop
beating. My poor little body trembled with nervous excitement.
“Do any of the windows look on to the courtyard?” she asked.
“Yes, madame, those four,” he replied, pointing to four open ones on the
first floor.
The lady turned to look at them, and I uttered a cry of joy.
“Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!” I exclaimed, clinging to the skirts of the
pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs, stamping, sobbing,
laughing, and tearing her wide, lace sleeves in my frenzy of delight.
She took me in her arms and tried to calm me, and questioning the
_concierge_ she stammered out to her friend:
“I can’t understand what it all means! This is little Sarah! My sister
Youle’s child!”
The noise I made had attracted attention, and people opened their
windows. My aunt decided to take refuge in the _concierge’s_ lodge, in
order to come to an explanation. My poor nurse told her about all that
had taken place, her husband’s death, and her second marriage. I do not
remember what she said to excuse herself. I clung to my aunt, who was
deliciously perfumed, and I would not let her go. She promised to come
the following day to fetch me, but I did not want to stay any longer in
that dark place. I asked to start at once with my nurse. My aunt stroked
my hair gently, and spoke to her friend in a language I did not
understand. She tried, in vain, to explain something to me, I do not
know what it was, but I insisted that I wanted to go away with her at
once. In a gentle, tender, caressing voice, but without any real
affection, she said all kinds of pretty things, stroked me with her
gloved hands, patted my frock, which was turned up, and made any amount
of charming, frivolous little gestures, but all without any real
feeling. She then went away, at her friend’s entreaty, after emptying
her purse in my nurse’s hands. I rushed toward the door, but the husband
of my nurse, who had opened it for her, now closed it again. My nurse
was crying, and, taking me in her arms, she opened the window, saying to
me: “Don’t cry, Milk Blossom, look at your pretty aunt; she will come
back again, and then you can go away with her.” Great tears rolled down
her calm, round, handsome face. I could see nothing but the dark, black
hole which remained there immutable behind me, and in a fit of despair,
I rushed out to my aunt who was just getting into a carriage. After that
I knew nothing more; everything seemed dark; there was a noise in the
distance. I could hear voices far, far away. I had managed to escape
from my poor nurse, and had fallen down on the pavement in front of my
aunt. I had broken my arm in two places, and injured my left kneecap. I
only came to myself again a few hours later, to find that I was in a
beautiful, wide bed which smelled very nice. It stood in the middle of a
large room, with two lovely windows, which made me very joyful, for I
could see the ceiling of the street through them.
My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take care of me,
and I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my cousins. My poor little
brain could not understand why all these people should suddenly be so
fond of me, when I had passed so many days and nights only cared for by
one single person. As I was weakly, and my bones small and friable, I
was two years recovering from this terrible fall, and during that time
was nearly always carried about. I will pass over these two years of my
life, which have left me only a vague memory of being petted, and of a
chronic state of torpor.
One day my mother took me on her knees, and said to me: “You are a big
girl now, and you must learn to read and write.” I was then seven years
old, and could neither read, write, nor count, as I had been five years
with the old nurse, and two years ill. “You must go to school,”
continued my mother, playing with my curly hair, “like a big girl.”
I did not know what all this meant, and I asked what a school was.
“It’s a place where there are many little girls,” replied my mother.
“Are they ill?” I asked.
“Oh, no! They are quite well, as you are now, and they play together,
and are very gay and happy.”
I jumped about in delight, and gave free vent to my joy, but on seeing
tears in my mother’s eyes, I flung myself in her arms.
“But what about you, mamma?” I asked. “You will be all alone, and you
won’t have any little girl.”
She bent down to me and said:
“God has told me that he will send me some flowers, and a little baby.”
My delight was more and more boisterous.
“Then I shall have a little brother?” I exclaimed, “or else a little
sister? Oh, no, I don’t want that, I don’t like little sisters!”
Mamma kissed me very affectionately, and then I was dressed, I remember,
in a blue, corded velvet frock, of which I was very proud. Arrayed thus
in all my splendor, I waited impatiently for Aunt Rosine’s carriage,
which was to take us to Auteuil.
It was about three when she arrived. The housemaid had gone on about an
hour before, and I had watched with delight my little trunk and my toys
being packed into the carriage. The maid climbed up and took the seat by
the driver, in spite of my mother protesting at first against this. When
my aunt’s magnificent equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in,
slowly and calmly. I got in slowly, too, giving myself airs, because the
_concierge_ and some of the shopkeepers were watching. My aunt then
sprang in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving her orders in
English to the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman, and handing him a
paper on which the address was written. Another carriage followed ours,
in which three men were seated: Régie L——, a friend of my father’s,
General de P—— and an artist named Fleury, I think, whose pictures of
horses and sporting subjects were very much in vogue just then.
I heard on the way that these gentlemen were going to arrange about a
little dinner near Auteuil, to console mamma for her great trouble in
being separated from me. Some other guests were to be there to meet
them. I did not pay very much attention to what my mother and my aunt
said to each other. Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either
English or German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was
greatly appreciated by me, for with my face pressed against the window,
and my eyes wide open, I gazed out eagerly at the gray, muddy road, with
its ugly houses on each side, and its bare trees. I thought it was all
very beautiful, because it kept changing.
The carriage stopped at 18, Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the iron gate was a
long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked up at it, and mamma
said: “You will be able to read that soon, I hope.” My aunt whispered to
me, “Boarding School, Madame Fressard,” and, very promptly, I said to
mamma: “It says ‘Boarding School, Madame Fressard.’”
Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily at my
assurance, and we entered the house. Mme. Fressard came forward to meet
us, and I liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather stout,
with a small waist, and her hair turning gray, _en Sévigné_. She had
beautiful, large eyes, rather like George Sand’s, very white teeth which
showed up all the more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked
healthy, spoke kindly, her hands were plump and her fingers long. She
took my hand gently in hers and half-kneeling so that her face was level
with mine, she said in a musical voice: “You won’t be afraid of me, will
you, little girl?” I did not answer, but my face flushed as red as a
coxcomb. She asked me several questions, but I refused to reply. They
all gathered round me—“Speak, child—come, Sarah, be a good girl—oh, the
naughty little child!”
It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary round was
then made, to the bedrooms, the dining-hall, the class-rooms, and the
usual exaggerated compliments were paid. “How beautifully it is all
kept! How spotlessly clean everything is!” and a hundred stupidities of
this kind about the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother
went aside with Mme. Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she
could not walk. “This is the doctor’s prescription,” she said, and then
followed a long list of things that were to be done for me.
Mme. Fressard smiled rather ironically.
“You know, madame,” she said to my mother, “we shall not be able to curl
her hair like that.”
“And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it,” replied my mother,
stroking my head with her gloved hands. “It’s a regular wig, and they
must never attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They could
not possibly get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too
much. What do you give the children at four o’clock?” she asked,
changing the subject.
“Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them.”
“There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam,” said my mother, “but
she must have jam one day and chocolate another, as she has not a good
appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds of
chocolate.” Mme. Fressard smiled in a good-natured, but rather ironical
way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate, and looked at the mark.
“Ah! from Marquis! What a spoiled little girl it is!” She patted my
cheek with her white fingers, and then, as her eyes fell on a large jar,
she looked surprised.
“That’s cold cream,” said my mother. “I make it myself, and I should
like my little girl’s face and hands to be rubbed with it every night
when she goes to bed.”
“But——” began Mme. Fressard.
“Oh, I’ll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets,” interrupted my
mother, impatiently. Ah, my poor mother, I remember quite well that my
sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils!
The farewell moment came at last, and everyone gathered round mamma, and
finally carried her off, after a great deal of kissing, and with all
kinds of consoling words: “It will be so good for her—it is just what
she needs—you’ll find her quite changed when you see her again, etc.”
The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his arms and
tossed me in the air.
“You little chit,” he said; “they are putting you to the barracks, and
you’ll have to mind your pace!”
I pulled his long mustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the
direction of Mme. Fressard, who had a slight mustache: “You mustn’t do
that to a lady, you know!”
My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little stifled laugh, and
the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind of rustling skirts and
farewells, while I was taken away to the cage where I was to be
imprisoned.
I spent two years at the _pension_. I was taught reading, writing, and
reckoning. I also learned a hundred new games. I learned to sing
rondeaus and to embroider handkerchiefs for my mother. I was relatively
happy there, as we always went out somewhere on Thursdays and Sundays,
and this gave me the sensation of liberty. The very ground in the street
seemed to me quite different from the ground of the large garden
belonging to the _pension_. Besides, there were little festivities at
Mme. Fressard’s which used to send me into raptures. Mlle. Stella Colas,
who had just made her début at the Théâtre Français, came sometimes on
Thursdays and recited poetry to us. I could never sleep a wink the night
before, and in the morning I used to comb my hair carefully and get
ready, my heart beating fast with excitement, in order to listen to
something I did not understand at all, but which, nevertheless, left me
spellbound. Then, too, there was quite a legend attached to this pretty
girl. She had flung herself almost under the horses’ feet as the Emperor
was driving along, in order to attract his attention and obtain the
pardon of her brother who had conspired against his sovereign.
Mlle. Stella Colas had a sister at Mme. Fressard’s, and this sister,
Clothilde, is now the wife of M. Pierre Merlon, Under-Secretary of State
in the Treasury Department. Stella was slight and fair, with blue eyes
that were rather hard, but expressive. She had a deep voice and when
this pale, fragile girl began to recite “Athalie’s Dream” it thrilled me
through and through. How many times, seated on my child’s bed, did I
practice saying in a low voice: “_Tremble, fille digne de moi._” I used
to twist my head in my shoulders, swell out my cheeks and commence:
“_Tremble—trem-ble—trem-em-em—ble——_”
But it always ended badly and I would begin again very quietly in a
stifled voice and then unconsciously speak louder, and my companions,
roused by the noise, were amused at my attempts and roared with
laughter. I would then rush about to the right and left, giving them
kicks and blows which they returned with interest.
Mme. Fressard’s adopted daughter, Mlle. Caroline—whom I chanced to meet
a long time after, married to the celebrated artist, Yvon—would then
appear on the scene, angry and implacable, and would give us all kinds
of punishments for the following day. As for me, I used to get locked up
for three days. That was followed by my being detained on the first day
we were allowed out. And, in addition, I would receive five strokes with
a ruler on my fingers. Ah! those ruler blows of Mlle. Caroline’s! I
reproached her about them when I met her again twenty-five years later.
She used to make us put all our fingers round the thumb and hold our
hands out straight near to her and then, bang came her wide, ebony
ruler. She used to give us a cruelly hard, dry blow which made the tears
spurt to our eyes. I took a dislike to Mlle. Caroline. She was
beautiful, but with the kind of beauty I did not care for. She had a
very white complexion and very black hair which she wore in waved
bandeaux. When I saw her a long time afterwards, one of my relatives
brought her to my house and said: “I am sure you will not recognize this
lady and yet you know her very well.”
I was leaning against the large mantelpiece in the hall and I saw this
tall woman, still beautiful, but rather provincial-looking, coming
through the first drawing-room. As she descended the three steps into
the hall, the light fell on her protruding forehead, framed on each side
with the hard, waved bandeaux.
“Mlle. Caroline!” I exclaimed, and with a furtive, childish movement, I
hid my two hands behind my back. I never saw her again, for the grudge I
had owed her from my childhood must have been apparent under my
politeness as hostess.
As I said before, I was not unhappy at Mme. Fressard’s, and it seemed
quite natural to me that I should stay there until I was quite grown up.
My uncle, Felix Faure, who at present has entered the Carthusian
monastery, had stipulated that his wife, my mother’s sister, should
often take me out. He had a very fine country place at Neuilly with a
stream running through the grounds, and I used to fish there for hours
together, with my two cousins, a boy and girl.
These two years of my life passed peacefully, without any other events
than my terrible fits of temper, which upset the whole _pension_ and
always left me in the sick-room for two or three days. These outbursts
of temper were like attacks of madness.
One day Aunt Rosine arrived suddenly, to take me away altogether. My
father had written giving orders as to where I was to be placed, and
these orders were imperative. My mother was traveling, so she had sent
word to my aunt, who had hurried off at once, between two dances, to
carry out the instructions she had received.
The idea that I was to be ordered about, without any regard to my own
wishes or inclinations, put me into an indescribable rage. I rolled
about on the ground, uttering the most heartrending cries. I yelled out
all kinds of reproaches, blaming my mother, my aunts, and Mme. Fressard
for not finding some way to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two
hours, and, while I was being dressed, I escaped twice into the garden
and attempted to climb the trees, and to throw myself into the pond, in
which there was more mud than water.
Finally, when I was completely exhausted and subdued, I was taken off,
sobbing, in my aunt’s carriage.
I stayed three days at her house, as I was so feverish that my life was
said to be in danger.
My father used to come to the house of my Aunt Rosine, who was then
living at 6 Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin. He was on friendly terms with
Rossini, who lived at No. 4 in the same street. He often brought him in,
and Rossini made me laugh with his clever stories and comic grimaces. My
father was as “handsome as a god,” and I used to look at him with pride.
I did not know him well, as I saw him so rarely, but I loved him for his
seductive voice and his slow, gentle gestures. He commanded a certain
respect and I noticed that even my exuberant aunt calmed down in his
presence.
I recovered, and Dr. Monod, who was attending me, said that I could now
be moved without any fear of ill effects. We had been waiting for my
mother, but she was ill at Haarlem. My aunt offered to accompany us if
my father would take me to the convent, but he refused, and I can hear
him now with his gentle voice, saying:
“No, her mother will take her to the convent. I have written to the
Faures and the child is to stay there a fortnight.”
My aunt was about to protest, but my father replied: “It’s quieter
there, my dear Rosine, and the child needs tranquillity more than
anything else.”
I went that very evening to my Aunt Faure’s. I did not care much for
her, as she was cold and affected, but I adored my uncle. He was so
gentle and so calm, and there was an infinite charm in his smile. His
son was as turbulent as I was myself, adventurous and rather
hare-brained, so that we always liked being together. His sister, an
adorable Greuze-like girl, was reserved and always afraid of soiling her
frocks, and even her pinafores. The poor child married Baron Cerise and
died during her confinement, in the very flower of youth and beauty,
because her timidity, her reserve and narrow education had made her
refuse to see a doctor when the intervention of a medical man was
absolutely necessary. I was very fond of her, and her death was a great
grief to me. At present, I never see the faintest ray of moonlight
without its evoking a pale vision of her.
I stayed three weeks at my uncle’s, roaming about with my cousin and
spending hours lying down flat, fishing for crayfish in the little
stream that ran through the park. This park was immense and surrounded
by a wide ditch. How many times I used to have bets with my cousins that
I would jump that ditch! The bet was sometimes three sheets of paper, or
five pins, or perhaps my two pancakes, for we used to have pancakes
every Tuesday. And after the bet I jumped, more often than not falling
into the ditch and splashing about in the green water, screaming because
I was afraid of the frogs, and yelling with terror when my cousins
pretended to rush away.
When I returned to the house my aunt was always watching anxiously at
the top of the stone steps for our arrival. What a lecture I had and
what a cold look!
“Go upstairs and change your clothes, mademoiselle,” she would say, “and
thou stay in your room. Your dinner will be sent to you there without
any dessert.”
As I passed the big glass in the hall I would catch sight of myself,
looking like a rotten tree stump, and see my cousin making signs that he
would bring me some dessert, by putting his hand to his mouth.
His sister used to go to his mother who fondled her and seemed to say:
“Thank Heaven you are not like that little Bohemian!” This was my aunt’s
stinging epithet for me in moments of anger. I used to go up to my room
with a heavy heart, thoroughly ashamed and vexed, vowing to myself that
I would never again jump the ditch, but on reaching my room I would find
the gardener’s daughter there—a big, awkward, merry girl who used to
wait on me.
“Oh, how comic mademoiselle looks like that!” she would say, laughing so
heartily that I was proud of looking comic and decided that when I
jumped the ditch again I would get weeds and mud all over me. When I had
undressed and washed I used to put on a flannel gown and wait in my room
until my dinner came. Soup was sent up and then meat, bread, and water.
I detested meat then, just as I do now, and threw it out of the window,
after cutting off the fat, which I put on the rim of my plate, as my
aunt used to come up unexpectedly.
“Have you eaten your dinner, mademoiselle?” she would ask.
“Yes, aunt,” I replied.
“Are you still hungry?”
“No, aunt.”
“Write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times, you little
heathen.” This was because I had not been baptized. A quarter of an hour
later my uncle would come upstairs.
“Have you had enough dinner?” he would ask.
“Yes, uncle,” I replied.
“Did you eat your meat?”
“No, I threw it out of the window. I don’t like meat.”
“You told your aunt an untruth, then.”
“No, she asked me if I had eaten my dinner and I answered that I had,
but I did not say that I had eaten my meat.”
“What punishment has she given you?”
“I am to write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times before going
to bed.”
“Do you know them by heart?”
“No, not very well. I make mistakes always.”
And the adorable man would then dictate to me “Our Father” and the
“Creed” and I would copy it in the most devout way, as he used to
dictate with deep feeling and emotion. He was religious, very religious
indeed, this uncle of mine, and after the death of my aunt he became a
Carthusian monk. At the present moment, ill and aged as he is, and bent
with pain, I know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of
the spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of me, his
little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him that I owe all
that is best in me! I love him devotedly and have the greatest respect
for him. How many times in the difficult phases of my life I have
thought of him and consulted his ideas, for I never saw him again, as my
aunt quarreled purposely with my mother and me. He was always fond of
me, though, and has told his friends to assure me of this. Occasionally,
too, he has sent me his advice, which has always been very
straightforward and full of intelligence and common sense. Recently I
went to the country where the Carthusians have taken refuge. A friend of
mine went to see my uncle, and I wept on hearing the words he had
dictated to be repeated to me.
To return to my story: after my uncle’s visit, Marie, the gardener’s
daughter, came to my room, looking quite indifferent but with her
pockets stuffed with apples, biscuits, raisins, and nuts. My cousin had
sent me some dessert, but she, the good-hearted girl, had cleared all
the dessert dishes. I told her to sit down and crack the nuts and I
would eat them when I had finished my “Lord’s Prayer” and “Creed.” She
sat down on the floor, so that she could hide everything quickly under
the table, in case my aunt returned. But my aunt seldom came again, as
she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at the piano while my
uncle taught his son mathematics.
Finally my mother wrote to say that she was coming. There was great
excitement in my uncle’s house, and my little trunk was packed in
readiness. The Grandchamps Convent, which I was about to enter, had a
prescribed uniform, and my cousin, who loved sewing, marked all my
things with the initials S. B. in red cotton. My uncle gave me a silver
spoon, fork, and goblet and these were all marked 32, which was the
number under which I was registered there. Marie gave me a thick woolen
muffler in different shades of violet, which she had been knitting for
me in secret the last few days. My aunt put round my neck a little
scapulary which had been blessed, and when my mother and father arrived
everything was ready. A farewell dinner was given to which two of my
mother’s friends, Aunt Rosine, and four other members of the family were
invited.
I felt very important. I was neither sad nor gay, but had just this
feeling of importance which was quite enough for me. Everyone at table
talked about me. My uncle kept stroking my hair and my cousin from her
end of the table threw me kisses. Suddenly my father’s musical voice
made me turn toward him.
“Listen to me, Sarah,” he said; “if you are very good at the convent I
will come in four years and fetch you away, and you shall travel with me
and see some beautiful countries.”
“Oh, I will be good!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be as good as Aunt Henriette!”
This was my Aunt Faure. Everybody smiled.
After dinner, the weather being very fine, we all went out to stroll in
the park. My father took me with him and talked to me very seriously. He
told me things that were sad which I had never heard before. I
understood, although I was so young, and my eyes filled with tears. He
was sitting on an old bench and I was on his knee with my head resting
on his shoulder. I listened to all he said and cried silently, my
childish mind disturbed by his words. Poor father! I was never, never to
see him again.
CHAPTER II
I BEGIN MY CONVENT LIFE
I did not sleep well that night and the following morning, at eight
o’clock, we started by diligence for Versailles. I can see Marie now, in
tears, great big girl as she was. All the members of the family were
assembled at the top of the stone steps. There was my little trunk and
then a wooden case of games which my mother had brought, and a kite that
my cousin had made, which he gave me at the last moment just as the
carriage was starting. I can still see the large white house, which
seemed to get smaller and smaller the farther we drove away from it. I
stood up, with my father holding me and waved his blue silk muffler
which I had taken from his neck. After this I sat down in the carriage
and fell asleep, only rousing up again when we were at the heavy-looking
door of the Grandchamps Convent. I rubbed my eyes and tried to collect
my thoughts. I then jumped down from the diligence and looked at
everything around me. The paving stones of the street were round and
small, with grass growing everywhere. There was a wall and then a great
gateway surmounted by a cross, and nothing behind it, nothing whatever
to be seen. To the left there was a house and to the right the Sartory
barracks. Not a sound to be heard, not a footfall, not even an echo.
“Oh, mamma!” I exclaimed, “is it inside there I am to go? Oh, no, I
would rather go back to Mme. Fressard’s.”
My mother shrugged her shoulders and pointed to my father, thus
explaining that she was not responsible for this step. I rushed to him,
and while ringing the bell, he took me by the hand. The door opened, and
he led me gently in, followed by my mother and Aunt Rosine.
The courtyard was large and dreary-looking, but there were buildings to
be seen, and windows from which children’s faces were gazing curiously
at us. My father said something to the nun who came forward, and she
took us into the parlor. This was large, with a polished floor, and was
divided by an enormous black grating which ran the whole length of the
room. There were benches covered with red velvet by the wall and a few
chairs and armchairs near the grating. On the walls were the portraits
of Pius IX., a full-length one of St. Augustine, and one of Henri V. My
teeth chattered, for it seemed to me that I remembered reading in some
book the description of a prison and that it was just like this. I
looked at my father and at my mother and began to distrust them. I had
so often heard that I was ungovernable, that I needed an iron hand to
rule me, and that I was the devil incarnate in a child. My Aunt Faure
had so often repeated: “That child will come to a bad end, she has such
mad ideas, etc., etc.”
“Papa, papa,” I suddenly cried out, seized with terror, “I won’t go to
prison. This is a prison I am sure. I am frightened; oh, I am so
frightened!”
On the other side of the grating a door had just opened, and I stopped
to see who was coming. A little round, short woman made her appearance
and came up to the grating. Her black veil was lowered as far as her
mouth, so that I could see scarcely anything of her face. She recognized
my father, whom she had probably seen before when matters were being
arranged. She opened the door in the grating and we all went through to
the other side of the room. On seeing me pale and my terrified eyes full
of tears, she gently took my hand in hers, and turning her back to my
father raised her veil. I then saw the sweetest and merriest face
imaginable, with large, childlike blue eyes, a turn-up nose, a laughing
mouth with full lips and beautiful, strong, white teeth. She looked so
kind, so energetic, and so gay that I flung myself at once into her
arms. It was Mother Ste. Sophie, the Superior of the Grandchamps
Convent.
“Ah, we are friends now, you see!” she said to my father, lowering her
veil again. What secret instinct could have told this woman, who was not
coquettish, who had no looking-glass and never troubled about beauty,
that her face was fascinating and that her bright smile could enliven
the gloom of the convent?
“We will now go and visit the house,” she said.
We at once started, she and my father each holding one of my hands. Two
other nuns accompanied us, one of whom was the mother-prefect, a tall,
cold woman with thin lips, and Sister Séraphine, who was as white and
supple as a spray of lily of the valley. We started by entering the
building and came first to the large class-room in which all the pupils
met on Thursdays at the lectures, which were nearly always given by
Mother Ste. Sophie. Most of them did needle-work all day long, tapestry,
embroidery, etc., and others decalcomania.
The room was very large and on St. Catherine’s Day and other holidays we
used to dance there. It was in this room, too, that once a year the
Mother Superior gave to each of the Sisters the sou which represented
her annual income. The walls were adorned with religious engravings and
with a few oil paintings done by the pupils. The place of honor, though,
belonged to St. Augustine. A magnificent large engraving depicted the
conversion of this saint, and, oh, how often I have looked at that
engraving! St. Augustine has certainly caused me very much emotion and
greatly disturbed my childish heart. Mamma admired the cleanliness of
the refectory. She asked to see which would be my seat at table, and
when this was shown to her she objected strongly to my having that
place.
“No,” she said, “the child has not a strong chest and she would always
be in a draught. I will not let her sit there.”
My father agreed with my mother and insisted on a change being made. It
was therefore decided that I should sit at the end of the room, and the
promise given was faithfully kept.
When mamma saw the wide staircase leading to the dormitories she was
aghast. It was very, very wide and the steps were low and easy to mount,
but there were so many of them before one reached the first floor. For a
few seconds mamma hesitated and stood there gazing at them, her arms
hanging down in despair.
“Stay down here, Youle,” said my aunt, “and I will go up.”
“No, no,” replied my mother in a sorrowful voice. “I must see where the
child is to sleep; she is so delicate.”
My father helped her, and indeed almost carried her up, and we then went
into one of the immense dormitories. It was very much like the dormitory
at Mme. Fressard’s, but a great deal larger and there was a tiled floor
without any carpet.
“Oh, this is quite impossible!” exclaimed mamma, “the child cannot sleep
here; it is too cold; it would kill her.”
The Mother Superior, Ste. Sophie, gave my mother a chair and tried to
soothe her. She was pale, for her heart was already very much affected.
“We will put your little girl in this dormitory, madame,” she said,
opening a door that led into a room with eight beds. The floor was of
polished wood and this room, adjoining the infirmary, was the one in
which delicate or convalescent children slept. Mamma was reassured on
seeing this, and we then went down and inspected the grounds. There were
three woods, the Little Wood, the Middle Wood, and the Big Wood, and
then there was an orchard that stretched along as far as the eye could
see. In this orchard was the building where the poor children lived.
They were taught gratis by the nuns, and every week they helped with the
laundry for the convent.
The sight of these immense woods with swings, hammocks, and a gymnasium
delighted me, for I thought I should be able to roam about at pleasure
there. Mother Ste. Sophie explained to us that the Little Wood was
reserved for the older pupils and the Middle Wood for the little ones,
while the Big Wood was for the whole convent on holidays. Then after
telling us about the collecting of the chestnuts and the gathering of
the acacia, Mother Ste. Sophie informed us that every child could have a
small garden and that sometimes two or three of them had a larger one
between them.
[Illustration: REAR VIEW OF GRANDCHAMPS CONVENT, VERSAILLES.]
“Oh, can I have a garden of my own!” I exclaimed, “a garden all to
myself?”
“Yes,” replied my mother, “one of your own.”
The Mother Superior called the gardener, Père Larcher, the only man,
with the exception of the almoner, who was on the convent staff.
“Père Larcher,” said the kind woman, “here is a little girl who wants a
beautiful garden. Find a nice place for it.”
“Very good, Reverend Mother,” answered the honest fellow, and I saw my
father slip a coin into his hand, for which the man thanked him in an
embarrassed way.
It was getting late and we had to separate. I remember quite well that I
did not feel any grief, as I was thinking of nothing but my garden. The
convent no longer seemed to me like a prison but like Paradise. I kissed
my mother and my aunt. Papa drew me to him and held me a moment in a
close embrace. When I looked at him I saw that his eyes were full of
tears. I did not feel at all inclined to cry, and I gave him a hearty
kiss and whispered: “I am going to be very, very good and work well, so
that I can go with you at the end of four years.” I then went toward my
mother, who was giving Mother Ste. Sophie the same instructions she had
given to Mme. Fressard about “cold cream, chocolate, jam, etc.” Mother
Ste. Sophie wrote down all these instructions, and it is only fair to
say that she carried them out afterwards most scrupulously.
When my parents had gone I felt inclined to cry, but the Mother Superior
took me by the hand, and leading me to the Second Wood, showed me where
my garden would be. That was quite enough to distract my thoughts, for
we found Père Larcher there marking out my piece of ground in a corner
of the wood. There was a young birch tree against the wall. The corner
was formed by the joining of two walls, one of which bounded the railway
line of the left bank of the river which cuts the Sartory Woods in two.
The other wall was that of the cemetery. All the woods of the convent
were part of the beautiful Sartory Forest.
They had all given me money, my father, my mother, and my aunt. I had
altogether about forty or fifty francs, and I wanted to give all to Père
Larcher for buying seed. The Mother Superior smiled and sent for the
Mother Treasurer and Mother Ste. Appoline. I had to hand all my money
over to the former, with the exception of twenty sous which she left me,
saying: “When that is all gone, little girl, come and get some more from
me.”
Mère Ste. Appoline, who taught botany, then asked me what kind of
flowers I wanted. What kind of flowers! Why I wanted every sort that
grew. She at once proceeded to give me a botany lesson, by explaining
that all flowers did not grow at the same season. She then asked the
Mother Treasurer for some of my money, which she gave to Père Larcher,
telling him to buy me a spade, a rake, a hoe, and a watering-can, some
seeds and a few plants, the names of which she wrote down for him. I was
delighted, and I then went with Mother Ste. Sophie to the refectory to
have dinner. On entering the immense room I stood still for a second,
amazed and confused. More than a hundred girls were assembled there,
standing up for the benediction to be pronounced. When the Mother
Superior appeared, everyone bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were
turned on me. Mother Ste. Sophie took me to the seat which had been
chosen for me at the end of the room and then returned to the middle of
the refectory. She stood still, made the sign of the cross, and in an
audible voice pronounced the benediction. As she left the room, everyone
bowed again and I then found myself alone, quite alone in this cage of
little wild animals. I was seated between two little girls of from ten
to twelve years old, both as dusky as two young moles. They were twins
from Jamaica, and their names were Dolores and Pepa Cardanos. They had
been in the convent only two months and appeared to be as timid as I
was. The dinner was composed of soup, made of everything, and of veal
with haricot beans. I detested soup and I have always had a horror of
veal. I turned my plate over when the soup was handed round, but the nun
who waited on us turned it up again and poured the hot soup in,
regardless of scalding me.
“You must drink your soup,” whispered my right-hand neighbor, whose name
was Pepa.
“I don’t like that sort and I don’t want any,” I said aloud. The
inspectress was passing by just at that moment.
“You must drink your soup, mademoiselle,” she said.
“No, I don’t like that sort of soup,” I answered.
She smiled and said in a gentle voice:
“We must like everything. I shall be coming round again soon. Be a good
girl and take your soup.”
I was getting into a rage, but Dolores gave me her empty plate and drank
the soup for me. When the inspectress came round again she expressed her
satisfaction. I was furious and put my tongue out, and this made all the
table laugh. She turned round, and the pupil who sat at the end of the
table and was appointed to watch over us, because she was the eldest,
said to her in a low voice:
“It’s the new girl making grimaces.”
The inspectress moved away again, and when the veal was served my
portion found its way to the plate of my neighbor, Dolores. I wanted to
keep the haricot beans though, and we almost came to a quarrel over
them. She gave way finally, but with the veal she dragged away a few
beans which I tried to keep on my plate.
An hour later we had evening prayers and afterwards all went up to bed.
My bed was placed against the wall, in which there was a niche for the
statue of the Virgin Mary. A lamp was always kept burning in this niche,
and the oil for it was provided by the children who had been ill and
were grateful for their recovery. Two tiny flower-pots were placed at
the foot of the little statue. The pots were of terra cotta and the
flowers of paper. I made paper flowers very well, and I at once decided
that I would make all the flowers for the Virgin Mary. I fell asleep to
dream of garlands of flowers, of haricot beans, and of distant
countries, for the twins from Jamaica had made an impression on my mind.
The awakening was cruel. I was not accustomed to get up so early.
Daylight was scarcely visible through the opaque windowpanes. I grumbled
as I dressed, for we were allowed only a quarter of an hour and it
always took me a good half hour to comb my hair. Sister Marie, seeing
that I was not ready, came toward me, and before I knew what she was
going to do, snatched the comb violently out of my hand.
“Come, come,” she said, “you must not dawdle like this.” She then
planted the comb in my mop of hair and tore out a handful of it. Pain
and anger at seeing myself treated in this way threw me immediately into
one of my fits of rage which always terrified those who witnessed them.
I flung myself upon the unfortunate Sister and with feet, teeth, hands,
elbows, head and, indeed, all my poor little body I hit, thumped, and at
the same time yelled. All the pupils, all the Sisters, and indeed
everyone came running to see what was the matter. The Sisters made the
sign of the cross but did not venture to approach me. The Mother Prefect
threw some holy water over me to exorcise the evil spirit. Finally the
Mother Superior arrived on the scene. My father had told her of my fits
of wild fury, which were my only serious fault, and my state of health
was quite as much responsible for them as the violence of my
disposition. She approached me. I was still clutching Sister Marie, but
was exhausted by this struggle with the poor woman, who although tall
and strong, only tried to ward off my blows without retaliating,
endeavoring to hold first my feet, and then my hands.
I looked up on hearing Mother Ste. Sophie’s voice. My eyes were bathed
in tears, but nevertheless I saw such an expression of pity on her sweet
face that without altogether letting go I ceased fighting for a second,
and trembling and ashamed, said very quickly:
“She commenced it, she snatched the comb out of my hand like a wicked
woman, and tore out my hair. She was rough and hurt me. She is a wicked,
wicked woman.” I then burst into sobs and my hands loosed their hold.
The next thing I knew was that I found myself lying on my little bed
with Mother Ste. Sophie’s hand on my forehead and her kind, deep voice
lecturing me gently. All the others had gone and I was quite alone with
her and the Holy Virgin in the niche. From that day forth Mother Ste.
Sophie had an immense influence over me. Every morning I went to her,
and Sister Marie, whose forgiveness I had been obliged to ask before the
whole convent, combed my hair out in her presence. Seated on a little
stool I listened to the book that the Mother Superior read to me or to
the instructive story she told me.
Ah, what an adorable woman she was, and how I love to recall her to my
memory! I adored her as a little child adores the being who has entirely
won its heart, without knowing, without reasoning, without even being
aware that it was so, but I was simply under the spell of an infinite
fascination. Since then, though, I have understood and admired her,
realizing how unique and radiant a soul was imprisoned under the
thick-set exterior and happy face of that holy woman, I have loved her
for all that she awakened within me of nobleness. I love her for the
letters which she wrote to me, letters that I often read over and over
again. I love her, also, because imperfect as I am, it seems to me that
I should have been one hundred times more so, had I not known and loved
that pure creature. Once only did I see her severe and feel that she was
suddenly angry. In the little room used as a parlor, leading into her
cell, there was a portrait of a young man, whose handsome face was
stamped with a certain nobility.
“Is that the Emperor?” I asked her.
“No,” she answered, turning quickly toward me, “it is the King, it is
Henri V.”
It was only later on that I understood the meaning of her emotion. All
the convent was royalist, and Henri V. was their recognized sovereign.
They all had the most utter contempt for Napoleon III., and on the day
when the Prince Imperial was baptized there was no distribution of
bonbons for us, and we were not allowed the holiday that was accorded to
all the colleges, boarding schools, and convents. Politics were a dead
letter to me and I was happy at the convent, thanks to Mother Ste.
Sophie.
Then, too, I was a favorite with my schoolfellows, who frequently did my
compositions for me. I did not care for any studies except geography and
drawing. Arithmetic drove me wild, spelling plagued my life out, and I
thoroughly despised the piano. I was very timid and quite lost my head
when questioned unexpectedly.
I had a passion for animals of all kinds. I used to carry about with me
in small cardboard boxes, or cages that I manufactured myself, adders,
with which the woods were full, crickets, that I found on the leaves of
the tiger lilies, and lizards. The latter nearly always had their tails
broken, as in order to see if they were eating, I used to lift the lid
of the box a little. On seeing this the lizards rushed to the opening. I
would shut the box very quickly, red with surprise at such assurance,
when, crack! in a twinkling, either at the right or left, there was
nearly always a tail caught. This used to grieve me for hours, and while
one of the Sisters was explaining to us, by figures on the blackboard,
the metric system, I was wondering, with my lizard’s tail in my hand,
how I could fasten it on again. I had some death-watches in a little
box, and five spiders in a cage that Père Larcher had made for me with
some wire netting. I used, very cruelly, to give flies to my spiders and
they, fat and well-fed, would spin their webs. Very often during
recreation a whole group of us, ten or twelve little girls, would stand
round, with a cage on a bench or tree stump, and watch the wonderful
work of these little creatures. If one of my schoolfellows cut herself I
used to go quickly to her, feeling very proud and important: “Come at
once,” I would say, “I have some fresh spider-web and I will wrap your
finger in it.” Provided with a little thin stick I would take the web
and wrap it round the wounded finger. “And now, my lady spiders,” I
would say, “you must begin your work again,” and, active and minute,
mesdames, the spiders, began their spinning once more.
I was looked upon as a little authority and was made umpire in questions
that had to be decided. I used to receive orders for fashionable
trousseaux, made of paper, for dolls. It was quite an easy thing for me
in those days to make long ermine cloaks with fur tippets and muff, and
this filled my little playfellows with admiration. I charged for my
trousseaux, according to their importance, two pencils, five
_tête-de-mort_ nibs, or a couple of sheets of white paper. In short, I
became a personality, and that sufficed for my childish pride. I did not
learn anything and I received no distinctions. My name was only once on
the honor list, and that was not as a studious pupil but for a
courageous deed. I had fished a little girl out of the big pool. She had
fallen in while trying to catch frogs. The pool was in the large orchard
on the poor children’s side of the grounds. As a punishment for some
misdeed, which I do not remember, I had been sent away for two days
among the poor children. This was supposed to be a punishment and I
delighted in it. In the first place I was looked upon by them as a
“young lady.” Then I used to give the day pupils a few sous to bring me,
on the sly, a little moist sugar. During recreation I heard some
heartrending shrieks and, rushing to the pool from whence they came, I
saw a little girl immersed in it. I jumped into the water without
reflecting. There was so much mud that we both sank in it. The little
girl was only four years old and so small that she kept disappearing. I
was over ten at that time. I do not know how I managed to rescue her,
but I dragged her out of the water with her mouth, nose, ears, and eyes
all filled with mud. I was told afterwards that it was a long time
before she was restored to consciousness. As for me, I was carried away
with my teeth chattering, nervous and half fainting. I was very feverish
afterwards and Mother Ste. Sophie herself sat up with me. I overheard
her words to the doctor:
“This child,” she said, “is one of the best we have here. She will be
perfect when once she has received the Holy Chrism.”
This speech made such an impression on me that, from that day forth,
mysticism had a great hold on me. I had a very vivid imagination and was
extremely sensitive, and the Christian legend took possession of me,
heart and soul. The Son of God became the object of my worship and the
Mother of the Seven Sorrows, my ideal.
An event, very simple in itself, was destined to disturb the silence of
our secluded life and to attach me more than ever to my convent, where I
wanted to remain forever.
The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was paying a round of
visits to some of the communities and ours was among the chosen ones.
The news was told us by Mother Ste. Alexis, the senior, who was so tall,
so thin, and so old that I never looked upon her as a human being, or as
a living being. It always seemed to me as though she were stuffed and as
though she moved by machinery. She frightened me and I never consented
to go near to her until after her death.
We were all assembled in the large room which we used on Thursdays.
Mother Ste. Alexis, supported by two lay Sisters, stood on the little
platform and, in a voice that sounded far, far off, announced to us the
approaching visit of monseigneur. He was to come on Ste. Catherine’s
Day, just a fortnight after the speech of the Reverend Mother.
Our peaceful convent was thenceforth like a beehive in which a hornet
had entered. Our lesson hours were curtailed, so that we might have time
to make festoons of roses and lilies. The wide, tall armchair of carved
wood was uncushioned, so that it might be varnished and polished. We
made lamp shades covered with crystalline. The grass was pulled up in
the courtyard ... and I cannot tell what was not done in honor of this
visitor.
Two days after the announcement made by Mother Ste. Alexis the programme
of the _fête_ was read to us by Mother Ste. Sophie. The youngest of the
nuns was to read a few words of welcome to monseigneur. This was the
delightful Sister Séraphine. After that Marie Buguet was to play a
pianoforte solo by Henri Herz. Marie de Lacour was to sing a song by
Louise Puget, and then a little play in three scenes was to be given,
entitled, “Toby Recovering His Eyesight.” It had been written by Mother
Thérèse. I have now before me the little manuscript, all yellow with age
and torn, and I can only just make out the sense of it and a few of the
phrases.
The little play was read to us by Mother Ste. Thérèse one Thursday, in
the large assembly room. We were all in tears at the end, and Mother
Ste. Thérèse was obliged to make a great effort in order to avoid
committing, if only for a second, the sin of pride.
Scene I. _Toby’s_ farewell to his blind father. He vows to bring back to
him the ten talents lent to _Gabelus_, one of his relatives. Scene II.
_Toby_, asleep on the banks of the Tiber, is being watched over by the
_Angel Raphael_. Struggle with a monster fish which had attacked _Toby_
while he slept. When the fish is killed the angel advises _Toby_ to take
its heart, its liver, and its gall, and to preserve these religiously.
Scene III. _Toby’s_ return to his blind father. The angel tells him to
rub the old man’s eyes with the entrails of the fish. The father’s
eyesight is restored, and when _Toby_ begs the _Angel Raphael_ to accept
some reward the latter makes himself known, and in a song to the glory
of God, vanishes to heaven.
I wondered anxiously what part I should take in this religious comedy,
for, considering that I was now treated as a little personage, I had no
doubt but that some rôle would be distributed to me. The very thought of
it made me tremble beforehand, and I kept saying to myself: “Oh, no, I
could never say anything aloud!” I began to get quite nervous, my hands
became quite cold, my heart beat furiously, and my temples throbbed. I
did not approach, but remained sulkily seated on my stool when Mother
Ste. Thérèse said in her calm voice:
“Young ladies, please pay attention, and listen for your names for the
different parts:
Old Toby Eugénie Charmel
Young Toby Amelie Pluche
Gabelus Renée d’Arville
The Angel Raphael Louise Buguet
Toby’s mother Eulalie Lacroix
Toby’s sister Virginie Depaul”
I had been listening, although pretending not to, and I was stupefied,
amazed, and furious. Mother Ste. Thérèse then added: “Here are your
manuscripts, young ladies,” and a manuscript of the little play was
handed to each pupil chosen to take part in it.
Louise Buguet was my favorite playmate, and I went up to her and asked
her to let me see her manuscript, which I read again enthusiastically.
“You’ll hear me rehearse, when I have learned it, won’t you?” she asked,
and I answered:
“Yes, certainly.”
“Oh, how frightened I shall be!” she said.
She had been chosen for the angel, I suppose, because she was as pale
and sweet as a moonbeam. She had a soft, timid voice, and sometimes we
used to make her cry, as she was so pretty then. The tears used to flow
limpid and pearl-like from her gray, questioning eyes.
She began at once to learn her part, and I was like a shepherd’s dog
going from one to another among the chosen ones. I had really nothing to
do with it, but I wanted to be “in it.” The Mother Superior passed by,
and as we all courtesied to her she patted my cheek.
“We thought of you, little girl,” she said, “but you are so timid when
you are asked anything.”
“Oh, that’s when it is history or arithmetic!” I said. “This is not the
same thing, and I should not have been afraid.”
She smiled distrustfully and moved on.
There were rehearsals during the next week. I asked to be allowed to
take the part of the monster, as I wanted to have some rôle in the play,
at any cost. It was decided, though, that César, the convent dog, should
be the fish monster.
A competition was opened for the fish costume. I went to an endless
amount of trouble, cutting out scales from cardboard that I had painted,
and sewing them together afterward. I made some enormous gills, which
were to be glued on to César. My costume was not chosen; it was passed
over for that of a stupid, big girl, whose name I cannot remember. She
had made a huge tail of kid and a mask with big eyes and gills, but
there were no scales, and we should have to see César’s shaggy coat. I
nevertheless turned my attention to Louise Buguet’s costume, and worked
at it with two of the lay Sisters, Sister Ste. Cécile and Sister Ste.
Jeanne, who had charge of the linen room.
At the rehearsals not a word could be extorted from the Angel Raphael.
She stood there stupefied, on the little platform, tears dimming her
beautiful eyes. She brought the whole play to a standstill, and kept
appealing to me in a weeping voice. I prompted her, and getting up,
rushed to her, kissed her, and whispered her whole speech to her. I was
beginning to be “in it” myself, at last.
Finally, two days before the great solemnity, there was a dress
rehearsal. The angel looked lovely, but immediately on entering, he sank
down on a bench sobbing out in an imploring voice:
“Oh, no, I shall never be able to do it, never!”
“Quite true, she never will be able to,” sighed Mother Ste. Sophie.
Forgetting for the moment my little friend’s grief, and wild with joy,
pride, and assurance, I ran up to the platform and bounded on to the
form on which the _Angel Raphael_ had sunk down weeping.
“Oh, Mother, I know her part, shall I take her place for the rehearsal?”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed voices from all sides.
“Oh, yes, you know it so well,” said Louise Buguet, and she wanted to
put her band on my head.
“No, let me rehearse as I am, first,” I answered.
They began the second scene again and I came in carrying a long branch
of willow.
“Fear nothing, Toby,” I commenced. “I will be your guide. I will remove
from your path all thorns and stones.... You are overwhelmed with
fatigue. Lie down and rest, for I will watch over you.”
Thereupon _Toby_, worn out, lay down by the side of a strip of blue
muslin, about five yards of which, stretched out and winding about,
represented the Tiber.
I then continued by a prayer to God while _Toby_ fell asleep. César next
appeared as the monster fish and the audience trembled with fear. César
had been well taught by the gardener, Père Larcher, and he advanced
slowly from under the blue muslin. He was wearing his mask, representing
the head of a fish. Two enormous nutshells for his eyes had been painted
white, and a hole pierced through them, so that the dog could see. The
mask was fastened with wire to his collar, which also supported two
gills as large as palm leaves. César, sniffing the ground, snorted and
growled and then leaped wildly on to _Toby_, who with his cudgel, slew
the monster at one blow. The dog fell on his back with his four paws in
the air, and then rolled over on his side, pretending to be dead.
There was wild delight in the house, and the audience clapped and
stamped. The younger pupils stood up on their stools and shouted: “Good
César! Clever César! Oh, good dog, good dog!” The Sisters, touched by
the efforts of the guardian of the convent, shook their heads with
emotion. As for me, I quite forgot that I was the _Angel Raphael_, and I
stooped down and stroked César affectionately. “Ah, how well he has
acted his part!” I said, kissing him and taking one paw and then the
other in my hand, while the dog, motionless, continued to be dead.
The little bell was rung to call us to order. I stood up again, and
accompanied by the piano, we burst into a hymn of praise, a duet to the
glory of God, who had just saved _Toby_ from the fearful monster.
After this the little green serge curtain was drawn and I was
surrounded, petted, and praised. Mother Ste. Sophie came up onto the
platform and kissed me affectionately. As to Louise Buguet, she was now
joyful again and her angelic face beamed.
“Oh, how well you knew the part!” she said. “And then, too, everyone can
hear what you say. Oh, thank you so much!” She kissed me and I hugged
her with all my might—at last I was in it!
The third scene began. The action took place in _Father Toby’s_ house.
_Gabelus_, the _Angel_, and young _Toby_ were holding the entrails of
the fish in their hands and looking at them. The _Angel_ explained how
they must be used for rubbing the blind father’s eyes. I felt rather
sick, for I was holding in my hand a skate’s liver, and the heart and
gizzard of a fowl. I had never touched such things before and every now
and then the sick feeling made me heave, and the tears came into my
eyes.
Finally, the blind father came in, led by _Toby’s_ sister. _Gabelus_
knelt down before the old man and gave him the ten silver talents,
telling him in a long recital, of _Toby’s_ exploits in Media. After this
_Toby_ advanced, embraced his father and then rubbed his eyes with the
skate’s liver.
Eugénie Charmel made a grimace, but after wiping her eyes she exclaimed:
“I can see, I can see. O God of goodness, God of mercy, I can see, I can
see!”
She came forward with outstretched arms, her eyes open, in an ecstatic
attitude, and the whole little assembly, so simple-minded and loving,
wept.
All the actors except old _Toby_ and the _Angel_ sank on their knees and
gave praise to God, and at the close of this thanksgiving the public,
moved by religious sentiment and discipline, repeated, Amen!
_Toby’s_ mother then approached the _Angel_ and said:
“Oh, noble stranger, take up your abode from henceforth with us; you
shall be our guest, our son, our brother!”
I then advanced, and in a long speech of at least thirty lines, made
known that I was the messenger of God, that I was the _Angel Raphael_. I
then gathered up quickly the pale blue tarlatan, which was being
concealed for a final effect, and veiled myself in cloudy tissue which
was intended to simulate my flight heavenward. The little green serge
curtain was then closed on this apotheosis.
Finally the solemn day arrived. I was so feverish with expectation that
I could not sleep the last three nights. The dressing bell was rung for
us earlier than usual, but I was already up and trying to smooth my
rebellious hair, which I brushed with a wet brush by way of making it
behave better.
Monseigneur was to arrive at eleven o’clock in the morning. We therefore
lunched at ten and were then drawn up in the principal courtyard. Only
Mother Ste. Alexis, the eldest of the nuns, was in the front and Mother
Ste. Sophie just behind her. The almoner was a little distance away from
the two Superiors. Then came the other nuns, and behind them the girls,
and then all the little children. The lay Sisters and the servants were
also there. We were all dressed in white with the respective colors of
our various classes.
The bell rang out a peal. The large carriage entered the first
courtyard. The gate of the principal courtyard was then opened and
Monseigneur appeared on the carriage steps, which the footman lowered
for him. Mother Ste. Alexis advanced, and bending down, kissed the
episcopal ring. Mother Ste. Sophie, the Superior, who was younger, knelt
down to kiss the ring. The signal was then given to us and we all knelt
to receive the benediction of Monseigneur. When we looked up again the
big gate was closed and Monseigneur had disappeared, conducted by the
Mother Superior. Mother Ste. Alexis was exhausted, and went back to her
cell.
In obedience to the signal given we all rose from our knees. We then
went to the chapel where a short mass was celebrated, after which we had
an hour’s recreation. The concert was to commence at half past one. The
recreation hour was devoted to preparing the large room and to getting
ready to appear before Monseigneur. I wore the _Angel’s_ long robe with
a blue sash round my waist, and two paper wings fastened on with narrow
blue straps, that crossed over each other in front. Round my head was a
band of gold braid, fastening behind. I kept mumbling my “part” (for in
those days we did not know the word “rôle”). We are more used to the
theater at present, but at the convent we always said “part,” and years
afterwards I was surprised, the first time I played in England, to hear
a young English girl say: “Oh, what a fine part you had in ‘Hernani.’”
The room looked beautiful, oh, so beautiful! There were festoons of
green leaves, with paper flowers at intervals, everywhere. Then there
were little lusters hung about with gold cord. A wide piece of red
velvet carpet was laid down from the door to Monseigneur’s armchair,
upon which were two cushions of red velvet with gold fringe.
I thought all these horrors very fine, very beautiful!
The concert began and it seemed to me that everything went very well.
Monseigneur, however, could not help smiling at the sight of César, and
it was he who led the applause when the dog died. It was César, in fact,
who had the greatest success, but we were nevertheless sent for to
appear before Monseigneur Sibour. He was certainly the kindest and most
charming of prelates and on this occasion he gave to each of us a
consecrated medal.
When my turn came he took my hand in his and said:
“It is you, my child, who are not baptized, is it not?”
“Yes, Reverend Father, yes, Monseigneur,” I replied in confusion.
“She is to be baptized this spring,” said the Mother Superior. “Her
father is coming back specially from a very distant country.”
She and Monseigneur then said a few words to each other in a very low
voice.
“Very well, if I can, I will come again for the ceremony,” said the
archbishop aloud.
I was trembling with emotion and pride as I kissed the old man’s ring
and then ran away to the dormitory, and cried for a long time. I was
found there, later on, fast asleep from exhaustion.
From that day forth I was a better child, more studious and less
violent. In my fits of anger I was calmed by the mention of Monseigneur
Sibour’s name, and reminded of his promise to come for my baptism.
Alas! I was not destined to have that great joy. One morning in January,
when we were all assembled in the chapel for mass, I was surprised, and
had a foreboding of coming evil, when I saw the Abbé Lethurgi go up into
the pulpit before commencing the mass. He was very pale, and I turned
instinctively to look at the Mother Superior. She was seated in her
regular place. The almoner then began, in a voice broken with emotion,
to tell us of the murder of Monseigneur Sibour.
Murdered! A thrill of horror went through us and a hundred stifled
cries, forming one great sob, drowned for an instant the priest’s voice.
Murdered! The word seemed to sting me personally even more than the
others. Had I not been, for one instant, the favorite of the kind old
man! It was as though the murderer, Verger, had struck at me, too, in my
grateful love for the prelate, in my little fame of which he had now
robbed me. I burst into sobs, and the organ accompanying the prayer for
the dead increased my grief, which became so intense that I fainted. It
was from this moment that I was taken with an ardent love for mysticism.
It was fortified by the religious exercises, the dramatic effort of our
worship and the gentle encouragement, both fervent and sincere, of those
who were educating me. They were very fond of me and I adored them so
that even now the very memory of them, fascinating and restful as it is,
thrills me with affection.
The time appointed for my baptism drew near, and I grew more and more
excitable. My nervous attacks were more and more frequent, fits of tears
for no reason at all, and fits of terror without any cause. Everything
seemed to take strange proportions, as far as I was concerned. One day
one of my little friends dropped a doll that I had lent her (for I
played with dolls until I was over thirteen). I began to tremble all
over, as I adored that doll, which had been given to me by my father.
“You have broken my doll’s head, you naughty girl!” I exclaimed. “You
have hurt my father!”
I would not eat anything afterwards, and in the night I woke up in a
great perspiration, with haggard eyes, sobbing:
“Papa is dead! Papa is dead!”
Three days later my mother came. She asked to see me in the parlor, and
making me stand in front of her, she said:
“My poor little girl, I have something to tell you that will cause you
great sorrow. Papa is dead.”
“I know,” I said, “I know,” and the expression in my eyes, my mother
frequently told me afterwards, was such that she trembled a long time
for my reason.
[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT AND HER MOTHER.]
I was very sad and not at all well. I refused to learn anything except
the catechism and Scripture, and I wanted to be a nun.
My mother begged to have my two sisters baptized with me; Jeanne, who
was then six years old, and Régina, who was not three, but who had been
taken as a boarder at the convent, with the idea that her presence might
cheer me a little.
I was isolated for a week before my baptism and for a week afterwards,
as I was to be confirmed the week after my baptism.
My mother, Aunt Rosine Berendt, and Aunt Henriette Faure, my godfather,
Regis Lavallée, M. Lesprin, Jeanne’s godfather, and General Polès,
Régina’s godfather, the godmothers of my two sisters, and my various
cousins all came and revolutionized the convent. My mother and my aunts
were in fashionable mourning attire. Aunt Rosine had put a spray of
lilac in her bonnet “to enliven her mourning,” as she said. It was a
strange expression, but I have certainly heard it since used by other
people besides her.
I had never before felt so far away from all these people who had come
there on my account. I adored my mother, but with a touching and fervent
desire to leave her, never to see her again, to sacrifice her to God. As
to the others I did not see them. I was very grave and rather moody. A
short time previously a nun had taken the veil at the convent and I
could think of nothing else.
This baptismal ceremony was the prelude to my dream. I could see myself
like the novice who had just been admitted as a nun. I pictured myself
lying down on the ground, covered over with a heavy, black cloth, with
its white cross, and four massive candlesticks placed at the four
corners of the cloth. And I planned to die under this cloth. How I was
to do this I did not know. I did not think of killing myself, as I knew
that would be a crime. But I made up my mind to die like this, and my
ideas galloped along so that I saw in my imagination the horror of the
Sisters and heard the cries of the pupils and was delighted at the
emotion which I had caused.
After the baptismal ceremony my mother wished to take me away with her.
She had rented a small house with a garden in the Boulevard de la Reine,
at Versailles, for my holidays, and she had decorated it with flowers
for this fête day, as she wanted to celebrate the baptism of her three
children. She was very gently told that, as I was to be confirmed in a
week’s time, I was not to be isolated until then. My mother cried, and I
can remember now, to my sorrow, that it did not make me sad to see her
tears, but quite the contrary.
When everyone had gone and I went into the little cell, in which I had
been living for the last week and was to live for another week, I fell
on my knees in a state of exaltation and offered up to God my mother’s
sorrow.
“You saw, O Lord God, that mamma cried and that it did not affect me.”
Poor child that I was, I imagined in my wild exaggeration of everything
that what was expected from me was the renunciation of all affection,
devotion, and pity.
The following day, Mother Ste. Sophie lectured me gently about my wrong
comprehension of religious duties, and she told me that when once I was
confirmed she should give me a fortnight’s holiday, to go and make my
mother forget her sorrow and disappointment.
My confirmation took place with the same pompous ceremonial. All the
pupils, dressed in white, carried wax tapers. For the whole week I had
refused to eat. I was pale and had grown thinner and my eyes looked
larger from my perpetual transports, for I went to extremes in
everything.
Baron Larrey, who came with my mother to my confirmation, begged for me
to have a month’s holiday to recruit, and this was accorded.
Accordingly we started, my mother, Mme. Guérard, her son Ernest, my
sister Jeanne and I, for Cauterets in the Pyrénées.
The movement, the packing of the trunks, parcels, and packages, the
railway, the diligence, the scenery, the crowds, and the general
disturbance cured me and my nerves and my mysticism. I clapped my hands,
laughed aloud, flung myself on mamma and nearly stifled her with kisses.
I sang hymns at the top of my voice, I was hungry and thirsty, so I ate,
drank, and in a word, lived.
CHAPTER III
A PRANK AND ITS RESULTS
Cauterets at that time was not what it is now. It was an abominable but
charming little hole of a place with plenty of verdure, very few houses,
and a great many huts belonging to the mountain people. There were
plenty of donkeys to be hired that took us up the mountains by
extraordinary paths. I adore the sea and the plain, but I care neither
for mountains nor for forests. Mountains seem to crush me, and forests
to stifle me. I must, at any cost, have the horizon stretching out as
far as the eye can see, and skies to dream about.
I wanted to go up the mountains, so that they should lose their crushing
effect. And consequently we went up always higher and higher. Mamma used
to stay at home with her sweet friend Mme. Guérard. She used to read
novels while Mme. Guérard embroidered. They would sit there together
without speaking, each dreaming her own dream, seeing it fade away and
beginning it over again. The old servant Marguerite was the only
domestic mamma had brought with her, and she used to accompany us, and
was always gay and daring. She always knew how to make the men laugh
with speeches, the sense and crudeness of which I did not understand
until much later. She was the life of the party always. As she had been
with us from the time we were born, she was very familiar, and sometimes
objectionably so. I would not let her have her own way with me, though,
and I used to answer her back in the most cutting manner. She would take
her revenge in the evening by giving us a dish of sweets for dinner that
I did not like.
I began to look better for the change, and although still very
religious, my mysticism was growing calmer. As I could not exist,
however, without a passion of some kind I began to get very fond of the
goats, and I asked mamma quite seriously whether I might become a
goat-herd.
“I would rather you were that than a nun,” she replied, and then she
added: “We will talk about it later on.”
Every day I brought down with me from the mountain another little kid,
and we already had seven when my mother interfered and put a stop to my
zeal.
Finally it was time to return to the convent. My holiday was over and I
was quite well again. I was to go back to work once more. I accepted the
situation willingly to the great surprise of mamma, who loved traveling,
but detested the actual moving from one place to another.
I was delighted at the idea of the repacking of the parcels and trunks,
of being seated in things that moved along, of seeing again all the
villages, towns, people, and trees that changed all the time. I wanted
to take my goats with me but my mother very positively refused.
“You are mad,” she exclaimed, “seven goats in a train and in a carriage!
Where could you put them? No, a hundred times no!”
She finally consented to my taking two of them and a blackbird that one
of the mountaineers had given me.
And so we returned to the convent. I was received there with such
sincere joy that I felt very happy again immediately. I was allowed to
keep my two goats there and to have them out at playtime. We had great
fun with them; they used to bunt us and we used to bunt them, and we
laughed, frolicked, and were very foolish. And yet I was nearly fourteen
at this time, but very puny and childish.
I stayed at the convent another ten months without learning anything
more. The idea of becoming a nun always haunted me, but I was no longer
a mystic.
My godfather looked upon me as the greatest dunce. I worked, though,
during the holidays and I used to have lessons with Sophie Croizette who
lived near to our country house. This gave a slight impetus to me in my
studies, but it was only slight. Sophie was very gay, and what we liked
best was to go to the Museum where her sister Pauline, who was later on
to become Mme. Carolus Duran, was copying pictures by the great masters.
Pauline was as cold and calm as Sophie was charming, talkative, and
noisy. Pauline Croizette was beautiful, but I liked Sophie better; she
was more gracious and pretty. Mme. Croizette, their mother, always
seemed sad and resigned. She had given up her career very early. She had
been a dancer at the Opera in St. Petersburg and had been very much
adored and flattered and spoiled. I fancy it was the birth of Sophie
that had compelled her to leave the stage. Her money then had been
injudiciously invested and she had been ruined. She was very
distinguished-looking, her face had a kind expression, there was an
infinite melancholy about her and people were instinctively drawn toward
her. Mamma had made her acquaintance while listening to the music in the
park at Versailles, and for some time we saw a great deal of her.
Sophie and I had some fine games in that magnificent park. Our greatest
joy, though, was to go to Mme. Masson’s in the Rue de la Gare. Mme.
Masson had a curiosity shop. Her daughter Cécile was a perfect little
beauty. We three used to delight in changing the tickets on the vases,
snuffboxes, fans, and jewels, and then, when poor M. Masson came back
with a rich customer—for Masson, the antiquary, enjoyed a world-wide
reputation—Sophie and I used to hide so that we should see his fury.
Cécile, with an innocent air, would be helping her mother and glancing
slyly at us from time to time.
The whirl of life separated me brusquely from all these people whom I
loved, and an incident, trivial in itself, caused me to leave the
convent earlier than my mother wished.
It was a fête day and we had two hours for recreation. We were marching
in procession along the wall which skirts the railway on the left bank
of the Seine and as we were burying my pet lizard we were chanting the
“De Profundis.” About twenty of my little playfellows were following me,
when suddenly a soldier’s cap fell at my feet.
“What’s that?” called out one of the girls.
“A soldier’s cap.”
“Did it come from over the wall?”
“Yes, yes.... Listen, there’s a quarrel going on!”
We were suddenly silent, listening with all our ears.
“Don’t be stupid! It’s idiotic!”
“It’s the Grandchamps Convent!”
“How am I to get my cap back?”
These were the words we overheard and then, as a soldier suddenly
appeared astride our wall, there were shrieks from the terrified
children and angry exclamations from the nuns.
In a second we were all about twenty yards away from the wall, like a
group of frightened sparrows flying off to land a little farther away,
inquisitive and very much on the alert. “Have you seen my cap, young
ladies?” called out the unfortunate soldier in a beseeching tone.
“No, no!” I cried, hiding it behind my back.
“Oh, no!” echoed the other girls with peals of laughter, and in the most
tormenting, insolent, jeering way we continued shouting “No!” “No!”
running backward all the time in reply to the Sisters who, veiled and
hidden behind the trees, were in despair.
We were only a few yards from the huge gymnasium. I climbed up
breathless at full speed and reached the wide plank at the top. When
there, I unfastened the rope ladder, but as I could not get the wooden
ladder up to me by which I had mounted, I unfastened the rings and
banged it down so that it broke, making a great noise. I then stood up
wickedly triumphant on the plank, calling out: “Here it is—your cap, but
you won’t get it now!” I put it on my head and walked up and down, as no
one could get to me there. I suppose my first idea had just been to have
a little fun, but the girls had laughed and clapped, and my strength had
held out better than I had hoped, so that my head was turned, and
nothing could stop me then.
The young soldier was furious. He jumped down from the wall and rushed
in my direction, pushing the girls out of his way. The Sisters, beside
themselves, ran to the house calling for help. The chaplain, the Mother
Superior, Père Larcher and everyone else came running out. I believe the
soldier swore like a trooper, and it was really quite excusable. Mother
Ste. Sophie, from below, besought me to come down and to give up the
cap. The soldier tried to get up to me by means of the trapeze, but on
seeing this I quickly drew up the knotted rope.
His useless efforts delighted all the pupils, whom the Sisters had in
vain tried to send away. Finally the Sister who was doorkeeper sounded
the alarm bell, and five minutes later the soldiers from the Sartory
Barracks arrived, thinking that a fire had broken out. When the officer
in command was told what was the matter, he sent back his men and asked
to see the Mother Superior. He was brought to Mother Ste. Sophie, whom
he found at the foot of the gymnasium, crying with shame and impotence.
He ordered the soldier to return immediately to the barracks. He obeyed
after clenching his fist at me, but on looking up he could not help
laughing. His cap came down to my eyes and was only kept back by my
ears, which were bent, to prevent it from covering my face.
I was furious and wildly excited with the turn my joke had taken.
“There it is—your cap!” I called out, and flung it violently over the
wall which skirted the gymnasium and formed the boundary to the
cemetery.
“Oh, the young plague!” muttered the officer, and then, apologizing to
the nuns, he saluted them and went away accompanied by Père Larcher.
As for me I felt like a fox after having its tail cut. I refused to come
down immediately.
“I shall come down when everyone has gone away,” I announced. All the
girls received punishments and I was left alone. The sun set and the
silence then terrified me, looking as I did out on the cemetery. The
dark trees took mournful or threatening shapes. The moisture from the
wood fell like a mantle over my shoulders and seemed to get heavier
every moment. I felt abandoned by everyone and I began to cry. I was
angry with myself, with the soldier, with Mother Ste. Sophie, with the
pupils who had excited me by their laughter, with the officer who had
humiliated me, and with the Sister who had sounded the alarm bell.
Then I began to think about getting down the rope ladder, which I had
pulled up on the plank. Very clumsily, trembling with fear at the least
sound, listening eagerly all the time, and with eyes looking to the
right and left, I was a long time unhooking it, being very much afraid.
Finally, I managed to unroll it, and I was just about to put my foot on
the first rung when the barking of César alarmed me. He was tearing
along from the wood. The sight of the dark figure on the gymnasium
appeared to the faithful dog to bode no good. He was furious and began
to scratch the thick wooden uprights.
“Why, César, don’t you know your friend?” I said very gently. He growled
in reply and in a louder voice I said:
“Fie, César, bad César, you ought to be ashamed! Fancy barking at your
friend!” He now began to howl and I was seized with terror. I pulled the
ladder up again and sat down at the top. César lay down at the bottom of
the gymnasium, his tail straight out, his ears pricked up, his coat
bristling, growling in a sullen way. I appealed to the Holy Virgin to
help me. I prayed fervently, vowed to say three _Aves_, three _Credos_,
and three _Paters_ as well every day.
When I was a little calmer I called out in a subdued voice: “César! my
dear César, my beautiful César! You know I am the _Angel Raphael_!”
Ah, much César cared for him! He considered my presence, quite alone, at
so late an hour, in the garden and on the gymnasium, quite
incomprehensible. Why was I not in the refectory?
Poor César, he went on growling, and I was getting very hungry and began
to think things were most unjust. It was true that I had been to blame
for taking the soldier’s cap, but after all he had begun it all. Why had
he thrown his cap over the wall? My imagination now came to my aid, and
in the end I began to look upon myself as a martyr. I had been left to
the dog, and he would eat me. I was terrified at the dead people behind
me, and everyone knew I was very nervous. My chest, too, was delicate,
and there I was exposed to the biting cold with no protection whatever.
I began to think about Mother Ste. Sophie, who evidently no longer cared
for me, as she was deserting me so cruelly. I lay with my face downward
on the plank, and gave myself up to the wildest despair, calling my
mother, my father, and Mother Ste. Sophie, sobbing, wishing I could die
there and then; between my sobs I suddenly heard my name pronounced by a
gentle voice. I got up, and peering through the gloom, caught a glimpse
of my beloved Mother Ste. Sophie. She was there, the dear saint, and had
never left her rebellious child. Concealed behind the statue of St.
Augustine, she had been praying while awaiting the end of this crisis,
which in her simplicity she had believed might prove fatal to my reason
and perhaps to my salvation. She had sent everyone away and remained
there alone and she, too, had not dined. I came down and threw myself
repentant and wretched into her motherly arms. She did not say a word to
me about the horrible incident, but took me quickly back to the convent.
I was all damp, with the icy evening dew, my cheeks were feverish, and
my hands and feet frozen.
I had an attack of pleurisy after this and was twenty-three days between
life and death. Mother Ste. Sophie never left me an instant. The sweet
Mother blamed herself for my illness, declaring as she beat her breast
that she had left me outside too long.
“It’s my fault! It’s my fault!” she kept exclaiming.
My Aunt Faure came to see me nearly every day. My mother was in Scotland
and came back by short stages. My Aunt Rosine was at Baden-Baden and was
ruining the whole family. “I am coming back,” she kept writing from time
to time, when she wrote to ask how I was. Dr. D’Espagne and Dr. Monod,
who had been called in for a consultation, did not think there was any
hope. Baron Larrey, who was very fond of me, came often. He had a
certain influence over me and I willingly obeyed him. My mother arrived
a short time before my convalescence and did not leave me again. As soon
as I could be moved she took me to Paris, promising to send me back to
the convent as soon as I was quite well.
It was forever, though, that I had left my dear convent, but it was not
forever that I left Mother Ste. Sophie. I seemed to take something of
her away with me. For a long time she made part of my life and even
to-day, when she has been dead for years, the recollection of her brings
back to me the simple thoughts of former days and makes the flowers of
youth to bloom again.
Life for me now began in earnest. Cloister existence is one of unbroken
sameness for all. There may be a hundred or a thousand individuals
there, but everyone lives a life which is the same and the only one for
all. The rumor of the outside world dies away at the heavy cloister
gate. The sole ambition is to sing more loudly than the others at
Vespers, to take a little more of the form, to be at the end of the
table, to be on the list of honor. When I was told that I was not to go
back to the convent, it was to me as though I was to be thrown into the
sea when I could not swim.
I besought my godfather to let me go back. The dowry left to me by my
father was ample enough for the dowry of a nun. I wanted to take the
veil.
“Very well,” replied my godfather, “you can take the veil in two years’
time, but not before. In the mean time learn all that you do not yet
know, and that means everything, from the governess your mother has
chosen for you.”
That very day an elderly, unmarried lady with soft, gray, gentle eyes
came and took possession of my life, my mind, and my conscience for
eight hours every day. Her name was Mlle. De Brabender and she had
educated a grand duchess in Russia. She had a sweet voice, an enormous
sandy mustache, a grotesque nose, but a way of walking, of expressing
herself, and of bowing which simply commanded all deference. She lived
at the convent in Rue Notre Dame des Champs, and this was why in spite
of my mother’s entreaties she refused to come and live with us.
She soon won my affection and I learned quite easily with her everything
that she wanted me to learn. I worked eagerly, for my dream was to
return to the convent, not as a pupil but as a teaching Sister.
CHAPTER IV
IN FAMILY COUNCIL ASSEMBLED
I arose one September morning, my heart leaping with some remote joy. It
was eight o’clock. I pressed my forehead against the windowpanes and
gazed out, looking at I know not what. I had been roused with a start in
the midst of some fine dream, and I had rushed toward the light in the
hope of finding in the infinite space of the gray sky the luminous point
that would explain my anxious and blissful expectation. Expectation of
what? I could not have answered that question then, any more than I can
now, after much reflection. I was on the eve of my fifteenth birthday
and I was in a state of expectation as to the future of my life. That
particular morning seemed to me to be the precursor of a new era. I was
not mistaken, for on that September day my fate was settled for me.
Hypnotized by what was taking place in my mind, I remained with my
forehead pressed against the windowpane, gazing, through the halo of
vapor formed by my breath, at houses, palaces, carriages, jewels, and
pearls passing along in front of me. Oh, what a number of pearls there
were! There were princes and kings, too; yes, I could even see kings!
Oh, how fast one’s imagination travels, and its enemy, reason, always
allows it to roam on alone! In my fancy, I proudly rejected the princes,
I rejected the kings, refused the pearls and the palaces, and declared
that I was going to be a nun, for in the infinite gray sky I had caught
a glimpse of the convent of Grandchamps, of my white bedroom, and of the
small lamp that swung to and fro above the little Virgin all decorated
with flowers. The king offered me a throne, but I preferred the throne
of our Mother Superior, and I entertained a vague ambition to occupy it
some far-off day in the distant future; the king was heartbroken, and
dying of despair. Yes, _mon Dieu_! I preferred to the pearls that were
offered me by princes the pearls of the rosary I was telling with my
fingers, and no costume could compete in my mind with the black _barège_
veil that fell like a soft shadow over the snowy white cambric that
encircled the beloved faces of the nuns of Grandchamps.
I do not know how long I had been dreaming thus when I heard my mother’s
voice asking our old servant, Marguerite, if I were awake. With one
bound I was back in bed, and I buried my face under the sheet. Mamma
half opened the door very gently and I pretended to wake up.
“How lazy you are to-day!” she said.
I kissed her and answered in a coaxing tone:
“It is Thursday and I have no music lesson.”
“And are you glad?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” I replied promptly.
My mother frowned; she adored music, and I hated the piano. She was so
fond of music, that although she was then about thirty, she took lessons
herself in order to encourage me to practice. What horrible torture it
was! I used, very wickedly, to do my utmost to set my mother and my
music mistress at variance. They were both of them as shortsighted as
possible. When my mother had practiced a new piece three or four days
she knew it by heart, and played it fairly well, to the astonishment of
Mlle. Clarisse, my insufferable old teacher, who held the music in her
hand and read every note with her nose nearly touching the page. One day
I heard with joy a quarrel beginning between mamma and this disagreeable
Mlle. Clarisse.
“There, that’s a quaver!”
“No, there’s no quaver!”
“This is a flat!”
“No, you forget the sharp! How absurd you are, mademoiselle,” added my
mother, perfectly furious.
A few minutes later my mother went to her room and Mlle. Clarisse
departed, muttering as she left.
As for me, I was choking with laughter in my bedroom, for one of my
cousins, who was a good musician, had helped me to add sharps, flats,
and quavers, and we had done it with such care that even a trained eye
would have had difficulty in discerning the fraud immediately. As Mile.
Clarisse had been sent off, I had no lesson that day. Mamma gazed at me
a long time with her mysterious eyes, the most beautiful eyes I have
ever seen in my life, and then she said, speaking very slowly:
“After luncheon there is to be a family council.”
I felt myself turning pale.
“All right,” I answered, “what frock am I to put on, mamma?” I said this
merely for the sake of saying something, and to keep myself from crying.
“Put your blue silk on, you look more staid in that.”
Just at this moment, my sister Jeanne opened the door boisterously and
with a burst of laughter jumped on my bed and slipping under the sheets
called out: “I’m there!”
Marguerite had followed her into the room, panting and scolding. The
child had escaped from her just as she was about to bathe her and had
announced that she was going into my bed. Jeanne’s mirth at this moment,
which I felt was a very serious one for me, made me burst out crying and
sobbing. My mother, not understanding the reason of this grief, shrugged
her shoulders, told Marguerite to fetch Jeanne’s slippers, and taking
the little bare feet in her hands, kissed them tenderly.
I sobbed more bitterly than ever. It was very evident that mamma loved
my sister more than me, and this preference, which did not trouble me
ordinarily, hurt me sorely now.
Mamma went away quite out of patience with me. I fell asleep, in order
to forget, and was roused by Marguerite who helped me to dress, as
otherwise I should have been late for luncheon. The guests that day were
Aunt Rosine, Mlle. De Brabender, my governess, a charming creature whom
I have always regretted, my godfather, and the Duc de Morny, a great
friend of my godfather and of my mother. The luncheon was a mournful
meal for me, as I was thinking all the time about the family council.
Mlle. De Brabender, in her gentle way, and with her affectionate words,
insisted on my eating. My sister burst out laughing when she looked at
me.
“Your eyes are as little as that,” she said, putting her small thumb on
the tip of her forefinger, “and it serves you right, because you’ve been
crying, and mamma doesn’t like anyone to cry—do you, mamma?”
“What have you been crying about?” asked the Duc de Morny.
I did not answer in spite of the friendly nudge Mlle. De Brabender gave
me with her sharp elbow. The Duc de Morny always awed me a little. He
was gentle and kind but he was a great quiz. I knew, too, that he
occupied a high place at court, and that my family considered his
friendship a great honor.
“Because I told her that after luncheon there was to be a family council
on her behalf,” said my mother, speaking slowly. “At times it seems to
me that she is quite idiotic. She quite disheartens me.”
“Come, come!” exclaimed my godfather, and Aunt Rosine said something in
English to the Duc de Morny which made him smile shrewdly under his fine
mustache. Mlle. De Brabender scolded me in a low voice, and her
scoldings were like words from heaven. When at last luncheon was over,
mamma told me, as she passed, to pour the coffee. Marguerite helped me
to arrange the cups and I went into the drawing-room. Maître G——, the
notary from Hâvre, whom I detested, was already there. He represented
the family of my father, who had died at Pisa in a way which had never
been explained, but which seemed mysterious. My childish hatred was
instinctive and I learned later on that this man had been my father’s
bitter enemy. He was very, very ugly, this notary; his whole face seemed
to have moved up higher. It was as though he had been hanging by his
hair for a long time, and his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, and his nose
had got into the habit of trying to reach the back of his head. He ought
to have had a joyful expression, as so many of his features turned up,
but instead of this his face was smooth and sinister-looking. He had red
hair planted on his head like couch grass and on his nose he wore a pair
of gold-rimmed spectacles. Oh, the horrible man! What a torturing
nightmare the very memory of him is, for he was the evil genius of my
father, and his hatred now pursued me. My poor grandmother, since the
death of my father, never went out, but spent her time mourning the loss
of her beloved son who had died so young. She had absolute faith in this
man, who, besides, was the executor of my father’s will. He had the
control of the money that my dear father had left me. I was not to touch
it until the day of my marriage, but my mother was to use the interest
for my education.
My uncle Félix Faure was also there. Seated near the fireplace, buried
in an armchair, M. Meydieu pulled out his watch in a querulous way. He
was an old friend of the family, and he always called me “_ma fille_,”
which annoyed me greatly, as did his familiarity. He considered me
stupid, and when I handed him his coffee, he said in a jeering tone:
“And is it for you, _ma fille_, that so many honest people have been
hindered in their work? We have plenty of other things to attend to, I
can assure you, than to discuss the fate of a little brat like you. Ah,
if it had been her sister, there would have been no difficulty!” and
with his benumbed fingers he patted Jeanne’s head as she remained on the
floor plaiting the fringe of the sofa upon which he was seated.
When the coffee was taken, the cups carried away, and my sister also,
there was a short silence. The Duc de Morny rose to take his leave, but
my mother begged him to stay. “You will be able to advise us,” she
urged, and the duke took his seat again near my aunt with whom it seemed
to me he was carrying on a slight flirtation.
Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery frame in front of
her, and her beautiful, clear-cut profile showing to advantage against
the light. She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was
about to be discussed. The hideous notary was standing up by the
chimney-piece, and my uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis
seemed to be the exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them had
the same _bourgeois_ mind and were equally stubborn and obstinate. They
were both devoted to whist and good wine, and they both agreed that I
was thin enough for a scarecrow.
The door opened and a pale, dark-haired woman entered, a most
poetical-looking and charming creature. It was Mme. Guérard, “the lady
of the upstairs flat,” as Marguerite always called her. My mother had
made friends with her in rather a patronizing way certainly, but Mme.
Guérard was devoted to me and endured the little slights to which she
was treated, very patiently, for my sake. She was tall and slender as a
lath, very compliant and demure. She had come down without a hat; she
was wearing an indoor gown of indienne with a design of little brown
leaves.
M. Meydieu muttered something, I did not catch what. The abominable
notary made a very curt bow to Mme. Guérard. The Duc de Morny was very
gracious, for the newcomer was so pretty. My godfather merely bent his
head, as Mme. Guérard was nothing to him. Aunt Rosine glanced at her
from head to foot. Mlle. De Brabender shook hands cordially with her,
for Mme. Guérard was fond of me. My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a
chair, and asked her to sit down, and then inquired in a kindly way
about her husband, a savant, with whom my uncle collaborated sometimes
for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.”
Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for
Mme. Guérard did not prefer my sister to me.
“Well, as we have come here on account of this child,” said my
godfather, “we must begin and discuss what is to be done with her.”
I began to tremble and drew closer to Mlle. De Brabender, and to “_ma
petite dame_,” as I had always called Mme. Guérard from my infancy. They
each took my hand by way of encouraging me.
“Yes,” continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh, “it appears you want to be a
nun.”
“Ah, indeed?” said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine.
“Sh....” she retorted with a laugh. Mamma sighed and held her wools up
close to her eyes to match them.
“You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent,” grunted the Hâvre
notary, “and you have not a sou.”
I leaned toward Mlle. De Brabender, and whispered: “I have the money
that papa left.”
The horrid man overheard.
“Your father left some money to get you married,” he said.
“Well, then, I’ll marry the _Bon Dieu_,” I answered, and my voice was
quite resolute now. I turned very red, and for the second time in my
life I felt a desire and a strong inclination to fight for myself. I had
no more fear, as everyone had gone too far and provoked me too much. I
slipped away from my two kind friends, and advanced toward the other
group.
“I will be a nun, I will!” I exclaimed. “I know that papa left me some
money so that I should be married, and I know that the nuns marry the
Saviour. Mamma says she does not care; it is all the same to her, so
that it won’t be vexing her at all, and they love me better at the
convent than you do here!”
“My dear child,” said my uncle, drawing me toward him, “your religious
vocation appears to me to be more a wish to love.”
“And to be loved,” murmured Mme. Guérard, in a very low voice.
Everyone glanced at mamma, who shrugged her shoulders slightly. It
seemed to me as though the glance they all gave her was a reproachful
one, and I felt a pang of remorse at once. I went across to her, and
throwing my arms round her neck said:
“You don’t mind my being a nun, do you? It won’t make you unhappy, will
it?”
Mamma stroked my hair, of which she was very proud.
“Yes, it would make me unhappy. You know very well that after your
sister, I love you better than anyone else in the world.”
She said this very slowly in a gentle voice. It was like the sound of a
little waterfall as it flows down, babbling and clear, from the
mountain, dragging with it the gravel, and gradually increasing in
volume, with the thawed snow, until it sweeps along rocks and trees in
its course. This was the effect my mother’s clear, drawling voice had
upon me at that moment. I rushed back impulsively to the others, who
were all speechless at this unexpected and spontaneous burst of
confidence. I went from one to the other, explaining my decision, and
giving reasons which were certainly no reasons at all. I did my utmost
to get someone to support me in the matter. Finally the Duc de Morny was
bored, and rose to go.
“Do you know what you ought to do with this child?” he said. “You ought
to send her to the _Conservatoire_.” He then patted my cheek, kissed my
aunt’s hand, and bowed to all the others. As he bent over my mother’s
hand, I heard him say to her: “You would have made a bad diplomatist,
but take my advice, and send her to the _Conservatoire_.”
He then took his departure and I gazed at everyone in perfect anguish.
The _Conservatoire_! What was it? What did it mean?
I went up to my governess, Mlle. De Brabender. Her lips were firmly
pressed together, and she looked shocked, just as she did sometimes when
my godfather told some story that she did not approve of, at table. My
uncle, Félix Faure, was looking at the floor in an absent-minded way;
the notary had a spiteful look in his eyes, my aunt was holding forth in
a very excited manner, and M. Meydieu kept shaking his head and
muttering: “Perhaps ... yes.... Who knows?... Hum ... hum...!” Mme.
Guérard was very pale and sad, and she looked at me with infinite
tenderness.
What could be this _Conservatoire_? The word uttered so carelessly
seemed to have entirely disturbed the equanimity of all present. Each
one of them seemed to me to have a different impression about it, but
none looked pleased. Suddenly in the midst of the general embarrassment
my godfather exclaimed brutally:
“She is too thin to make an actress.”